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.