Bookcases

I love my bookcases without reservation or shame. Plastic, unfinished wood, cherry wood, wrought iron, whatever style or mode, they are cherished.
One of them behind my headboard collapsed at 3am. Books crashed down on me, narrowly missing my skull. I was a fool for placing the case right behind my bed. I had to pile them on furniture until the next morning when the heartbreaking task of taking broken pieces to the dumpster faced me. I suppressed my sobs until I got back inside.
I recently received a giant six shelf case from my super, who informed me it came from a deserted garage another owner had left. I have filled every inch of that baby with paintings, camera lenses, knick knacks and whatever. Not books though. Not that monster.
I have close to 100 books on writing on a case against the garage wall. Someday I will get to them and become a best selling author who can afford wall to wall shelving.
It's too bad cold cuts have to be refrigerated or I would layer them across a book shelf. Maybe I could have a shelf just for radishes.
I have many classics and deep works on deep subjects, some of which I've browsed through. As long as the spine is facing out and guests can see the intimidating titles I am perfectly satisfied.

Night Wondering

Will I dream about being unable to finish my mail route on time seven years after retirement?
Why aren't certain women I knew on Facebook so I can see who they married?
Will strangers I've exchanged bits of conversation with wonder whatever happened to me?
Will all my body parts still work in the morning?
Will there be a blizzard or an explosion in the morning?
Should I break down and get a pet?
What happens if words fail me and I must end my blog?
How long before restless leg syndrome hits me and who is going to care?
How many Coscos can fit on Antarctica?
Why don't people argue with me anymore?
If I rolled over onto my stomach and pretended to be a swimming manatee would I fall asleep?
Which frozen dinner will I heat up for supper?
Why don't folk singers write about fog?
Should I be spending so much time alone with my dead bolt?
Can the woman upstairs hear my bed squeak?

Gift Cards

I got two gift cards for Christmas, one for Amazon, one for Barnes & Noble. I love gift cards. They put all the decision making in my hands and I know I will spend hours and hours on Amazon deciding how I will employ my stash.
Last night I spent a good hour in B&N, browsing like a man with $50 to spend. From time to time, I removed the card from my pocket and caressed it. I began in the music section, which is shrinking as I write this. I decided to purchase only one CD and it was tough. A Lena Horne collection for $4.99? I've always preferred her over Billy Holiday. A Doris Day collection? I already had their only Weather Report CD. Others around me were also browsing, but I was certain my browsing was more selective.
I finally decided on a Dionne Warwick collection for $4.99. Every tune was a hit, no filler.
Then I headed to the discounted books, hoping to find a gem coffee table tome, maybe a photography exploration of the Ozarks. No such luck. I do not settle when it comes to coffee table books. It is how I judge others. That and their socks.
There were several intriguing new paperback fiction releases, but at $16, too pricey. An entire collection of Brad Thor's work got its own stand. I wish I had a name like that. My books would sell faster. Joseph Ulysses or Joe Moses. Like the sound.
I decided to forgo purchasing a book for now because I had about two hundred in my garage I haven't touched. I did learn they subtract the tax from your gift card, unacceptable in my opinion. Once this Obama care thing gets settled, Congress should examine that issue.

Me Time

What exactly does me time mean? People walk around complaining they need more me time. These are often folks who decided to get married and have kids. To me, this indicates the last thing you want is to be alone. It's not as if the government forced you into this arrangement.
Let's say the spouse is at work, kids at school, you have the house to yourself. Watching TV or a DVD is actually time spent away from your deepest thoughts. Primping qualifies as me time, but how long does it take to trim nails or tweeze eyebrows? You can squeeze various growths until they pop, but unless you've got a serious personal hygiene problem that won't take very long.
Me time isn't cleaning or cooking or doing wash. Maybe you can take a friend to lunch. But all your friends are working or watching toddlers. Neighbors? Do you really know your neighbors? Invite one over and observe them casing the place.
Okay, so you decide to leave the house and grab some outdoor me time. Where do you go? What do you do? Sit in the park? Brunch at some loud, crowded coffee shop with overpriced scones? Window shop? Jog?? Running and thinking go together. Sweat makes you feel invigorated. Here's the rub. Seriously. How long do you really want to be alone with your innermost thoughts?
Yeah, those thoughts.
Me time can lead to dangerous conclusions about your life. Better to keep busy until the mail comes.

