Child Inside the Man

There are days when I just want to hug everyone like when I was a child. But, as I grew older, I realized some people smell bad and shouldn't be embraced. The child inside me emerges when I'm hungry and gobble down food, using both hands, slurping down whatever liquid is available. I create crumbs, stains, and deep burps, only caring about my immediate needs.
If I see a child fall off a tricycle my memory brings me back to those days when I, too, would fall and just lay on the sidewalk with no one to pick me up. I impulsively rush over and help that fallen child, bringing it to its feet with comforting words.
But this is 2014 and immediately a police car pulls up and I'm questioned for touching someone else's kid.
I sometimes lie in bed dreaming of my future just like when I was a kid. Then I look down at my wrinkled body and realize I don't have much of a future. I will probably die alone in a furnished room surrounded by my books and grocery lists I can't decipher.
There is one parallel between the child within and the older man--neither of us can pee straight.

Beating the System

There are four washers, one of which costs more, and three dryers, one of which is far more powerful, in my condo laundry room.  If you can't rise early enough to beat everyone else to the facility, resort to another strategy. Show up unshaven, unclean, leering and cackling. If a woman arrives at the same time, most likely she will scurry away in fear and you are home free.
If two men show up, both employing the same strategy, if you are a senior citizen, stoop, moan, cough on him, mumble a question like, why aren't the damn meds working? That should drive him off.
When I am alone with that huge dryer and I hear its humming as the clothes tumble, I imagine I am in a nuclear sub off the coast of Greenland keeping our country safe. Then the buzzer goes off, returning me to reality--an unshaven, smelly, stooped, coughing old guy who has once again beaten the condo laundry room system.

Bathrobe Time is Sacred

When I don my plush black velour bathrobe, my broad shoulders filling that garment like lava engulfing a valley, I am a morning God. I will sip my coffee and rub my cheek against the fabric like a newborn cub. I see myself as nobility in exile, driven out by ungrateful peasants, just waiting for my minions to arise and return me to my rightful dominion.
Meantime, I will relax in my state of the art recliner and wait for my pet turtle to awaken so I have something to talk to.

Obsessive Gardeners

Sitting on my tricycle, I'd watch them as a child. Three of them living close by. Digging and shoving plants in holes, ripping out weeds with a vengeance, sprinkling seeds everywhere.
A strange smile covered their faces as they watered and watered away. As I grew older they became more frightening. Tanned and wrinkled from too much sun, stooped from all that kneeling, fingers curled with Carpel Tunnel from cutting, trimming, snipping, displaying the wild eyed look of inmates.
Obsessive gardeners have a God Complex. They plant, nurture, create life, then viciously yank it away to be placed in bouquets for pagan rituals like prom night. I once tried to speak to one, but her fierce glare drove me away. My parents, thankfully, were all about concrete and tar. Not one tulip around my home.
Sadly, I have a friend who sold her home and garden and now lives in an apartment. I see her now and then, twitching, drooling, shaking, cursing, sliding into dis-function. I fear she will wind up sitting on a bench outside some hospital surrounded by pretty plants that some white uniformed attendant is always watering.

Custer's Scout

My name is Rocco and I was chief scout for General Custer. I see that look on your face. Listen to me. There were extenuating circumstances.
I had told him that morning I had lost my eyeglasses. Plus I had waxy buildup in both ears. Couldn't hear a thing. He just shrugs and tells me to go do my job. What could I say? My backup, Victor Nunez, had gallstones and didn't even make the trip.
So I'm right smack in the middle of Little Bighorn valley, can't see a damn thing with all that dust, I'm squinting like crazy, one finger in my ear, trying to dig out as much wax as I can, praying I make the right decision.
Finally I give the signal to follow me and they come trailing along single file until the whole regiment is in this stinking rat hole. Suddenly I look up and every Indian in the universe is charging down the slopes, screaming like maniacs. I'm thinking, boy are we screwed.
I survived by playing dead.
All these years later I'm sitting in a bar commiserating with Ralph, who was President Lincoln's personal bodyguard. He keeps mumbling, "All I did was leave to take a pee. Three stinking minutes I was gone."

The Mystery of Mulch

Scientists have examined mulch for decades without discovering its essence. Is it part of the plant family? Is it insect waste? Was it brought here by an alien species eons ago? What is its purpose and can it help mankind?
In its pure form mulch is smoother than dirt, prettier than mud, looser than clay.
Wordsworth once wrote, :Mulch o mulch, upon my land you feast,your pungent odor fills my breast. Keep your plankton. Keep your seaweed. I embrace you as though you were my child. I know in my heart other life forms will awaken and spring from you. I just pray they don't bite."
Observers have noted the preponderance of mushrooms growing around mulch.There is something metaphysical in that juxtaposition. Perhaps mulch's mysteries will be revealed when an international team of scientists converge in Portugal at The Mulch Resource Center. The World Mulch Organization is being pressured to prove its relevance in an increasingly man made fertilizer society.

Hash Browns

My name is Frank Fanta. I'm a private investigator and I notice things.
I was having coffee in Dunkin', reading how the Jets got slammed again. I put the paper down and check out the guy to my right, who has spread his hash browns across a napkin. I counted twelve before he began wolfing them down.
A moment later, a young girl with that peppy expression I hate sits down with her hash browns looking concerned. I could see her hash brown pouch wasn't full. She went back to the counter and asked if she could have several more. The counter guy, stocky, swarthy, bulbous nose, barked out a no. There was no compromise in his face. Hands on hips, he was ready to stare her down. You got what you ordered, lady, he said.
She turned away defeated. I don't like guys who bark at girls, so I got up slowly and walked over.
"That guy over there got twelve hash browns," I whispered hoarsely. "I believe you owe this young lady some food."
I gave him my steely glare.
"This is none of your business, buddy," he said.
"I'm making it my business."
I touch my jacket. He saw the bulge. Yeah, I was packing.
Frank Fanta, P.I., I growled, flashing my ID.
The punk flinched and skulked over to the oven for a new pack of browns. I handed it to the grateful girl with a slight nod and returned to my seat.
Then the dame entered the picture.
She must have been hanging in the corner out of my sight. If liquid could move it would look like this. Tall and leggy, with a Veronica Lake  hair sweep, eyes that seethed trouble and announced this was one lake that needed to be drained and I was dying to be her sump pump.
"I heard you say you're a private eye, Mr. Fanta. I may have a job for you. I believe my husband is cheating on me."
I leaned back and gobbled her up with my eyes, trying not to twitch.
"Sit down. We can talk here, Mrs..."
"Webster. As in the dictionary."
"Can I get you some hash browns?" It wasn't a question.

Out for Drinks

I don't go out for drinks. I don't drink, period. The phrase connotes more than it states. The subtext is a scenario where people loosen up and reveal secrets, fears, anger.
If it involves co-workers all sorts of problems occur. One may get tipsy and spout harsh words about the boss. Hit on someone who winds up suing for harassment. Make racist, sexist or homophobic remarks one doesn't even remember, except it was recorded on someone's phone.
No, I steer clear of that stuff. On the few occasions I find myself in a bar I order a seltzer or diet soda and get a look from the bartender like why are you taking up a stool, fool?

The Train

Noel woke suddenly, confused. It was light out. The landscape outside his train window was unfamiliar. He had boarded the crowded car the previous night heading home from work. Now there was just him and a boy about ten, sniffling and scared, seated three seats in front.
He tried calling his boss, who would be furious if he were late, but his cell battery was dead.
He walked to the boy and attempted to calm him. What was happening? Where did everyone go?
Suddenly the train stopped and the door slid open. He took the boy's hand and led him down the three steps to the grassy ground. All around them were trees and bushes. As soon as they hit the earth, the door closed and the train resumed its journey. No one else had gotten off.
Where are we? the boy asked. There was a rustling in the bushes. Osana Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein appeared and suddenly it all made sense.
Noel wondered who was on the next train.
Anybody here play cards? Saddam asked.
Who's the babe? Osana asked.
Noel flinched. Leona Helmsley sauntered out of the trees.
Anybody got any wine, she asked gruffly. I haven't had a drink in ages.

Apple Crunching

Women love watching me bite into an apple, any apple. I take big, manly bites, my masculine jaw ripping powerfully through the fruit. I have smoldering Antonio Banderas eyes and I glower right through the chewing process. I can see ladies squirming, gasping, touching their arms and shoulders, sweating around me, even strangers.
When I reach the core, some moan.
Sometimes they overpower me, rip off my clothes and drip saliva upon my massive pecs. By passers can only stare in wonder. If it happens in a restuarant all hell breaks loose.
The same occurs when I bite into any piece of fruit, but only celery brings a similar strong reaction. What can I say? Women are different than men.

Pez Addiction

Maury was addicted to Pez, going through a dozen dispensers a day. His apartment was littered with used dispensers. Perhaps it was caused by a college experiment where researchers made he eat 5000 Good 'N Plenty candies to analyze their effect. Desperate to get off them, he met a shady guy in an alley who sold him his first Pez, with the promise they would wean him off the other stuff.
Maury unfortunately developed a phobia of the various designs on the head of the dispenser, which one pressed to get the candy. Especially the Ronald Reagan one.
Soon he was offering sex for Pez.
Pez smell emanated from his clothes and his dinner parties consisting of Pez appetizer, entree, dessert and soluble Pez juice to wash it down, failed badly. He lost all his friends and social status. Longing for normalcy, he ordered pizza, but, alas, couldn't help but topping it with Pez tablets.
There is no happy ending to this story. He was found behind a Waldbaum's dumpster, empty Pez dispensers under his lifeless body.

Rudolf

There was a knock on the door, interrupting Mrs. Claus's baking. When she opened it she found Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer accompanied by a dapper man holding a briefcase.
My name is Ari Goldstein from Finley & Goldstein theatrical agency. I represent Rudolf. We would like to give Santa first option on signing my client to a multi-year deal. Afterall, he did save Christmas.
But he's just one of many reindder, she protested.
Oh contra ire. Rudolf is now a brand that can upgrade your entire operation..
She shook her head. Santa is upstairs sleeping. I can't make decisions without him. Come inside and have some cookies.
Certainly, but I believe at the moment Rudy has to relieve himself.
Oh my. Will he make a mess?
Maybe. But look at the up side. Frozen Rudy crap will explode the Internet. That is but a small example of what you are  sitting on. This reindeer is gold. Got any oatmeal raisin?

