Bookcases

I love my bookcases without reservation or shame. Plastic, unfinished wood, cherry wood, wrought iron, whatever style or mode, they are cherished.
One of them behind my headboard collapsed at 3am. Books crashed down on me, narrowly missing my skull. I was a fool for placing the case right behind my bed. I had to pile them on furniture until the next morning when the heartbreaking task of taking broken pieces to the dumpster faced me. I suppressed my sobs until I got back inside.
I recently received a giant six shelf case from my super, who informed me it came from a deserted garage another owner had left. I have filled every inch of that baby with paintings, camera lenses, knick knacks and whatever. Not books though. Not that monster.
I have close to 100 books on writing on a case against the garage wall. Someday I will get to them and become a best selling author who can afford wall to wall shelving.
It's too bad cold cuts have to be refrigerated or I would layer them across a book shelf. Maybe I could have a shelf just for radishes.
I have many classics and deep works on deep subjects, some of which I've browsed through. As long as the spine is facing out and guests can see the intimidating titles I am perfectly satisfied.

Night Wondering

Will I dream about being unable to finish my mail route on time seven years after retirement?
Why aren't certain women I knew on Facebook so I can see who they married?
Will strangers I've exchanged bits of conversation with wonder whatever happened to me?
Will all my body parts still work in the morning?
Will there be a blizzard or an explosion in the morning?
Should I break down and get a pet?
What happens if words fail me and I must end my blog?
How long before restless leg syndrome hits me and who is going to care?
How many Coscos can fit on Antarctica?
Why don't people argue with me anymore?
If I rolled over onto my stomach and pretended to be a swimming manatee would I fall asleep?
Which frozen dinner will I heat up for supper?
Why don't folk singers write about fog?
Should I be spending so much time alone with my dead bolt?
Can the woman upstairs hear my bed squeak?

Gift Cards

I got two gift cards for Christmas, one for Amazon, one for Barnes & Noble. I love gift cards. They put all the decision making in my hands and I know I will spend hours and hours on Amazon deciding how I will employ my stash.
Last night I spent a good hour in B&N, browsing like a man with $50 to spend. From time to time, I removed the card from my pocket and caressed it. I began in the music section, which is shrinking as I write this. I decided to purchase only one CD and it was tough. A Lena Horne collection for $4.99? I've always preferred her over Billy Holiday. A Doris Day collection? I already had their only Weather Report CD. Others around me were also browsing, but I was certain my browsing was more selective.
I finally decided on a Dionne Warwick collection for $4.99. Every tune was a hit, no filler.
Then I headed to the discounted books, hoping to find a gem coffee table tome, maybe a photography exploration of the Ozarks. No such luck. I do not settle when it comes to coffee table books. It is how I judge others. That and their socks.
There were several intriguing new paperback fiction releases, but at $16, too pricey. An entire collection of Brad Thor's work got its own stand. I wish I had a name like that. My books would sell faster. Joseph Ulysses or Joe Moses. Like the sound.
I decided to forgo purchasing a book for now because I had about two hundred in my garage I haven't touched. I did learn they subtract the tax from your gift card, unacceptable in my opinion. Once this Obama care thing gets settled, Congress should examine that issue.

Me Time

What exactly does me time mean? People walk around complaining they need more me time. These are often folks who decided to get married and have kids. To me, this indicates the last thing you want is to be alone. It's not as if the government forced you into this arrangement.
Let's say the spouse is at work, kids at school, you have the house to yourself. Watching TV or a DVD is actually time spent away from your deepest thoughts. Primping qualifies as me time, but how long does it take to trim nails or tweeze eyebrows? You can squeeze various growths until they pop, but unless you've got a serious personal hygiene problem that won't take very long.
Me time isn't cleaning or cooking or doing wash. Maybe you can take a friend to lunch. But all your friends are working or watching toddlers. Neighbors? Do you really know your neighbors? Invite one over and observe them casing the place.
Okay, so you decide to leave the house and grab some outdoor me time. Where do you go? What do you do? Sit in the park? Brunch at some loud, crowded coffee shop with overpriced scones? Window shop? Jog?? Running and thinking go together. Sweat makes you feel invigorated. Here's the rub. Seriously. How long do you really want to be alone with your innermost thoughts?
Yeah, those thoughts.
Me time can lead to dangerous conclusions about your life. Better to keep busy until the mail comes.

On the Subway

He was slumped sideways in his seat, drooling. He had a scruffy beard; tufts of unkempt hair stuck out of his black skull cap. He appeared to be semi-conscious, mumbling to himself. Frankly, he didn't smell too good.
I was about to move to another car when he said something that made me start. Shark Meat. He repeated it. I took a closer look. My God. I knew this man. I KNEW this guy.
I stood up and went over, holding my breath. Joe, I shouted. Joe, it's me, Dan. From the writers group.
He looked up, barely able to focus, and burped loudly.
Joe, what happened to you? Your novel, Shark Meat. You had an agent, a book contract. You were on your way.
Now he realized who I was. Breathing heavily, coughing, shivering, he somehow got the words out.
James Patterson, the bastard, stole my idea. My deal fell through. BASTARD!
Then he started crying. Before I could grab him, he slid to the floor and wet himself.
I collected myself, punched in 911, and stuffed a twenty into his ratty pullover jacket. I got out at the next stop.

Brigadoon

They placed me in the Witness Protection Program and I wound up here, in this strange town, which might be in Ireland, but I'm not sure.
The countryside is beautiful, filled with rolling hills and heather. Sunsets are incredible. The men are vibrant, rowdy, salt of the earth, getting drunk, telling tales, singing ditties. The women have all the patience and tolerance one could imagine, since they seem to do most of the work.
Sometimes, in the gloaming, the whole village sits on a hillside watching the sun go down. And there are moments, if you wait long enough, you can see the silhouettes of a man and woman dancing below. Passionate, elegant, graceful. They move closer-- the man is strong and dark haired and the woman long legged, just as dark with flowing mane. They whirl and embrace and he lifts her impossibly high into the purple scarred sky.
We stare in wonder as the sun and the fluid couple softly disappear and night draws its quilt over the place called Brigadoon.

Caroling for Dummies

Wear a joyous expression and loose, layered clothes to prevent wedgies.
Smile incessantly, even if the people around you are unclean and stinky.
Learn how to hold a book of carols, walk and sing lyrics without smacking into a tree.
If you can't reach a note, close your eyes and fake it.
Do not try to slip in Buddhist chants.
Don't attempt the German version of Silent Night.
Make eye contact, occasionally hugging fellow carolers.
Don't grope them during the hug.
Decide who makes the hot chocolate for afterwards.
If a guy comes to the door wearing boxer shorts and a garter belt, sing louder.
Carry pepper spray for troublesome pets and lonely people who wish to join you.
Never let an old person bring up the rear. Cardiac events & strokes might escape notice.
Any caroler who has lost his voice must step away from the group & wait in the van.
What happens in the caroler van stays in the caroler van.
Try not to rumble with competing carolers. It is the season, after all.

Oh, Fudge

I recently got invited to a party and spent most of the evening sitting on the host's white couch in between various other guests. The conversation was eclectic and thought provoking. There was plenty of food--salad, pasta, fruit, chips, candy.
All the while I kept glancing to my right where, underneath a pink Christmas tree, lay three unopened boxes of pecan covered dark fudge. I hadn't had fudge in years, not counting fudge pops, which is really fudge 2.0. I went through the possible logistics and rationale for leaving them out unprotected and came to the conclusion these boxes were part of the refreshments. Wouldn't you?
So I waited until I was alone on the couch, got up and took one of the boxes. Without hesitation, I broke the seal and gouged out a chunk of this dark delicacy with a knife. It tasted so good I wanted to just leave the lump in my mouth the rest of the night.
Three minutes later the host comes over and demands to know who opened the fudge. That was a gift, is all she said. So I basically blasphemed someone else's gift. Twelve pairs of eyes glared at me as I sunk deeper into the couch.
Come on. Who gives three boxes of fudge as a gift? And who buys a white couch? At least I didn't spill anything. This is why I never get invited anywhere. Damn good fudge, though.

Promising Writers

I met a couple of promising writers at one of my writers groups. They are young and imaginative and quirky.I sit there marveling at what they come up with for our prompts, which are ideas that we write about for ten minutes.
They type so fast it's intimidating. I wonder if I've lost my edge. But this is good for me. It keeps me grounded and hungry to get better. Yes, I'm competitive.
Writers have to balance self confidence and a humble attitude. We also have to believe everyone has a story to tell. I'll spend fifteen minutes talking to someone I hardly know, tabulating details, vacuuming information to possibly be used in a future piece. If people see you actually listen, nodding periodically, it's amazing how much they will reveal.
Everything is fodder for raw material. Those two young writers right now are creating stuff off the top of their heads without really interacting with others. As their writing journey continues, one hopes they will consider other people as sources for fiction, poetry, plays, whatever, in the process, balancing their instinctive creative talents with close observation of what material is out there in the world.

Snow Day

I went out this morning to my writers group. I knew it was snowing and I hate driving in the snow because I never go over 40 and that annoys type A drivers looking for a challenge. I keep both hands on the wheel, refusing to lose my temper when trucks splash slush against my windshield.
I decided to stay home all afternoon and watch Scaramouch on TCM, a life saving movie channel I depend on in bad weather. There is brilliant technicolor enhancing Eleanor Parker's lipstick so much I want to kiss the screen
At the end of the film there is a very long, elaborate sword fight between Stewart Granger and Mel Ferrar, two guys with sensual lips that rivaled Parker and Janet Leigh, who must have been about 19 at the time. The battle was choreographed intricately and I'm pretty sure they were using real swords. How come we don't see that anymore? Who would win a sword fight between Ryan Gosling and Bradley Cooper? Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone? Linda Hunt and Danny DeVito?
These are the kinds of things that pass through my mind as I lie on the bed and let the afternoon slide by. But now that the snow has stopped I must reengage with the world, which, in my case, means heading out for coffee.
A good sword fight has just been added to my bucket list.

