Unfinished Wood

I love unfinished wood. I love its potential. Clean, distinguished, waiting for me to do something with it. Shellac, varnish, even paint. I buy unfinished bookcases on a regular basis. This far I haven't decided how to finish them. But what if I just left them alone? Wouldn't that send a strong message that I'm secure within a simple, unadorned life?
Cherry wood has its place. I do have one cherry wood bookcase, but, honestly, it has lost its luster. There's no charisma that speaks to me. Yes, one can find mystery in wood grain, but it's the absence of grain in unfinished wood that truly intrigues. I mean, not that there isn't grain, but it is so understated it never overwhelms the idea of the wood, which is nature brought into our homes.
I believe my books prefer an unfinished bookcase. It's just a sensation I have as I sit quietly in my parlor, open book on my lap, soft music playing, twilight seeping through my half closed blinds.
In my deepest meditations, I sometimes feel unfinished, waiting for someone to shellac me with a soft brush.
I am my own poem.

Hoop Angst

It has been years since the Knicks were worth following. During that time I was able to read dozens of classics, engage in numerous intelligent discussions, visit museums and perform volunteer work. I was a well rounded, valuable citizen.
Now, all of that goes by the wayside. The Knicks are competitive, their games meaningful and here I am in front of the TV, punching furniture as it heads down the stretch, back and forth. I must wait for a time out to make a cheese sandwich.
Why do men never outgrow their passion for sports? My basketball remains in my trunk, where it's been since I bought it two years ago. I will eventually have to face the fact that my post moves and head fakes aren't what they were. Maybe if I wait on the bench for some kid to come by, some scrawny, knobby-kneed kid, I can challenge him to a one on one. I didn't say it had to be a boy. Girls are a viable challenge for me at this point.
Seven minutes left in the game. Let's go, Carmelo.

Dust

I do not dust. Dusting is not masculine. Sweeping, shoveling, hoeing, chopping ice, all masculine. My personal dust would fill excavation sites. I don't care. I'm standing firm on this. I'm also standing in a pile of dust.
Tony Randall dusts. Channing Tatum doesn't. I rest my case.
If I allowed comments I'm sure a maelstrom of heated opinions would ensue. This is something people feel strongly about, especially those who visit me and can't breathe.
I have to sign off now. I'm calling an 800 number to take a Panera survey in hopes of winning $2000. I'm certain the questions will be masculine in nature. Those are the only surveys I take.

Martian Safari

The problem with Martian safaris is distinguishing between the Martians and their animals. My name is Louis and I run Martian Expeditions LLC. Some of my clients bring back endangered species and it's my regrettable duty to inform them these creatures must be returned. Most demand refunds until they see the fine print on the contract.
Sometimes Martian dust storms wreak havoc on our outings. Sometimes it's crooked, psycho tour guides, and once in a while nausea from the trip itself interferes with enjoyment.
Overall, it's a profitable business, especially since we began booking Earth safaris for Martians. There are strict rules for what the aliens can hunt. The Roseann Barr kidnapping, as well as the wounding of Dr. Phil with one of their advanced stun guns led to boundaries.
Somehow, we convinced the Martians rats and roadkill were a delicacy here. So we get a profit and clean up the environment at the same time.
Their weapons can stun prey for up to two hours, during which the aliens can probe up close every pore of their helpless captives. Some earthlings use this exact approach to dating.

Even at Midnight

They come even at midnight. The entities. I lay there as they watch me. During the day it's not so bad with other people around me. I told Angie from Human Resources about them. She chuckled.
What do they want from me? I'm just a guy, a regular guy. I've tried singing, humming, fake snoring, touching myself. They remain, hovering over me. In the street they surround me, hissing softly through my conversations. They have no real physical presence, morphing from form to form. One resembled Cloris Leachman for a moment.
The night has its terrors and this is but one. I shall have to marshal all my courage and deal with this threat. If one tries to sneak in bed and lay beside me, I will make room, but absolutely no spooning with an entity. It's downright unnatural.
I'm convinced they are counting my nocturnal farts.