The Space Between

The space between my cogent thoughts grows wider, as does that between my complete sentences. My breathing also has longer spaces between it. I sense my lungs are losing interest keeping me alive. Thankfully the space between bowel movements has remained constant. Rather than wondering about the space between the stars, I consider the space between cantaloupe sales at the market.
If the space between me and another writer is too small I just may steal his characters.
Why is there papers in the space between cheese slices?
How much space between goldfish should there be in that bowl?
What about crowded hay rides? How much straw should each contain?
See? My thoughts devolve into fragments of nonsense. Luckily most of my friends are too self involved to notice.

Future Libraries

Libraries must change or die. Here are a few suggestions
Librarians wear tight shorts and display cleavage.
Locate an open bar away from the children's section.
Domino competitions.
Tap dancing lessons, preferably not the same time as the domino setup.
Lock kids in a padded room after feeding them lots of sugar and watch their behavior patterns. If cuts and bruises result, end the experiment.
Classes working with quick drying clay for seniors who may not live to see the end result of regular drying clay.
Set up a clinic to check blood pressure and cholesterol. Have lollipops for every volunteer.
At Halloween let patrons dress as their favorite literary character.
Charal groups consisting of local destitute and homeless would cheer everyone.
Only stock books with colorful covers.
Have stand up comics perform in the reference room.
Squeeze in adult puppet shows with material unsuitable for kids.

Daffy Duck

I am tired of giving Daffy Duck the benefit of the doubt. At least Donald is mostly under control, though he has a temper. He has a mature relationship with Daisy and gets along with Mickey.
Daffy is a mess. His posture, slovenly appearance, inability to cogently express himself, his spraying of saliva and his terrible decision making are too much to ignore.
I want to believe in this duck, but there is too much negativity surrounding him. He makes every situation worse. He never learns from his mistakes. It's no shocker that he has never had a long standing relationship. Except for Betty Boop--that slattern.
Perhaps his parents abandoned him when they realized he wasn't like other ducks. He has to accept responsibility for his actions. His squawking and weak excuses do not wash. The least he could do is control his saliva.

Playing Cards

Laura was bluffing. No way she could beat my hand. I threw down my cards and smiled. Damn. Woman had a full house.
I stood and removed my undershirt. I was down to my skivvies. She was fully dressed. I hadn't won a single hand.
Too bad, she snickered. Want to quit?
Her eyes dropped to my impressive package filling my tighty whities.
I gave her my Antonio Banderas glower. If I stop now, I whispered, we both know you will come away unhappy and unsatisfied. She slowly licked her lips and smiled salaciously. Let's get this party started, big boy. I sat down. As she began dealing, the door opened and footsteps in the hall followed.
Mom, dad, I'm home!
Laura yelped, I gasped.
We forgot the kids had a half day.
Don't come in here, Billy! Mommy and daddy are busy. Go make hot chocolate.
I fumbled with my pants. Simple physics. Trying to fit a big package into a small space is always a problem.

Cold, Hard Truth

Babies are not cute. Blotchy skin, no coordination,drooling spittle, beady eyes, sweaty hair, curled up fingers and toes, bad smell, no muscles, no teeth, no chin, flopping around, gurgling nonsense, wailing for no reason, they gum your finger without provocation.
Turtles are not cute. You can't pet them, they don't lick you, don't hunt rodents,  can't trust them, lack elegance, no passion in their lovemaking, move as if the weight of the world was on their shell, which you can use to advertize energy drinks.
Plankton are not cute. They are bland and all look alike, lazily swaying with the current. Killer jelly fish have a purpose. Explain the goals of plankton. The plant is like a long winded, dull professor lecturing on the evolution of the turtle.

Vikings in Love

Greta-We have to talk, Lars.
Lars-We never talk.
Greta-I need more communication.
Lars-My beloved, I remind you I am a viking, fierce and strong. I conquer civilizations, roam far and wide, eat wild boar. We are not talkers by nature.
Great-I am unsatisfied in bed.
Lars-What!? Do you not enjoy being embraced in my massive hairy arms? Are my grunts not manly enough?
Greta-You are gone for weeks at a time. When you're home, it takes so long for us to unlayer all that fur, the moment passes.
Lars-Great God of Sea Cliffs! You have stunned Lars to his calf length wooly boots. What is the solution, my precious?
Greta-Stay home with me.
Lars-I would be a laughing stock. We vikings must keep exploring across seas and the frozen tundra, wind in our faces, rampaging, looting, striking fear.
Greta-I feel so alone.
Lars-What of that device I brought you from Greenland which keeps all the women happy when the men are gone?
Greta-I am not sure where to place it. What if I put it in backwards?
Lars-I will try it on myself first.
Greta-This I have to see.
Lars-Help me remove these furs.
Greta-When was the last time you washed them. Whew!
Lars-Vikings wash nothing. We are stronger than bacteria.

Post Apocalyptic Society

We've finished all the Spam. Damn. The ground is poisoned, most of the animals are dead. Our water supply is diminishing.
I still have the knock out pills. The question is--who do I eat first?
Sara is small and delicate boned. Perhaps an appetizer. Tim would be like chewing leather. Heather is all bones. That leaves Carol, Paul, Meg and Rachel. Lots of meat there. Of course I'd have to shave them first. Don't like hair in my food.
I must keep one alive so we can breed and sustain the human race. I choose Aggie, a pale poetess, quiet and intelligent. We would have extraordinary kids. I will have to get her drunk first. I pray Paul hasn't consumed all the beer.

Modern Scrooge

Brad hated the holidays. He'd drive around in his pick up blasting Wagnerian military marches to drown out carolers, whom he pelted with paintball globs. He torched snowmen and sprayed Japanese graffiti on department store display windows. He tied kids to telephone poles with strong tinsel and left them there.
Brad owned a floor covering store and forced his employees on Christmas Eve to stand outside and push throw rugs and bathroom tile.
There was a reason for all this. When he was 12 his dad ordered eggnog from a catalog and though it looked and tasted like the real thing, soon after his entire family began reciting old speeches by former NYC mayor Abe Beame. Except for him, who refrained, they all wound up in the looney bin.
An investigation revealed egg nog terrorists had tampered with the product. Thus, his anger every Christmas.
Sidewalk Santas ran when they saw Brad coming. Let's just say buckshot was involved/.

Snow Fort

Being contractor on a snow fort is thankless. Kids are unreliable. Quentin was responsible for supplying supplemental snow in case we lacked enough snowfall. Sarah had to make the snowballs, but her mom said that would strain her pianist hands. Carl was to find the best location, but he became passionate about sledding, the traitor.
Marsha kept complaining of cold fingers because she lost a glove. Bill yelled the walls should be higher. That's why the Fannuci gang beat us the previous winter. Weak walls.
They all want lunch beaks and weekends off.
Tom, the slacker, was supposed to spy on the Fannuci cartel , but he got himself captured and who knows what he spilled about our army?

Me and Linen

I stand before my linen closet bursting with pride. I have not only upgraded my wash clothes with thicker, softer ones, but organized towels etc. by color--dark on bottom, and size-small on top. You cannot shower using flimsy wash rags you have no confidence in.
My soap slivers, over 40, are becoming a problem. I sort hem by age, eight months being the oldest. Too long in there they collect bacteria.
I give my old tooth brushes to charity, making sure they still have bristles. Compassion is my middle name.
I  am missing a sock and I will find that sucker and make an example of it. That's how I roll.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

The day before the holiday I was getting a steroid shot in my back. I noticed the bracelet on my wrist said I was 66 years old. How did that happen?
I suppose getting to senior citizen status with most of my faculties intact is something to be thankful for. Not to  mention I still have some family left that does all the cooking. I sit in my brother's recliner watching football on a flat screen while others do all the preparation/ I got here a day early and ducked all the bad weather.
I've cut out all my Black Friday coupons and am stoked for battle.
Did you know Big Lots sells bags of sweet potato fries?
Yet another thing to be thankful for.

Demon Al

Demon Al created ferocious butterflies released from sinister drones ordered from a military surplus website.
They specifically attacked hedge fund managers on lunch break, ripping off patches a designer top coats, defecating on carefully coiffed heads. Engorged with raw flesh, they flew off into the horizon, police sirens in their wake, leaving Wall Street in shambles.
Dow down 645 points.

Sticky Thorn,

I decided to end it all. My writing career had stagnated. There was nothing to live for. Guns were too violent, pills too unpredictable, a knife too messy. Getting hit by a bus would traumatize innocents. Smothering myself with a pillow took more willpower than I had.
Then I saw a tiny cactus in the window of a flower shop that moaned 'take me.' I did just that, got it home, stripped naked and proceded to begin puncturing myself all over, creating small rivulets of blood. This is how I'd bleed out tragically. This was one sticky obscure cactus and that mixed stickiness with the blood.
Unfortunately I'd forgotten this was the maid's day to clean. Mavis had her own key, came in, put on the light and stared at me sprawled on my recliner, bleeding and sticky.
"Mister, for a writer you can't even jerk off right. Now I have to clean this mess up. Gonna cost you extra. Move your damn leg. Nothing I ain't seen before and seen bigger."
I perked up. There was a one act play here and I'd better jump on it before the muse leaves me.

Cancelled Flights

All flights were cancelled due to the storm. People always told Hal he looked like Bill Murray. Casually dressed, hair askew, sneakers, cynical expression, modest paunch, a certain fetid smell. Maybe it was time to take advantage.
He begged a cabbie to take him to Chicago, a two hundred mile ride, claiming he was the star and was good for it. The cabbie was dubious. Burp, he ordered. Burp like Bill. Hal did as told. The cabbie shrugged. Passable, he said. Now give me a beer fart.
But I haven't been drinking, Hal protested.
You're Bill Murray-- that shouldn't make a difference.
Hal came up with a weak facsimile. The cabbie shook his head.
Just then a BMW pulled up and out popped the real Bill Murray, who tripped, fell down, burped and farted in short order. The key was still in the ignition. Hal gave the cabbie $20 to help him dump Murray in the back seat.
Hal noticed they both smelled of rancid salmon. Maybe we are related.

Roses

Lillian saw the bunch of red roses on her doorstep and became alarmed. She scanned the rooftops, noticed all the snipers in place. How could they not have seen? Last May Abe found a basket of artichokes on his porch. He brought them inside where they promptly exploded causing him to lose a hand. This was followed by Babs discovering a box of Clementine oranges on her stoop. Luckily she tripped carrying them and when they blew up she was feet away and escaped with slight burns.
     One month later, Louie saw a cactus plant by the curb, weant over to inspect and had it blow up in his face, causing loss of an ear. So the rooftop sniper solution was formed. Anyone seen dropping off anything at anyone's house was suspect.
     Lillian's loneliness battled her caution. Maybe she had a secret admirer. She leaned forward, extending her arms.
     "No!" came a shout from the rooftop.
     She turned just as the ticking got louder.

