Dreadlocks

Like many white people I am on a waiting list for dreadlocks. It's a long list and, frankly, I'm sick of waiting. I tried growing my own, but they resembled 17th Century French drape tassels.
I follow black people with dreads, intercept them and inquire if they are planning to change their look. Invariably the answer is no. I offer money. I offer to teach them about white people stuff like ballroom dancing, fly fishing, ping pong, ski lifts, lettuce, swivel chairs, hockey, tie pins, square back hair cuts, etc. No dice.
I will remove my cap and try to guilt them by displaying my fire bombed scalp and my big ears. Dreads would solve both problems.
I don't have tattoos or smoke hemp, but that's easily corrected.
I'm staring at this women across from me with her glorious dreads. I wonder if she's curious about ping pong.

I've Got Rhythm

I've got no rhythm. My parents feared rhythm, hated music. Tap dancing drove them underground. If you sing this particular song you must whirl, leap, dance on tables, pound walls, do somersaults.
Old Man Trouble is a separate issue. Just because you've got your gal, doesn't mean he won't bother you. He could be a neighborhood crank or a flasher.
The Army tried to teach me rhythm with endless marching and singing of ditties. Invariably I lost focus, screwed up and was taking away and beaten with a truncheon. Poetry has it. So does math and brick laying, drilling, soldering and cementing. Wall papering does not require rhythm.
During intimacy, some prefer Nina Simone or Andy Williams or Nat King Cole. I choose German oompah bands and accordion music as my back round music.
Nature has many rhythms and the music of birds. If I created a new beat no one had ever heard I would be rich. Let me dig out my bongos and get to work.

Hand Twigs

Twigs growing out of your fingers is treatable, I said. We could operate. We could give you experimental drugs. WE could dip your hand in brine.
You have such soft, beautiful hands, Mr. Bascomb. My wife used to have them. Until she took up mixed martial arts and now comes home bruised and swollen.
But this isn't about me. It's up to you how you want to treat this. The lilacs growing from the twigs will have to die.
What? Lift your arms. My God. Garlic bulbs growing from your armpits. This, my friend, is serious. I'mgoing to have to call in another specialist. Any other surprises?
Please don't pull down your pants. I don't want to see this.

Latecomers

They stumble in mumbling loudly
Can't see a thing
Have no idea where empty seats are located
Take forever to remove their coats
Take even longer to actually sit
Asks people around them how much they missed
Remove food and chomp away
Leave early causing more dosruptions
Accidentally trip on chair
Curse everyone loudly
Swear never to return

Closing one A.C. Moore

The A. C. Moore arts supply store near me is closing in April. No warning. I walked up to the cashier with two glass cases and my coupon and the elderly woman sadly pointed to the sign above the register informing us that store will no longer honor their coupons. I was speechless. Finally I stuttered, but if I spend $5 and you scan this I get a $10 gift certificate.
She just shook her head. I could sense those behind me getting restless, so I slunk away carrying the pieces, which I was going to paint, back to their shelf. I tried to gather myself in the parking lot, all the while processing how my life will change. I will have to drive 15 minutes on a highway to reach the next closest store, possible getting stuck in traffic or sliding off the road in bad weather.
Nothing is forever. I wanted to hug that cashier and offer sympathy. But she will get unemployment. Someday soon I will return and walk every inch of my beloved store, even the craft and yarn section. Not the scarves though. Scarves have no business in an art supply mecca.

Shelved Masterpieces

So here I sit looking at one of my bookshelves. Who am I kidding? I will never reread The Naked and the Dead. I will never get around to Three Plays by Sean O'Casey. Nor will I attempt to finish The Collected Stories of Tennessee Williams. Nausea by Sartre? Please. I have enough stress. Even in a blizzard I shall ignore these.
Why don't I just give them to Salvation Army?
Because these, like dozens of other masterpieces that line my shelves, define the intellectual rigor with which I approach life. Watching me walk through a Shoprite parking lot, you would cease loading bags into your trunk and take note--that is a man with serious intellectual rigor.
I will read mysteries by Henning Mankell because he has a cool name and is Scandinavian I will ignore the dirty parts in D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers and examine it for sentence structure.
I will always keep an unread Jonathan Franzen book on my coffee table in case I get a visitor. I will listen for his intake of breath as he contemplates the kind of mind who is hosting. First I need to find someone willing to come over and share thoughts. The super is always busy and the woman upstairs keeps yelling at her dog.