Radish Season

It is the season of radishes. Let us celebrate. Up and down the street, people greet each other and hold up their radishes. We compare size, smoothness, texture. We lean forward and sniff each others radishes. I say to one man, "Your radishes seem fuller, richer, tangier than last year." He tells me he's always admired my radishes.
Standing in front of Dunkin Donuts, I note at least a dozen people checking out my radishes. You've got to be careful in choosing this delicacy. A seemingly healthy one may be corroded and rotting inside, so it's always best to finger each radish before making a decision.
Of course, eating too many can cause gas. Be disciplined. Spread out your consumption. Substitute anchovies periodically, although anchovy season is 54 days away. If you close you eyes and think radish while biting into a cherry tomato, that may be a worthy alternative for the discerning radish aficionado.
Life is just too short for us choosy epicureans to settle for substandard nutrition.

Two A.M.

Look at them. Fiends. They assume they have the upper hand. Dominance by numbers. I haven't slept for days. In the dim moonlight I watch them form three lines and move as one straight into my kitchen.
But I am onto them. Where there are crumbs there are ants and where there are poisoned crums there are piles of dead ants.
A man does what he must to control his space.
Yes, I poisoned a bag of fudge cookies and crunched them into a million crumbs. But as I retrace my actions I realize in my sleep deprived state I may have poisoned the bag before taking them to my book discussion group. One gluttonous woman, Babs, ate every one that was put out. At least ten in all.
I must call her and plead she race to the hospital to get her stomach pumped. She never finishes the book we choose and interrupts my points, but she must be valued as a human being.
Please pick up. Please.
Oh no. I dialed the wrong number. Sorry Paul. Yes, I know its 2am. Go back to sleep. Well, that was pretty harsh.

Betrayal

Fog covers the Hoboken docks. The soft caress of waves alternates with the squawk of seagulls. The bars, pulsing, harshly lit, are just blocks away. It is damp and dangerous out here by the river. He is waiting for Noreen, his girl. He reaches into his dark trench coat and fondles the .45. For a moment there is doubt, hesitation.
Then he remembers the indelible image of her and the man, naked and entwined in bed, his own bed, smelling of raw lust. She agreed to meet him here to sort things out. Trusting Noreen. There was nothing to sort out. Betrayal wears no gray. It is stark and cruel.
Yeah, he trusted her and look what happened. With Morgan, the carpet salesman yet, the guy who helped them decorate the apartment. She probably thinks I'm going to forgive her. Maybe she'll cry and shudder. I will just stare coolly, reach into my pocket and...
A moment later she strides through the mist in a black full length coat with the collar turned up and a black fedora worn low. She walks right up to him with her emerald eyes, sneering lips and perfume from The Third Circle of Hell.
Right then he knew the gun was useless.

Arriving Late

I sit in my car with my binoculars trained on my writing group sitting in a cafe waiting for me. I am the Prompt God, providing writing prompts to write to. I purposely arrive late every session. Make them sweat. I can see feeble attempts at conversation. They look nervous, glum, periodically glancing out the window, looking for me. But I am far enough away to remain incognito.
Some are yawning, restless. I am not a sadist, but they must be reminded of my importance. I check my watch, nod and put down my binoculars. It is time for my entrance.
I get out of the car, adjust my shorts, tuck in my shirt, tug my baseball cap down, clear my throat and march to the entrance. They can see me now. Excitement is palpable.
I will open the door, enter, and be met by a collective sigh of relief. Or perhaps a collective gasp. One or more may break into sobs.
I carry responsibility well.

Town Without Pity

How can one live without passion? I am passionate about one thing--anchovies. Wherever I've lived and worked I've stayed near anchovies.
Once, on a blind date, I tried to explain my anchovy love to the young lady. Her reaction spoke volumes. She performed a citizen's arrest before we got past the appetizer. Ignorance is the bane of this town without pity. I bought a home here thinking it was a tolerant place. Stored crates of anchovies in my basement freezer. Did not realize I was violating foolish zoning laws.
We had a block party and I wanted to share my treasure with neighbors. Crates of anchovies ready to be consumed. Some sick SOB turned me in. You can't trust anyone. I paid a fine and did 50 hours of community service providing solace to condemned lobsters. But people just won't let it go. I am shunned everywhere I go. Even the crossing guard looks away when I am near.
What ever happened to a pluralistic society? To liberalism? To delicacies and enchanting finger food?

Death Bed Confession

I don't have much time left. I want to clear my conscience. I admit it. I embezzled money from the PTA. I took their trust and flushed it away. I used the money to adopt Vietnamese triplets. I am a single parent, respected in the community, but my life was built on lies and deception.
This town could have had new monkey bars for the kids if I hadn't stolen the funds. I have to live with that, although, according to doctors, not much longer.
Of course, there's the additional problem of my kids growing up and running into a series of problems. Grand theft auto, burglary, identity theft, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly, driving with a suspended license and cruelty to small animals. At least they didn't set fire to anything.
Now I can die in peace, right after breakfast. Two eggs over easy, home fries, pancakes and sausage. I'll pay. There's still a few bucks left over.

Libido

I am a divorced 45 year old woman who is horny. I needed to do something about this quick. So I found Studs Unlimited on the Internet, checked out the website and the rates. The building had three floors. The first floor consisted of young studs. Too expensive for my budget. Second floor was slightly paunchy middle aged men. Still just a bit over my spending limit. The third floor only listed a price--$35 all night. That I could afford.
I drove to the place in a deserted area of town near some warehouses. I was let in by a genteel man in a freshly pressed three piece suit. He looked about fifty. When I told him I wanted the third floor deal he swallowed and stated no one had ever chanced the third floor. I replied I was adventurous and the price was right. A few of the young studs looked at me admiringly. One nodded and gave me the thumbs up.
I paid and began climbing. One middle aged guy stuck his head out the door on the second floor. He was in his underwear, with a garter belt. I shook my head and pointed up. He seemed disappointed.
Finally I reached my destination and carefully opened the door. It was brightly lit. A TV showing Wheel of Fortune occupied one corner. Seated in six wheelchairs facing it were six of the oldest men I'd ever seen. They snored, coughed, honked and wheezed in symphonic unison. Spittle and mucus ran down their chins. It smelled like a skunk convention.
But I was horny. I picked the one on the far left, who looked a bit cleaner, stripped myself naked, straddled him and slapped the bastard awake. I had paid for all six all damn night and I was about to get my money's worth.

The Worshippers

I used to get panic attacks. One day it happened on the light rail going to Jersey City. A man sat next to me and whispered that he used to suffer from the same experience. He told me exactly what to do. Breath deep. But you must follow my instructions, he said.
The next night, right around dusk, I drove to where he told me, got out and brought a folding chair. To my surprise, there were at least 50 people already sitting around this mass rising several hundred feet into the sky, creating an impressive silhouette against a full moon.
As the evening wore on, more people arrived, hundreds, presumably all victims of panic attacks. We just sat there gazing at the mountain before us. There was no singing, whistling or conversation. I began feeling better about a half hour after I arrived, much better.
There was a fetid smell that I got used to, and flies swarmed all around us. But a sense of calm overcame everything. I actually relished the aroma, so thick one could almost swallow it. This was working.
I just pray some stupid environmentalists or politicians don't interfere and try to remove our savior. This is still The Great Recession and many of us are nervous wrecks. Where would we be, any of us, without our Staten Island Landfill?
I think a seagull just dropped something on my head.

The Incident at Kevin's Party

Louis was too competitive for our set. Whenever we had a gathering, trouble emanated from him. Spill soda on one of his Monopoly properties, he demands reparation. One time, during karaoke, he attempted to sing all the choral sections performing Handel's Messiah and injured his neck and mouth.
But the worst incident happened during charades. Louis is thin and pasty. He stripped to his underwear, fell to the floor and began crawling and twisting from room to room with such intensity we could see bruises forming, even open scrapes and cuts.
We yelled out guesses. SNAKE! SLINKY! A WOUNDED SOLDIER! BIG WORM!
Finally we exhausted our imagination and after twenty minutes of  knocking himself out, practically sobbing, Louis sat on the rug and gasped what he was trying to convey.
"It a single strand of wet, hot linguini trying to escape the plate, trying desperately to avoid its fate and reach freedom."
We returned his agonized expression with one of deep concern.
This is more than a caffeine problem. Perhaps its time for Louis to go on hiatus.

Leap of Faith

I'm terrible at parties. Lots of people say that, but in my case it's an understatement. I never know when to break off a conversation or when to approach someone. I usually retreat to a chair and eat.
Recently I attended a party full of writers. You'd think I'd be relaxed. Well, I walked in with my bottle of diet root beer, gazed at a table full of goodies and immediately felt guilty and cheap. I should have brought an entire pizza.
Immediately, a tall woman greeted me. She wore a pencil skirt, was unusually soft spoken for such a towering woman, but still intimidated me. I barely complimented her on her dress, then went blank. Damn. I filled up a plate and skulked to the back of the room. Another nightmarish night.
Then a strange thing happened. I pulled myself together and somehow established communication with about six fellow writers, nodding at the right time and holding my own. I even felt they were listening to my points. One poor fellow had gotten burnt out of his apartment and needed underwear.
I had taken a leap of faith by coming and felt God was looking after me. Or maybe it was the tuna sandwiches that loosened me up. Some cultures worship finger food.
I wound up staying an hour and five minutes, excellent time for me. I just wish I could  think of something clever next time a tall, attractive woman greets me. Maybe a comment on the dip.

Prisoners of Our Own Devices

Excuses, excuses, excuses. That is my favorite device to keep things on an even keel. I don't like change. I am a prisoner of routine. I won't bunge jump--my hernia prohibits it. Won't talk to strange women--fear of mace. No risky investments. I let business opportunities go by. Too many variables. My excuse for not losing five pounds--that flab is part of my identity.
I should clean my bathroom and avoid fungus. But it's so painful to kneel over the tub. Getting to know my neighbors means expecting them to ask for favors. One after the other. No privacy. No time to myself. I can't be solving other people's problems. I'm no one's taxi service.
I should smile more, but if I did, people would expect me to be happy all the time. Who needs that kind of pressure? Creating an overall philosophy to live by seems dubious when I could get hit by a bus any time. I have stockpiled hundreds of excuses, enough to build a verbal barricade against intrusive change.
My calling card is non-existent because I refuse to call on anyone. Too many nuts out there. I'm home where it's safe and I don't need an excuse to close the blinds.

Falling in Love With Love

It's much easier falling in love with passion than with love. No promises or commitment. Quick, sloppy, foolish, with lots of saliva. No maturity needed. Love requires selflessness, wisdom, compromise, perspective. Phooey! Sounds like work.
I loved my parents, but I am passionate about butternut squash soup. I love the feeling of sunlight on my skin, but am passionate over dabbing spurts of sugar free pancake syrup on strategic spots.
I love and respect professionals in whatever field, but nothing can match the excitement of doing the rumba alone in my rom after a tough day of making decisions.
If I had bigger forearms I'd roll up my sleeves more. If Romney had done that he might have won. Just a private thought I'm sharing with readers I respect, maybe even love, but, sadly, will never be passionate about. It's me, not you.