Success

I bought new white and gold handles for my kitchen cabinets, 20 in all. Is there nothing more effective or elegant than a Phillips screwdriver? I am a master with this instrument and within an hour I had replaced my old, decrepit handles with my beautiful babies. I open cabinets now just to feel their smoothness.
     Success.
     I realized a man is not a man without a top line robe, so I went to TJX because I had zero balance on my card. After minutes of searching, I found my treasure. Long, black and soft as cashmere. I buried my face in it, shoppers be damned. At home I saw how it accentuated my shoulders and how I resembled a dictator from a small, but vital country.
     Success.
     I needed pajama bottoms and headed right for Kohl's with my $5 coupon and 15% off. I found a red plaid wool number that screamed 'take me!'. But I made the foolish mistake of grabbing an extra large for unknown reasons. No matter how tight I tie the drawstring, it keeps sliding down to my ankles, especially when I get up to pee. Maybe women find this erotic.
     I had given my old robe to the Salvation Army. Maybe I could do a switch and take one of their pj bottoms that fit me. Not a success.
     But as long as I have my magnificent robe I don't need to leave the house.

Shadow Power

My most masculine characteristic is my shadow. I stand by the shoreline at twilight, my silhouette punctuating the horizon. I have a strong, mysterious, uber male shadow that bows to no one. People shy away from it and give me due respect If I extend my arm holding a screwdriver it looks even more impressive.
On sunny days I am a shadow God. Clouds dilute my effect, so I stay inside, placing my lamps at just the right angle to create distinguished shadows of me. This can last all day or until some sultry woman knocks on my door, a lady who has seen me from the street and wants to control the man with the world class shadow.
I make sure I am in the half light as I answer the door.

Out of Time

Now parking meters consist of machines, two to a block, where you stick in money and get a slip which goes on your dashboard and indicates how much time you have. Think of the pressure here. Five people behind you waiting impatiently while you fumble with change or a credit card.
What if a near sighted Nazi meter person misreads the time on your slip and issues a ticket?  What happened to the old meters? Are they piling up in landfills?
Out of time is a nasty concept, especially when certain body parts seem to be fading in usefulness. What happens when my hips give out? Are women attracted to limping men? I think not. What if I can't scratch myself anymore due to outmoded fingers? Who will scratch me and at what cost? Will there be parameters on location?
I'm going to start scratching myself to get an idea how badly my fingers are working.

Strange Cactus

We ran out of gas and I blame Cleo--she was driving. We were Peace Core volunteers headed for the village of Yana in the Solange providence. All we had were two canteens and a cooler full of Klondike bars.
Figure something out, she said. You're the guy. I got out and looked around. All desert in all directions. Then I saw movement. One of the cacti seemed to turn toward us and before I could react, it shot a laser beam right at my shoulder. I doubled over in pain and screamed, scrambling back to the Jeep.
Suddenly we got hit from all sides by beams as more cacti joined in the attack. I tried reasoning with them through the window to no avail. That's when Cleo opened up on them with an automatic rifle, blowing the bastards to bits. Cleo was from Texas.
We were still out of gas in the middle of nowhere, but I knew I'd come up with something. After all, I was the guy here.
Let's have a Klondike bar first, I said.

Salad

Toss in peanuts, lettuce and bacon bits. Add tomatoes, cucumbers, celery, red and green peppers
Olives, lots of pitless olives. mix it up good.
add my grandmother's special dressing, which i kept in a freezer in my basement for over a decade.
six friends coming over for dinner. ready to serve.
then i remembered grandpa keeled over and died after eating her salad. grandma collected all the insurance money.
oh well. i didn't say they were good friends.

Fashion Barbarism

My baseball cap makes me look gangsta. My fishing hat turns me into Woody Allen. Comfort is my guiding principle. Not so for women, who are dressed by sadistic men wearing ascots and too much moisturizer.
Women should just dress in layers that hang there without regard for hemlines, seams, big shoulders or plunging cleavage, the single biggest cause of strep throat in females. Who cares if it hangs right as long as it hangs.

Paul Bunyon

He was having a midlife crisis. Is this all I am? Destroyer of trees? They say I'm performing a service. Creating jobs. But my nightmares of being strangled by tree branches, being choked by leaves say different.
What else could I have done with my life? I am a powerful man with the intelligence of a muskrat.
No one criticizes beavers, who build faulty,sloppy construction. I'm not a sadist, have never destroyed a single flower. You're thinking maybe my big axe compensates for a tiny penis. Yeah? Stick around and I'll show you some real wood.

Why Balloons Matter

Without balloons there would be no balloon animals, putting kid entertainers out of work,leading to more street crime, desperate people jumping out of alleys, brandishing a balloon platypus, demanding your watch and phone.
There would be an excess of helium and much disorientation. How would we celebrate without balloons? Just saying.

Mt. Rushmore for women

Elinore Roosevelt
Billy Jean King
Rosa Parks
Ella Fitzgerald
Kate Hepburn 

Crumbs

They take turns vacuuming the crumbs off the carpet. There are always crumbs, many from crushed corn muffins. Then they rearrange Garbanzo beans. To shake up other residents, they substitute dried kidney beans.
So the day passes. Evenings, for entertainment, they release the inbred frogs, who have no sense of direction and collide in mid air. Soft smacking, then bedtime, another day done.

Bad Booking

I was a new booker and she trusted me. I must have hit the wrong key. Instead og Buffalo, Talyor Swift found herself tied to a stake in the Rain Forest, natives chanting and dancing around her, me helplessly looking on.
The fire grew quickly. I tried explaining who she was, but English was a mystery to them.
My bad,I shouted to her. She was wide eyed and screaming. I assumed her hair extensions would light up first.
I guess it's Katy Perry's ballgame now.

The Drug

Gwen must have slipped it into my Snapple. She is capable of that. I design gazebos and this drug made me hyper creative, my pen flying across the page. In two hours I had 18 designs.
But a side effect was an uncontrollable urge to line dance. I ran into the street, grabbed strangers and begged them to accommodate  me. I was arrested and Gwen had to bail me out, feigning innocence. I watch her closely now, especially at eating time.
The upside is one of my designs was bought and now I have money for cowboy boots, hat, plaid shirt, thin tie, and a wide belt. I walk the streets late at night seeking fellow line dance impulsive  types. You can tell by the look in their beady eyes.

Farewell Furniture

I am downsizing furniture. a large, unwieldy computer desk, CD stands, my mother's sofa, cabinets, a dresser and bureau, a bookshelf.
I am preparing for possible sale. I actually got paint off one of the kitchen cabinets using Weimer wood cleaner.Those Germans know their stuff.
I gave away two pillows and blankets and knick knacks to the Salvation Army. So much more space. Boxes of stuff in my storage space, all from Staples.
Of course I have no idea where to find anything. I sit in  my new recliner and plan more organization.
My books will be pruned down over months of speed reading. I have a new vacuum. Me vacuuming. What a concept. I might even get myself a duster. Sorry ma, I had to let it go.

My Pillow

i have a new pillow. it is big and soft and protects my back. i am a mess. weeks of therapy and stretching have lrft me sore and defeated.
i carry my pillow everywhere. i want all the sympathy you can spare. i am too disillusioned to hope for improvement. so i just hug my pillow and use it as a cushion. i feel so vulnerable, like i can be mugged any time. i beg for traction.i hate the word sciatica.
please take the knife out of my back.

Pumpkin Riot

what causes a stampeding riot at a pumpkin festival? drunk college students. what could have triggered it? rage at overripe pumpkins? did police use riot asparagus to quell it?
this is what happens when people go off their gluten free diet. is being hit with pumpkin fragments actionable?
will this catch on at colleges? cucumber bashing, yam stabbings, radish gouging, lasagna lashing. a good riot clears the sinuses and burns calories.

Prickly

my lead character in my novel will not come out of his room. he does not like his name-- Willis. i  think it is a perfectly good name. other writers have used it.
he also will not work weekends or holidays. Columbus Day just passed and he barricaded himself inside.
i have offered him half days on Friday, but he will not cooperate. i want to replace him, but none of the other characters are as interesting. i guess that is on me. i may have to put  aside the project and start a poem.
and you thought writing was easy.                          

The Chew

this is well produced, fast paced, fun and informative. the five regulars are charismatic and terrific cooks. they get to eat all this food every day. good guests, bright decor, perfect for mid afternoon. you can get all their recipes on their website.
Carla Hall, one of the regulars, looks like no one else on TV. there are cute q and a sessions and theme shows. a breezy, informal hour .

Beach Town

so quiet in off season
no traffic
no pedestrians
no cat fights
hiding cops
people make eye contact
still lots of green foliage in October
parking spots all over
nights are silent
adults on bikes headed to beach
no cooking smells
ants are sneaky
more smiling per capita

Poem Blizzard

According to the reference librarian there are about 375000 poems written in English every week. To honor these poets Ifeel like Imust read every one of them.
I am falling behind. This is going to kill me.Are there too many poets? Who am I to judge? Creativity must be respected. I barely have time to bathe or eat. UPS trucks pull up by the hour with cartons of poems. When I am done reading a few hundred I try to pass them on., but others refuse my offer. Illiterates.
My eyes  hurt and my head aches, but this is something I owe to these artists. Another truck just pulled up.

New CVS

A new CVS opened and I can barely contain my excitement. Aisles of untouched stuff. A new pharmacist. New drugs. New smell. New uniforms. No crowds. No waiting. A new blood pressure machine.
Plenty of parking. New, fresh paint, new magazines and books.
I won't say where it is. My secret.

Old Man

I sit in my brother's yard on a bench in the sun reading the paper, my cane next to me. Overnight I have become an old man due to  a left hip that looks like Dresden on the MRI. I do everything slower. Sometimes I'll look off in the distance wondering what happened to my once active life. I am reading a book every two or three days.Unable to drive, walk, sit or stand, I was moved from my condo, which I haven't seen for weeks, to his place in Bradley Beach. It is numbingly quiet here, especially at night.
I miss my friends and my old haunts. I miss Hudson County, as many problems as it has. I miss hanging out and drinking tea or coffee and reading my paper. I know people have worse problems. Boy, did I take things for granted, like walking around the park without pain. I may just be buying some time before an inevitable hip replacement. This has been a lost autumn.