Tough Ladies

Colleen Dewhurst
Bette Davis
Joan Crawford
Babara Stanwyck
Lauren Bacall
Rosiland Russell
Sgourney Weaver
Amy Ryan
Pam Grier
Jessica Biel
Kate Beckinsale
Kathleen Turner
Jennifer Lawrence
Katherine Hepburn
Sharon Stone
Sophia Loren
Emma Stone
Cathy Moriority
Linda Hamilton
Angelina Jolie
Elizabeth Scott

Popeye in Love

Once I fell for Olive Oil I had to announce it on Facebook. First, I posted "Popeye is in a relationship". I got a flow of congratulatory responses.
We flooded FB with hundreds of photos of us doing everyday things, hugging, at the beach, jet skiing. Olive got a snake tattoo on her skinny arm, which I love. No one could be happier.
Then, one day I scrolled down and was stunned to see this: "Bluto is in a relationship." Turns out he was seeing Betty Boop. I love Olive, but, c'mon, this was Betty Boop. Bluto was uncouth and a slob; Boop was all class. Didn't make sense. Their photos mirrored our photos.
Then I came across this post: "Wimpy is in a relationship". What the hell? The guy couldn't afford a burger. I looked closer and read it was with Steve Canyon. Who knew?
Dondi has just sent a Friend request. We have nothing in common, but I don't want to hurt the kid's feelings.
Between you and me, Olive's voice is getting on my nerves.

History Lesson

After finally watching Dr.Zhivago I cannot believe how dreary Russian cities are compared to the country. Why would anyone want Stalingrad, let alone create a 900 day siege? No Taco Bell, no multiplex, no In and Out Burger joints. No heat or fresh fruit.
Nobody trusts anyone. The Bolsheviks are battling the White Brigade, whatever that means. And Rod Steiger had no business forcing himself on Julie Christie, whose eyes are beyond luminous.
If the Nazis had conquered Stalingrad, what then? On to Moscow or Peters burg through nine feet of snow? If the Germans had ignored Russia, Omar Sharif and Christie would have gotten together much sooner. I also think Geraldine Chaplin was a hot number, but her marriage to Omar never stood a chance. Russians certainly do a lot of drinking and shouting.
Well, that's today's history lesson, as I try to intellectualize this blog. Next: Betsy Ross--Crime Stopper.

Beaten Down by Happiness

Facebook has beaten me down. I scroll down the page and find more and more happiness. People are announcing relationships, engagements, marriages, kids, more kids, grand kids, beloved pets, exotic trips, great restaurants, photos of all of it to provide definitive proof, post after post.
I feel overwhelmed by all this joyousness.
Rants still pop up from time to time, but mostly it's all good, all healthy emotional equilibrium.
Depressing.
I spent four years in competitive high school hell. This is worse because it seems endless.
As a favor to me, someone please crash their bike. Or get into an argument. What happened to all the riveting toxic relationships?
Where is the pain, the frustration, the anguish? I need people to pitch in and help here. I can only provide so much suffering. The happiness quotient is way out of proportion.
And stop posting exquisite photos of yourself, not a hair out of place. Your perfect lives are proof God has lost interest.

Run Down

I was in NYC for the first time in weeks, striding up Eighth Avenue on my way to Lincoln Center to photograph the creatures that appear twice a year for Fashion Week. These humanoids do not dress or look like the rest of us and boy do they know it.
About halfway there, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an older man get knocked down by a cyclist who had veered off the sidewalk and onto the street. There was no howling in pain. I guess the poor guy was in shock. The cyclist said nothing. I whispered 'that's actionable' and kept moving.
This is how we act in the city. You stop and get involved, police arrive, there are questions, reports, a crowd. You can easily lose two hours. Most likely the guy was helped up, brushed himself off, mumbled a few curses and both men went on with their day.
Before pointing fingers, ask yourself how many times do you get to see actual fashion models in person? Yes, I felt a twinge of guilt, right up until the first skyscraper model appeared striding toward the tent, so young, so tall, so unwrinkled.

Handling Valentine's Day

If you're not part of a couple, Valentine's Day can be brutal. Here are suggestions how to keep from leaping off something or plunging into a despair that carries over into March when the bagpipes from all the St. Patrick's Day parades will raise your spirits.
1. Think of all the money you've saved not buying VDay gifts.
2. Think of all the money you've saved by not going on exotic vacations with your partner.
3. Add up all the farts the other person would have released while you were alone.
4. Remember all the successful single people who did not crumble over this day, like Ed Koch.
5. Career is always important.
6. You can pick up extra money babysitting for couples.
7. Think of all the losers who were married, like Sadaam Hussein and Stalin.
8. Stay positive. Spend that evening practicing kissing on your arm.
9. Do not go on Facebook, where every person you've ever wanted will post photos of themselves with their partner displaying smiles that declare, we're having sex tonight.
10. Play recorded bagpipe music until you fall asleep.

