Droopy Eyes

I recently saw a photo of myself with a group of friends in which my eyes were half closed and it looked like I was staring at the chest of the woman in front of me. I looked like I just wanted to get back to my coffee and donut. I have heavy eyelids and there's nothing I can do about it.
The world does not need me to add to its creepiness. There's more than enough to go around, much more than I remember growing up. Or maybe I just never noticed. That's the burden of being a writer. You see and hear everything.
In order to seem normal I'm going to have to fabricate exotic vacations and maybe rent a spouse and kids just for Facebook photos.
I bet certain women find my droopy lids sexy, like Robert Mitchum or Ryan Gosling. Or they could just be concerned I might be having a stroke.

Swipe Fee

I've decided to administer swipe fees for those who wish to be my friends. This was not an easy decision. It boils down to a simple question--how valuable is my time and are you worth it? Okay, that's two questions.
Essentially, what I have to offer in terms of friendship extends far beyond the parameters of what most people can offer. My searing wit alone is priceless. The market determines what I should charge.
I heard Michael Bolton charges $40 an hour for sharing a meal with friends.
I was thinking $12 an hour to start and see how people respond. If I begin losing top tier friends and are left only with vague acquaintances, I may have to rethink this. Of course there would be a night differential and a weekend surcharge.
Carrying around one of those portable credit card swipe machines is a pain, but if one values what one has to offer, it's a small inconvenience. Initially, you may be upset, but give it time and you'll adapt. True friends always do.

Dancing on Lava

My new collection of stories is Dancing on Lava--Switchblade Stories 3, published through Create Space on Amazon. The print is larger and the space between lines is wider, making it easier to read. A talented graphic artist, Ryann Rykowski, formatted it and put together the cover. It is a print and e-book.
There are 40 somewhat offbeat stories with no central theme, although there is satire and social commentary through exaggeration and dialogue. I am currently working on my fourteenth collection and hope to publish at least two a year.
I've soured on scheduling appearances and doing open mikes, neither of which has resulted in many sales. I've decided my priority is to publish as much as I can, donate some and sell the rest informally at various meetings of groups I belong to.
There were 285000 self published books last year alone in this country. Add to that all the thousands put out by independents and university presses. Then tack on the thousands published by the big six firms. The chances of breaking out of the pack are miniscule. So I changed course and will focus on just getting the books out there.
It seems there is so much time and energy spent on marketing and networking, it is easy to forget the importance of the actual writing and completing projects. From here on, I am all about completing those books and publishing whatever I feel is quality material. In a sense, I'm abandoning what isn't working or pleasant and substituting what is important to me.

Laundry Bag

Today I had to inform my old laundry bag it was being mothballed due to wear and tear. Its responsibility will be limited to containing my old bath mats until I'm ready to wash them. As you might expect, it didn't go well. There were protests and arguments and finally sulking, especially when I introduced it to its replacement, a yellow bag from Bed, Bath & Beyond. It suggested yellow wasn't masculine enough for a man's dirty clothes. I responded I was secure enough to ignore such  drivel.
These are necessary actions if one is to proclaim independence while living alone. You can't wait for someone else to make these decisions. This extends to removing socks and underwear from the sartorial cycle and switching to newer models.
Some decisions are made for you. Anyone can see mold in a tomato sauce jar or mushy cucumbers in the vegetable bin. But exactly how long do you keep Vaseline and peanut butter?
Tomorrow I must confront my pot holders with the news they are to be replaced in March. I expect nothing less than a hissy fit, but a man must stand his ground. The new ones will be masculine black.

Before It Falls Apart

My philosophy is to leave things before they fall apart. That includes conversations, relationships, jobs, homes, and beliefs. Abandonment is underrated as a strategy.
If your car is burning, you take off. If a painting is not coming together, give up before it resembles colorful coffee grounds. Get rid of sponges before they call to mind rotting mice.
Leave the beach before the rush, leave the subway before the crush, leave the church before the hush, leave the snow before the mush, leave the toilet before the flush, wipe the furniture before the dust,, flee the storm before the gust, change the locks before the rust.
Run from salami if you must, and say bye bye to liver before the wurst.
Abandon this essay before it turns to slush. Pray for a miracle or some such.
Too much?

How Will They Remember Me?

I want to be remembered as a guy who almost got rid of his Jersey accent. Who used to part his hair. Whose hamstrings were flexible. As someone who deliberately submerged his magnetic personality and let others have the spotlight.
I want people to appreciate my sense of adventure, evidenced by living in Hudson County my whole life and making midnight trips to White Castle. I hope my writing will inspire others to create and my wardrobe will take friends into new realms of mixing and matching. Remember how kind I was to animals, even turtles, not that they ever reciprocated.
When I finally do go to that laundromat in the sky I plan to donate one pair of my socks to every friend as a keepsake. I will encourage them to circulate my toothbrush.
On my headstone, these words: "Here lies a poet of gravitas". Most of my friends will have to look up gravitas.

