Prisoners of Our Own Devices

Excuses, excuses, excuses. That is my favorite device to keep things on an even keel. I don't like change. I am a prisoner of routine. I won't bunge jump--my hernia prohibits it. Won't talk to strange women--fear of mace. No risky investments. I let business opportunities go by. Too many variables. My excuse for not losing five pounds--that flab is part of my identity.
I should clean my bathroom and avoid fungus. But it's so painful to kneel over the tub. Getting to know my neighbors means expecting them to ask for favors. One after the other. No privacy. No time to myself. I can't be solving other people's problems. I'm no one's taxi service.
I should smile more, but if I did, people would expect me to be happy all the time. Who needs that kind of pressure? Creating an overall philosophy to live by seems dubious when I could get hit by a bus any time. I have stockpiled hundreds of excuses, enough to build a verbal barricade against intrusive change.
My calling card is non-existent because I refuse to call on anyone. Too many nuts out there. I'm home where it's safe and I don't need an excuse to close the blinds.

Falling in Love With Love

It's much easier falling in love with passion than with love. No promises or commitment. Quick, sloppy, foolish, with lots of saliva. No maturity needed. Love requires selflessness, wisdom, compromise, perspective. Phooey! Sounds like work.
I loved my parents, but I am passionate about butternut squash soup. I love the feeling of sunlight on my skin, but am passionate over dabbing spurts of sugar free pancake syrup on strategic spots.
I love and respect professionals in whatever field, but nothing can match the excitement of doing the rumba alone in my rom after a tough day of making decisions.
If I had bigger forearms I'd roll up my sleeves more. If Romney had done that he might have won. Just a private thought I'm sharing with readers I respect, maybe even love, but, sadly, will never be passionate about. It's me, not you.

Thanksgiving Workout

My gym was closing at noon on Thanksgiving. After running a few errands, I decided to go for a quick workout. It was after eleven and I figured I'd be the only one there. Wrong. The place was packed. Young people, mostly.
I assume this was a guilt workout. Knowing they'd stuff themselves later, they wanted to work off excess calories and give themselves permission to engorge with family.
But suppose something else was going on. Suppose none of them had a family and this was a way to congregate with people on this holiday which demands we have someone to spend it with. Maybe after the gym closed they would meet in the underground parking lot and chat about nothing, dreading to leave and confront the rest of the day alone.
I didn't stick around to verify. I had a blog to write, a CVS sale to case in on and my power walking in the park to complete. This year was too cold to attend the parade, much too chilly to watch the skaters at Bryant Park. At three I'd be at my sister-in-laws watching football. When my brother died in 2009 something vanished from this holiday that will never return.

Fashion Faux Pas

I accidentally spilled coffee on my white t-shirt and became fascinated by a stain that resembled Greenland. I began experimenting with different blends on all my shirts, sprinkling or spilling it on the fabric from different angles.
The patterns were exotic and visually arresting. I was invited to a party and as soon as my friends saw one of my shirts they wanted to create their own designs on me. I lay down on the kitchen floor and the host began by spilling cranberry juice on me. Others quickly followed with grapefruit, apple, and prune juice, chocolate pudding, eye drops, Rice-A-Roni, grape soda and soy milk.
They left me there to dry while they retreated to the dining room for pizza. I just closed my eyes and waited for someone to return with tomato sauce to top things off.
I may have started something.

A Turkey Ruminates

I could sit here and complain--if turkeys could sit. Why me? Why us? Why not buffalo meat on Thanksgiving? All year humans consume chicken as though their lives depended on it. Chicken soup, cutlets, tenders, salad, cache tore. Suddenly, one day a year, we are the ones slaughtered.
I can't even find anyone to play cards with. All gone. Last year I faked a limp. This year I'm hoping to fool them by hoarse gobbling, like I have a sinus problem. Poor cousin Wally. Ended up with a New Age family who stuffed him with tofu.
The other day I was conversing with a yam--don't ask its name, all yams look alike to me--and it was whining about its own fate this wretched holiday. At least you can waddle away, it sobbed. I'm stuck in the ground. I think it was having an anxiety attack.
The worst part of this is surrounding us with stinky Brussel sprouts. What sick culture concocted this outrage? They'd better come up with one helluva gravy for me, mushrooms included. Mushrooms just accept their fate. Cowards.

