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.

Heat Wave

In the middle of this heat wave I got my teeth cleaned. In the midst of this procedure I panicked. What if my dentist suddenly became overwhelmed by heat stroke and collapsed on me? Would my cries for help be answered by a receptionist resentful that her life has hit a dead end in this lousy job, with no prospects of meeting the man of her dreams? Would she let the whole thing play itself out and silently watch me try to push this medium sized Greek or Turkish guy off me?
Thankfully I snapped out of it and got through everything okay. He even complimented me on my flossing consistency. Back outside, I drove to a local library to see the second half of the film The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which was very close to the book. A man behind me kept muttering he wanted to go home, in between loud farts. Guess he was waiting for explosions. This was a tender coming of age story with Emma Watson and some kid I didn't know making out. Very sensitive.
I was supposed to attend a writing group tonight and hear an agent speak. This is the same agent who spoke at another library and was not very encouraging. She did only children's picture books, which has nothing to do with what I write. So I'm staying home until it gets cooler and then I'll head to McDonald's with my coupon for free medium fries. My dentist, I must say, was quite polite when I swallowed some water and farted quietly.
"Rinse out your mouth," was his instruction. If only that could solve all our problems.

Tap Dancing

For a few crazed moments I considered heading to Times Square today to  see an attempt at a world record number of tap dancers. I did this last year, possibly because I have no life. I still have no life, but get tired faster now. So I skipped the event and tomorrow the papers have one photo documenting it and I'll feel like I missed out. Maybe.
I have nothing against professional tap dancers. It's the amateurs who pop up for these events who I resent. They show up with their tap shoes and God know what outfit, looking like Dali creatures. The music starts and they proceed to display exactly why they make a living spackling and putting up dry wall. It's either aggressive ugly or timid ugly. But it is indeed ugly.
Why do untalented people insist on performing for us? So what if it's all in fun. How dare they mix fun and high culture. The crowds are, of course, dense because it's free and that alone draws hundreds. And certainly this will end up on You Tube, as do the April pillow fights held in parks. But there is logic and meaning in pillow fights. Letting out rage and frustration. Watching a gang of bad tap dancers may lead to fury which can't be sated. Next year they should combine the tap dancers and the pillow fighters for some real action.
You can't tap dance on loose feathers, can you?

Henry V

I should be at a free library showing of Henry V. Instead, I'm here doing this. The presentation is one hour. Abridged. How do you successfully cut the Bard by two thirds?
Frankly, I wouldn't have gone anyway. I'm sick of Shakespeare. Outdoors, indoors, free, not free, modern, traditional, minus clothes, etc. There's too much of this guy out there. At least 8 of his 26 plays are never performed because, well, they weren't that good. People who attend these events are there to let everyone else know they appreciate culture. Forget that they don't understand what's happening. The appearance of sophistication is all that counts.
There are also too many acrobats out there. Unemployed, they hog our public spaces doing their flips and cartwheels, walking on hands. I'd like to see Shakespeare performed by acrobats. I haven't mentioned clowns because so many others are picking on them. When did being a clown become uncool? The Bard employed clowns or jesters. I'm guessing right about now some character is getting stabbed in Henry V.
I'd love to see Rooney Mara as Ophelia. Wonder how long it would take for her to remove her top.

Turtles and Worms

No one can tell when a turtle gets a leg cramp. The poor beast gets no sympathy. Baby animals scoot right past it. Amazing turtles haven't become extinct.
One day Oscar the turtle was complaining about this to Louise the worm. At least you have a shell for protection, she retorted. But you can burrow underground when danger comes, he pointed out. Both agreed at least no one organized hunting expeditions centering on them.
Just then, Alexander the rabbit came hobbling by. What happened to you? they asked. Hip replacement, he replied. I can't sprint or leap for weeks. Too much wear and tear running from predators and those damn dogs. I've put on three pounds since the operation. They all laughed when the irony of the situation hit them.
Up to now this has been a charming moral tale. But right then a group of fifth graders on a field trip burst through the bushes. One stomped on Louise, another tickled Oscar under his chin mercilessly, and a girl picked up Alexander and squeezed him so hard she broke his other hip.
A crow looking down at this just shook its head and flew off. Crows never cramp.