Thanksgiving Workout

My gym was closing at noon on Thanksgiving. After running a few errands, I decided to go for a quick workout. It was after eleven and I figured I'd be the only one there. Wrong. The place was packed. Young people, mostly.
I assume this was a guilt workout. Knowing they'd stuff themselves later, they wanted to work off excess calories and give themselves permission to engorge with family.
But suppose something else was going on. Suppose none of them had a family and this was a way to congregate with people on this holiday which demands we have someone to spend it with. Maybe after the gym closed they would meet in the underground parking lot and chat about nothing, dreading to leave and confront the rest of the day alone.
I didn't stick around to verify. I had a blog to write, a CVS sale to case in on and my power walking in the park to complete. This year was too cold to attend the parade, much too chilly to watch the skaters at Bryant Park. At three I'd be at my sister-in-laws watching football. When my brother died in 2009 something vanished from this holiday that will never return.

Fashion Faux Pas

I accidentally spilled coffee on my white t-shirt and became fascinated by a stain that resembled Greenland. I began experimenting with different blends on all my shirts, sprinkling or spilling it on the fabric from different angles.
The patterns were exotic and visually arresting. I was invited to a party and as soon as my friends saw one of my shirts they wanted to create their own designs on me. I lay down on the kitchen floor and the host began by spilling cranberry juice on me. Others quickly followed with grapefruit, apple, and prune juice, chocolate pudding, eye drops, Rice-A-Roni, grape soda and soy milk.
They left me there to dry while they retreated to the dining room for pizza. I just closed my eyes and waited for someone to return with tomato sauce to top things off.
I may have started something.

A Turkey Ruminates

I could sit here and complain--if turkeys could sit. Why me? Why us? Why not buffalo meat on Thanksgiving? All year humans consume chicken as though their lives depended on it. Chicken soup, cutlets, tenders, salad, cache tore. Suddenly, one day a year, we are the ones slaughtered.
I can't even find anyone to play cards with. All gone. Last year I faked a limp. This year I'm hoping to fool them by hoarse gobbling, like I have a sinus problem. Poor cousin Wally. Ended up with a New Age family who stuffed him with tofu.
The other day I was conversing with a yam--don't ask its name, all yams look alike to me--and it was whining about its own fate this wretched holiday. At least you can waddle away, it sobbed. I'm stuck in the ground. I think it was having an anxiety attack.
The worst part of this is surrounding us with stinky Brussel sprouts. What sick culture concocted this outrage? They'd better come up with one helluva gravy for me, mushrooms included. Mushrooms just accept their fate. Cowards.

The Magician Within

Every child is a magician. They enter a room full of grumpy adults and immediately smiles appear. Quiet becomes noise. Motion escalates. Adults compete to get the tyke's attention.
Infants are totally magical. Without blinking or raising a finger, they can turn a sweet smelling space into a mens locker room. The pungent, colorful mass periodically emitted from their mouth has its own texture and viscosity. Children can make things disappear. A cat, a pet turtle, money left out, and liquor from the cabinet. Socks and underwear vanish under the bed.
Okay, maybe they're evil magicians, but by some trick of light or deft misdirection, they have somehow convinced us that they are worth keeping around. Except the kid next door who plays his drums at all hours. I wish David Blaine would make him vanish.

Trespassing is An Art

Privacy annoys me. Who decided we have a right to conceal? A strong society is one built on truth. The more we know about each other, the deeper the truths.
Here is my technique for violating someone's privacy. I could say it's none of your business, but everything's your business.
First I suggest we sit someplace quiet. Then I buy them coffee and a pastry. I always look neat and presentable, like someone you can trust. I'll compliment them on their appearance. My, have you been hitting the gym? That is a good look for you. All you need is a sombrero.
Then I'll mention a news item like Obamacare and really listen to their opinion. I'll mix in frivolous stuff like all those cat postings on You Tube.
Next, and this is vital, I'll reveal something personal about myself. I'll detail the evolution of that growth on my hip and what treatment I'm undergoing. Now the other person feels guilty if they don't reveal something about themselves. I'll start small and ask about their mom's health.
Gradually, as they open up, I'll sneak into more intimate areas. Are your bunions under control?
The flood gates will open and all sorts of personal information will be released. Their boss's attitude, did your kid get drunk, did you poison the neighbor's ocelot? Where are your rashes located?
Then I'll buy them a second cup. Soon they'll be revealing just about everything. Set up a second date to finish the job. Always look concerned.
Privacy may have been important at one time, but this is The Age of Reveal.

Real, Not Real

What is real? I know when to stop thinking, so why do I keep on doing it?
I convince myself Pepper Jack is really Feta cheese.
My extended family only appears at holidays. Real or unreal?
What if others see only an empty chair where I am sitting?
If I mailed a letter and there was really no mailbox, would it fall to the sidewalk or disapear?
How can anyone claim the alphabet isn't real when I am using it right now?
Is that flake of dandruff mine, and if so, does that mean I still have hair?
No one's mouth is moving so no talking is happening. But I hear speech in my head.
My watch hands are moving, so time must be passing. Or is it a trick of light?
Wait! Steve was just sitting there and now he's gone. I read his notebook--he appears to be using another alphabet. Is there actually a question mark at the end of this sentence? If punctuation doesn't exist how do I stop writing? Maybe I should try some periods.........
Okay, I feel better now.
Wait. Steve has returned and he's out of breath. Perhaps he ran around the block to prove it exists.

Flat Tire

I got a flat tire yesterday. I managed to pull into an empty lot and call AAA. I'm not great at changing tires for one reason. Once I get the car jacked up and pry off the cover, I can never unscrew the nuts. When you get new tires, they use that tightening machine and forget it. You can't budge those things.
Just as I was about to fultily try, a guy pulled up and asked if I needed help. He was the second one actually. I guess I lookk old and helpless.
I hesitated, but he looked honest, Hispanic with a big smile. Well, the guy somehow loosened those nuts by jumping on the long wrench. He put my donut tire on and refused the $5 I offered. Said he used to be a mechanic.
I shook his hand and thanked him. Makes you change your opinion of mankind. I quickly found a service station, had my tire repaired and called AAA to cancel. Breathing a sigh of relief, I drove home and had lunch.
One positive came from this--I got to clean out my trunk. I have four snow and ice cleaners for my windows. And six de-icer sprays.

Achilles Heel

Millicent did not expect to win. She only ran because the system required an opponent. How was she to know that the heavily favored incumbent was secretly recorded salaciously rubbing himself against a bed of rhododendrons?
Millicent won by default, but there was a problem. During her campaign she avoided speeches, substituting handshakes and a warm smile. No one seemed to care what she stood for. Once elected, however, she would be forced to give both speeches and press conferences. It wasn't that she was afraid of people. Her problem centered on vowels. Every time she said one aloud she experienced an orgasm, sometimes violent. She had to disguise it by coughing and shuddering as though she had pneumonia. This had been going on since junior high. On dates she hardly spoke and boys thought she was slow or stuck up.
How long before constituents figured out what was going on? Some would beg for an explanation. More would beg for her technique secrets.
Speaking faster only made the problem worse. No question, her Achilles Heel would rear its wet, ugly head over the next four years. At least she was a good listener.

Better at Night

Lately I find myself sipping coffee at night in a fast food restaurant, reading something. I guess I need to decompress after a full day of telling my friends how to live their lives. Doing this at night seems more appropriate. It just does.
Other things are more appropriate at night, like the sound of a saxophone. The ukelele is a day instrument, but the sax belongs after sunset.
One thing I've never seen at night is someone feeding pigeons. Come to think of it, I've never seen pigeons waddling around in the dark. Is there some underground pigeon refuge we don't know about?
Hugging your pillow, pathetic in the morning, makes perfect sense at night. While you're doing that, running through all your regrets compiled over decades makes sense.
If I see another person sitting alone in McDonald s at 10pm reading and sipping coffee I will respect their privacy. But, seeing as you can get three cookies for a buck, essential to accompany the java, I'd be curious to know if he chose oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip. That choice tells you all you need to know about someone. I'm not revealing my personal choice. A man should have a bit of mystique.

Silent Treatment

The NSA recently informed me by letter that evidence from their monitoring of my life strongly indicates I have completely run out of meaningful conversation.
I want to go on record here and aggressively refute their findings. Obviously I'm upset at being monitored, but I recognize this is the way things are now. But when they strongly recommend I stop speaking altogether because I'm unimaginative and boring, I really take umbrage.
My stories entertain, my vocabulary is far larger than most, I modulate my voice, I can do impressions of 40's actor like Lon Chaney Jr.. I feel I am an accomplished raconteur.
If any of my friends received a similar missive they are not sharing. And how do you define 'meaningful conversation'? I'm sure FDR had periods where he had nothing to say. Even Carol Channing and Larry King. Okay, maybe not Larry. It's not like I don't give others a chance to speak. Can I help it if I'm educated about a whole range of subjects those one dimensional suits in our government don't relate to?
It's an insult, like reporting I'm using too much toilet paper. I'm not, I swear.

Joy of Cooking

When one realizes one is as focused as one is, one has an obligation to focus that focus on something substantial like cooking.
I've been creative most of my life and recently my emphasis has been creating a perfect slice of toast.
First you remove a slice from its loaf. This can be painful for both slice and loaf, but not if the experience is viewed as a new adventure for the slice. Once you've isolated the slice, you may name it--Phil, Ralph, Greta etc. Examine the surface for any irregularities. Unevenness, coarseness, missing or damaged crust. Smell your slice, inhale its fresh aroma, rub it lightly on your cheek, creating a few crumbs. Crumbs are evidence your slice is ready. Make certain it is symetrical.
Now hold it gently between thumb and index finger and carefully drop it into your toaster. Push down the lever. Your buddy is on its way to transformation.
Do not hover. Put your wash in the dryer and return in a few minutes. There, poking its head out of the opening, is your toast. Remove it slowly and place it on a paper towel. At some point, you may wish to apply butter or margarine. That is a subject for another essay. Cooking isn't for everyone, but for those of us like myself who have the knack, it can be quite fulfilling.