The Sharper Image

Lois was lonely. She wandered through malls, staring into store windows, trying to make eye contact with anyone. She came upon The Sharper Image place, a company that specializes in selling high tech objects to people with way too much money. Things like scales that weigh you while playing old Al Martino songs.
     In one section were three male robots, designed strictly for companionship. Lonnie, the salesman, led her over. He could tell she was lonely from her expression.
     Now here is an interesting model on sale for $129.99. We call it The Carl. Push that on button and listen. She did as told. Carl, short, stocky, with a round head and cherubic smile, began speaking. "We are The Write Group, and we have over 30 events every month designed to develop writing skills and speaking skills. We have day and night events, Sunday events, field trips, seminars, our own t-shirt and special handshake. If you give me your email I'll add you to our mailing list."
     Lois hit the off button. Does it ever stop speaking, she asked. Lonnie shook his head. The rumor is its programmer had a nervous breakdown during the coding. That's why it's on sale.
     They moved to the next bot, a thoughtful looking, professorial type with kind eyes and a graying ponytail. This is The John, Lonnie said. Lois pressed the on button, expecting quiet philosophy.
     "I like to ground cadaver bones into dust and feed them to my pet armadillo. Sometimes I bite myself just to see how fast the blood pours out. Aliens kidnapped my little sister and ate her vital organs, except for the pancreas, which I keep in a freezer in the basement."
     Lois hit the off button and shuddered. I don't think so, she whispered.
     One bot remained. Lonnie noticed she seemed more excited. This was a strikingly handsone figure, muscular, almost godlike. Lois pressed the button and took a breath.
     "Good day. My name is Joe. As you can see, I can attract any woman I want. But I choose you, young lady. Take me home and you won't be sorry."
      He said not a word more. Lois paid $499.99 and carried it out with some difficulty, her hands cupping his sculpted buttocks. Her expression had changed.

You Can't Take It With You

My landlord was adamant. I was moving out and asked if I could take the wallpaper. It was covered with images of the humming finch, my favorite bird. He claimed he couldn't rent it without wallpaper and I guess he had a point.
     People can be anal about certain things. When I got fired from my last job as an insurance adjuster I politely asked if, in the process of cleaning out my desk, I could take home the accumulated crumbs from my snacks over the previous three years. I have sympathy for crumbs. Mr. Boynton, my supervisor, informed me those crumbs belonged to the company because the desk belonged to them. I protested that since the crumbs originally came from my food they belonged to me in perpetuity.
     Then he showed me a contract I signed when hired that clearly stated all food residue belonged to them. Here is where it gets complicated. I had three unopened containers of Tic Tacs, certainly not a source of nutrition, in the top drawer. I was willing to give in on a roll of lifesavers in the second drawer, but if I surrendered the Tic Tacs it would be like handing over a piece of my manhood.
     Boynton called in Carol and Ernie from legal. They listened to both sides, examined the contract and smelled my breath. Then they retreated to an empty suite to confer. Five minutes later they came out and decided to let me keep the Tic Tacs, if only to spare those unfortunate enough to get close to me.
     Now I need to find some humming finch wallpaper.

Poisoned Dog

Marco showed up wearing his usual fedora and trench coat. Marco was a shamus who stood barely five feet tall and talked like this--You gonna open up or do I have to bust some jaws?
I let him in and pointed to my sheepdog, Ralph, retching on the rug. Someone poisoned my dog with Raisinettes.I found the empty box.
Marco flipped his cigarette butt over his shoulder. He smelled of Chevis.
Any enemies?
Plenty. I work for the IRS.
Not you, hummus. The dog.
I don't know.
Maybe it's indigestion.
I think not.
Where's the video?
There is none.
He grabbed my shirt and squeezed.
There's always a video.
Marco sniffed the air.
I smell cat.
I own one. Muffy.
Where is it?
I don't know.
When did you last see it?
Two days ago. God. Muffy! Come to daddy!
We looked at each other, then at Ralph, still vomiting.
My eyes screamed. Those two  pets never did get along.

Subway Guy

The disheveled man rode through the subway car,eying every passenger. No one returned his gaze. When he finally got to me I stared right back at him. He thought a moment and whispered, you can stay.
Then he pulled out a grenade from his jacket and ordered the others to come with him. People sobbed and moaned in fear. I just sat there reading silently from my new collection of stories, Abusing My Authority. I was wearing a t-shirt that said I am a writer. One more rejection and I snap.