Pain

Pain is sneaky, ruthless, humbling.
It waits until just the right time to strike--when you are in the shower, getting out of bed, eating, talking, stretching, dressing. It senses your fear and takes full advantage.
Describing it brings grimaces from those you love, so you clam up and suffer. And wait for tomorrow, hoping pain is bored and attacks someone else.
Giving in to pain is not humiliating. it makes akk the sense in the world. Pain is telling you that you were having too much fun.

Netflicks

I have discovered Netflicks and there is no reason to leave the house anymore. Every major TV show and movie is contained on it. It is the greatest concept since digital cameras. i am at my brother's house and he has every cable network imaginable. I had no idea there were so many home improvement shows.
I am fighting a serious hip problem, but the pain is lessened every time I watch Kevin Spacey manipulate someone on House of Cards. I will attack weeds next, then Breaking Bad and so on.  Kate Mara is so hot. The only problem with living here is they won't let me sneak snacks.

Sidelined

How long before they forget me? Sidelined by hip pain. can't leave the house. no desire to talk to friends. how long before i fade from memory. sick of watching tv. cannot sit without pain. therapy useless. precious weeks drag by. autumn vanishing as i lay in bed.
i am becoming a ghost.

Hip Pain

Don't know where it came from.
can't walk, stand or sit.
can't drive.
can't type.
can't think straight.
can't throw out garbage.
can't depend on meds.
can only watch TV.
life comes to a dead stop.

Poets on the Roof

We had a meeting about the poets on our roof. We had no idea how they got up there. This is our apartment building and they had no business ruining our quiet with shouting and arguments. Maybe they were just loud readers, but that's not the point. Trespassers can not be tolerated.
Sometimes one will stand at the edge and toss down poems. Egoists. Just creating more paper trash.They order pizza and the delivery guy keeps ringing my bell late at night. He has to find his way up there without dropping the pizza and then curses loudly on the way out because the cheap bastards never tip.
I was elected to speak to them. I somehow found their secret stairs to the roof and when I opened the trap door I was confronted by raggedy, wild looking men and women who demanded to know if I was a poet. I told them I delivered mail and had to get up early. One raised his cane and I thought he'd strike me, but he began ranting in his stentorian voice. I had no idea what he was talking about. I threatened legal action and they laughed. No one arrests poets, I was informed.
We finally reached a compromise. No loud arguments, no late night pizza deliveries, and no dancing. I just threw that one in. Only haiku poets dance, I was told.
I wished they'd find some basement, but they are all infested with musicians.
I need to stop here. My drum circle is meeting on the lawn.

What I Did for Love

When I saw her the first time I was smitten. Her rich, full cheeks, beautiful body, quick movements. This was all wrong, but I couldn't stay away from her. I am a builder and my work became shoddy thinking of her. I found myself at an emotional crossroad.
I had been seeing someone and it was assumed we would take vows. But there wasn't the same excitement with her as with my new obsession. She was dedicated to her work, but seemed more fun loving. I finally got up the nerve to ask her to meet me at the lake. We were alone and I told her everything. I especially noted how vibrant her full cheeks were.
She did something surprising. She reached into her cheek pouch and pulled out a nut and offered it to me. I was overcome with joy. She liked me!
Of course, I realized both cheeks were full of nuts, but that didn't matter. She gushed over the size and strength of my tail and I knew we were destined to be together. She also loved my buck teeth.
I've left behind my old life, my former love, my beaver community. Yes, I've joined the squirrel society, but not without distrust and tension among the elders. I vow to learn the art of storing nuts in my cheeks. So far, it's been slow going. I keep gagging.

Fighting the Cranky

I am fighting not to become a cranky old man. You know, the guy grousing in the express line about slow cashiers. The guy arguing over the phone about a $2 increase in his bill. The one who takes up a whole park bench for no good reason. The relative you hate to invite.
My battle is compounded by the fact that I look like a cranky old man. I frown at nothing, mumble to myself, look away in disgust. I cross the street if I see teens coming. I yell at other drivers and make obscene gestures. If I'm on a bus, I hate waiting for other passengers to climb aboard.
I curse large parking lots and people who don't speak perfect English. I stare at myself in the mirror and force smiles. I try hard to chuckle to no avail. I have begun hunching over and lurching instead of striding. I believe no one and distrust everyone.
This is not how I want to spend my golden years. Just because I feel I've earned the right to grouse and spread bad vibes doesn't mean I should.
I vow not to growl, get furious, be demanding, put people in their place and offer unsolicited opinions. And I promise not to take it out on society if I have a difficult bowel movement.
God, smiling takes a lot out of me.

Blank Paper

Think about this. You have a slew of blank paper in your printer and none of them has a clue why. Perhaps the top sheet is a leader, gregarious, popular with the others.
Suddenly a human hits a button and that paper is SUCKED into the printer. After some excruciating seconds it emerges out the other end covered with pictures, symbols, and weird marks in color and black and white.
Its entire identity has changed; it has lost contact with the others as blank sheets. One by one they slide in and their whole world changes. They are unrecognizable to each other, placed in some strange order that is supposed to make sense.
If the human prints on both sides the anxiety and confusion only increases. You have an emotionally damaged, unbalanced series of sheets carrying the entire responsibility of communicating your thoughts and imagination.
The cruelty here is palpable. Somewhere there must be a support group or organization campaigning for saving blank sheets in their original pure form.
Scribbling on napkins? Please. Let's not misplace priorities.

The Secrecy of Cantaloupe

Cantaloupe lies there challenging you. There is no way you can outsmart it. By sheer luck you cut it open at just the peak of ripeness. Most times you either cut too soon or too late when it's too mushy, mocking you with its mush. Cantaloupe is a cruel sleight of hand, sneaky fruit, unlike a veggie we call cucumber. Cucumber makes it clear if you don't consume it in six hours it will begin decaying. In twelve hours it becomes inedible. This is the deal veggie and human agree on.
Pineapples and avocados are also inscrutable. Examine the outer surface for hours and you will never determine if it can be swallowed. Tomatoes beg to be swallowed, especially plum and cherry. Eat me now, my life in this vegetable bin is intolerable!
I have placed my cantaloupe in a pot on the stove. It is now six days I've been watching it, occasionally pressing it with my thumb and index finger, seeking clues. I have determined that it is time to take my knife and address my melon. I have been told by dieticians honeydew and watermelon have too much sugar. By eliminating them from my diet I have knowingly placed all my melon ecstasy onto the cantaloupe. Hey, life isn't fair. If it were, French fries would have been replaced by sweet potato fries decades ago.

Humiliation Protocol

The NFL has a concussion protocol system where, if a player gets hit in the head and seems woozy, they perform a series of tests and he is automatically out for a certain time until cleared by the doctor.
I think someone should create a Humiliation Protocol. If a person gets humiliated, I mean seriously embarrassed in front of others, he or she should be removed from society for a flexible period. At least a week. Humiliation experts would then sit the person down and question them. What were you thinking? Do you really believe the things you said? Are you aware how truly dumb you sounded?
If it was something involving a physical act, hopefully there's a video somewhere that shows exactly how stupid the behavior was. The target should be forced to watch said video over and over and explain their actions. Questions like, what made you think cliff diving wearing headphones was a good idea?
Emotionally it may take weeks for the humiliated one to move past the embarrassment. You shouldn't let him back into social situations until you're certain he or she has learned from the past.
Force them to sit in the corner and watch others converse normally until they get the idea. In some cases, entire demonstrative, impulsive families will have to be given a time out. Like that Italian family down the street with their continuous dramas.

Q-Tip Dilemna

This is an ethical problem. Someone invites you over their place for a weekend. The next morning you wake up, shower, brush your teeth, use deodorant. You see a cup containing about a dozen Q-Tips. You take one and stick it in both ears and twist. You look at it and realize your ears were perfectly clean.
You are cognizant of leaving your carbon footprint so you debate whether to toss away what is still a perfectly pristine Q-Tip. You decide to drop it back into the bunch for reuse.
You try to enjoy your day with your host, but the nagging thought of millions of unseen bacteria on that Q-Tip that could lead to disease in another guest or the host, this haunts you. You sneak into the bathroom to remove the item, except you don't know which one it is. They all look the same. You decide to empty the cup into an overnight bag you brought. Now the cup is empty.
At some point your host will see this and begin investigating. He will check the garbage, find nothing and make a logical assumption.
You, his guest, are a Q-Tip fetishist.
You will either never be invited back or if you are, instructions not to use the bathroom may be part of the deal.
God must have been in a cranky mood to create ear wax.

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

My mind is a battleground among gypsies, tramps and thieves.
The gypsy section is imaginative, colorful, feisty, secretive, not entirely trustworthy. It propels me away from boring meetings and boring, intrusive people. I pack up my attention and relocate, employing my own inscrutable language.
The tramp part of my brain exists on minimal sensory input, never staying focused on anything. It collects scraps of thoughts and ideas and seldom ventures into social interaction. Sometimes it puts me in a fugue state, makes me sloppy and unkempt.
Because I am a writer, the thieves in my mind are there 24/7. I steal from everyone all the time. I own your chagrin, your joviality, anger, embarrassment, regret. I squirrel away your posture, tone, style, your walk, I know your ringtone and shoe size. I catalog all your facial expressions. I do this so quietly you are unaware what is happening.
Mostly, I steal your best witticisms, your long, entertaining stories, your irony, ad libs, sarcasm, your best jokes and anecdotes. I'll use all of this in my work because I am a writer and this is what we do.
The thieves in my brain have just subtly stolen these very moments from your life.

Vacation Disaster

My wife and I wanted to do something different on our vacation, so we volunteered to work for a traveling carnival stopping in our town.
The leader, a burly, cigar smoking man named Hos, told us we'd get a bed and three meals a day in a low end motel out on the highway. Hey, we said, it's only for two weeks. It won't kill us.
To make a long story short, it was a disaster. Arlene and I broke out in hives whenever Leatherman was around. An allergy to leather skin? The Fat Lady propositioned me half a dozen times. Arlene flirted with Elastic Man. The Two Headed Goat Monster squirted milk all over my new Avengers t-shirt. Bedbugs abounded. The animals, especially the snakes, were cranky. The Flying Ambersons, the high wire act, came down with violent hiccups, throwing off their timing.
The food was awful--we ate at Arby's all 14 days. The Human Torch miscalculated and burned his shins during a show. I was asked to fill in, but fire scares me, and, besides, I hurt my back wrestling with one of the carnies out of boredom.
The clowns were drunk from noon on, The Human Porcupine accidentally punctured some kid's balloon, leading to a fight between him and the father. Arlene and I were exhausted and frazzled by the end of the two weeks.
One of our tires was slashed. I'm guessing it was the ringmaster, whose tights were so loose you could see his butt crack. He didn't seem appreciative when I told him.