On the Subway

He was slumped sideways in his seat, drooling. He had a scruffy beard; tufts of unkempt hair stuck out of his black skull cap. He appeared to be semi-conscious, mumbling to himself. Frankly, he didn't smell too good.
I was about to move to another car when he said something that made me start. Shark Meat. He repeated it. I took a closer look. My God. I knew this man. I KNEW this guy.
I stood up and went over, holding my breath. Joe, I shouted. Joe, it's me, Dan. From the writers group.
He looked up, barely able to focus, and burped loudly.
Joe, what happened to you? Your novel, Shark Meat. You had an agent, a book contract. You were on your way.
Now he realized who I was. Breathing heavily, coughing, shivering, he somehow got the words out.
James Patterson, the bastard, stole my idea. My deal fell through. BASTARD!
Then he started crying. Before I could grab him, he slid to the floor and wet himself.
I collected myself, punched in 911, and stuffed a twenty into his ratty pullover jacket. I got out at the next stop.

Brigadoon

They placed me in the Witness Protection Program and I wound up here, in this strange town, which might be in Ireland, but I'm not sure.
The countryside is beautiful, filled with rolling hills and heather. Sunsets are incredible. The men are vibrant, rowdy, salt of the earth, getting drunk, telling tales, singing ditties. The women have all the patience and tolerance one could imagine, since they seem to do most of the work.
Sometimes, in the gloaming, the whole village sits on a hillside watching the sun go down. And there are moments, if you wait long enough, you can see the silhouettes of a man and woman dancing below. Passionate, elegant, graceful. They move closer-- the man is strong and dark haired and the woman long legged, just as dark with flowing mane. They whirl and embrace and he lifts her impossibly high into the purple scarred sky.
We stare in wonder as the sun and the fluid couple softly disappear and night draws its quilt over the place called Brigadoon.

Caroling for Dummies

Wear a joyous expression and loose, layered clothes to prevent wedgies.
Smile incessantly, even if the people around you are unclean and stinky.
Learn how to hold a book of carols, walk and sing lyrics without smacking into a tree.
If you can't reach a note, close your eyes and fake it.
Do not try to slip in Buddhist chants.
Don't attempt the German version of Silent Night.
Make eye contact, occasionally hugging fellow carolers.
Don't grope them during the hug.
Decide who makes the hot chocolate for afterwards.
If a guy comes to the door wearing boxer shorts and a garter belt, sing louder.
Carry pepper spray for troublesome pets and lonely people who wish to join you.
Never let an old person bring up the rear. Cardiac events & strokes might escape notice.
Any caroler who has lost his voice must step away from the group & wait in the van.
What happens in the caroler van stays in the caroler van.
Try not to rumble with competing carolers. It is the season, after all.

Oh, Fudge

I recently got invited to a party and spent most of the evening sitting on the host's white couch in between various other guests. The conversation was eclectic and thought provoking. There was plenty of food--salad, pasta, fruit, chips, candy.
All the while I kept glancing to my right where, underneath a pink Christmas tree, lay three unopened boxes of pecan covered dark fudge. I hadn't had fudge in years, not counting fudge pops, which is really fudge 2.0. I went through the possible logistics and rationale for leaving them out unprotected and came to the conclusion these boxes were part of the refreshments. Wouldn't you?
So I waited until I was alone on the couch, got up and took one of the boxes. Without hesitation, I broke the seal and gouged out a chunk of this dark delicacy with a knife. It tasted so good I wanted to just leave the lump in my mouth the rest of the night.
Three minutes later the host comes over and demands to know who opened the fudge. That was a gift, is all she said. So I basically blasphemed someone else's gift. Twelve pairs of eyes glared at me as I sunk deeper into the couch.
Come on. Who gives three boxes of fudge as a gift? And who buys a white couch? At least I didn't spill anything. This is why I never get invited anywhere. Damn good fudge, though.