Snow White's Resilience

Say what you want about Snow White, that young woman had resilience. Consider: she had to cook, clean and do wash for seven men, plus listen to their complaints. Amazing she didn't have a breakdown.
They didn't even have an outhouse. She had to go in the forest and half the time she was interrupted by one of them, asking stupid questions, like where's my chisel?
She had no idea where she was geographically. Her memory flitted in and out. For all she knew, she could have been kidnapped by these little ruffians. A vision kept returning, that of a handsome prince she once knew. She would lie on her lumpy bed, close her eyes and think of him holding her. Sometimes she touched herself and it felt so good.
A big problem was one of the guys kept sneezing in her face. He never covered his mouth. Another was so grumpy he barely spoke to her. Still another was so dopey she had to tie his work shoes. Plus they kept singing off key as they marched off to work. Strangely, once they were gone, she felt lonely. One day she went for a walk and befriended a fawn. She named it Bambi. It looked very sad. She wondered what happened to its mother.
I won't get into the nightly attempted gropings. Let's just say the lady did what she had to to protect her purity. That may have included brass knuckles and kicks to their tiny groins. Boy, was she tough.

One Grape, One Radish

I am eating one large grape. I want to chew as slowly as possible to savor every molecule of juice. One large green grape can elevate an entire day. Green seedless grapes from California are all the inspiration you need to make the world a better place. Play it forward. Go outside and hand a grape to someone. Repeat the process. You will feel better about everything.
Black and red grapes are almost as good. Okay, just as delicious. We're talking seedless, of course. There is no conceivable reason to eat grapes full of seeds, not when you have a choice. If you're in a Third World country and that's all they have, knock yourself out. But not in the US.
Which brings me to radishes. I have had a checkered history with this strange food. When I'm feeling really good about the world and take a bite of a radish, it slams me back to reality quick. A radish is like an annoying co-worker. Not aggravating enough to scream at, but irritating enough to leave a depressing aftertaste. Radishes must have nutritional value or they wouldn't be legal. They certainly clear out your sinuses. But they are cheap shot artists, tangy taste sneaking up on you, as opposed to hot peppers which unashamedly attack your palate.
Don't try eating radishes and grapes together. Radishes fight dirty and will poison grapes before they reach the stomach. Grapes are life affirming. Radishes are evil, belonging in Dante's Sixth Circle of Hell. Maybe that's where they were created.

The Last to Know

Cecil loved his accordion. He tried other instruments and never felt comfortable with them. But this one he seemed to meld with. He actually got a full scholarship to Oberlin College to study the intricacies of this wondrous instrument. Eventually he was accepted into the Boston Pops Symphony, the first accordion player to be so honored.
He worked out at the gym to strengthen his back and shoulder so he could play with more verve. In five years he never missed a performance.
So it was with shock and disbelief that he received the news that because of budget cutbacks his contract would not be renewed. Cecil was in tears. How would he pay his rent? All he knew was his instrument. He wound up moving back in with his parents living in Weehawken, NJ.
He began drinking, sleeping late, putting on weight and generally falling into slovenliness. He cut himself off from friends and family.
One day he decided he had to pull himself together. After a month of cold turkey, and renewed practice, he got on a bus to the city and stationed himself in parks, accompanying laid off opera singers after the NYC Opera had gone bankrupt.
Authorities, after listening to this collaboration, decided to pay them to keep performing, calculating that the cacophony of noise would keep terrorists at bay.
Cecil wasn't totally happy with this situation, but at least he was widening his audience. Sometimes he even takes requests.

Faking Testosterone

Men:
1.Do not shave between your eyebrows.
2.Grunt when getting out of chairs.
3.Never make Broadway musical references
4.Do not hesitate when confronted by a revolving door.
5.Kill spiders without remorse.
6.Never name your dog Pincus.
7.Never snicker when you can belly laugh.
8.Get yourself a belly.
9.Learn to whistle long and hard.
10.Master your beer suds.
11.Do not interrupt a woman with something on her mind.
12.No socks worn over the calf.
13.Challenge a teen to one on one basketball.
14.Slap on your cologne with panache.
15.Never use the word panache in front of other men.
16.Work on your handshake.
17.Wear plaid as often as possible.
18.Buy power tools.
19.Do not purchase a goldfish.
20.Do not turn your clock back just because you're told to.

Fear of Needles

You are not going to believe this, doc, but the last time I got a flu shot, strange things happened. I began speaking and walking like Alfred Hitchcock, waddling along, head up, eyes half closed. I went into the street in a fugue state. About five minutes later I became Rudy Guliani, slapping pedestrians for walking too close to the curb or ticketing people for missing spots as they swept the sidewalk.
I tried to make a citizen's arrest on a man who refused to clean up after his puppy. He smacked me, I pulled out a penknife and went on the attack. His dog ran off into traffic. The arm where I got the needle began to swell up and I imagined myself a mid-sized dirigible releasing air and plummeting to earth. The dog caused a bicycle messenger to lose balance and fly over the bars.
I passed out and woke up in emergency. My disfigured arm was seriously swollen and throbbing. Suddenly a tiny two headed creature burst from my biceps and squealed. Attendants rushed in and cornered it, but not before three were bitten and needed rabies shots. My bill was $21,000 and my arm still hursts.
I don't care if my mom is in the waiting room. I can't take another flu shot.

My Most Selfless Act

There are so many selfless acts I've committed, it's hard to choose one. If pressed, I'd put forth my coming through for Elise, a fellow writer during November Novel Writing Month. 50000 words were needed and she was stuck at 10000. Knowing how prolific I am, she begged me to intercede and finish her novel. 40000 words in ten days is nothing to you, she exclaimed. I was flattered to be sure, even preening a bit.
Another man might have taken advantage of the situation, but I have a strict moral code. Rather than demand something salacious in return, I patted her shoulder and assured her I'd get right to work on it.
She was so grateful she threw me onto her kitchen table and ripped off my shirt. For the next half hour I received 40000 words worth of proof reading and copy editing between gasps and moans. Yes, she edited me to howling. The novel itself was crap, but what do you expect? The first 10000 words were hers and, even for me, that was too much to overcome.

Across the Table

I never knew my friend Luigi knew famous people. At his 30th wedding anniversary party I found myself seated across from Johnny Depp and Sean Penn. Depp had trouble staying awake and Penn eyed everyone suspiciously. Both were accompanied by beautiful young women.
When the mushroom soup was served, Penn snarled it was for sissies. He demanded beef stew. Depp groggily spilled much of it on himself. I guess movie stars must work late. At the far end of the table, Liam Neeson had his shirt up and was flashing his chest scar. Right then, Penn jumped up and lifted his shirt, displaying a scar near his ribs. They then got into an argument over whose scar was longer. Depp fell forward into his creamed spinach. His date left for the powder room with Penn's date.
I, myself, thought the soup was delicious, but the spinach a bit salty. I ended up switching shirts with Depp. Eventually I will put his on E-Bay. My books aren't selling well and I need new tires.

Socrates Cafe

I belong to Socrates Cafe discussion group. Over the past three years we have explored a wide range of topics. Many of the participants are quite well spoken. There are some things one can do to convince the other you too are wise and insightful.
Carefully cross your legs at various intervals, as though the intensity of your thinking has traveled down to your lower region.
Frown and grimace, but in a limited way. Otherwise people will think you're in pain, rather than concentrating.
When you raise your hand to speak, do so tentatively, keeping your other hand rubbing your chin, as though the complexity of what you are about to say is still formulating itself.
Memorize three to five three syllable words to slip into the discourse. Every few months tell someone "That's a moot point."
Similarly, choose three important thinkers from history and quote them at strategic points.
Get up, stretch, get coffee and a cookie, just one. More makes it seem like that's the main reason you're there.
Acknowledge another's brilliant point by pointing at them and nodding vigorously.
Fold your arms in front of your chest and look annoyed. Annoyed is better than confused.
Should there be attractive women participating, quietly unbutton the top of your shirt and flash some male cleavage. I'll bet that's how Socrates got women.

Slow Burn

I've never mastered the slow burn. Seething is another thing that escapes me. When I lose my temper I just explode. My voice rises into eleven year old octaves, I gesticulate wildly, and possibly stamp my feet. No one is impressed.
I wind up gasping for breath. It used to be that older people would take me aside and calm me. Now I'm an older guy and I have to take myself aside. Take tonight. I was at Burger King enjoying a coffee and fries, reading last Sunday's Times, which just lays there all week, meaning I have two days to attack the dozen sections I read regularly. The little kid in the next booth wouldn't sit still, bouncing for no reason and my own seat was shaking enough to throw off my concentration.
I just couldn't bring myself to say anything or turn and glare. This went on for a long time. I almost could sense a slow burn building. Seething would be an overstatement. But I forced myself to think serene thoughts. Baby animals, waves against the shore, palm trees in the breeze. I did this until I had to pee. When I returned the family was gone and I took a deep breath in relief.
Then I realized three of my French fries were missing and I screamed like a banshee.

Your Boat

Two men in uniform came to Rod's door and informed him they found his boat. They also said they found the largest piece of pepperoni they had ever seen on deck. Rod said he enjoyed spicy Italian food and mentioned the package of pepper jack cheese.
We will ignore said cheese and focus on the other, they said. We have an eye witness who claims you were using the pepperoni in a salacious way. I beg to differ, said Rod. How could anyone see that far out? She has a state of the art pair of binoculars, they responded. This is a family resort, as you know. Your personal tendencies are your business, except when you are in the public domain. We'll have to take you into Park Ranger HQ for further questioning and DNA testing.
May I at least take a cucumber to munch on?
Slice it first.
Boy, what a guy has to do just to go boating.

Air Rifle

Bobby wasn't sure if his air rifle would be effective against the aliens who broke into houses and took kids away. But he kept it next to him as he lay in bed. Ralph, his best friend, had vanished recently. Ralph's parents said he went away to camp, but Bobby knew better. Ralph would never leave without telling him.
The boys had discussed the shadows in their bedrooms and the strange, low noises like tiny subway trains were passing through. They never mentioned this to the other kids who already thought they were odd.
If Ralph had been eaten, the adults would never find the bones, Bobby was sure.
As happens with little boys, Bobby fell asleep anyway. He dreamed of running away from something, dodging and changing direction, running out of the town onto the highway, screaming for help. Just before dawn, he was awakened by a noise very close. Something was crawling on his hand and speaking. He jumped up, knocking the rifle to the floor.
There were six of them, very small and intense. "We are from the planet Zarcon and are here to study earthlings," one said. "You have very comfortable bedding. On our planet we sleep on top of each other. The one on the bottom usually wakes up cranky. Are you familiar with cranky?"
Bobby was too frightened to say anything but "Please don't eat me!"
"We are not a violent race. Could you explain this thing called artichoke? Is it a weapon?"
Booby lay back, closed his eyes and kept repeating 'this is only a dream.'
One of them began dancing in his open palm.
"What did you do with Ralph!?"

