Aldi

Aldi is a supermarket chain that just opened an outlet nearby. Lots of guys in suits, women in heels and black cocktail dresses. Free samples of crackers, chips, salsa dip, rice cakes and marshmallow cookies. Clean aisles, helpful clerks, a free reusable bag, slashed prices, easy reading labels. What more could you ask for?
Well, there were no crackers with unsalted tops, no peanuts anywhere, not enough variety, especially in produce, no low sugar yogurt, not enough toothpaste variety.
Plus they are closed Sunday and do not take credit cards, only debit and cash.
Walmart and Target flank Aldi and I can't see how they will survive. But I never heard so many suits spouting happy executive talk while checking for messages. I should have gone back for more cookies and rice cakes.

Proof of God

Lucy Liu
Waffle fries
Lightly salted almonds
Cheap garages
Oil paints
Apple crumb donuts
Anti-itch powder
Larry David
Highway driving
Ultra soft toilet tissue
Gurgling babies
Slightly off adults
Grace Park
Mystery novels
Unfinished wood
Anyone who can remove a splinter
Birds who know when to shut up
Really impressive eyebrows
Turkey sausage sandwich
Q-Tips and pipe cleaners

Movie Police

Every two weeks I get to see a first run movie free because I am a senior citizen. I only found out about this recently. I went to city hall and got my mayor's senior card, bright yellow and too big to fit in my wallet. I drove to the theater and got there minutes before the movie was to start.
As I entered the lobby behind a senior lady, I heard this middle aged, blonde woman tell her our movie was in theater nine. I followed the senior up the escalator, but not before the blonde asked me who I was. I flashed my card and put it right up in her face, in a nice way of course. She said she had never seen me before and asked my name. I told her and she said she'd remember me next time.
Well, I have to assume people are pretending to be seniors so they can get to see a free movie. Or maybe this woman had the hots for me. Whatever. The movie was The Call, starring Halle Berry and Elle Fanning. Nonstop tension. I came away realizing just how tiny Halle is and how developed Elle has become.
I smiled at the blonde woman on the way out and she ignored me. I wanted to make sure she saw I wasn't trying to sneak into another film.
I have my ethics. Plus, I wasn't crazy about the other 11 flicks.

Pride

I'm proud of a lot of things. Looking good in plaid, having toes just the right length, picking out cool greeting cards, falling down gracefully.
But one thing I can't take pride in is my cooking. I don't cook, don't even try. I am afraid of my stove.
I don't even want to turn on the gas to heat water for tea. Making a Greek salad causes flop sweat. Reading recipes makes my head ache. Pictures of tasty meals fill me with jealousy and remorse.
When women ask me if I cook, they can see the fear in my eyes and walk away disdainfully. Now I understand why guys that cook get more sex. Frozen meals and microwaves are like having a non-working penis.
Maybe I should start slow with meatballs and work my way up to pepper steak and chili. When I finally got up the nerve to open my stove, it was so dark in there I stopped breathing.
Perhaps I'll start with a simple salad. I can handle lettuce. Cucumbers are another issue.
At least I'm making strides in my relationship with my dish washer.

Children at Play

My words are my children and I am a lazy, permissive parent, allowing them too much playtime. They lose focus, lack gravitas, remain undisciplined.
My neighbor Lucretia seldom lets her words out to play. When she does, it is strictly supervised. She won't allow hers to play with mine, fearing they will be a bad influence. Needless to say, she has a book contract and I do not.
Despite all their running free, I notice some of my words are getting flabby. While Lucretia's words do calisthenics, mine are huffing and puffing on cigarettes. I think she feeds hers illegal supplements, foreign phrases no one can translate.
To keep some semblance of order, I invite my friend Ernie over. He is a more responsible word parent than me. He cracks the whip and they stand at attention. Neither of us has much use for Lucretia. It wouldn't surprise me if more than a few of her words cracked under pressure.
Some of them might even descend into--gasp--song lyrics.