Promising Writers

I met a couple of promising writers at one of my writers groups. They are young and imaginative and quirky.I sit there marveling at what they come up with for our prompts, which are ideas that we write about for ten minutes.
They type so fast it's intimidating. I wonder if I've lost my edge. But this is good for me. It keeps me grounded and hungry to get better. Yes, I'm competitive.
Writers have to balance self confidence and a humble attitude. We also have to believe everyone has a story to tell. I'll spend fifteen minutes talking to someone I hardly know, tabulating details, vacuuming information to possibly be used in a future piece. If people see you actually listen, nodding periodically, it's amazing how much they will reveal.
Everything is fodder for raw material. Those two young writers right now are creating stuff off the top of their heads without really interacting with others. As their writing journey continues, one hopes they will consider other people as sources for fiction, poetry, plays, whatever, in the process, balancing their instinctive creative talents with close observation of what material is out there in the world.

Snow Day

I went out this morning to my writers group. I knew it was snowing and I hate driving in the snow because I never go over 40 and that annoys type A drivers looking for a challenge. I keep both hands on the wheel, refusing to lose my temper when trucks splash slush against my windshield.
I decided to stay home all afternoon and watch Scaramouch on TCM, a life saving movie channel I depend on in bad weather. There is brilliant technicolor enhancing Eleanor Parker's lipstick so much I want to kiss the screen
At the end of the film there is a very long, elaborate sword fight between Stewart Granger and Mel Ferrar, two guys with sensual lips that rivaled Parker and Janet Leigh, who must have been about 19 at the time. The battle was choreographed intricately and I'm pretty sure they were using real swords. How come we don't see that anymore? Who would win a sword fight between Ryan Gosling and Bradley Cooper? Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone? Linda Hunt and Danny DeVito?
These are the kinds of things that pass through my mind as I lie on the bed and let the afternoon slide by. But now that the snow has stopped I must reengage with the world, which, in my case, means heading out for coffee.
A good sword fight has just been added to my bucket list.

Radish Season

It is the season of radishes. Let us celebrate. Up and down the street, people greet each other and hold up their radishes. We compare size, smoothness, texture. We lean forward and sniff each others radishes. I say to one man, "Your radishes seem fuller, richer, tangier than last year." He tells me he's always admired my radishes.
Standing in front of Dunkin Donuts, I note at least a dozen people checking out my radishes. You've got to be careful in choosing this delicacy. A seemingly healthy one may be corroded and rotting inside, so it's always best to finger each radish before making a decision.
Of course, eating too many can cause gas. Be disciplined. Spread out your consumption. Substitute anchovies periodically, although anchovy season is 54 days away. If you close you eyes and think radish while biting into a cherry tomato, that may be a worthy alternative for the discerning radish aficionado.
Life is just too short for us choosy epicureans to settle for substandard nutrition.

Two A.M.

Look at them. Fiends. They assume they have the upper hand. Dominance by numbers. I haven't slept for days. In the dim moonlight I watch them form three lines and move as one straight into my kitchen.
But I am onto them. Where there are crumbs there are ants and where there are poisoned crums there are piles of dead ants.
A man does what he must to control his space.
Yes, I poisoned a bag of fudge cookies and crunched them into a million crumbs. But as I retrace my actions I realize in my sleep deprived state I may have poisoned the bag before taking them to my book discussion group. One gluttonous woman, Babs, ate every one that was put out. At least ten in all.
I must call her and plead she race to the hospital to get her stomach pumped. She never finishes the book we choose and interrupts my points, but she must be valued as a human being.
Please pick up. Please.
Oh no. I dialed the wrong number. Sorry Paul. Yes, I know its 2am. Go back to sleep. Well, that was pretty harsh.