The Lacuna

For many years I have practiced on the Lacuna, an exotic instrument I purchased from an old gentleman in a ratty antiques shop. He said it was originally owned by Portuguese explorer Vasco Da Gama. I have trouble believing that. I am a composer who can't afford a piano, so I compose on the Lacuna.
It is a wind instrument consisting of a large sack ringed by metal stems from which the music escapes. You do not blow into it or manipulate keys. You jump on the sack barefoot and keep jumping up and down at various speeds. Sometimes, for variety, you punch the sack or headbutt it to create a slightly different tone.
The sound pretty much resembles two bison copulating madly in mud.
I rented a space and invited all my friends to come to a free Lacuna concert. Perhaps I should have explained the colorful history of this wonderful instrument. I truly believe sanity will prevail and, at some point, they will release me from this stuffy storage space. To say they overreacted is an understatement.
I fear for my beloved Lacuna. Perhaps they will hang it as found art.

Cutting a Deal

I met him in a dark alley at night, which is when these deals happen. I had a bit of money and knew exactly what I needed. The streets were quiet as midnight approached. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I felt vulnerable; suppose this was a scam?
I heard a whisper. "I'm right over here. Keep walking."
I did as told, fists clenched.
He was a stumpy man in a trench coat; a wide brimmed hat slung low hid his face. In his right hand was a small bag.
"Do you have my fee?"
"Of course." I handed over large denomination bills.
"What exactly are you seeking, friend?"
I had rehearsed this, but the words still got caught in my throat.
"I need a philosophy of life; something to get me through old age without fearing death. I want an overview that gives my life meaning. I need a calming thought on my death bed."
I paused.
"I need most of all to accept the human condition and the inevitability of our mortality."
He frowned. "Damn. I brought the wrong bag. I thought you wanted hair replacement products."
"What!!??"
"Just kidding. Here on this scroll is what you seek. Read and understand it. Live your life accordingly. Listen, I have a batch of spiritual guidelines coming in from Scandinavia if you're interested."
I shook my head. "God confuses me. This should be all I need."
"I'm guessing you cheat on your taxes."
"I'm uncomfortable with the direction this is heading. Thank you and goodbye."
He shrugged and disappeared into the fog.
When I was alone, I opened the scroll and read--"Take the Packers and give the points."

My Moment

Now is my moment. As I sit up here in the balcony of this beautiful theater, looking down at the stage I can barely breathe. Seated around me are Martin Scorcese, Billy Joel, Twyla Tharp, and Phillip Roth, my fellow honorees.
I am the last to be saluted. One by one, my writer friends, my peers step forward to read one of my flash fiction pieces. The one about the Hudson County sewerage system leaves people aghast. I am completely choked up. They relate anecdotes, repeat my witticisms, explain how I overcame so much to become the premier flash fiction artist in the world. I glance over at Roth, who is sobbing.
When the readings are over, the audience stands and erupts in extended applause. I try to look modest. I want this moment to go on and on. It is the epitome of my creative life. I am engorged with a kind of spirituality. I appreciate every little thing around me. I especially appreciate Twyla Tharp's hand on my thigh all evening.
I hope it was her hand. 

Garbanzo Gallery

Since Garbanzo Gallery closed I don't feel like myself. It was my home away from home. Artists, writers and intellectuals would gather in the back room to discuss culture in all its aspects. Jacqueline, the owner, was kind enough to exhibit my fragile tapioca sculptures.
But in this economy, sales were slow and she had trouble making the rent. Still, we were shocked when the sign went up indicating the place was closing. Now I have lost touch with the others. Rafael, a poet, vows he will find us another space. I wander the streets, not feeling like myself, disconnected in a blue collar, factory dominated town. I am unable to work, to create. My center is unraveling. It's as though body parts are disengaging. I stumble up stairs, my legs belonging to someone else.
Perhaps I need to move on socially and creatively. There is a Meet Up Bowling team I may join. And I'm seriously considering switching my material from tapioca to jello sculpture. Maybe I can exhibit in pastry shops. I see an artistic void I am capable of filling.

Residents Only

Looks like I'll be eating in for a few weeks. Got a $58 ticket for going over four hour limit in Weehawken, where I lived and paid taxes 30 years. Was in NYC, lost track of time. I can see this regulation during the week when commuters leave their cars on the street and jump on a NY bus. But Saturday makes no sense. More and more I get the feeling in this country that freedom to travel anywhere is a myth. It's all about exclusion now. You don't belong here. Go back where you live. Stranger danger.
To make up that $58 I'll have to sell a painting or a story. I wish I could do magic. Kids' parties are an area  I haven't explored. Maybe I could give a lecture on something. Sandra Bullock might be a topic I know something about.
So tonight I had a tuna sandwich and a handful of Wasabi almonds, which burned my palette in a good way. To balance the ticket depression, I got a story accepted to a local mag that doesn't pay. But I did receive a check from the library that held a fair and bought ten of my books. And I did find a ballpoint pen on a bench.
I was going to get new business cards, but that is on hold. $58 bucks. Damn.

Bombs Away

The pilot, co-pilot, navigator and bombardier gathered in the cockpit. We are doing only what's needed, the pilot said. The co-pilot agreed. Society can't call itself civilized if it tolerates their existence, he said. This mission will soften them up for the land invasion, added the navigator.
Only the bombardier was silent.
Are you having second thoughts, asked the pilot.
My cousin plays the oboe, replied the bombardier. I worry this sort of action will spread.
Nonsense, barked the co-pilot. This is a one time mission. Those down there chose to do what they do. No one forced them. Every day they commit artistic blasphemy.
This will give hope to future generations, said the navigator. Two minutes to target.
How stupid could they be to clump together like that, knowing public opinion? muttered the pilot.
Thousands of feet below, ensconced in a sprawling building, hundreds of accordion players gathered for their yearly convention.
The crew knew if this was successful, if the battle was won by ground forces, cabaret singers would be next. Even the bombardier approved of that.

Old Ollie

I sensed Old Man Ollie had lost touch with reality, but there was something mesmerizing in his pronouncements. I believed his proclamations, all of which began with "If only you believe."
I was fifteen years old and my head was full of magic.

If you leap off that pole, you will land on your feet.
If you snort oregano you will see God.
If you feed your dog chocolate covered raisins it will clean up its own poop.
If you tattoo the bottoms of your feet you will experience multiple orgasms.
None of these happened; some put me in Emergency.
But I decided to give him one more chance.
If you only believe, you will fly only at night and only backward.
I waited until pitch dark, closed my eyes and focused. To my delight, within seconds I was aloft and flying backwards at a speed I couldn't control. After barely missing power lines and a tree I began to hate Old Man Ollie. He never mentioned anything about the landing process. If I stopped believing, I would crash. If I continued believing, when dawn came, I would still crash, perhaps gradually. Either way I would miss dinner. Damn you, Ollie.

Lost in Brooklyn

I took the wrong damn train. I took the C train instead of the 2 or 3. How many times, 8, 10, have I gone to Atlantic Antics, the 30 block mammoth street fair in Brooklyn every fall? This A train flew right past Layfayette all the way to Nostrand.
I got off and pressed the info button on a post, asked how to get to Atlantic from where I was. You're two blocks away, I was told. So I figured I'd walk upstairs and find it in seconds. Wrong. I wound up on Fulton, kept walking, eventually asked someone in Applebee for directions and was told Atlantic was just two blocks up to my right.
Well, I found it and began walking, looking for Barclays, which rises into the sky & is the starting point of the fair. For some reason I thought I was going the wrong way. So I doubled back and kept walking and walking, following the raised tracks of the LI railroad. No one informed me Atlantic goes on for miles and miles.
I finally asked a cop, who directed me to a Utica subway stop which would take me back. Naturally I walked right past it to Malcolm X BLVD. By this time I had to pee bad. I heard gospel singing coming from Baptist churches. A man redirected me to the station. Of course the A train once again flew past Layfayette, but I got off at Metro Tech, where I raced to a Five Guys and peed for 15 minutes easy.
Now I knew where I was and quickly found the fair, where I spent two hours walking up and down within a horde of others, getting smacked by backpacks and strollers and feeling lucky to be in familiar  territory.
No one from New Jersey should ever get lost in Brooklyn. At least I kept my composure. Almost.

Backtracking

My dear constituents, I may have spoken rashly. Let me backtrack. I admit I have been tweeting an underage Australian aborigine named Evonne. But I swear there was nothing salacious in the texts. I never sent photos of body parts, just a tiny mole under my knee.
Somehow, a nefarious individual hacked into this poor girl's account and made public our private communication. About that gift I sent her. Yes, I sent her a diamond brooch, but I have always been a generous person. I've inherited my fortune from our family's fabric softener empire and want to share with others less fortunate.
Okay, now that I've brought it up, let's explore the charges that our company uses carcinogens. It was unfortunate that a small portion of Southern Connecticut became violently ill--let me backtrack--a rather large portion. Just because that is where our factory is located doesn't mean the two are connected.
Getting back to Evonne, yes, I did invite the youngster to visit, all expenses paid. I see it as opening up new vistas for someone who has never left her village. If Oprah can extend aid to Africa and build schools, why can't I take this wonderful young woman to museums and such. I am a single man, may I remind you, and in six hundred forty one days Evonne will be legal.
So there.