Senior Movie

I signed up for twice monthly senior movie days at a local cineplex. I never knew this existed. Hey, I'm a taxpayer, why not?
It had been literally years since I'd been in an actual movie theater. I usually go to libraries for freebies. This place was clean and the seats were comfortable. I took one towards the top, getting there a half hour early; only a handful of people preceded me. I finished up a Kindle book while waiting. Of course the previews took a good fifteen minutes.
As the minutes passed I watched seniors enter. Some were able to move quite well, but others, well others barely could get up the steps. Excruciatingly slow, one step at a time, holding on for dear life, stumbling into a seat, breathing hard, flushed. Wearing heavy coats didn't help.
Suppose one grasped the chest and collapsed. Could I spring into action and start pounding away on a ribcage? What if there were a fire? How long would it take them to evacuate? Hours?
The movie was Broken City; not bad, Russell Crowe, Mark Walberg, Catherine Zeta-Jones. Corruption all over the place. This was one day after I saw Arbitrage at a library. More crooked people looking to screw over anyone in their way. Richard Gere's hair never looked better.
One guy at the theater came in very late and I'm betting he was at another screening of a different movie and sneaked into this one without paying. Now he would have to sit there, knowing the ending of our movie, and watch the whole first half for the film to make any sense.
Two more weeks until the next senior movie. Maybe I should enter just as the lights are going down and flaunt how well I climb steps. Nah. Too mean.

Artichokes Unlimited

My business, Artichokes Unlimited, was struggling. A mystery. Who doesn't like artichokes? I ran into my friend Keith, who ran Squash City, a high end emporium, and mentioned the problem. I could go bankrupt, I moaned.
He said one word--marketing. He got the word out that squash was the hip food of the year. Even had a musician friend write a song about it. Gave me the name of his publicist Josie.
This woman is a whirlwind of activity. She organized a Miss Artichoke contest that got coverage in three papers and over 500 people in the high school auditorium. I put in a coffee bar, hired a torch singer--torch songs go well with this food staple--even placed my grandmother at the door as a greeter.
Things really picked up. Then one day a man entered, introduced himself as Carl, a venture capitalist, and wanted to discuss the possibility of expanding my business into a franchise. He gave me his card, emblazoned with an artichoke and smiled. I just knew I could trust this man. Besides, there's never been any evidence the Mafia has ever been involved with black market artichoke importing. I see an unlimited future. I might even move into beets.

Rashes

It's been way too long between rashes. I miss my rashes. They would just appear one day and then mysteriously vanish. I was fascinated by their variety--size, shape color, smell, and especially location.
I made a diagram of my body, front and back. Astounding that I'm still breathing. I spent far too much time scratching and sniffing them. I probably could have been a CEO by now.
The saddest aspect of being a rash magnet is when they leave it's like losing an old friend. Each is unique and once it's gone, it's similar to the death of an endangered species.
I've been to numerous Personal Rash conventions, conferences and symposiums to compare notes. We are liberal minded and have no problem with a hall full of people with their pants down pointing at each other's discolorations. All in the name of medical science.
I have a parrot that doesn't grasp my interest in this. When I periodically examine it for rashes it squawks like an old woman.
Two years without a rash. Now every time I get an itch my hopes soar.

The Pirate Inside Me

Swashbuckling. Look up the word and my name is next to it. If there is a pirate gene, I have it. Just look at me. Tight royal blue stretch pants, puffy white shirt, stylish, imported leather boots, a suede scabbard, the longest, sharpest sword imaginable. Medallions hanging from my neck across my masculine, hairy chest. Doubloons in my pantaloons.
Yes, I clatter as I walk, but that is part of my intimidation.
Women? Hah! I've lost count of all the Brigettes and Danielles I have captured and ravished and set free. Let me say, few of them wanted to leave.
I have a loyal, cutthroat crew, ready to follow me to the far corners of the earth. Except I made some ill advised tech company stock purchases, fell behind on my ship payments and the bank repossessed it. Unholy devils. I know I must find treasure soon or I will lose my career.
That was why I found myself entering a Wall Street building housing hedge fund managers, the cruelest theives imaginable. I was hoping for free lance work.
Once in the elevator, I pressed the 20th floor and waited. Only one other person, a roly poly, bald, middle aged man was present. Within seconds the accursed cubicle stopped dead. We were stuck. After an awkward silence, the other stuck out his hand, introduced himself as Gus, a frustrated stage performer moonlighting as a mutual funds consultant.
He politely asked if he could sing to pass the time. I foolishly accented and for two hours he warbled the entire score of Oklahoma, Carousel and Phantom. It was all I could do to keep from lopping off his head right there.
By the time we were freed my puffy shirt was soaked with sweat and Gus left with a broad smile. Outside of being a bit pitch challenged, he wasn't bad.