Betrayal

Fog covers the Hoboken docks. The soft caress of waves alternates with the squawk of seagulls. The bars, pulsing, harshly lit, are just blocks away. It is damp and dangerous out here by the river. He is waiting for Noreen, his girl. He reaches into his dark trench coat and fondles the .45. For a moment there is doubt, hesitation.
Then he remembers the indelible image of her and the man, naked and entwined in bed, his own bed, smelling of raw lust. She agreed to meet him here to sort things out. Trusting Noreen. There was nothing to sort out. Betrayal wears no gray. It is stark and cruel.
Yeah, he trusted her and look what happened. With Morgan, the carpet salesman yet, the guy who helped them decorate the apartment. She probably thinks I'm going to forgive her. Maybe she'll cry and shudder. I will just stare coolly, reach into my pocket and...
A moment later she strides through the mist in a black full length coat with the collar turned up and a black fedora worn low. She walks right up to him with her emerald eyes, sneering lips and perfume from The Third Circle of Hell.
Right then he knew the gun was useless.

Arriving Late

I sit in my car with my binoculars trained on my writing group sitting in a cafe waiting for me. I am the Prompt God, providing writing prompts to write to. I purposely arrive late every session. Make them sweat. I can see feeble attempts at conversation. They look nervous, glum, periodically glancing out the window, looking for me. But I am far enough away to remain incognito.
Some are yawning, restless. I am not a sadist, but they must be reminded of my importance. I check my watch, nod and put down my binoculars. It is time for my entrance.
I get out of the car, adjust my shorts, tuck in my shirt, tug my baseball cap down, clear my throat and march to the entrance. They can see me now. Excitement is palpable.
I will open the door, enter, and be met by a collective sigh of relief. Or perhaps a collective gasp. One or more may break into sobs.
I carry responsibility well.

Town Without Pity

How can one live without passion? I am passionate about one thing--anchovies. Wherever I've lived and worked I've stayed near anchovies.
Once, on a blind date, I tried to explain my anchovy love to the young lady. Her reaction spoke volumes. She performed a citizen's arrest before we got past the appetizer. Ignorance is the bane of this town without pity. I bought a home here thinking it was a tolerant place. Stored crates of anchovies in my basement freezer. Did not realize I was violating foolish zoning laws.
We had a block party and I wanted to share my treasure with neighbors. Crates of anchovies ready to be consumed. Some sick SOB turned me in. You can't trust anyone. I paid a fine and did 50 hours of community service providing solace to condemned lobsters. But people just won't let it go. I am shunned everywhere I go. Even the crossing guard looks away when I am near.
What ever happened to a pluralistic society? To liberalism? To delicacies and enchanting finger food?

Death Bed Confession

I don't have much time left. I want to clear my conscience. I admit it. I embezzled money from the PTA. I took their trust and flushed it away. I used the money to adopt Vietnamese triplets. I am a single parent, respected in the community, but my life was built on lies and deception.
This town could have had new monkey bars for the kids if I hadn't stolen the funds. I have to live with that, although, according to doctors, not much longer.
Of course, there's the additional problem of my kids growing up and running into a series of problems. Grand theft auto, burglary, identity theft, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly, driving with a suspended license and cruelty to small animals. At least they didn't set fire to anything.
Now I can die in peace, right after breakfast. Two eggs over easy, home fries, pancakes and sausage. I'll pay. There's still a few bucks left over.