Loosen Up

The Pope took a bite of his cheeseburger in front of 300 media people. He chewed slowly.
"Loosen up, everyone. I sense you're tense. That's the problem with our religion. Too many rules. I can't even keep up. We're losing the faithful. Only Third World countries still believe because they've got nothing but the afterlife to look forward to.
We need to relax our policy toward certain hot button topics, like gay marriage, abortion, transsexuals, transgenders, bisexuals, hermaphrodites, eunuchs, men with lopsided testicles, making the Sign of the Cross left handed, on and on. We need some leeway.
How about Ten Strong Suggestions? Do we really need Seven Sacraments? Extreme Unction? Even I don't know what that is. A priest giving Last Rites? Really. You're dead, you were a sinner, good luck with that."
The Pontiff took another huge bite and the gathered hoard waited with baited breath.
"Why not substitute Holy Seltzer? Lemon lime. What about a caramel rice cake instead of those dry Communion wafers that stick to the roof of your mouth and you have to un-stick Our Savior with your index finger? We have to think out of the box. Mass should include cuddling. Too much sitting, standing, kneeling. Let people bring in lounge chairs. The same old hymns are boring. Play a Josh Groban CD.
No one tells the truth in Confession. The priest probably recognizes you. Why not tell God directly and let the chips fall where they may? It would create more time for our clergy to form singing groups like the Southern Baptists. Those folks rock.
Questions?"
He finished his burger with a gulp and took a big swallow of diet Pepsi.

Post Office Box

"Mr. Wilcox, this is Mary from the Post Office.  We have a problem."
"Problem?"
"You opened a PO box two months ago and haven't been in to collect your mail."
"I'm sorry. I've been preoccupied."
"There's more. All of the letters have your own return address. Have you been mailing leters to yourself? Is there someone else living there?"
"No. I live alone since my dear grandmother passed away."
"The thing is, the letters smell bad, like something is rotting inside the envelope. Please come in soon and empty your box."
"I will do just that. Sorry for the inconvenience."
He hung up and glared at the wall where he had entombed cranky, critical grandma exactly two months ago.
"You just had to have the last word, didn't you"?

The Shop

A man hesitates outside the shop that replaces women's heads. He looks around nervously, peers in the window. The door opens and the owner emerges.
"May I help you?"
"You replace women's heads?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I have a special problem. I love my fiance, but hate her feet."
"Has she been disobedient?'"
"I don't expect that sort of thing."
"Then you have a problem beyond feet."
"Be that as it may, can you help me?"
The owner beckoned the man inside where he called out "Julius!"
A hunched, cackling, drooling man stumbled out of a back room, eyes bulging.
The owner nodded at his assistant and said, "Julius handles feet and hands. He'll give you a four for two deal."
"I don't need hand replacement. I love her hands."
"Bring her in. I imagine she's very pretty." The owner glanced at Julius, who just cackled.
The man left, shaken and unsure what his next move should be. Perhaps he'd better take a closer look at her hands.

Overdue

"You get one phone call."
Winston stood over me, glowering. We were locked in a basement room of the library. He pointed his scanner at me.
"You know me," I pleaded. "I've been checking out books here for years."
"Three weeks overdue. Who do you think you're dealing with? Don't play games with me. Produce the book or you get one call."
I swallowed and took out my cell; caled my friend, Marsha.
"You must vouch for me. God knows what they have planned. Are you sure I didn't leave it at your place?"
"What book are you talking about?"
"Where the Wild Things Are."
"Fiend. There's a waiting list for that book. My nephew craves it. How could you hog it?"
"I misplaced it."
"You may as well have misplaced a rose garden. How can I vouch for a thief?"
"I am no thief. Just careless."
She clicked off and I was alone again.

Excerpt from Twilight People-Switchblade Stories, available on Amazon.

Bananas Two

Clerk-I'm just here doing a job.
Shopper-And I'm here trying to purchase sustenance.
Clerk-Look at this. You've squeeze-dented this nectarine.
Shopper-That dent was already there.
Clerk-No it wasn't. I examine my product every morning.
Shopper-Here's proof. I snapped this a few moments ago before I touched the fruit.
Clerk-You use your cell to photograph our produce. Without our permission??
Shopper-It's called self protection. You have cameras following my every move. This is quid pro quo.
Clerk-Don't hit me with Latin. I'm in the right here. You are a serial fruit toucher.
Shopper-Why didn't you intervene when I touched the carrots?
Clerk-Carrots can handle themselves. They don't bruise.
Shopper-And if I had snapped one in half?
Clerk-I'd have been all over you like white on rice.
Shopper-That's a cliche.
Clerk-You some kind of teacher?
Shopper-I'm a writer.
Clerk-Really? Will this wind up in a story?
Shopper-Maybe.
Clerk-Could you make me taller?
Shopper-Depends. I'm going to examine that peach.
Clerk-Peaches are the most vulnerable to bruising.
Shopper-See how careful I am? There. Right back where I took it.
Clerk-What was wrong with that peach?
Shopper-Too hard.
Clerk-Nonsense.
Shopper-Don't take it personally.
Clerk-I HAVE to. I'm head produce clerk. This is my domain.
Shopper-A bit pretentious, aren't we?
Clerk-I'm ordering you to put that peach in your cart.
Shopper-I want this other peach.
Clerk-But you haven't touched it.
Shopper-Now that's ironic.
Clerk-Don't confuse me. Here. I'm GIVING you the two rejected bananas for free. I can't have depressed fruit on my tand.
Shopper-Can I smell your radishes?
Clerk-Don't push your luck, fella. Am I in your story or not?
Shopper-Well, maybe, maybe not. Knock something off that yam and we'll see.
Clerk-My yams are gold. I'm through negotiating. I will hand you one mango. You will fondle it to your heart's content. Then you will leave my produce aisle.
Shopper-Man gos give me diarrhea.
Clerk-Stomach issues are in aisle seven.

Bananas

Shopper and clerk
Clerk-You just broke two bananas off the bunch.
Shopper-So?
Clerk-That's not allowed.
Shopper-Why?
Clerk-It goes against nature. It would be like yanking two of your cousins away from your own family.
Shopper-I don't like my cousins.
Clerk-Why not take all four?
Shopper-I live alone. I can only eat two bananas before they get overripe.
Clerk-What is overripe but a matter of opinion?
Shopper-Overripe is when you try to peel it and all you get is mush.
Clerk-We have have a separate problem here.
Shopper-We?
Clerk-You've been touching the produce too much. You are allowed three touches, no more.
Shopper-That's not enough.
Clerk-For the rest of society it is.
Shopper-You're saying I'm the only one who over touches?
Clerk-On my shift. I can't speak for when I'm absent.
Shopper-You take your job pretty seriously.
Clerk-That's why I'm head produce clerk.
Shopper-So you established these rules.
Clerk-In conjunction with The International Produce Quality Control Association.
Shopper-You just made that up.
Clerk-They're located in Terre Haute, Indiana.
Shopper-I need to feel my fruit.
Clerk-Three touches.
Shopper-Or what?
Clerk-I bring out Leroy from the back.
Shopper-Fine. I carry a tasar weapon.
Clerk-I doubt that.
Shopper-Try me.
(To be continued)

The Audition

I've always been told I'm a good dancer, especially at weddings and parties. I happened to be between jobs and figured I'd use my talents to find employment. I first applied as an instructor at a square dancing school. I offered to add twerking to the curriculum, but traditionalist owners turned me down.
I tried to join a male exotic dance group, but my five foot height worked against me. I thought about my strengths. I was graceful, flexible, and a good leaper. Voila! Ballet!
I wasn't completely ignorant. I knew Balanchine was a big deal and the competition would be stiff. Certainly I was nervous before the audition. He sat on a stool, wearing an immaculate white shirt that matched his longish hair. His dark slacks had a perfect crease; his glasses slid down his nose. The entire troupe stopped to watch.
I choose K.C. & The Sunshine Band's "That's the Way I Like It" as my music. I tore into my choreography, throwing in spins, splits and a cartwheel--people loved my cartwheels at weddings. I was sure I nailed it.
When the music ended no one spoke. They were stunned. I sensed he was going to hug me as he approached. I sensed wrong. He kicked me hard in the shin and screamed at me to get out. In English and French.
I eventually found a job selling shoes for Payless. When it's slow, I'll retreat to the stockroom and practice my moves. Hope dies hard. At least I outlived the bastard.

Victimless Crime

The interior design of my condo is a victimless crime against taste. Victimless because I never get visitors. My glass coffee table is covered with a dozen brown and beige artifacts obtained in Marshall's Home Goods and dumpsters. I have a wooden elephant, bowls holding smooth stones and a slab of unfinished wood knifing the air.
I have antlers atop my TV. My own abstract paintings resembling ferret vomit adorn the walls. There's a stuffed bear wearing a Postal uniform, a lizard hand puppet and a furry monkey toy. African sculptures, onyx objects, small iron statues of musicians, and liquor bottles line my bar. Classics like Madame Bovary and picture books fill my shelves. My Cd collection ranges from Connie Francis to Rush.
My ragged recliner is covered in paint. Dusting makes no sense. It just floats up there, waits until you leave, and descends back to its home. My ceiling fan is my best friend. My couch is from the 1970s and covered in plastic. I have one chair for my computer and one at my kitchen table.
Only the cable guy might be considered a victim, but his visits are short. I give him credit for keeping a straight face.

Reasonable

Here are the facts
I loaned you my thong underwear
You finally returned them
Washed without fabric softener
Now I'm chafing like tree bark covers my privates
Let's be reasonable
Friendship has its boundaries

This is my dirt
Those are your seeds
Potatoes can be halved
Parsley is another story
Let's have a reasonable negotiation
It all winds up in our compost heap anyway
I believe that's my cherry tomato
In your kid's mouth

Viking Retirement Home

My brother-in-law Rich had this great idea to open a retirement home for vikings here by the lake. Of course I invested. Rich had 50 ideas a week. By law of averages, some of them had to click. He sold me on this one, hook, line and sinker.
Well, here I am a year later and the whole thing is chaotic. This is living hell. I'm the manager and this place is taking years off my life. Lars, head viking, and his crew refuse to water ski, even with free lessons. The macrame classes are half full. Not a single resident registered for the Japanese nose flute lessons. They sleep all day, carouse all night, drinking booze, which is not even allowed on the premises. We give them a healthy organic salad and they holler for venison. They make weapons out of tree branches, shields out of scrap metal. Not one of them would trade in their stupid pit helmets for a fur cap. They can't shoot pool or roller skate for crap. They hate all the movies except Mel Gibson's. Aerobics classes are treated as a joke. We spent $3000 on extra large leotards, which no one wears. God knows what's growing in their beards. Potato sack races turned into bloody battles
Women, they bellow, where are the women?
No one pays any attention to me or my assistants, who quit on a regular basis. These animals won't bathe for days. Dental bills are astronomical. Rich, the bastard, cashed out his share, sold it to a corporation that owns the retirement home for florists across the river. What frightens me most is the possibility of these beasts discovering that fact, channeling across the river and attacking the helpless florists, maybe bringing some back as captives.
Actually we do need some decent landscaping here and more color. I could term it a field trip and plead ignorance at the consequences.