The Magician Within

Every child is a magician. They enter a room full of grumpy adults and immediately smiles appear. Quiet becomes noise. Motion escalates. Adults compete to get the tyke's attention.
Infants are totally magical. Without blinking or raising a finger, they can turn a sweet smelling space into a mens locker room. The pungent, colorful mass periodically emitted from their mouth has its own texture and viscosity. Children can make things disappear. A cat, a pet turtle, money left out, and liquor from the cabinet. Socks and underwear vanish under the bed.
Okay, maybe they're evil magicians, but by some trick of light or deft misdirection, they have somehow convinced us that they are worth keeping around. Except the kid next door who plays his drums at all hours. I wish David Blaine would make him vanish.

Trespassing is An Art

Privacy annoys me. Who decided we have a right to conceal? A strong society is one built on truth. The more we know about each other, the deeper the truths.
Here is my technique for violating someone's privacy. I could say it's none of your business, but everything's your business.
First I suggest we sit someplace quiet. Then I buy them coffee and a pastry. I always look neat and presentable, like someone you can trust. I'll compliment them on their appearance. My, have you been hitting the gym? That is a good look for you. All you need is a sombrero.
Then I'll mention a news item like Obamacare and really listen to their opinion. I'll mix in frivolous stuff like all those cat postings on You Tube.
Next, and this is vital, I'll reveal something personal about myself. I'll detail the evolution of that growth on my hip and what treatment I'm undergoing. Now the other person feels guilty if they don't reveal something about themselves. I'll start small and ask about their mom's health.
Gradually, as they open up, I'll sneak into more intimate areas. Are your bunions under control?
The flood gates will open and all sorts of personal information will be released. Their boss's attitude, did your kid get drunk, did you poison the neighbor's ocelot? Where are your rashes located?
Then I'll buy them a second cup. Soon they'll be revealing just about everything. Set up a second date to finish the job. Always look concerned.
Privacy may have been important at one time, but this is The Age of Reveal.

Real, Not Real

What is real? I know when to stop thinking, so why do I keep on doing it?
I convince myself Pepper Jack is really Feta cheese.
My extended family only appears at holidays. Real or unreal?
What if others see only an empty chair where I am sitting?
If I mailed a letter and there was really no mailbox, would it fall to the sidewalk or disapear?
How can anyone claim the alphabet isn't real when I am using it right now?
Is that flake of dandruff mine, and if so, does that mean I still have hair?
No one's mouth is moving so no talking is happening. But I hear speech in my head.
My watch hands are moving, so time must be passing. Or is it a trick of light?
Wait! Steve was just sitting there and now he's gone. I read his notebook--he appears to be using another alphabet. Is there actually a question mark at the end of this sentence? If punctuation doesn't exist how do I stop writing? Maybe I should try some periods.........
Okay, I feel better now.
Wait. Steve has returned and he's out of breath. Perhaps he ran around the block to prove it exists.

Flat Tire

I got a flat tire yesterday. I managed to pull into an empty lot and call AAA. I'm not great at changing tires for one reason. Once I get the car jacked up and pry off the cover, I can never unscrew the nuts. When you get new tires, they use that tightening machine and forget it. You can't budge those things.
Just as I was about to fultily try, a guy pulled up and asked if I needed help. He was the second one actually. I guess I lookk old and helpless.
I hesitated, but he looked honest, Hispanic with a big smile. Well, the guy somehow loosened those nuts by jumping on the long wrench. He put my donut tire on and refused the $5 I offered. Said he used to be a mechanic.
I shook his hand and thanked him. Makes you change your opinion of mankind. I quickly found a service station, had my tire repaired and called AAA to cancel. Breathing a sigh of relief, I drove home and had lunch.
One positive came from this--I got to clean out my trunk. I have four snow and ice cleaners for my windows. And six de-icer sprays.