Keeping the Beat

Whenever I attend music festivals I sit in my lawn chair and try to keep the beat. I watch the people around me bouncing, bobbing and snapping fingers. I have an issue bopping and snapping at the same time. This is especially embarrassing at jazz concerts.
I have no trouble keeping the beat at Sarah McLaughlin concerts because basically there is no beat. Just a string of long ethereal notes that put me to sleep.
I could get all metaphysical here and analyze the beat that guides our lives, bit hell, I can't even snap my fingers and bop, so back off on the philosophical ruminations.

Last Lady Standing

I love my Aunt Kate. Every year she enters a town wide baking contest with over 75 entrants. This year more tension than usual was in the air. The judges circulated, taking notes. For some reason, just before results were announced, Annette Nunez got into an argument with Milly Washburn, last year's winner. This led to pushing and shoving, which quickly spread.
My Aunt Kate is not a violent person, but she won't back off if attacked. Someone made the mistake of ambushing her and squirting her with a cake icing gun. My Aunt whirled, foam coming out of her mouth. She reached under her table and pulled out her state of the art Westinghouse super 50-Z Auto Icing Gun with quick reloading option, used by Navy Seals at parties.
She went to work, firing from the hip.The force knocked them to the ground. She wound up the last contestant standing. Unfortunately, she was disqualified and later arrested and charged with baking battery and baking under the influence.

Tip of My Tongue

I have decided to just make up words and let the listener figure out my meaning. I am damn tired of having words at the tip of my tongue and be unable to think of them. I will make up names for the same reason. I will pronounce all this confidently so no one will question me.
A sentence like "There is no plausible reason for her to act that way." becomes There is no bobile reason etc..."
Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers are my favorite band can easily become Hubert Flinkwaller and the Bonebreakers.
You know, sometimes I'll run the tip of my tongue over my teeth and pretend it is Napoleon inspecting the troops. If there is a tooth missing I will attack my gum with said tip and pretend Napoleon is having a snit fit.
Hey, I have time on my hands and a restless tongue.

Pathmark Card

Pathmark is no longer using the plastic discount card, which means I removed it from my keyring, leaving eleven other cards inserted among my numerous keys. This is a problem. I have two doors to get into my condo, each requiring different keys.
I have to use intricate fingering to get to those keys and usually when I get out of my car I have to pee. So I'm standing there hopping, squirming, fingering and hating my life.
Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't. Of course I could eliminate the problem by removing all discount cards from my key ring, but who does that? Who is crazy enough to leave the house without a fully loaded key ring?
But I thank Pathmark for making my life's journey a tiny bit easier. And perhaps a bit dryer.

Stroller Terror

We both moved at the same time. She with her stroller, me crossing in front, tripping over it.
Watch where you're going! You'll hurt my baby!
For a few moments I was silent, taken aback. How many times breeders have slammed into me with those vehicles from hell, I've lost count. I just chalk it up to the sense of entitlement they feel. If their kid is the essential priority for them, why isn't it for the rest of us. I rub my ankle and shin and move on.
We were among a group of people surrounding a tent at a multicultural festival. Evidently tickets had been sold for a raffle and this dedicated mom pushed to the front, demanding to know what number was called, in between chastising me.
In the process she left the stroller and kid two feet behind her, out of sight, vulnerable to anyone wishing to whisk away her precious baby.
This whole 'kids come first mindset', always, under any circumstances, when did that start?
This is how I will die: crushed under the weight of a dozen double strollers at a Tupperware giveaway at some outdoor community come together celebration. That's why I always carry ID.

Broken Belt

I got off the bus at Port Authority, stepped off to the side to tighten my belt and the damn thing snapped right in my hand. My Bermuda shorts began sliding down. I dropped my camera case and grabbed the remnants of the belt, stuck my middle finger through a belt loop and proceeded to search for a store that sold belts.
You'd think in mid town Manhattan there would be one every few feet. I had to walk four blocks to 6th and 42nd Street before I found a gift shop that had belts. I paid $10.89 for one, stepped outside on a busy day and attempted to slide off my old broken belt and replace it with the new one. I ducked into a cubbyhole with a door leading to offices. With my hands fumbling, my shorts falling, my mouth grimacing, with a sudden surge of people who just had to get in those offices, I somehow looped the new belt and pulled it tight.
I did what I had to do, proud of myself for not panicking. Thank God for indifferent New Yorkers who notice nothing. I went home.
Then I took a close look at the new belt made in China. The top part was already separating from the under part. I took my staple gun and stapled that sucker about eight times. Now I just hope I don't rip up my fingers on protruding staple edges.

Hand Truck

Eleven years ago I bought a hand truck and never used it. Today I had to move a useless piece of furniture to the dumpster and freed my hand truck from my storage space. I deftly slid the lever under the desk and rolled it outside and right to the dumpster, making a minimum of noise on uneven pavement.
I replaced the desk with a bookcase. A job well done. Then I looked at my partner, my long ignored hand truck. It was obvious to me I had a gift that I needed to share. I plan on scheduling time each day to circulate the neighborhood with my valuable ally, asking people if they needed anything moved from one place to another, quickly and quietly.
I see this going somewhere. More friends, more dates, more respect.

Sinking Boat

Jellyfish sense fear. I know that now. Natives on the beach hated me for deflowering the chief's daughter. I know that now. The helicopter hovering, piloted by a former business partner I forced out in a board room coupe was not there to rescue me. I know that now. Investing in a cheap boat was not a good idea. I know that now. My buddy Ralph, who stroked out two days ago, was no substitute for filet Mignon. One shriveled finger told me that.
Starving and thirsty, with little chance of swimming to shore, I was prepared to meet my maker. Just then a speedboat pulled up. My publisher leaned over to rescue me from this leaking boat. He had given me a $25000 advance and I owed him a book. He was not about to let me drown.
Please don't tell me you spent the money on this stinking boat, he said. I glanced down at Ralph, who was now covered with ravenous jellyfish.
At least I had an ending to my novel.

The Dock

A calm settled over them, a gentle feeling that had eluded this makeshift family in the past. Danny never really felt comfortable around his stepfather. His mother's mood swings also left him on edge. She seemed to harbor residual anger toward his father, who left them for a young floozy.
They sat on the dock as the sun lingered like an impatient waiter. This felt like the beginning of something good in their lives.
The fish Danny caught was small and desperate. He looked at his stepfather who shrugged. Danny's decision. The boy tossed it back. His mother patted his shoulder, aware he was capable of making these choices. Compassion was something she had tried to instill, in between her down moods.
It was time to return home, perhaps watch a DVD, snack on something unhealthy.
Across the lake three bearded men emerged from the woods carrying rifles. They'd spent the day deer hunting with nothing to show for it. They spotted three figures on the dock. Decisions in this world get made quickly without regard for moral or humane considerations.
The men had been drinking. They were angry and frustrated. This was hunting country. They hated fishing.
Do the math.

Sing to the Bacon

This is a beautiful expression--sing to the bacon to bring out the flavor. Much better than my saying--breathe on the sausage.
I told my cousin Elroy to sing to the bacon and he leaned forward while it was sizzling in the pan. Before he'd gotten through one verse, the bacon sang back in the form of hot sparks that hit him in the cheek. He jumped back, tripped over a chair, grabbed the tablecloth and yanked down my french toast plate.
I helped him to his feet, both of us cursing up a storm. Aunt Lena came rushing in, alarmed at the howling. We slapped some Vaseline on his skin and gave him orange juice.
By this time the bacon had burnt, setting off the smoke alarm, causing neighbors to run into the street and call the fire department.
An hour later we were at Denny's where no one sings to the food except a stoned counter girl who was off key and oblivious to the pain she was causing.

Riding the Last Mile

I should have said I was an essayist, not a poet. Now look at me. On a packed train headed to Alaska with hundreds of other poets. They say Alaska is pretty at certain times. At least we're still in America.
Our wonderful Congress decided poets were writing too many depressing poems leading to mass suicides. We had to go en mass.
I can't sleep. Rumor has it these trains are leaving every half hour. Eliminate the messenger. We must be close by now. The last mile is always the longest.
I can't believe we get shipped out and they let acoustic folk singers stay. No one is more depressing than that group.
None of us feel like reciting poetry. I tried when we first boarded and was shouted down. If we reject our essence, what does that make us? What happens to our identity? Will our kids grow up hating us? I
 pray they have burgers and fries up here. I don't like fish, except talapia. Maybe I can write a poem about that. What rhymes with talapia?
I enjoy being on topaya?

Images That Represent Me

a giant potato
rhesus monkey
a drop of sweat
water swirling around a drain
a coffee cup
a folded newspaper
nail clippings
a magnifying glass
a giant ear
a scar
two left feet
hats of all kinds
a map of NYC
sliced pineapple
a scrambled egg and virginia ham on a roll
a postal insignia
a black quilt
a tooth
a bottle of pills

Too Big to Fail

People assured me my shop would succeed. It was too big to fail. The public wouldn't let it collapse. The concept was timely and vital.
I sold hope.
They staggered in, disheveled, unshaven, hunched and beaten. The little bell over the door tinkled and I smiled. Another unfortunate needing my service, another chance to inject positivity into a cloud of pessimism. For a small fee, of course.
I sat on my stool behind a counter, just me and a box of tissue, which I also sold. I was confronted with a whole spectrum of hopelessness. Lots of them were failed writers. Some flitted from diet to diet, some were overweight, short, bald, near sighted, awkward. People with high squeaky voices.
I looked them in the eye, speaking quietly. I was an Italian Billy Graham, sometimes an intense Jack LaLanne, and a male Mother Teresa, holding their hand.
What happened?
Annette Funicello died. That's what happened. If she could die, we were all doomed.
No one accepted my positive attitude. The world was dangerous, cruel and then you die.
I couldn't pay my rent without customers and the shop closed.
Now I'm living in my aunt's basement, using up boxes of tissues.
Wanna buy a stool?

The Danger of Introspection

I have to keep sweeping and dusting and wiping and rearranging my sock and underwear drawer. I must exercise using my wrist roller, jump rope, free weights, stretch bands and squeezable tennis balls. I must do wash, lots of wash.
I have to keep busy because if I don't I'll start ruminating and then darkness sets in. I'll realize my image of myself doesn't correspond with reality. In fact, I'll begin analyzing reality, leading to more darkness. Failure, regrets, missed opportunities, anxiety that floats and pinches and settles in like an unwanted old high school acquaintance.
Introspection inevitably leads to self flagellation. Instead of deep insights, you end up battered.
So I keep moving. Clean out this closet. Line up my shoes and sneakers. Brush my teeth again. Check email. Maybe go for a walk. But wait, that can lead to ruminating and memories. Questions like, has God forgotten me?
If I were a dog I could spend hours just sniffing things and not have to think.
Could you possibly lift your arms for a moment so I can sniff your pits? I'll do the same for you.