Smiley

"No one knew his real name. He simply entered a gym smiling and never stopped. At first I thought he was a reporter or athletic director, maybe a popular teacher. He acted as if he knew everyone in the place. Wearing a dark blue overcoat, black scarf, baggy pants and worn shoes, he moved confidently about, sometimes carrying a clipboard.
When he took notes, his squat body hunched forward, concern etched across his face, tiny dark eyes darting end to end.He never removed that frayed gray sweater no matter how warm it got in the gym.
I watched him shake his head in distress whenever a girl would muff a pass or blow an easy shot. Usually he positioned himself a bit away from the other spectators. Once, I sat directly behind him and glanced at his clipboard. It contained a jumble of numbers and diagrams, phrases I couldn't make out. None of it seemed to make sense. Perhaps he was a very analytical coach out scouting.
I never saw him around town. No one seemed to know where he lived or worked, if indeed he did work. He never arrived or left with anyone. At game's end, I'd look around and he had vanished."
From "Smiley", a story included in "Dancing on Lava--Switchblade Stories 3", available on Amazon.

Tim Burton's Brain

I was almost shut out of the monthly tour of Tim Burton's brain. They were overbooked. The agent tried to switch me to a tour of Ron Howard's brain, but that is not something that interested me. Instead, I dug into my ear with forceps and yanked out some of my own brain tissue as a bribe. He seemed dubious as to its value, so I suggested he read some of my published books on Amazon. That did the trick.
Usually I'm cynical about these tours. I'd just done one of Russell Brand's brain and came away less than impressed. I must say I was shocked, thrilled and horrified all at once after experiencing Tim Burton's brain. Gooey material hung from the top and wet globs of mushiness was underfoot. Mutant cells jumped out at us, screaming nonsense. I had been inside Jonathan Winters' brain years ago and it wasn't this strange. A stench reminiscent of rotting woodchucks permeated everything. Prickly pointed objects grew on the walls. A howling wind bounced us around like ping pong balls. Crawling things tried to bite us. We were absolutely frazzled by the end of the tour.
Maybe I should have gone with the Ron Howard option. I had a coupon.

Planet Fitness

I just joined Planet Fitness and so far, so good. I was there opening day in time for free coffee and bagels and the ribbon cutting. I could have gotten in that photo, but I was too busy buttering my bagel. There were people wearing sharp purple shirts ready to show me how to work the machines. Fortunately I belonged to Fitness 2, and knew almost all of them. I still have three months to go on that membership and I wonder if I can get a refund. That gym is 30 minutes from my house. PF is right down the hill. They even gave me a free t-shirt. No one at Fitness 2 wears purple shirts. Theirs are black, which also looks great. But the actual machines at PF are also purple. Very classy.
PF has a philosophy of not being judgmental. Big signs indicate that. But human nature being what it is, clients are going to sneak peeks at others and evaluate. I will ignore the denigrating looks and focus on my workout.
PF is open 24/7, which means on the nights I can't sleep I will head down there and get on the treadmill. Imagine being the only person in a huge gym at 3am. Sounds like a short story.

B&H Camera

I've only been in this place one time and felt uncomfortable. I sensed everyone there knew far more about photography equipment than me and any question I asked would be dumb. They are closed on Saturday for religious reasons. I respect that, which is why I thought of them when considering selling my six 35mm film cameras and dozen lenses.
They wanted a specific list of the make and condition of each. Red Flag. The message was we are doing you a favor by taking them off your hands. I was honest and told them the cameras might have shutter issues, which is a polite way of saying they don't work. The reply stated simply they didn't want anything with shutter problems. I thanked them for a quick response and asked if they were still interested in the lenses. The response was one word: no.
I can picture some bespectacled, balding little guy salivating at the chance to brusquely reject anyone whose equipment does not meet their standards. This is someone who never sees the sun and hardly ever eats out.
I will go on with my life. The plan now is to paint my useless cameras and lenses and sell them to art lovers with an edge. I'm choosing the color schemes and imagining patterns of brilliance. Needless to say I will not enter B&H ever again.

Hallucination

I was leaving my bathroom, walking to the kitchen, When I saw Myrna Loy sitting at my table sipping black coffee.
"Are you going to take the case or not?" she asked in that snappy tone.
She flashed her eyes and tossed back her hair.
"What are you doing in my kitchen?"
"I'm your wife, silly. Tie that robe. You must start going to the gym. Your belly, my dear. You haven't done a thing but drink for weeks."
I reached up and felt a thin mustache that wasn't there last night. I did the sensible thing. I responded as William Powell playing The Thin Man.
"My dear, I married you for your money, not your advice."
She frowned as I took a seat.
"The police are baffled; a man is dead, shot three times. There are no clues, no suspects. What happened to the bloodhound I married? You don't even shave anymore."
"I shaved two days ago."
I took a long sip of juice, pretending to have a hangover like Powell's character.

Excerpted from "Hallucination", one of 40 flash fiction pieces included in The Story Eaters, available on Amazon. Joe Del Priore

VHS Tapes

I may have found an answer to disposing of the approximately 250 VHS tapes I collected before I retired. I bought many of them on sale with the idea that after I retired I would just sit in my recliner and watch movies all day, grow a beard and get fat.
Obviously that plan went awry after DVDs came into being. Unlike LPs, there is no market for these tapes, unless there are a few Third World countries who never made the switch.
I still have my VHS player under my cable box, but I haven't used it in so long I forgot how it works. Besides that issue, I simply don't have the time to watch movies. I joined so many groups since retiring I'm hardly home. Plus the writing and painting suck up more time.
But today I may have discovered a way out of this dilemma. I won't reveal my source, but I was told there is a business that accepts VHS tapes and pays a small amount for each. I refuse to reveal the identity of that business because I'm concerned you'll pile your old tapes into the car and shoot there before me. There probably aren't too many people dumb enough to stockpile outmoded products, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. That's probably what Hitler said after invading Russia.

Hole in the Ceiling

This is what we get for doing a good deed. We let Cousin Omar stay upstairs while he was between jobs. Little did we know he had this disgusting habit of spitting tobacco juice on the floor. Spittoon manufacture had been outsourced to Pakistan, which decided to impose an embargo on the US as a protest against over use of drones in their territory. You'd think Omar would at least spit into a vase, but no, right on the floor.
On top of that, he was using acrid Mexican juice, which eventually burned a hole in our ceiling. He apologized and offered to contact his contractor friend. If you know anything about Omar's friends, it's doubtful this guy was licensed. Lois, my wife, and I were not crazy about Omar hearing all our conversations. Plus we could hear him singing old Crosby, Stills and Nash songs.
Now he had to go outside to spit and the neighbors stopped talking to us.
I have to give Lois credit for having the idea to install a pole that reached right up to the second floor and advertizing for pole dancers in training. We cleared $1500 the first month. Neighbors still aren't talking to us, but who cares?
The only downside has been Omar introducing these young women to Mexican tobacco juice. Lois and I are convinced he has them aiming at us.

White Tile

White tile on the bathroom floor is a nightmare to keep clean. I have killed myself mopping and brushing in the grooves. I have used Grout Bully, only to have the new white sections turn gray within days. You can only cover so much with throw rugs, not that I have visitors. I can accept scuff marks accumulating, but grunge in the tile grooves is disgusting and unacceptable.
So I did the only sensible thing. Went out and got brown patterned stick-on linoleum and covered the whole damn floor. It looks great. While I was all pumped up I cleaned the bowl, sink, mirror, and tub. Even caulked a few shaky tiles on the shower wall. It rained most of the day so I had the time. I could have written a prize winning short story or essay, but, you know, every day I have to see that cruddy floor and now I don't. A man has to be able to make a decision.
I rewarded myself with an ice cream sandwich and a granola bar.
Life is good.

Just Taste It

Marsha always put out a huge meal whenever she hosted. By the time we got to dessert we were stuffed. But she insisted we try her pudding. Its color was off white, its viscosity thick. There were black spots within of unknown origin. Some people are jello folks. I am heavy into pudding, always have been.
I dug in, taking big swallows, eyes closed, relishing the tangy taste. I licked the spoon and bowl like a starving man. I wanted more. She could see it in my eyes.
After the others left, she pulled me aside, whispering 'I know what you want and you know what I want.' She kissed me hard and long.
This is extortion, I moaned. This is bartering, mister, she hissed. She practically tore off my clothes. The next two hours were quite energetic. When I suggested we incorporate pudding into our gymnastics, she flared up. And dirty my sheets? I got one more lousy cup of it before she kicked me out. I feel so used.

Linoleum God

I am a linoleum God. Did my entire kitchen, only got dizzy a few times. I should have done this years ago. Okay, some squares are not quite even, but it's not like someone is going to come over with a tape measure. I wish I were as good at caulking my tub. I used to enjoy my glass sliding doors, but difficulty in fighting off soap scum has turned me around to shower curtain possibilities.
I feel like I haven't tapped my linoleum potential, but I also don't feel comfortable knocking on strangers doors and offering my services. My whole kitchen seems brighter. I am tempted to paint a wall. Definitely will include this in my Linked In resume.
I don't often mention my books, but any author has to at least put it out there. Currently I have four collections of flash fiction available on Amazon. The first two are also on B&N and Scribbulations. I am planning a collection of essays for the fall, tentatively titled Gobsmacked.
Book titles:
Twilight People--Switchblade Stories
Plowed In--More Switchblade Stories
Dancing on Lava--Switchblade Stories 3
The Story Eaters--Switchblade Stories 4.
If you enjoy my blog and like quirky tales, check them out.

Boys Town

Boys Town has sent me an honorary citizenship certificate and wallet sized card. I sent them a check a while back. It looks pretty sharp, with a gold seal and signed by the National Executive Director. I wonder if flashing the card in a club will impress women.
I'm not sure what my new responsibilities are. Should I travel there and attend council meetings? Will I be taxed like regular citizens? Am I required to put one of these kids on my shoulders during parades? How much input do I have regarding policy decisions?
I never asked for this responsibility, but I'm ready to accept yet another stressful episode for the good of these kids. What puzzles me is the certificate says I "completed all the requirements and procedures attached thereto."
I've never seen the word thereto anywhere. The only procedure I can recall relating to this honor was watching the movie Boys Town on TCM. Just between us, I felt Spencer Tracy should have smacked Mickey Rooney as soon as he started acting up.
I'm going to feel guilty until I send them another check. I know Father Flanagan is looking down on me.