Teachable Moment

Keith asks if anyone wants his cinnamon stick. No one answers. You raise your hand and get the stick. Take a gentle bite. Chew slowly. Don't make eye contact. Halfway done, you offer the group another chance at the stick, but use a tone that indicates you really want the whole thing.
Make certain they realize that by their inaction they have lost a delicious nutritional experience. Do not offer them your half finished multigrain muffin. That is insulting, as though they were pigeons hunting for scraps. Do, however, cough on your stick to insure you own it.
Your breakfast group already is disgusted with themselves for not being pro active. Do not rub it in. Clean up all your crumbs, smiling just a bit. Pat someone on the back and assure them it was good seeing everyone.
Leave before Keith remembers you owe him twenty bucks.

Respecting Carp

Why doesn't carp get more respect? You never see paintings of this undervalued fish. Fish have anxiety. Carp are good listeners, wise fish others go to for advice. They do this pro bono.  Available 24/7.
Carp settle territorial disputes. Octopus imperialism has long been an ocean problem. They want what they want and carp are there to step in and calm the waters.
Jellyfish sometimes have performance anxiety when mating. Carp remind them this can happen to anyone.
Dolphins are the divas of sea world. They have snubbed carp forever, but carp never hold a grudge. Actually they can't hold anything--they're fish.
We should have National Carp Day. At least give them The Kennedy Center honors.

Awkward Moment

It occurs only in dimly lit bars. Young women mistake me for Ryan Gosling. Sometimes I go along. Talk about my work, the famous people I know. I get a bunch of phone numbers that way. But I feel too guilty to follow up. It's probably illegal anyway.
Strangely, in the daytime no one makes that mistake. In fact, I'm often mistaken for Yogi Berra, circa 1990. I even adapt his slumped posture. I suppose it's the ears, though I don't want to think too hard about it.
I wonder if Gosling ever gets mistaken for me. We both wear bomber jackets and baseball caps.
Another awkward moment occurs when you've finished a blog and realize it's nothing but gibberish. One must only hope other bloggers are posting even more stupid things. Then we can all be awkward together and perhaps have a group hug where people put their hands in awkward places.

I Am Not My Job

Look at me. Do I look like a guy who sells suspenders? I am not my job. I am a well read, educated, opinionated seeker of adventure. I had ambitions, but sometimes the breaks don't go your way.
So here I am, the only salesman at Suspend Belief, a boutique that sells only suspenders, standing here waiting for one stinking customer. You know the deal. Guys buy their accessories online in these techno days.
I have a good steady hand and could have been an illustrator, that is, before computers did all the art work. I'm slumped behind my counter when my best customer Ron comes in wearing the kelp green suspenders I chose for him. Why so glum, Joe? I sigh and tell him my life is wasting away. He gave me a stern look. None of us are our jobs, he says. Look at me, a pipe fitter who writes poetry on the side. I've got a reading coming up and need something in orange.
I shrugged and pointed to a pair hanging toward the back. Knock yourself out, Ron.
Every time I put on anything you've suggested it inspires me to compose couplets. That is the impact you've had on my life, Joe.
We hugged. One suspender snapped and smacked him in the head. He stepped away. That is actionable, he stated, but if you give me a lifetime certificate for free suspenders I won't sue.
I gritted my teeth and nodded. Did I have a choice?

Nest

I climb my cursed tree, lugging my giant comb. I need to comb out the interconnected branches and multicolored leaves. The tree is strangling itself with growth.Too much color in the wrong places.
It reminds me of the MRI of my brain.
I tell you this. When the aliens hover, as they have periodically-I've given them hand signals-we want them to view us as a peaceful form of life so they may provide us with the cure for cold sores.
So I continue to straighten this beast of nature and try to bring it in line with all the other trees. Luckily the bark is with the program and its roots are nothing less than embarrassed.

Family Reunion

Somehow we managed to sober up the Doberman long enough to keep him from slurping down our alcoholic step mom's turtle soup. Uncle Lem carried in the pink Christmas tree that announced the men in our family lacked a manly essence.
My cousin Norm came in from the yard where he had been taunting the dog who outweighed him by 40 pounds. My step mom sang The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down in a key and pitch that caused neighbors to call police. Nevertheless, my dad was beaming with his extended family all together, including a bunch still arriving in campers from the surrounding mountains. I felt certain this would be the year we finally got Rachel married off to Angus, a giant kind man who chopped wood with fervor.

Dear Moses

Dear Moses, we both know you are in deep trouble with the Pharaoh and are in danger of being cast out into the harsh desert. I, Bernice, you lover and mother of your son, gift you this custom made divining rod so you can find water more easily, as well as this large bag of Skittles for nourishment.
I also want you to have this pizza sniffing Yorkie, which you can tie to your divining rod. It may be years before we see each other. If you had kept your big mouth shut none of this would have happened. Finally, I am giving you a new product that has taken the market place by storm--speed stick roll on deodorant. Because if you do run across any other poor soul, at least you'll be presentable. Please wear a hat and use SPF 30.