Libido

I am a divorced 45 year old woman who is horny. I needed to do something about this quick. So I found Studs Unlimited on the Internet, checked out the website and the rates. The building had three floors. The first floor consisted of young studs. Too expensive for my budget. Second floor was slightly paunchy middle aged men. Still just a bit over my spending limit. The third floor only listed a price--$35 all night. That I could afford.
I drove to the place in a deserted area of town near some warehouses. I was let in by a genteel man in a freshly pressed three piece suit. He looked about fifty. When I told him I wanted the third floor deal he swallowed and stated no one had ever chanced the third floor. I replied I was adventurous and the price was right. A few of the young studs looked at me admiringly. One nodded and gave me the thumbs up.
I paid and began climbing. One middle aged guy stuck his head out the door on the second floor. He was in his underwear, with a garter belt. I shook my head and pointed up. He seemed disappointed.
Finally I reached my destination and carefully opened the door. It was brightly lit. A TV showing Wheel of Fortune occupied one corner. Seated in six wheelchairs facing it were six of the oldest men I'd ever seen. They snored, coughed, honked and wheezed in symphonic unison. Spittle and mucus ran down their chins. It smelled like a skunk convention.
But I was horny. I picked the one on the far left, who looked a bit cleaner, stripped myself naked, straddled him and slapped the bastard awake. I had paid for all six all damn night and I was about to get my money's worth.

The Worshippers

I used to get panic attacks. One day it happened on the light rail going to Jersey City. A man sat next to me and whispered that he used to suffer from the same experience. He told me exactly what to do. Breath deep. But you must follow my instructions, he said.
The next night, right around dusk, I drove to where he told me, got out and brought a folding chair. To my surprise, there were at least 50 people already sitting around this mass rising several hundred feet into the sky, creating an impressive silhouette against a full moon.
As the evening wore on, more people arrived, hundreds, presumably all victims of panic attacks. We just sat there gazing at the mountain before us. There was no singing, whistling or conversation. I began feeling better about a half hour after I arrived, much better.
There was a fetid smell that I got used to, and flies swarmed all around us. But a sense of calm overcame everything. I actually relished the aroma, so thick one could almost swallow it. This was working.
I just pray some stupid environmentalists or politicians don't interfere and try to remove our savior. This is still The Great Recession and many of us are nervous wrecks. Where would we be, any of us, without our Staten Island Landfill?
I think a seagull just dropped something on my head.

The Incident at Kevin's Party

Louis was too competitive for our set. Whenever we had a gathering, trouble emanated from him. Spill soda on one of his Monopoly properties, he demands reparation. One time, during karaoke, he attempted to sing all the choral sections performing Handel's Messiah and injured his neck and mouth.
But the worst incident happened during charades. Louis is thin and pasty. He stripped to his underwear, fell to the floor and began crawling and twisting from room to room with such intensity we could see bruises forming, even open scrapes and cuts.
We yelled out guesses. SNAKE! SLINKY! A WOUNDED SOLDIER! BIG WORM!
Finally we exhausted our imagination and after twenty minutes of  knocking himself out, practically sobbing, Louis sat on the rug and gasped what he was trying to convey.
"It a single strand of wet, hot linguini trying to escape the plate, trying desperately to avoid its fate and reach freedom."
We returned his agonized expression with one of deep concern.
This is more than a caffeine problem. Perhaps its time for Louis to go on hiatus.

Leap of Faith

I'm terrible at parties. Lots of people say that, but in my case it's an understatement. I never know when to break off a conversation or when to approach someone. I usually retreat to a chair and eat.
Recently I attended a party full of writers. You'd think I'd be relaxed. Well, I walked in with my bottle of diet root beer, gazed at a table full of goodies and immediately felt guilty and cheap. I should have brought an entire pizza.
Immediately, a tall woman greeted me. She wore a pencil skirt, was unusually soft spoken for such a towering woman, but still intimidated me. I barely complimented her on her dress, then went blank. Damn. I filled up a plate and skulked to the back of the room. Another nightmarish night.
Then a strange thing happened. I pulled myself together and somehow established communication with about six fellow writers, nodding at the right time and holding my own. I even felt they were listening to my points. One poor fellow had gotten burnt out of his apartment and needed underwear.
I had taken a leap of faith by coming and felt God was looking after me. Or maybe it was the tuna sandwiches that loosened me up. Some cultures worship finger food.
I wound up staying an hour and five minutes, excellent time for me. I just wish I could  think of something clever next time a tall, attractive woman greets me. Maybe a comment on the dip.