Ambushed

Aunt Marge ambushed me when I was a kid, attacked me with vicious hugs that left my face buried in her clothes, forcing familiarity with body parts I wanted nothing to do with. Forced hug trauma has followed me into adulthood. How can I trust anyone?
Now, as a senior, hugging has taken on new complexities. I must follow unwritten rules if I don't wish to be sued or arrested. No hugs longer than one second. Minimal touching on chest to chest hugs, limited pressure with side hugs where hip winds up in the other's groin, and absolutely no rear hugs unless serious drinking is involved.
Some women like hugging me, especially in winter when I'm wearing my flannel shirts. It makes me feel fatherly, like I'm a comfort station. It is a cold world out there.
I do enjoy hugging myself, except on public transportation. Any self hugging lasting more than five seconds crosses a boundary.
At some future point I'd like to explore the air kissing phenomenon, which, for some of us, raises false hopes for future flesh to flesh contact. How often my hopes have been dashed by a sophisticated socialite playing with my feelings.

Lost in the Crowd

At 6'4, with perfect posture, wavy hair and piercing eyes, I wish I could get lost in the crowd. Having all heads turn to me when I enter a room is flattering, but disconcerting. Do these people really know me?
That is why I moved to a small town in NJ, Gutenberg. For whatever reason, genetically blessed folks chose that place to live. Walk down Main Street and all you see are striking people. We nod to each other, aware that we are what others dream of being.
Sometimes a normal looking person moves in. You can spot them immediately, standing on a corner, gazing at the flow of beauty, gasping.
I knew I made the right decision moving here when I responded to a Meet Up Group flyer for people who can't get enough guacamole dip. When I showed up at the restaurant, several practically dropped to their knees, asking what planet I was from. The rest of the evening was uncomfortable to say the least. They aggressively vied for my attention, even pinching me in spots I won't mention.
There are times when I wish for just one small pimple.
Then I come to my senses.

Valerie Harper

No one is a bigger fan of Harper than me, and no one was more upset at the news she is dying of cancer. I can understand her opening up to People Magazine. But this continuing tour of talk shows I find disturbing. In recent years she hasn't been in the public eye much, except for some stage work. This blitz of appearances in which she discusses her situation, I mean, how much is overkill?
I realize people deal with terrible news in different ways, but is it absolutely necessary to put everything out there all the time? How is this supposed to help others?
What happened to a quiet, dignified response to adversity? If anything, these appearances add to the frustration of the fan, who is unable to do anything. Send money to battle cancer? How many billions have been donated and cancer seems just as deadly.
I remember Michael Landon made one final visit to the Tonight Show to say goodbye. Patrick Swayzee battled his disease privately. If a celebrity has diabetes and wants to spread the word that it is a treatable disease, that is helpful. But a terminal disease with no hope--shouldn't one conserve their energy and  prepare for the inevitable? It just seems like shows are using her tragedy for a ratings boost and she's cooperating.

Walking With Mom

When my mother got older and infirm, I made it a point to walk the neighborhood with her to get her out of the house. We moved slowly, speaking of a wide range of topics as she held my arm. There was gossip, doctor discussions, memories of things and people I'd forgotten. I miss that communication, as my mom passed away ten years ago.
When I mentioned this to my friend Howard, he thought a moment, rubbing his chin. I believe I have a proposition, Joe, he said.
The more he talked, the more it made sense.
The upshot is every Sunday morning I pick him up and we drive to a park and walk around the lake, he wearing a colorful house dress, grey wig, soft slippers, and knee length coat, holding tightly onto my arm, listening to my problems and reminding me of memories of my youth, which he improvises. All for only $30 a week.
Around and around we go. Howard is such a good listener.