Do Not Tempt Me

I could smell Marsha's baked beans as soon as I left my car. My knees were shaking. She knows my weakness is her strength. Marsha is the baked bean queen, a composer of bean symphonies consisting of exotic beans gathered from her world travels.
I enter and race to the kitchen, wanting to hug the giant steaming pot on the stove. Some people use utensils. I mash my face right into the pile on my plate and begin swallowing so fast my mouth almost cramps. Napkins are an annoying interruption.
My taste buds are doing the tarantella. Marsha has enough beans stored in Tupperware to survive a nuclear attack. I must confess the last time I visited I used the bathroom and, crumpled upon the hamper, was her silk night gown, emitting a bean aroma. Temptation overcame me and I smothered my face in its exquisite material.
I pray there are baked beans in heaven. Tomorrow I visit Sauerkraut Sal, another genius in the kitchen. Need I tell you what his bath robe smells like?

Escape Route

How do I escape from the Catholic Church with its myriad of rules, Sacraments, hand holding and singing? I don't wish to confess to strangers in the dark and having the Body of Christ within me is creepy. Other religions don't tempt me. Humanism would mean actually liking other humans. Spirituality has no holidays.
I like nuns and priests. They smell good and seldom pick at sores. I cherish having someone standing over me making the sign of the cross. But Catholicism takes up too much time; I can't make sauce for my spaghetti.
I could run away with the circus, but then I'd have to join the union and learn more rules. Anyone who says I have the freedom to just walk away knows nothing about Catholic guilt. Periodically I have this compulsion to genuflect, slap on Holy Water and put ashes on your forehead.
Hold still.

Broken Lunch Date

I had a lunch date set up with a friend today and messaged her if I could pick her up around noon. She replied that she was instead going to the Meadowlands Fair, which I assume is at night. Strangely, I wasn't disappointed. I wasn't sure we had much to talk about and after getting my car serviced I didn't want to spend more money.
I wish I were more social. But I am who I am and I won't beat myself up over it. I can get some work done this morning. A library is showing Lincoln, which is a very long film. It's too hot out to do anything. Never depend on others to determine your mood. When I was younger I would have been incensed. I mean, if you tell me you've been planning to go to the fair and yet you agreed to have lunch only a week before, what does that say about you?
I've learned to distance myself from disorganized, flighty people. Life is too short.
Tonight, if it cools off, I'll go to Midsummer Nights Swing and watch others sweat on the dance floor. I am a writer and we observe. That's what we do. Now I'll head to Staples where I have a $5 coupon and a craving for printer ink.
I'll then have lunch at McDonald's, enjoy my ice coffee and read the paper. And not brood.

Floppy Hat

My floppy hat protects more than my ears from the sun.
It protects me from any expectations.
People see my hat and ignore my lithe, toned body
The hat conveys qualities such as old, slow moving, fragile.
Doors are opened for me, seats surrendered.
Voices are louder than normal so I can grasp instructions.
Teens treat me as excess skin and organs taking up their space.
Women smile benevolently, convinced I'm safe.
My eyeglasses add to the image of vulnerability.
Is someone here with you, strangers ask worriedly.
If I look vaguely confused, others run to help.
No one asks me anything, assuming I'm befuddled.
I look at home with fishermen at lakes.
Except I don't fish.
When I wear my floppy hat
People assume I have a charming, homespun philosophy.
What I have is a sweaty scalp
And a feeling respect is a bus that's long gone.
Which means I can take crap and still live with myself.
No expectations, no pressure.
Now, when I wear my baseball cap
I am nothing less than an intimidation warehouse.

Firework Fatigue

It's reached the point where I'm almost glad when it rains and fireworks are cancelled. Why does every cash strapped town feel it is obligatory to stage these displays? Then they jack up property taxes. There should be one giant Macy's extravaganza and if you can't get there, watch it on whatever screen is available.
Here's a fact: after the first five minutes kids get bored and want ice cream.
Every year I trudge down to Boulevard East amidst expectant families, like they're going to see something different. Crazies actually try using their car to get there, which leads to long, stagnant lines and lots of beeping. In this area there are many Hispanics who perhaps do not connect with Independence Day as others do. I wonder if any of us really think about what we're celebrating, besides a day off from work.
This year it falls on a Thursday, meaning fireworks start on Monday and extend through Sunday. The Meadowland Fair has their own shoot off, directly competing with Macy's. Too much splattering in the sky.
Fireworks are getting like face painting, which used to be charming and unusual. Now every street fair in every tiny hamlet has face painting. There are more kids walking around with colored faces than not. Removable tattoos are next. The forecast is rain today and tomorrow, leaving Thursday clear. Maybe God is sick of this too.