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.