Achilles Heel

Millicent did not expect to win. She only ran because the system required an opponent. How was she to know that the heavily favored incumbent was secretly recorded salaciously rubbing himself against a bed of rhododendrons?
Millicent won by default, but there was a problem. During her campaign she avoided speeches, substituting handshakes and a warm smile. No one seemed to care what she stood for. Once elected, however, she would be forced to give both speeches and press conferences. It wasn't that she was afraid of people. Her problem centered on vowels. Every time she said one aloud she experienced an orgasm, sometimes violent. She had to disguise it by coughing and shuddering as though she had pneumonia. This had been going on since junior high. On dates she hardly spoke and boys thought she was slow or stuck up.
How long before constituents figured out what was going on? Some would beg for an explanation. More would beg for her technique secrets.
Speaking faster only made the problem worse. No question, her Achilles Heel would rear its wet, ugly head over the next four years. At least she was a good listener.

Better at Night

Lately I find myself sipping coffee at night in a fast food restaurant, reading something. I guess I need to decompress after a full day of telling my friends how to live their lives. Doing this at night seems more appropriate. It just does.
Other things are more appropriate at night, like the sound of a saxophone. The ukelele is a day instrument, but the sax belongs after sunset.
One thing I've never seen at night is someone feeding pigeons. Come to think of it, I've never seen pigeons waddling around in the dark. Is there some underground pigeon refuge we don't know about?
Hugging your pillow, pathetic in the morning, makes perfect sense at night. While you're doing that, running through all your regrets compiled over decades makes sense.
If I see another person sitting alone in McDonald s at 10pm reading and sipping coffee I will respect their privacy. But, seeing as you can get three cookies for a buck, essential to accompany the java, I'd be curious to know if he chose oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip. That choice tells you all you need to know about someone. I'm not revealing my personal choice. A man should have a bit of mystique.

Silent Treatment

The NSA recently informed me by letter that evidence from their monitoring of my life strongly indicates I have completely run out of meaningful conversation.
I want to go on record here and aggressively refute their findings. Obviously I'm upset at being monitored, but I recognize this is the way things are now. But when they strongly recommend I stop speaking altogether because I'm unimaginative and boring, I really take umbrage.
My stories entertain, my vocabulary is far larger than most, I modulate my voice, I can do impressions of 40's actor like Lon Chaney Jr.. I feel I am an accomplished raconteur.
If any of my friends received a similar missive they are not sharing. And how do you define 'meaningful conversation'? I'm sure FDR had periods where he had nothing to say. Even Carol Channing and Larry King. Okay, maybe not Larry. It's not like I don't give others a chance to speak. Can I help it if I'm educated about a whole range of subjects those one dimensional suits in our government don't relate to?
It's an insult, like reporting I'm using too much toilet paper. I'm not, I swear.

Joy of Cooking

When one realizes one is as focused as one is, one has an obligation to focus that focus on something substantial like cooking.
I've been creative most of my life and recently my emphasis has been creating a perfect slice of toast.
First you remove a slice from its loaf. This can be painful for both slice and loaf, but not if the experience is viewed as a new adventure for the slice. Once you've isolated the slice, you may name it--Phil, Ralph, Greta etc. Examine the surface for any irregularities. Unevenness, coarseness, missing or damaged crust. Smell your slice, inhale its fresh aroma, rub it lightly on your cheek, creating a few crumbs. Crumbs are evidence your slice is ready. Make certain it is symetrical.
Now hold it gently between thumb and index finger and carefully drop it into your toaster. Push down the lever. Your buddy is on its way to transformation.
Do not hover. Put your wash in the dryer and return in a few minutes. There, poking its head out of the opening, is your toast. Remove it slowly and place it on a paper towel. At some point, you may wish to apply butter or margarine. That is a subject for another essay. Cooking isn't for everyone, but for those of us like myself who have the knack, it can be quite fulfilling.