Lost

I've lost my moral compass, my ethical center. I may have left it at a Quick Check. I've looked under furniture, behind bookcases, in the medicine cabinet, the fridge, the stove, in all my drawers and closets. I even checked my garage and the dumpster. No luck.
This is worse than running low on gas during a blizzard. I make decisions based on my morality. I base my diet and exercise schedule on strict ethical rules. I always wipe down the equipment afterwards, That one is easy to remember. But other boundaries are too complicated for memorization.
Without my compass I'm dizzy, directionless, nervous, fidgety, frustrated, even panicky. I fear I may do something at odds with my basic goodness.
This one impulse is growing, intensifying. The impulse to invade a country. If it weren't for this cursed storm I could go out and get waffle fries. It would give me time to calm myself and ask what would Socrates do in this situation? Does it snow in Greece?

The Power of Plaid

Whenever I wear my plaid shirts I feel all powerful. I can lead meetings, take control if someone spills something in a supermarket aisle, switch channels with impunity. I will walk up behind wheelchair bound people and start pushing without permission.
There is something Americana about plaid. Guys raised on farms and around mines wear it. I've never driven a pickup truck, but wearing plaid gives me the impulse to do so. My voice is deeper and my profile stronger. Insulated plaid shirts attract normally standoffish women, imbuing me with a stern father figure aura.
Try it. Sit at a table full of type A folks, fold your arms across your chest and say nothing. Guaranteed at some point the focus will turn to you. Grasp it and hold tight. It's sure as hell certain someone will ask you to change their oil. And you'll do it, first stripping off your magic shirt, revealing a manly paunch and tufts of chest hair underneath a slightly stained t-shirt.
Let them take all the phone camera shots they want. People need something to live for.

Idle Words

Wally had too many words. He stored excess ones in a Tupperware container. Basically, he stuck with the same army of words in all his writing. When he occasionally opened the container looking for a new one, they all vied for his attention.
One time he left the cover ajar and some sneaked out, wandering around the neighborhood, inserting themselves into strangers' conversations. Words like coagulate and occipital.
One day, when Wally hit a wall and couldn't write, he retreated to his stash of ignored words, seeking assistance. To his surprise they refused to participate. They had unionized. Demanded at least 60 days of use during the year, especially the multi-syllable ones.
Wally gave in. His vocabulary increased, his sentences became longer, more elegant. Reviews of his work were glowing.
Unfortunately, his old words that got him his start, felt neglected. They became disconsolate, idly hanging around street corners, drunk, slovenly, useless. If you want to be a writer and need some words, go outside and look around. It won't take long to find them.

Disney World

Joe--Guess what. I'm going to Disney World.
Steve--Disney World is an overrated hellhole of prefabricated, derivative, manipulative landfill. Walt was a cutthroat capitalist who couldn't create a beer fart during an October Fest. He seldom even fed his overworked cartoonists, keeping them locked in a sweltering room for days at a time.
Goofy is an insult to any kid with working thumbs. Talking ducks and mice. Please. Uncle Remus is a racist stereotype, Snow White a frigid careerist, Cinderella a shallow masochist with no marketable skills, Tinkerbell an exhibitionist, the Seven Dwarfs sexual deviants, Minnie Mouse a battered wife, Bambi the perennial victim, and Dumbo a delusional juvenile with flying aspirations. And I haven't even touched on the characters that came after his death.
Who knows what really goes on in The Epcot Center? Overpriced food and drink, lines everywhere, strange smells, sappy souvenirs, creatures that would frighten Navy Seals. Kids leave scarred for life.
Joe--Have you ever gone there?
Steve--My mother won't let me leave New Jersey.
Joe--I might stop at Sea World.
Steve--A cesspool of rotting fish, underfed octopus and polluted water. Have a safe trip.

Fat Tuesday

Tuesday is fat because it is depressed and overeats. The other days have special connotations. Saturday and Sunday represent excitement and adventure. Monday connotes responsibility and focus. Wednesday is hump day--get past it and you're close to the weekend. Most of the good TV is on Thursday, and Friday is all expectation and counting the hours until works and who knows what begins.
Tuesday just exists, a low volume mail day with nothing to recommend it. Tuesday is insecure, isolated, depressed.
One suspects when God created the world His attention was elsewhere on Tuesday. Perhaps he was thinking ahead to the weekend.
Sadly, Fat Tuesday could refer to actress Tuesday Weld, who retired too early, stayed home and binged. Maybe if they had named her Friday she'd have a healthier self image.