Things I'd Like to Be Buried With

Keith Richards--I don't want him outliving me.
All of the voices in Dana Carvey's head to keep me company.
Velcro so I don't bounce around when they bury me.
A transistor radio that only plays Connie Francis.
As much soft fruit as can fit.
A hairpiece that won't slide.
All my hand puppets.
A list of jokes I can tell St. Peter.
Inserts in my shoes to make me look taller.
Fake wax lips.
All my published books that never sold.
Darts and a dart board in case I was misdiagnosed and still live.

Playing God

Carl was an engineer and spent lots of time perfecting things. The woman on the screen before us was called Danyelle. Unfortunately, her image kept disappearing, while Carl frantically hit keys on his laptop. We could hear her high, feminine voice-- she looked distinguished and sounded quite educated.
My fellow writers, gathered around the table,were unnerved, especially after Danyelle vanished for good, leaving a white screen. Carl cursed and blamed faulty Skype.
Afterwards, we waited until Carl left, looking annoyed. Keith opined that something evil was afoot and we agreed. We decided to break into Carl's house and search the basement for anything strange. Carl was a sound sleeper-- we knew this because he often dozed off during our readings.
Lena jimmied the lock that night and, using flashlights, we found the basement door. It didn't take more than five seconds to spot the body lying on the table. It was the entity known as Danyelle, eyes closed, wires attached everywhere.
Something evil is afoot, Ron said. Keith smacked him. That's my line, he said. Susan examined the thing up and down, frowning. He gave her blue nail polish. Ugh!
We sneaked out of the house and back to my car. There was only one conclusion: Carl was playing God.
The next writing session a week later, we were tense, not sure what this madman had planned. The door opened and there she stood--Danyelle in the flesh, if that's what you want to call it. We tried to act surprised and impressed.
See, Carl barked, I told you she was real. His smile was as smug and phony as this entity. All through the prompts being read around the table we were aware of the moral and ethical implications here.
He changed the polish to pink and gave her a beautiful brooch, Susan whispered.
Carl looked up suspiciously, but she smiled, deflating the tension. Danyelle winked at me. I almost threw up inside my mouth.

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

Faust recognized Roy's greediness from afar and one day offered him a deal. Roy's soul in exchange for ten extra pairs of chromosomes.
Roy didn't believe in souls or an afterlife and thought Faust was a senile old man. He humored him by signing a silly contract making the exchange.
The next morning Roy felt different. His mind was racing with ideas and insights. Everything was faster and sharper. He felt rejuvenated. He left the house with his briefcase and 33 pairs of chromosomes. Roy proceeded to sell $500,000 worth of life insurance just going door to door. He thought nothing of Faust and the contract until he got home, stripped and showered. It was then he noticed a tiny tail sticking out of his haunches. He became furious, not because of the tail itself, but because it was so small. He wanted more tail.
In the ensuing weeks more leathery growths appeared over his body, too many to cover. He became grotesque, frightened his clients and was subsequently fired.
He was forced to join a traveling carnival and eventually married the bearded lady. They had three kids whose chromosome pairs totaled only 14 among them.
Roy, ironically, could not get life insurance because of his condition. He was doomed. Faust never returned. Once you sign that contract there is no backing out.
This tale of greed entails upsetting material for those with tails, large and small. It's not tailored for everyone.

My Emotional Bunker

When stress hits, I retreat to my Happy Place, my emotional bunker. I stick in a K.C. & the Sunshine Band CD, open my collected Calvin & Hobbes cartoons, lean back in my recliner and let negativity fly away.
Writing should be my escape, but all I envision are those rejection slip and grumpy fellow scribes furious at indifferent editors.
I'll think about somewhere peaceful like Maine or Canada where nothing happens. Happy memories of my youth help form my bunker. Falling off a bike and having people rush to see if I was alright makes me smile. Actually I was 45 when that happened and screamed like a four year old.
Other times I will call people I know aren't home, listen to their answering machine and politely correct any grammatical mistakes in the message.
Slicing food calms my nerves, especially red and green peppers. I get to the white part, rip it out and feel powerful. I slice until my fingers are numb. Numbness is a very effective way of confronting the insanity around us.
When all else fails, I tie and retie my sneakers.
I'm kind of getting sick of K.C. Time for a Manilow Moment.

The Cleanse

I'm doing an emotional cleanse, where I wipe out bad memories and disappointments by closing my eyes and whispering BEGONE! five times.
So many rotten thoughts to figuratively wash away. The beatings in school, falling off my bike, stupid comments, my crush on nurses and flight attendants, rejection slips from editors, spilling food in restaurants, bad pick up lines. Inappropriate burps. Gone, all of them, out of my purified consciousness.
Once my mind is completely cleansed I can focus on the positive. I wish prune juice or grapefruit would speed this process. Every time I think I've tossed away all the humiliation, another bad memory pops up.
Some say failure and unhappiness are needed so we can appreciate the opposite. Bah! I reject that notion. In fact, I'm cleansing that absurdity right out of my mind.
One unexpected side effect of this cleansing is I've lost seven pounds. My head is actually smaller, more compact, which, unfortunately, makes my ears seem bigger.

Buyout

I am executing a writer buyout. I am surrounded by annoying writers with plenty of ideas they can't organize into anything cogent. I am offering a barter deal. Give me your ideas and I'll teach you sleight of hand magic.
It's not that I lack ideas. I force feed my concepts onto my laptop until I have a story. I am a cluster bomb of ideas. Believe me, I have plenty of ideas.
Other writers stockpile theirs until the whole mess is covered with asbestos and mold, cracked and useless. This morning I sat across from a writer who pitched a concept where he personified buildings and bridges. They are sick of working 24/7 and not getting compensated and proceed to disrupt the entire infrastructure of the city. A solid, potentially lucrative story opportunity he was doing nothing with. So I bartered a trick involving cuff links and a tie pin for that idea. He seemed almost relieved not to be responsible for following through on it.
If these deals continue, I will have an idea monopoly. If things become too unwieldy I may subcontract some to starry eyed college students looking to become writers. Whatever I decide, I will not let good ideas waste away in the cloud, where ever that is.

Super Moon

It is night and I am at Liberty State Park trying to paint this incredible pink super moon that appears sporadically. As the evening progressed, more and more artists arrived with the same agenda. By 9pm hundreds of easels covered the grounds. They were interspersed with food trucks, a motorcycle gang, protestors against using public open space to paint, someone selling time shares in Boca, a dance troupe performing in the moonlight, Swat teams in case the moon drove people nuts, folk singers celebrating Pete Seeger for the 400th time, a stray vampire, and the mayor of Jersey City handing out pamphlets asked for support for more hydrants.
At some point I became frustrated by my inability to capture the true mystery of this lunar sight. So I took out a photo of model Kate Upton and began painting her. The mayor leaned down and informed me her nose was too big. I disagreed. It escalated into harsh words and finally a wrestling match on the grass.
I was arrested and jailed. Here I sit in this dank cell waiting for the sun and sanity to take over.
I really believe the moon belongs to Satan.

Withdrawing My Support

On more than a few occasions I have thrown myself in front of street mimes to protect them from bullies I wrote my Masters thesis on Mime Immigration from Slavic Countries in the 30's and 40's. Their influence on Stanislavsky and The Method school of acting is immeasurable.
I have brought them meals and offered shelter. Talked them out of hurting themselves while in the depths of depression. This was out of respect.
But I have decided, after much deliberation, to withdraw my mime support. Contemporary practitioners have blasphemed tradition by incorporating tap dancing, and not very good tap at that. This is strictly prohibited in the International Book of Mime. This is cheating and robbing true tappers of their livelihood.
Yes, I have transferred my loyalties to tap dancers, although I can't see myself getting beaten up protecting one of them.

Little Crimes

We all commit little crimes on a regular basis. Mother Teresa refused to use biodegradable soap when washing people's feet.
Little crimes eat away at civility. Why don't others notice when I wear a new shirt? I carry that indifference around with me all day.
When someone tells a long story and the ending is flat and unfunny, that is a crime of stealing the audience's time. If you spot a piece of col slaw on someone's chin and don't tell them, shame on you. If a person can't finish their sentences, you must step in and finish. Pronounce words for them.
Peeing in the bushes destroys our common humanity, unless it's your Uncle Ned with a prostate problem.
On the counter at McDonald's, you'll see a penny left behind. Don't grab and pocket it. Put it in the Ronald McDonald House container. Sometimes silence is better than speaking. Do not ever comment on an older person's neck. Something unseemly happens to necks as we age. Frankly, I consider this epidermal outrage one of God's little crimes.

Time on My Hands

I was driving to the library and saw a woman in an apron pacing outside her business. I hate seeing small business people not busy. I imagine them agonizing over paying the rent. I want to buy whatever they're selling.
My dad had a fruit and vegetable store for awhile. I would stand outside, wanting to drag people in so he'd have customers. Kids with time on their hands are a teacher's worst nightmare.
I try never to be at loose ends because then I think too much, always a problem. Folding laundry calms me, but that only takes 10 minutes, including matching up my socks. Sometimes I combine this with sweeping and dusting.
I'll find myself walking somewhere and realize there is no real purpose involved. How many deodorant sticks do you need? I may panic and question the meaning of my life.
Phoning someone combats being at loose ends, but the other person also has to have time on their hands. Maybe I could start a business, employing people to stand around holding signs indicating they are free to spend time with others for a small fee. I'd take 30% off the top.
 I need to get away. How about exotic Turkey? But what if I get there and see shop owners pacing, waiting for customers. I'd buy huge amounts of food, drink, baubles, pastry out of guilt. I'd have to consume all of it before flying back, putting on 20 pounds. Which will make it harder to find people to spend time with me. Time to fold some laundry.

Word Police

They are out there, ears wide open. Listening to every single word you say. Stop being so condescending, is one of their castigation. Another--That is inappropriate. Don't be so smug, or insulting or self satisfied, other reprimands by the word police. How dare you speak with letting me vet your words beforehand.
If you express an opinion, say something ironic, satirical or tongue in cheek, they're all over you. Whatever happened to tongue in cheek anyway? If you have the audacity to defend your position, that only makes them angrier.
At least they listen. What passes for conversation now is two or more people cutting each other off, talking AT each other. If Reagan was The Great Communicator, it seems he was the last.
That's the good thing about a blog. You can't interrupt me.