Endorsed

People keep endorsing me for skills and talents on Linked In. I don't know what that means. If someone reads these endorsements will they contact me demanding assistance? I don't need this extra pressure.
What skills am I supposed to possess?
I make breakfast, tie my shoes, make out bills, read the paper and write goofy stuff. Will sexually adventurous women have certain expectations? And how am I supposed to respond to these recommendations? I guess  I should reciprocate and endorse them, except I don't know what they do well other than stay online for hours.
Linked In is focused on people looking for work, professional people. I'm retired and the only reason I'm on there is to promote my books. But if the members are all jobless how are they going to buy my book? My profile isn't all that impressive anyway. I have a sneaky suspicion that those who endorse me are looking for a free meal or a lap dance.
Look, for twenty bucks I'll endorse you, no questions asked.

Gone But Not Forgotten

One of the harder things to accept in life is the loss of people that made you smile and feel good. As a writer I've been fortunate to meet many who fall into that category. Some were fellow scribes, but others fall into the performer slot. Because I include theater pieces as part of my work, I've been lucky to work with superb talents. It is hard to describe the feeling of watching actors on stage giving life to your words.
Two and a half years ago at a local theater, I sat riveted as two actresses performed a twenty-five minute piece I wrote. The director was also young and gifted. Of all the pieces of mine I've seen performed, including dozens of monologues, this skit filled me with tension the most. I always make it clear that theater is collaborative and the choices made by the actresses were perfect.
I will miss Emily Rees, who moved to California, and Laura Williams, who moved on with her life, but I'll never forget that moment when all of the reasons one writes become crystal clear. I wish them both success in their pursuits.

Stamp Thief

Someone sneaked into my condo and stole a book of stamps. That is the only explanation I can come up with after searching everywhere. I mean everywhere. I went through my credit card statements, my letter files, my garbage, my miscellaneous files, looked on the floor, behind and under objects, checked my wallet and pockets, every room in the place, including the bathroom. There is no way I lost a new book of stamps in my own kitchen. No way.
I am convinced some sadist got into my place, looked around to see what object would drive me nuts and correctly chose the stamps. I'm serious. This has got me angry and frustrated. Remember, that is $8 worth of stamps. I do not use online payment. My pension is from the Post Office and I'm obligated to support them by using snail mail and that means smacking stamps on bills.
So I went to the local office and bought another book. I was going to ask the clerk if there were some way I could get a freebie book to replace the lost one. After all, I'm a 50 year customer. But I stayed silent as I watched another $8 disappear. I promise you, somehow I will declare an added deduction on my taxes to make up for this unethical activity. I can't accuse anyone, but I'm on guard now. Next time it could be Gus, my stuffed bear wearing a postal uniform. That loss just might push me over the edge.

Now What?

Okay dad, we're in the boat, we're on the lake, our lines are in the water with bait attached. What now?
Son, we sit here and wait for a nibble.
That's it? That's fishing?
It gives us a chance to bond.
Can I check my messages first?
Later, son. Tell me, what have you been up to?
Uh, let's see. I go to school five days a week, sit there and learn stuff. Then I come home, go on the computer to check Facebook. Then I text friends on FB, take a nap, have supper, do some homework. Then I go out and hang with the same kids I text and message. Then I come home, brush my teeth, floss and go to bed. How about you?
Okay son, I go to work checking gas meters. I have lunch at twelve, drive all over the city. At five I punch out, come home, change out of my uniform, have supper. Then I read the paper, watch some TV and have a glass of wine. On Tuesday and Friday your mom and I have sex. That's about it. Isn't bonding great?
Dad, what do fish do all day?
I don't know, son, but it can't be as great as what we do.
I think my pole moved.
Yank on it, son. Life is all about yanking at the right time.
What happens if I catch something?
You look at it and toss it back in and we start over again.
Seems silly.
No son, adjustable rate mortgages are silly. Want some salt water taffy?
But if my teeth get stuck we won't be able to bond.
Good point, son. I sure didn't raise a dummy.
Is sex as good as fishing, dad?

Fish Out of Water

One of the few times I don't feel like a fish out of water is with my writer friends. It just seems like the conversation flows easily. My shoulders don't tighten up and I speak in complete sentences. I can be watching two writers deep in conversation and not feel intrusive if I decide to stand nearby and listen.
In other social situations I freeze up, sitting in the corner gazing around the room like an astronaut on alien terrain, always the awkward outsider.
I have come to the conclusion that I must learn to dance to fit in. Any dance. Karaoke is another strategy I should employ. Telling funny anecdotes, jokes and stories will add to my charm. I will mix in accents and dialects, monitor my pacing. Yes, I will have them on the floor, curled up and shaking with laughter.
Before all this, however, I must master getting up and walking across the floor without spilling anything or tripping or bumping into anyone. I tend to wind up doing a lot of that.
I guess it would really help me connect with others if I didn't have these damn gills. But you work with what you've got.