Bruised, But Not Broken

My beliefs have kept me stable. They may have been bruised by others, but, in my mind, never broken. For example, I believe there are tacos in heaven, along with swing dancing, feathers, open mikes, and smells so fragrant you almost pass out.
In this world, I believe the amount of gas a person releases is directly proportional to the amount of hugs he gets. I believe we are each allotted a certain amount of words and women, as a group, were given 52% more than men. I believe my hair will grow back if I stop scratching my head. I believe treating your pet is an indicator for how you will treat your salads. I believe men who can cook get more respect than those who don't from attractive women who also can't cook.
I believe making a woman jealous is part of being a man, as is leaving the seat up. I believe Lara Croft Tomb Raider is a great advertisement for push up bras. I believe time is absolute, except if you're stuck in an elevator with engineers.
I will not force my beliefs on others, although the one with the engineers bares more scrutiny.

Doorknobs

The funny little man went from house to house polishing doorknobs. He held the spray polish in one hand and the rag in the other. A small back pack contained more rags. He spoke to no one, kept his head down while walking, dressed too warmly for the weather. A fur cap had seen better days.
He was shorter than many of the kids going to school. In the beginning, they would poke fun at him. He never responded or lost his temper. He had work to do.
When people offered him money, he declined. Compliments were met with a slight nod. Since he never spoke, there was no evidence he was from their country. Of course, no evidence existed that he wasn't.
One surmised the man might have gotten more attention had he swept property or painted. Respect wasn't important to him. That's what we told each other. The completion of his rounds, eliminating germs, polishing to a sheen; those were his priorities. But because people were constantly going in and out, opening and closing doors, he must have grown frustrated at not being able to keep up.
How many of us can keep up anymore?
It is dangerous to diagnose depression, but by his slower movements and increasingly sloppy work, it became obvious the little man was unhappy.
The sun came up as suns do, and on that day Mrs. Hall, shaking out her dust mop on the stoop, happened to comment to the man that he missed a spot on her doorknob. One could imagine her doing this. She was that type.
This time our friend decided, rather than concentrate and polish harder, he would rip the mop out of her hands and beat her until his arms got tired. The screams woke up everyone.
They didn't have a straight jacket small enough, so they bound him with clothesline and put him in the back of one of those trucks that take you away from normal people. Mrs. Hall recovered and life went on. One couldn't help notice that, for awhile, people impulsively wiped doorknobs with their sleeves as they passed through. The sheen gradually was lost, as was the pungent polish aroma.

Childhood Escapades

It was Lou's idea to kidnap the ice cream truck driver and steal his stash. We were only ten, but he was a scrawny college kid trying to make summer money to pay for tuition. There were a dozen of us, including five girls, who were stronger than some guys. We knew he parked in a deserted spot to eat lunch and smoke pot.
One day we surrounded his truck and Jack pretended to faint. He was good at that stuff. As soon as Charlie the driver jumped out of the truck to see what was wrong, we piled on him and within minutes had him tied up and gagged with masking tape. We were in the Scouts and could tie good knots. While he rolled around, we went to work on his inventory. I had three fudge pops, one after the other. We warned him if he reported this we'd make him a joke in town. Then we loosened the knots just enough for him to get free, while we ran off to throw up in various spots.
I saw Charlie years later on the subway wearing a Foot Locker shirt. He must have recognized me because he ran off at the next stop.
Lou is now serving six to ten for insider trading fraud.

Karen Carpenter

Thirty years ago Karen Carpenter died of heart failure probably caused by anorexia. She was only 32. The Carpenters had peaked several years earlier. Never cool, they still managed to chart hit after hit. So much has been said to describe her voice. It was pure, but she could do so much without seeming to try to emote. There are actors who can do the same, barely twitching a facial muscle or blinking, yet conveying everything.
For me, their first single, a slowed version of the Beetles "Ticket to Ride" is the best thing they did. She was only nineteen at the time, with those girlish bangs. Some may not known that she played the drums before singing.
In a 1976 interview with an LA DJ she covered a number of topics. Most telling is her quickly refuting the idea that she and Richard were loners. She explained neither had found the right person and guys were intimidated by her.  I found and bought her only solo CD, released many years after her death. It's pretty good and one wonders why it was held back.
If you go on You Tube you'll understand why she is missed, especially in light of all the overly dramatic singing that suffocates the air waves.