Past, Present, Future

In the past I've been conflicted about allowing the beauty of my soul to express itself and surrendering to the slimy aspects of my essence. In the present I am immersed in my profession, which is designing maypoles for Swedish festivals with gaily clad dancers and musicians playing strange instruments.
My future? I plan to keep people off balance with my mood swings. Make them wonder who is the real me. I will throw parties and make guests feel uncomfortable, squirming all night. It is my destiny to create The Awkward Moment.

Entertainment Chairman

When the aliens landed, it was my responsibility as Entertainment Chairman to keep them entertained. They each were nine feet tall and weighed about 400 pounds. The majority of our towns- folk did not wish to be eaten by them. A handful of depressed poets and folk singers could care less either way.
Maury Winters did some juggling, but he was 87 and the reflexes were pretty much shot. I presented a dinosaur slide show, but most of the aliens dozed off. The Schuman family tap danced with vigor and we wanted the aliens to give it a try, but there were no tap shoes in their size.
Finally we rolled out a cage with two gorillas. We had fed them loads of oysters that morning, so they were quite aroused. The next two hours were spent watching them copulate. The aliens made strange, guttural noises. So did many of the humans.Very quickly afterward the villagers cleared out because now the aliens had that horny look in their bloodshot eyes. Most of the humans indicated sex with these creatures was not on the agenda. Although the local library staff showed interest.

Try, Try Again

Dr. Eunice did not give up easily. A man came to her with big ears. He wanted an ear reduction. Her specialty was noses and lips, but she saw this as a challenge.
The first procedure left his ears 15% smaller. Except one ear was slightly larger than the other. So she reduced that one another 5%. But now the other ear was just a bit larger, certainly not clearly visible, but upsetting to the patient.
In all, there were six operations on each ear and they still weren't matching. By now the man's ears were so small they looked like infant's. He had to wear special foam fake ears to cover the embarrassment.
Dr. Eunice spends hours in the medical library trying to discover where it all went wrong. Hubris destroys careers.

Idea Assassin

My name is August Mote and I am a trained professional idea assassin. I studied under the most intense cynics in the country. My vocation is attending various meetings and shooting down ideas.
I crunch dreams, hopes and ambitions. I especially enjoy destroying writers. My favorite verbal kill shot--It's been done. Your work is derivitive, a non starter. Sometimes they burst into tears.
I also attend entrepreneur conferences full of LLC people with hopes of being the boss of their own company. I stretch out in the hotel room and do calisthenics to warm up because this is prime meat for idea killers.
One woman wanted to start a water polo instruction company in Jersey City. I really went to work on her. No pools in JC, low income kids who couldn't swim, sky high insurance costs. A non starter. She curled into a ball, sobbing. I hid in a bathroom stall cackling like Scrooge.
Visionaries are dangerous fools who upset the equilibrium. At some point you may run into me. Prepare to be squashed.

All Speculation

The vacant theater was an eyesore, with missing bricks, broken glass, a faded marque advertising The Sound of Music. Billy had heard the rumors for years and now at 15 he was determined to find out for himself. Near midnight he sneaked out of his house with a flashlight.
He had previously discovered a side door that was unlocked. Now he crept inside, flashlight spraying the dust covered refreshment stand with an ancient bar of Snickers alone in the glass case.
He moved slowly and got almost to the front of the theater, listening for any sound. A gurgling came from the balcony, as though someone were choking on his own blood. A short, piercing scream.
The lights came on. There they were, dozens, moving toward him, crouched, drooling, growling, dressed as though it was the mid-sixties.
Suddenly all movement ceased and they bean singing 'The hills are alive with the sound of music."  On impulse Billy joined in. But, unfortunately he had a life long pitch problem. By the second verse they were creeping toward him again, even more pissed. At least I know the words, he screamed before they were on him.

Sensing Moods

My insects are a moody group. They fly, crawl, remain stationary as is their wont. I have to talk some off the kitchen counter where they poise, ready to jump. Issues, so many issues.
I have to pull them off me at night. Separation anxiety. When bored, they cover my TV screen, demanding my attention. My ants are jealous of my fruit flies who hate my roaches who envy my one grasshopper who may be bi-polar. Some days he jumps to the ceiling, some he can barely get off the ground. When they really get to me I threaten to bring my neighbor's frog over.
My damn bees copulate with all the others leading to mutants.
Thankfully, I can understand my thoroughly predictable turtle.