Fudge Zombies

Normally civilized people lose all control over fudge. My short story critique group consists of educated, well spoken writers you would be proud to sit next to at any event. They close their mouths when they chew, seldom hiccup, and excuse themselves after burping. They sip their coffee and tea quietly. They listen intently without cutting others off.
We have had a variety of baked goods at our monthly meetings, held at a member's home. No one hogs the refreshments, nor are people shamed into sampling the exquisite sugar laden delicacies. This system worked well until our last meeting. Every mysterious plate was covered with foil. The discussion was so intense no one was eating.
Except me. I innocently, out of curiosity, peeled off the foil from one plate and almost gasped. Fudge. In perfect squares, bite sized, incomparable fudge. I quickly snatched two pieces, figuring as soon as the others spotted it, all hell would break loose. But no one moved. I stress I did nothing to disguise my treasure as I took tiny bites, wanting the sensation to last. Still no one attacked the plate.
I took another square. Swallowed it whole. I knew if I didn't say anything I would consume the whole plate and the person who made it would be furious. So I said one word: fudge. I pointed to the plate. There was a pause; then, like crazed zombies, all six of them converged on the coffee table, growling, snorting, drooling, grasping with both hands, pushing and elbowing, slobbering, bestial, single minded.
When the fudge massacre ended, several writers lay on the floor, curled into a fetal position. That is the sacred magic of fudge.
Me? While they were preoccupied, I uncovered another plate full of sugar covered lemon bars, extraordinary in themselves. Just not fudge.

Liver Spots

Call me vain, but I don't want people seeing my liver spots. I stare at the backs of my hands in dismay. Wrinkles connote character. Liver spots signify trembling hands and support socks.
How could the liver have anything to do with these spots and why only located in that one area. Unless I have others in places I don't usually check. Scary thought.
Do Africans get them? Indians? If so, how would we know? Perhaps I shouldn't complain. They don't itch or ache or become scaly. I know people who have them on their face. Mine aren't too pronounced. What if I dotted them with flesh colored oil paint to disguise them? Would the paint seep into my lower levels of skin and poison me?
I'm asking a lot of questions. I do that when I get nervous. I know I can't stop the aging process. I just can't help comparing my hands with the smooth, unblemished skin of young people. I do think my veins are way more impressive. And my fingernails are strong and clean. I can pick at things you don't want to know about.
Or do you?

A Job?

Do I need a part time job? It sure seems like it. I don't like the way my savings are shriveling. But what to do?
Should I try to sell some of my beloved paintings? Maybe I could charge people for imparting my writing wisdom. What about posing as an artist's model? I am half way to getting a washboard stomach.
I could open up a private help line for those addicted to Apple Jacks. I'm a bit too old to be a Chippendale's dancer, but I bet with a little instruction I could teach the mambo.
Realistically, I suppose I could be a shopping cart retriever. I'm used to being out in all kinds of weather and don't mind working alone. What if I'm not strong enough to push forty or fifty carts at once? What if customers have to put down their groceries to help me?
No, I'm better off inside shelving things. Shelving is an under appreciated skill. I have three full shelves of hand puppets, lined up by softness. Visitors have commented.
There is no doubt I could be a first class bicycle messenger. You should see my quads. Hey, for a price that is easily accomplished.
Of course I could go cold turkey on fast food places. Yeah, right.

Old Movies

Every Wednesday I watch free old movies at a library. There are about a dozen of us regulars. We don't know each others  names, but as soon as we arrive, old movie facts are tossed out. It can be specific info about the movie we are about to see, or general stuff on other flicks by that director or actor.
The woman who curates this chooses a theme for each month. Many are B&W noir films and, as a writer, I eat up that hard boiled dialogue. Joan Crawford, starred in The Damned Don't Cry today. Boy, can that dame stare. Davis, Bacall, Stanwyck, Bergman-- all of them wearing wide shoulders and pumps with black seamed stockings; tough, no nonsense women who go toe to toe with their leading men and usually end up paying for it.
Most of these gems never went past 100 minutes. We are a quiet group; no one talks during the film, unlike public theaters where people just gab away.
Yeah, every Wednesday I'm taken out of this life and times and transported to a more straight shooting, no spin world, where characters say what they mean and mean what they say. Except if they're double crossing someone.
You know, the hats were so much more elegant back then.