My Garage

I believe in my garage. It has stood by me all these years. It could have sabotaged my storage efforts by creating mold. Yet I've mistreated it badly. I made ugly piles of mismatched stuff, barely leaving enough room for my car. I was smothering my garage with junk.
One word--declutter. Be merciless. Attack the flotsam and jetsom.
Let my garage breathe again!
Bags and bags of stuff given to Goodwill and Salvation Army. Clothing, housewares, electronics, knick knacks, books, boots, luggage, silverware, etc.
Now comes the hard part--my paintings. Hundreds of them, too many to keep. Which masterpieces do I sacrifice? How do I abandon part of my soul, my identity? Would Matisse just give away his output? Then again, he probably wouldn't have hoarded eight radios and an unpacked DVD player, 300 VHS tapes and miles of bubble wrap.
I must set you free, my loyal garage, no matter what the price.
Here's a copy of SI Swimsuit issue 1998. Make me an offer.

The Reunion That Never Was

Once again I ignored his request for a reunion with three of my former high school classmates. I hated high school. For them, it was glory and great memories. For me, not so much.
We are Facebook friends. In fact, FB has pretty much made reunions passe. He actually organized previous full reunions for the whole class, none of which I attended.
See, these people basically ignored me in high school. Maybe I wasn't worth knowing. But I have no desire to return to the dynamics of that relationship, IE. they cementing how popular they were and relating all their success afterward, while subtlety denigrating my achievements. I don't doubt for a moment that would happen.
He did come to my brother's funeral almost four years ago and sought me out. I didn't recognize him. We had a nice talk in which he mentioned a kidney problem.
Well, recently he posted on FB that his situation had gotten much worse and is life threatening. A part of me feels guilty for refusing his invitations to get together over the years. But the truth is we were never close friends. Sometimes you have to protect yourself and not bring back bad memories and that is why I stayed away. None of us were supposed to get old, right?

Extra Cookie

I was recently faced with an ethical dilemma. The kid taking my order at a fast food restaurant accidentally gave me four cookies instead of three. I did not discover this until I sat down and began eating. I debated whether to return the extra one, but before you judge me, these were oatmeal raisin cookies and that changes the narrative.
I love oatmeal raisin. I had a medium French vanilla ice coffee and a good book. I was feeling pretty good about things. But I do have a conscience and my temporary solution was to only eat three and take the other home and ponder my responsibility here. I am certainly not desperate for food. I considered finding a homeless person and giving it to him. But I am a busy writer with much on his plate and no time to go looking for an unfortunate.
So I ate the cookie next day with my lunch and now I sense something really bad is going to happen to me. Karma and all that. Still, that was a damn good cookie. I mean, it's not like I'm running for office.

Lost Ring

I can't find my high school ring. I never got a college ring because I joined the Reserves during Vietnam and missed a semester. More troubling is I also can't find my late dad's diamond ring. Maybe I gave it to a relative. I keep finding containers and boxes holding nothing of value as I continue my cleanup. Right now I must explore a large plastic container holding lots of photos from newspapers and magazines which I cut out.
I haven't looked at them for years and don't recall why I collected them. Logic says I should just toss the whole mess out, but what if there's a one of a kind shot that is nothing less than dazzling? There has to be something of value there.
I have other containers holding similar items. Should I spend hours going through them when I could be writing novels and plays?
I hate the fact that I've accumulated all this stuff. What void am I trying to fill? If I suddenly croak, people will assume I'm a hoarder. I may be missing things I've forgotten about. Today I packed up all my Tupperware and dropped it off at Goodwill for a tax deduction. This was the sixth load of stuff I donated. I wish I could donate the part of my brain I'm not using. I bet I could focus better without millions of unemployable neurons blocking important thoughts.

The Art of Reaching

I reach less and less now. Go out less, make fewer plans, see fewer people. I'm shrinking each day.
Old age? Who knows? Conversations blur into a maze of sounds. I've seen all the flowers, stood atop the highest buildings, swallowed the most delicious food. Getting on a plane seems exhausting.
I may have peaked as a writer. I sense I've trampled through all my ideas and now I'm repeating myself. Inspiration lies at the bottom of my hamper. I have lost the art of reaching, risking, seeking.
I am folding in on myself, indifferent to that which used to surprise and delight.
I have too much accumulated stuff. I crave empty space and its lack of expectation. I just want to sit in my recliner and stare at the ceiling fan.
My life is diminishing and I don't care. Don't answer the phone, delete emails, never text or respond to the doorbell. I switched back to a straight razor because my Remington was making too much noise.
I foresee a point when I will only brush half my teeth and bath certain body parts.
Maybe I will stick my head out the door and some random person will tell me a joke that will make me smile. As long as they don't expect one back. We shouldn't have to reach for laughter.

Eerie Calm

An eerie calm in the canyon
Jackrabbits hopping in staccato bursts
Weak breeze carresses dusty terrain
Ruffled clouds blocking sun
One frightened bird tilting toward the horizon
Ridged bluffs, flat topped sentinals
Horses snort restlessly
Men lean forward listening
Mute cactus wait as whispers circle
He raises his right arm and signals
Troops follow, canteens slapping against leather
Little Big Horn opens wide

Tough Cartilage

I got a haircut today and the female barber told me I have tough ear cartilage. Like her mother. Maybe she was trying to set us up. I never spent much time considering my ears, except to note they were prominent and needed to be covered in the summer or they look like half cooked chop meat.
It must be my high testosterone level. I'm debating whether to employ certain Asian exercises to loosen up said cartilage. If a woman begins nibbling on my ears and experiences resistance from my top skin, she'll never get to my lobes, which are the key to releasing my passion.
My haircuts only last about two minutes because there's not much left to cut. It takes longer to trim my eyebrows. I love it when she runs the shaver over my barrenness. One day I will get up the courage to let them shampoo me. Strong Spanish women taking turns massaging my scalp. Yes.
Let me catch my breath.

New Mattress

I bought a new full size mattress I've named Amber. We are currently bonding and I sense chemistry, unlike my old air matress Gretchen, who squeaked, groaned, developed a lump and needed inflation every two weeks.
I loved dragging her to the dumpster.
The salesman watched me test Amber in all positions, which could have been creepy if we weren't professional about it. It is a pleasure to have a big, wide space to sleep on. The first two nights I've lain awake, possibly putting too much pressure on myself and Amber. I'm sure I'll settle into good sleep eventually. Amber and I have a mutual respect, which I will maintain by not passing wind in her presence.
Perhaps I have too many stories in my mind to sleep. This is a writer's burden I accept.
Interestingly, while at the store, I tried a recliner, which was so comfortable I didn't want to get up and resume my life. I could literally exist in Bob's Furniture by moving from bed to recliner all day.
Now I'm going to take a quick nap. Amber awaits.

Retirement

Sunday Night
A salad from heaven
Lettuce, carrots, tomato, celery, cucumber, green pepper, black olives, bacon bits, croutons, dressing
Side dish of cut yellow beans
David Sanborn on the CD player
Reading the funnies
Watching a thunderstorm
Blueberry pie
Cold Water
Waiting for a movie based on a Dickens novel
Best of all
Sleeping late on Monday
Not expected anywhere

Apples and Oranges

There is a different mind set when consuming apples and oranges. With apples, you just reach into the fridge, grab one and take a bite. No fuss, no bother. You just keep biting away until you reach the core. Then you toss it into the garbage and walk off.
Oranges need more preparation. You have to bite the skin first to create a starting point for peeling. Some oranges resist peeling and make it difficult to get one long peel that takes you all around the orange and gives a modest feeling of satisfaction. No, stubborn oranges will frustrate you as tiny sections come off, little by little. You really are dying for this piece of fruit and sometimes take a bite before its fully peeled, inappropriate in all cultures, if you ask me.
Finally, after piling up maybe 40 pieces of skin, your orange is peeled. The next problem is squirting. Oranges squirt, it's a fact. Your shirt is usually the victim; sometimes the person sitting opposite you. If it gets in your eye, it stings. You get angry, but that is balanced by the exquisite taste of a good orange.
Once you've finished, you must get rid of the skin, plus any pits you've not swallowed. These pits are big enough to spit and get some good distance, unlike watermelon pits, which are overrated and lose altitude pretty quick.

The Sounds of Insomnia

Creaking bed upstairs. My own creaking water bed. Garbage men shouting at 2AM. Conversations in the mind. Humming AC. Cats fighting. Quiet crimes away from street lights. Car alarms. A backfire. Loud breathing. Music barely discernible. Someone is singing. A sad barking.
Two people arguing. Passing wind. A baby burp. Ticking, ticking.
All the things you should have said. The silences you should have respected.
The moon yawns.

Delayed Gratification

I know I'm a good writer. I just have to wait for the rest of the population to catch on. I'm used to waiting for a reward. I had to wait years to get a pet, in this case, a goldfish. It soon became obvious my fish hated me. Never made eye contact, kept swimming away. It wasn't until I began reading to it--Moby Dick--that it responded with warmth. I know which side it was rooting for.
I never understood people who suffer in this world in exchange for rewards in the next. What if we've been sold a bill of goods? What if there's no sweet potato fries in heaven? Or Edy's Fruit Bars, waste management or breath mints?
What if Elvis is 400 pounds and we all have to report to Richard Nixon for our personal cloud?
Hugh Hefner has it right. Get as much now as you can. Bacchanalia is a viable short and long term goal if you ask me.
I just wish recognition were a little faster coming, preferably before I'm cremated. If you've ever had a small pimple and forced yourself to wait until it was the size of a cathedral before bursting it, you're a better person than I.

Mopping

Mopping may be the most sensual thing you can do with your shoes on. Taking that handle and swishing the mop back and forth, side to side, varying the speed, intensity and length of the strokes--complete dominance. Your body leans into it, arms, legs, shoulders and back working in tandem. Mop & Glo smells like Venice after a rainstorm, spurring you to greater heights.
Rinsing your mop means twisting and squeezing and pushing down hard until all the water is drained. Then you take a deep breath, dip it back in the bucket and commence your stroking again. You are a mopping animal; the floor, your soaked, punished slave.
When you are finished, leaning on your mop, hunched and gasping, your floor glistening wet, both of you know you have achieved a climax most couples only dream of. And no one has to get drunk first.