Snow White's Resilience

Say what you want about Snow White, that young woman had resilience. Consider: she had to cook, clean and do wash for seven men, plus listen to their complaints. Amazing she didn't have a breakdown.
They didn't even have an outhouse. She had to go in the forest and half the time she was interrupted by one of them, asking stupid questions, like where's my chisel?
She had no idea where she was geographically. Her memory flitted in and out. For all she knew, she could have been kidnapped by these little ruffians. A vision kept returning, that of a handsome prince she once knew. She would lie on her lumpy bed, close her eyes and think of him holding her. Sometimes she touched herself and it felt so good.
A big problem was one of the guys kept sneezing in her face. He never covered his mouth. Another was so grumpy he barely spoke to her. Still another was so dopey she had to tie his work shoes. Plus they kept singing off key as they marched off to work. Strangely, once they were gone, she felt lonely. One day she went for a walk and befriended a fawn. She named it Bambi. It looked very sad. She wondered what happened to its mother.
I won't get into the nightly attempted gropings. Let's just say the lady did what she had to to protect her purity. That may have included brass knuckles and kicks to their tiny groins. Boy, was she tough.

One Grape, One Radish

I am eating one large grape. I want to chew as slowly as possible to savor every molecule of juice. One large green grape can elevate an entire day. Green seedless grapes from California are all the inspiration you need to make the world a better place. Play it forward. Go outside and hand a grape to someone. Repeat the process. You will feel better about everything.
Black and red grapes are almost as good. Okay, just as delicious. We're talking seedless, of course. There is no conceivable reason to eat grapes full of seeds, not when you have a choice. If you're in a Third World country and that's all they have, knock yourself out. But not in the US.
Which brings me to radishes. I have had a checkered history with this strange food. When I'm feeling really good about the world and take a bite of a radish, it slams me back to reality quick. A radish is like an annoying co-worker. Not aggravating enough to scream at, but irritating enough to leave a depressing aftertaste. Radishes must have nutritional value or they wouldn't be legal. They certainly clear out your sinuses. But they are cheap shot artists, tangy taste sneaking up on you, as opposed to hot peppers which unashamedly attack your palate.
Don't try eating radishes and grapes together. Radishes fight dirty and will poison grapes before they reach the stomach. Grapes are life affirming. Radishes are evil, belonging in Dante's Sixth Circle of Hell. Maybe that's where they were created.

The Last to Know

Cecil loved his accordion. He tried other instruments and never felt comfortable with them. But this one he seemed to meld with. He actually got a full scholarship to Oberlin College to study the intricacies of this wondrous instrument. Eventually he was accepted into the Boston Pops Symphony, the first accordion player to be so honored.
He worked out at the gym to strengthen his back and shoulder so he could play with more verve. In five years he never missed a performance.
So it was with shock and disbelief that he received the news that because of budget cutbacks his contract would not be renewed. Cecil was in tears. How would he pay his rent? All he knew was his instrument. He wound up moving back in with his parents living in Weehawken, NJ.
He began drinking, sleeping late, putting on weight and generally falling into slovenliness. He cut himself off from friends and family.
One day he decided he had to pull himself together. After a month of cold turkey, and renewed practice, he got on a bus to the city and stationed himself in parks, accompanying laid off opera singers after the NYC Opera had gone bankrupt.
Authorities, after listening to this collaboration, decided to pay them to keep performing, calculating that the cacophony of noise would keep terrorists at bay.
Cecil wasn't totally happy with this situation, but at least he was widening his audience. Sometimes he even takes requests.

Faking Testosterone

Men:
1.Do not shave between your eyebrows.
2.Grunt when getting out of chairs.
3.Never make Broadway musical references
4.Do not hesitate when confronted by a revolving door.
5.Kill spiders without remorse.
6.Never name your dog Pincus.
7.Never snicker when you can belly laugh.
8.Get yourself a belly.
9.Learn to whistle long and hard.
10.Master your beer suds.
11.Do not interrupt a woman with something on her mind.
12.No socks worn over the calf.
13.Challenge a teen to one on one basketball.
14.Slap on your cologne with panache.
15.Never use the word panache in front of other men.
16.Work on your handshake.
17.Wear plaid as often as possible.
18.Buy power tools.
19.Do not purchase a goldfish.
20.Do not turn your clock back just because you're told to.