Spreading Blankets

I hate when people show up at outdoor concerts and just spread their blanket right next to your folding chair, their germ laden blanket. Entire families make themselves perfectly comfortable in what had been your space. Then they remove shoes and socks and take out tons of food and drink. Their kids race around with no purpose, making strange noises and gesticulating like crazed traffic cops.
Bah!
I get it. You are a loving family living a rich, full life and I'm an old guy in a wide brimmed hat designed to keep my ears protected from the sun. Sometimes they'll stand and dance in place. Then I'll either have to also stand to see anything or sit there and mutter curses, hunched like a crumpled napkin.
When people are that close, you are privy to insipid conversations. What some idiot at work did, what their first cousin said at some stupid wedding.
I'm going to get Lyme Disease from these people. I know one of their kids will run into my shin and I'll get blamed. Maybe I can subtlety trip one.

Movie Day

I attend free senior movies every two weeks in town. They usually choose inane Adam Sandler/ Cameron Diaz comedies, well beneath my intellect. So I wait in the men's room until everyone is seated. Then I explore the other showings in the multiplex to check what else is playing. I just sneak in and watch one of those, usually containing explosions, dismemberment and chase scenes. Right in my wheelhouse.
Recently I arrived at the theater the same time as always, hoping to skip the endless previews. To my shock, Jersey Boys was already a half hour in. Damn. As I stumbled up the steps in the dark I was afraid I'd accidentally mistake a taken seat for an empty one and sit on someone's lap. Some seniors would welcome that. Some would pull a knife.
I ran right into the woman who runs the program, seated in the last row. She told me to stop dead while she flipped on her I-pad and used the light to guide me to an empty seat "before I killed myself."
At that moment I truly felt like a helpless senior and it sucked. The movie was great though.

Leftovers

What if 2% of all poems vanished? How would remaining ones feel? Abandonment? Fearfully beg to be locked in drawers? Expect memorization in case they too disapear?
Would they ruminate about individual versus collective worth? Would there be friction at open mikes, traces of those gone poisoning the air? Would poems go rogue, fragment, toss away their punctuation?
Would poets lose their identity? Demand an international day of mourning? Would essays and monologues feel pressure to pick up the slack?
What about all those obscure words poets use? What is their fate? Would new work be stifled by the knowledge that perhaps 2% of them will vanish?
Let us hope that those missing poems would be in a better place. San Francisco, maybe.

Decisions

If I walk fast at my usual pace, I'll startle her.
If I slow up and drop back, she'll think I'm tailing her.
If I move ahead of her, she might take it as a challenge and speed up, which will force me to match her pace.
If I sit on a bench and let her go far ahead, she'll assume I'm planning something.
If I start to jog, she'll humiliate me because I'm a terrible jogger.
If I just had a dog everything would be so much easier.

If Shoes Could Speak

Wear socks!
Great. You slide me off under the table, then rub her calf & I'm irrelevent.
We're going in circles. Ask for directions.
Stay away from that dog park.
Explain this dangerous attraction to sandals.
These inserts will not get you a date with Kate Upton.
Unstrap me immediately. You are a 300 pound lineman, not a petite woman. Work on your issues.
That's the fourth time you've stepped on her foot doing a simple two step.
I am not your size. Stop forcing the issue.
Could you shine me just once?
Please don't let that be a bunion.
Wearing lumberjack boots does not increase your testosterone.
Do all of us ballet slippers feel this vulnerable?
Are we going to kick another stupid ball for no logical reason?
You're an upgrade over my last owner--an old lady with a brood of nasty kids.
Hate to inform you, but your new boyfriend has been sniffing me when you're out of the room.

Let the Grand Kids Sort it Out

I could just give everything to Goodwill. That would be the easy way out. But I want to leave all to my grand kids. My kids don't talk to me anymore, so screw them.
Some of what I've collected might be termed quirky or inappropriate. You decide.

A collection of Taiwanese hand puppets to ward off evil.
A hand made balsa wood Japanese nose flute.
A book of smutty haiku poems.
Spoons from drought ridden countries.
Clay sculptures of almost extinct flying South American insects.
A documentary tracing how Staten island garbage collectors changed the industry.
Dozens of crumpled napkins with my story ideas.
Women's used bowling shoes, all sizes.
A Maid Marion inflatable doll.
A hand held mirror once owned by Rosie Perez.
A tape of the Flying Wallendas rehearsing.
All my old bed pans.
My porcelain doll collection depicting the Kardashians.

Let the grand kids figure out who gets what. I'd divide up my brain, but most of the frontal lobe was destroyed by the electroshock treatments. 

Things That Should Be Caffeinated

Bulldogs
Budget Reports
Political filibusters
Any Daniel Craig interview
Modern architecture
Ikea furniture
Saturday Night Live skits
Bead & breakfast establishments
Montana
Sulky cab and bus drivers
Customer Service reps
Whining folk singers
String quartets
Clog dancing
The Amazing Kreskin
Senseless napping people
Newspapers
Pop up ads
Morgan Freeman
Baked beans
Snoopy
Upstate NY

Shaking Off the Cobwebs

My name is Mycroft Billings and I am a professional tickler. I dropped out of college--anthropology wasn't for me. I wandered around for months seeking something to define who I was.
For awhile, about ten years ago, I was a free lance cuddler when cuddle parties were big. I discovered I could creatively cuddle for hours, serial cuddle without batting an eye. But then, around 2009 the cuddling industry collapsed and cuddle parties disappeared.
One day I was invited to a secret party downtown. It turned out to be a tickle party. We spent the evening enjoying light refreshments, drinking wine and blatantly tickling each other. Needless to say, much wine was spilled in the process. From people's compliments afterwards, I gathered I was more skilled than most, so I became a free lance tickler. I instinctively knew where to attack, how long to remain before moving on to another body part, and most important, how to avoid being tickled myself. I was in complete control.
But there was no security or good health coverage in this career, so around 2012 I became an insurance salesman. Boring.
I craved the old excitement and when former clients contacted me pleading for a session, I was weak and agreed. But the cobwebs were there. I soon found my timing and touch were off. I was grabbing the wrong body parts. My fingers had gotten lazy and stiff. No dexterity in a tickler is a career killer.
I was met with disdain and got no call backs. They had found younger, Euro-trash ticklers fresh off the boat. I was a has-been.
For too long I drifted from city to city with no purpose, no home, no family or friends.
One day a man started choking at an outdoor cafe. I rushed over and gave him the Heimlich Maneuver and out popped a cherry pit. It wound up on You Tube.
I was onto something. The only way to master this skill was to walk up behind strangers and employ the Heimlich, which is what I've been doing. I just may save someone's life, and in the process, give meaning to my own.

Wither Debonair?

Old movies equal debonair. George Sanders, Rex Harrison, Cary Grant. They knew how to hold a drink or cigarette, how to lean into a woman and speak in a sensual, mellifluous manner. Breeding, manners, charm, class. They could toss out a witticism so casually it seems easy. They could really fill a tux.
Can you imagine Mark Walberg opening a door for a woman, sliding her chair in, gracefully leading her across a dance floor? Channing Tatum coming up with a witty remark? Let's not mention Stephen Segal. The concept has dried up and we men have to take responsibility.
I resolve to stand the next time a woman enters a room, provide her with a clean hanky if her nose is running, and listen to every word she says, nodding at just the right moment.
Don't ask me to guide her across the dance floor. Debonair and coordination are two separate realms.

Big Stuff

How big is big? Napoleon had a big ego and conquered countries. Trump has a big one and conquers Atlantic City. J-Lo had the biggest butt until the Kardashians appeared. Suddenly soccer is big here among people who couldn't name a single US player.
This year's Macy's fireworks will actually begin on July 3 and continue for hours even in daylight. What is a big cockroach? One that carries away small pets? Do those owning Great Danes try to convey something about about the size of their genitalia?
Think about the sheer amount of sewerage generated by Mexico City.
How big is the Universe? Imagine Einstein as the biggest BS artist of all time. All those big theories about its origin and none have been proven. How big is Joan Rivers mouth?
Writers have big imaginations, so maybe authorities should let writers decide what to do about that monstrosity on Route 3, which was supposed to be a theme park until the money ran out.
It feels like my writers block expands by the minute. What? You want to loan me an idea? How big of you.

Rare Book Dealer

Alvin waited until dark before breaking into the Collingswood mansion through the cellar. They were old money and, through his connections, he learned they had a priceless copy of Joe Del Priore's first book, Twilight People. Its value was based on the fact that its pages were made of onion skin and only four other copies existed, all owned by the Royal family.
Adding to the value was the fact that the author had vanished near the Great Barrier Reef while on vacation. His work, like all great artists, skyrocketed in value after his assumed death.
Using his flashlight, Alvin went room to room, sniffing, as the husband and wife, in their seventies, slept. Finally, he discovered a small linen closet. Onion smell almost overcame him. He pried open the door and there it was--pristine, the Holy Grail of publishing gems.
Dollar signs exploded inside his head. He grabbed the treasure and went out the way he came in, triggering no alarms. Only feet from his car and escape, he saw a shadow become a man pointing a gun at his chest. Chauncey, his rival rare book dealer, glared at him from under his fedora.
Cough it up, Alvin, he sneered. You've done my dirty work for me.
Alvin pleaded for compromise, but the demon would have none of it. He meekly handed over the tome, knowing his fate was sealed and he'd be found in a dumpster. But when Chauncey grasped the book, for a moment he took his eyes off his nemesis and Alvin reached down and grabbed the knife he hid in his ankle holder, then whipped it into Chauncey's shoulder from a kneeling position. The other, gasped and fell. They grappled in the street. Somehow, the book's binding broke and its pages scattered in the wind.
Both men looked up and sobbed. Maybe it was the deep sense of loss. Or maybe it was the pungent scent of really rancid onion skin.

Bashful

Bashful blushed. There, right there, Snow White whispered hoarsely. Lower, deeper, faster, she moaned. My finger is cramping, Bashful said.
He woke up in a sweat. The same dream every night. He was ashamed and disgusted. He needed to confess. Sneezy had mucus problems and Grumpy didn't want to be bothered. Snarky, the eighth dwarf, mounted a verbal attack every time Bashful approached.
All of this was so wrong. A beautiful young woman working and slaving for seven little men. So impulsive were these urges, he often sneaked away from the mine and went into the bushes and did unspeakable things to himself.
He could never reveal his demonized lust to Snow White. She would shun him forever, forcing him to do his own laundry. Why was he so shy?
One night, after tossing and turning, he could take it no more. Bashful ran out into the woods, not sure he would ever return. In the moonlight, he came face to face with the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Big eyes, soft skin, so innocent.
He named it Bambi, and from then on all of Bashful's needs were quite satisfied.

Potted Plant

You look at me and shake your head. Actually, you can't shake your head because you're a stinking statue. John The Baptist. You can't understand how a cactus can be joyful just sitting here in this bright church, thrilling Christians of all ages. And you?
They didn't even use quality Italian marble--Staten Island quarry stuff for your lousy composition.
Cacti have an important place in the canon. Moses wandered 40 days and 40 nights and would still be lost in the desert if he did not follow the line of cacti to The Holy Land. Tell me your purpose, your history. Does it take special skill to sprinkle water on someone and declare them baptized? Now they'll be safe from Limbo. Here's a flash--the Church declared Limbo obsolete years ago. There is no stinking Limbo.
I am Maury the Cactus and I belong here just as much as any statue or stained glass window. If I had arms I would send you to Dante's Third Circle of hell. Actually, if I had arms I could play that damn organ in the balcony.

Performance Anxiety

Cecil felt the blazing sun beating down on him. First day at work and he gets this. His assignment was simply to carry a crumb about two feet to the cave where Queen Patty lived. Then he had to repeat this act about twenty times before his day was done.
He mouth was dry as he lugged the crumb in his front pincers. Around him, his peers worked silently. So many crumbs. The human was sloppy removing toast from the toaster. Didn't care about a messy counter.
When he finally arrived at the cave, Cecil's whole body was shaking. He had never met Queen Patty. When he entered and dumped the crumb against a wall, he saw her in the back getting her legs shaved. Whether it was the heat or nerves, he began dry heaving.
Her voice echoed--my worker ants do not weaken! They have strong backs and strong stomachs. How dare you?
He quaked in fear. He'd heard that she fed underachieving workers to George, a Praying Mantis. He thought of fleeing, but realized how humiliating it would be for his family. He envied roaches and their classless society.
Nineteen more trips. Sweat dripped from every pore. Cecil's world had, indeed, become a very dark place.

Happy Hoarder

Canned beets never go bad. There is something mystical about a perfectly formed beet. To some, sliced beets are sacrilegious. I beg to differ. Beets in any form are a wonder to be worshiped. I believe when God got to rutabagas He decided to take a break and refresh His creative impulses. When He returned, He came up with beets.
I have proud red juice stains on my shirts. I need to consume my beets slower and more carefully to savor the exquisite taste. During winter I stock up in case I'm snowed in. Very rarely do I share my beets with neighbors. I'm compassionate, but there are boundaries.
Interestingly, also in my basement are six elderly folks I've also been hoarding. I feed them well and one gave me an excellent beet recipe. Sometimes I crush my beets and mix them in yogurt. I test my concoctions on Fred, my terrier. He seems fine, but pees red.
I'm growing my own beets now. One needs a purpose in life. My family doesn't understand me. Value is where you put it. A French philosopher said that. I'll bet he loved beets.

I Missed the First Part

Albert loved house sales. Every Saturday he drove to at least one. These sales were organized by family of a deceased person to make money on the furnishings, etc. He had bought a variety of objects--lamps, throw rugs, barely used toothpaste, pimento olives still in the can, place mats, shoe inserts.
His wife, Eunice was pregnant with their first child, which meant he had a difficult choice. The Petersens were having a house sale after their grandmother passed and Albert salivated at the thought of culling through her treasures. He'd been over there several times for dinner with the old woman and there was a china cabinet to die for.
He discussed it with Eunice, who assured him she would be fine. Go ahead, don't worry about me, she said.
As it happened, Albert was in the process of bid battling some ridiculous woman who lived three towns over for the cabinet when his cell rang. It was Eunice informing him her sister Margot was driving her to the hospital. The baby was coming faster than expected.
Albert made one final successful bid, jumped into his car and sped off. He got to the viewing section just as the baby was halfway out. This would not do. Nope.
Hey doc, he yelled. I just got here and missed the first part. Can you start over?
The doctor sighed and grumbled something obscene before shoving the baby back inside the uterus. Eunice's screams were becoming annoying, but Albert forgave her. After all, how was she to know they'd be getting an exquisite china cabinet at a fraction of the cost.

Dripping with Sweat

Tied to a post in the blazing sun. Covered with biting red ants. Dripping with sweat. Hoarse from screaming. Mouth too dry to even swallow.
I was stupid and stubborn. I convinced myself I could do my own taxes.
And now look at me.
My audit did not go well. The deductions for stained clothing dry cleaning expenses caused by obsessed fans of my writing slobbering over me did not pass muster. All those contest fees I sent out for which I neglected to document came across as fraud. Six state of the art mouse pads. No good. On and on.
The IRS has given me no indication when or if I will be released. I glanced at the fellow tied to the pole to my right. He kept whining about legitimate writer deductions. People want my book, they want ME, he sobbed. I must travel across country, which costs money and I should have been reimbursed. They said I padded my expenses. Padded is such a nebulous term.
The guy on my left had deducted his sister in law, whose home went underwater mortgage wise, which led to her living with family. Shot down by the fiendish tax blood suckers.
I wonder which of us will have to pee first.

Brick and Mortar

I am a contractor. Bricks are my sustenance. Mortar puts food on the table.
One day a tiny Indian woman came into my office seeking to upgrade her new home. I could see she was inexperienced and innocent. My mouth watered. I quoted her a price. She fainted. I revived her using smelling salts. I knocked $500 off the quote and she hugged me.
I use material that I feel will get the job done. We built her an extension. It looked sturdy. It was sturdy. Until the storm hit. Afterwards, her house wound up on the news--total devastation.
She charged into my office holding a brick fragment, which she slammed on my desk. She cursed me out in two languages. Pulled out a carving knife and eyed my groin.
I offered her a discount to rebuild. Gave her my compassionate expression. She broke down and dropped the knife. I came around my desk to hug her and got a knee right in the groin.
Fortunately I always wore a cup. I am a contractor after all.
Unfortunately, the cup was made of the same cheap material as the bricks.

Dancing in the Moonlight

Alice led Ralph up three flights of stairs to the roof.
"Honey, you know I can't dance."
"Oh, be quiet. You never take me anywhere anymore. We haven't gone dancing in ages."
Alice loosened his tie, removed his cap, and took off his jacket. Ralph was flushed and sweating, out of shape.
"Pretend Perry Como is singing "Temptation." She put his arm around her waist and led him across the roof, silhouetted by light and shadow. Ralph let her put her head on his shoulder. Life in a tiny Brooklyn apartment did not lend itself to many magic moments, but this was one of them.
Until the trap door opened and two figures climbed out.
"Ralphie boy! Seems like we all had the same idea. Plenty of room up here. Me and Trixie need to work on some moves."
Ralph grimaced. "Norton! Get out of here!"
Norton shrugged. "You don't own this roof. If you can dance up here, so can we. Let's shake it, Trixie."
They launched into a wild cha cha.
Ralph and Alice sighed and continued slow dancing, but some of the magic was gone.

The Meeting

Sol was rubbing his wife Naomi's stomach in the pasta sauce aisle when Rochelle burst into view. Her cart was filled with vitamin water bottles, something he refused to try during the two years they dated.
Eighteen months after they broke up, here they were facing each other, with Sol's pregnant wife right there.
"Rochelle. What a surprise. This is my wife Naomi." Sol swallowed hard.
Rochelle stared at them so hard Naomi grabbed a can of pasta sauce, prepared to use it in self defense.
"So this is the same man who said he wasn't the marrying type," Rochelle snarled.
Naomi moved between them. "Get out of my husband's face or I'll crush this can against forehead."
Rochelle laughed. "You've got it all wrong, sister. I could care less about your precious hubby."
Just then Louise, Sol's mom, entered the aisle carrying a frozen turkey.
"Mom, I didn't know you shopped here."
Louise smiled. "I never did until Rochelle and I became a couple."
She turned to the other woman and slipped her some tongue. Naomi stood there mouth agape. Sol heaved up his macaroni and cheese lunch.
"He always had a sensitive digestive system," his mom said.

Fuzz and Static Cling

In all my years exploring the unusual, the mystery of fuzz and static cling continue to perplex.
After numerous experiments and hours of observation, I have formed a Unified Theory of Fuzz and Static Cling that I will present to a consortium of scientists in Vienna next month.
I have concluded fuzz is the physical manifestation of all the unfinished sentences, incomplete thoughts and fool hardy ideas that clog interstellar space. It is light and formless like much of contemporary thinking. Fuzz has neither taste nor smell, nor does it make noise. It follows its own rules of physics, quietly filling the ear canals of unaware elderly people.
Proclaiming 'my thinking is fuzzy today' is a perfect description of the distinct fugue state many cultural icons enter when tweeting. Fuzz can't be destroyed, but it is constantly being created. See Baldwin, Alec.
From my research I am convinced static cling was first identified in 1973 when Aretha Franklin had a gym workout wearing Spandex. The condition spread quickly. Intense sweat creates a powerful vacuum that sucks in surrounding electrons and causes static shock.
Clinging fabric collects mountains of fuzz, thereby becoming something unwearable, inedible, uncomfortable, and basically unexplainable, except by academics like me.
You are quite welcome.

My Junk, Your Treasure

You recognize me. I am indeed Elmo Raciope, Mr. Strike, world class bowler. How many Saturday afternoons have you seen me on TV with Chris Schenkel doing commentary. Dozens of times I've battled the best and held my own.
Celebrities have garage sales too. Take your time. Browse. All those crock pots are almost new. My wife has a thing for crock pot sales.
Those? No, they're not part of the sale. I know they were located in the garage itself, but they are strictly off limits. I am not considering offers. Those twelve pairs of bowling shoes will be buried with me. Yup.
Well, even a staunch bowling fan would think it odd that one guy is obsessed with another guy's shoes. I could see if it were my Dynashield Hall of Fame windbreaker in jasmine, but not the shoes. Even the wrist and hand band I wore to fight carpel tunnel syndrome would make more sense. We're not even the same size.
My answer is final.
How much???
Let me take a step back right here. I could build a pool for that. Yes, bowlers swim too. I would have to keep the striped pair, my favorite. The rest are yours. Yes, I take checks with two forms of ID.
What? No, I'm afraid that woman is off limits. That's Edna, my lovely wife of 26 years; stood by me through good and bad. Not for sale. Nope.
HOW MUCH??
Edna, could you come over here? We have to talk.