Cork

I got a 60% off coupon from Michaels and circled the store three times trying to choose something to buy. I had enough canvas, brushes and paints. I tried creating from air dried clay, but everything turned out looking like a brown lump. I don't do crafts. I could have bought a pen and ink set and fooled with cligraphy, but my hand is no longer so steady.
So I finally bought a set of four rectangular cork tiles, which one can use to pin important reminders to. Except my life is so uneventful I have nothing to pin. I thought of going door to door in my condos and askif I could pin their reminders onto my cork. That sounds vaguely salcious and the last thing I need is the condo board meeting to decide what to do with me.
So I sit here smelling my cork tile. Someone should create a cork aftershave fragrance. Just saying.

Moose Antlers

Gerry was impressed by Cameron's moose head on his wall. Gerry had no masculine hobbies like hunting. He did like to try on hats, but that didn't qualify. He felt he was losing his friend's respect.
At Thanksgiving Gerry's Aunt Loretta visited from Philadelphia and together they celebrated the holiday. A week before, Cameron returned from Africa with an antelope head, which was mounted next to the moose.  Gerry was consumed with jealousy.
On Thanksgiving, Aunt Loretta began choking on the stuffing. Frantic, Gerry tried the Heimlich Maneuver, but his back gave out. His aunt continued choking.
A week later, Cameron came over with tickets to a Knicks game. Gerry led him to the living room and pointed to the wall above the fire place. Cameron's eyes popped. "Where'd you bag that one? he asked.
Gerry smiled. "In the wilds of Pennsylvania. Had to track her for days."
"We need to go on a hunting trip together," his friend said.
That was all Gerry wanted to hear.

Lost on My Desktop

Joe was a frustrated writer, unable to sell anything. As a last resort he began writing porn and surprisingly was very good at it. Publishers demanded more. But when he checked his computer, all his documents were gone, replaced by a cackling clown.
He knew he had been hacked by arch enemy John. He demanded his porn back. John said he was holding it hostage in exchange for Joe's satire. Joe refused. John threatened to release the contents and claim it as his own. Joe gave in and sent him 3000 words of satire.
John fulfilled his end, but not before declaring Joe's porn as derivative. Joe fumed, pointing out one piece contained hermaphrodites, bondage and various condiments like relish.
Six months later, John's novella, containing all of Joe's satire, was a #1 bestseller. The Cousins Karamazov.
Joe sobbed for weeks.

Stranger Trust

What to Trust a Stranger With

The location of my safe room
The contents of my belly bag
What's under my armpits
How I take my coffee
Unripe avocadoes
Where my grave plot is located
tic tacs
My personal fragrance
My innocence
My belief in chaos theory

Defective Parrot

When you purchase a parrot you expect it to imitate you in a respectful manner. My new parrot is not meeting standards. It is defective. It just sits in the corner of the cage, ignoring its perch, humming show tunes. Oklahoma, Brigadoon, The King and I.
Sometimes it dozes off and snores up a storm. I do have a Jersey accent. I read some of my published work to it and receive indifference for a response. Instead, it imitates Alan Rickman's character from the Harry Potter films just to spite me.
It only eats sushi and Spam and only drinks Red Bull. The other day it squawked "I'm Lonely." A decision. Do I return to the same store and risk getting another faulty parrot? Do I ignore its pain?
Damn. I should have stuck with my old pet, a lizard named Boris. Except I found myself imitating him and sticking out my tongue inappropriately, like at the opera.

New Tub

I just had a new tub and surround installed and it looks great. Except the chrome shower rod keeps sliding off when I attach the curtain and liner.
I squeezed and squeezed and twisted that thing to no avail. Finally I replaced it with my old brown rod, which stayed up, but doesn't match my chrome fixtures and grab bar. Yes, I need a grab bar so I don't fall. Women might think real men don't use a grab bar. Men think if he had my equipment he wouldn't need a grab bar.
I had to wait 24 hours before showering after they installed the pieces. I didn't go to the gym, so I don't smell too bad. Although that's something for another to judge. The rod better stay up tomorrow or I'm not making any more payments. But I love that grab bar.

Difficult Things

Bowling on Josef Stalin's team
Shouting quintessential in a crowded theater
 Scratching inappropriately while at the podium
Deciding whether to eat a gum drop that has fallen to the floor
Creating a tourniquet out of warm spaghetti
Finding the refresh key on your grandparents
Eating a lobster in front of baby lobsters
Pouring gravy on something that's still moving
Saying goodbye to your old sponges
Spooning with a lonely small pet
Matching your socks with leg sores
Refraining from stealing leftover wash from someone else's load accidentally left behind in the dryer--especially panties

Liverwurst Lust

I'm going to make myself a liverwurst sandwich. I can hardly type this, I'm so excited. There is something exotic about this food staple. I like its texture and color and roundness if it is in a roll.  It looks almost like an embryo.
I can have it with or without mustard, on any kind of bread. It is so soft, not like baloney or pepperoni. You feel like you want to  just leave it on your tongue. I have never known of someone unable to digest this delicious meal.
But you must be vigilant. If you somehow forget about your liverwurst, it goes bad pretty quick. Ugly green and tan blotches cover the outer part, then migrate to the center. Spoiled liverwurst is a sacrilege. Also, do not make more than one sandwich. You risk losing the special quality of this cold cut, which is a poor description.
Do not speak to me of cheese in this discussion. Cheese has its place. I love cheese.
But I respect liverwurst.
Now I will shut down and go make my sandwich. Go read someone else s blog.

Hookah

I loved my pipes. Loved their smooth surface, each manifesting a sample of the different wood used. I placed them in a circle on my glass coffee table, stems pointing toward the center. I don't smoke, but I cherished my pipes. They were timeless.
One day I walked past a store and saw in the window something so beautiful it made my heart stop. Gasping, I entered and quickly paid for it. I could barely drive home, such was my excitement. I held it up in the living room so light could reflect off it. It was nothing less than a glass sculpture, twisting and complex, a marvelous magic lamp. It was my first hookah.
I placed it in the center of my coffee table, with my pipe stems pointing at it's magnificence.
I went upstairs to bed. Next morning, on my way to the kitchen, I passed the table. My beautiful hookah was smashed into a hundred pieces. I froze and glared long and hard at my pipes.
The world is full of mystery.
For me, this was no mystery.

Anteater Dilemma

You are crazy we told Ricardo. It flies against our identity as a culture. He listened politely, then struck back. We cannot continue like this, he said. Our diet is lacking balance. We must get more protein and carbs and fats or we will become extinct.
We are what we are, Marion protested. All these eons we have flourished and passed our heritage to our children. How do you proposed to do this? Niles asked.
Ricardo spoke clearly and full of confidence. I will personally visit all the ant colonies and assure them we are no longer their enemy.
You are blind with ambition, Niles warned. No, Ricardo replied. I am blessed with ambition. If Donald Trump can bring people together, so can I. I will upend our entire culture.
I didn't know we had a culture, Felix mused.
This is insane, Shelly barked. I, myself, have sucked down over 1200 ants this year and I spent a month fasting.
Ricardo refused to flinch. I will promise them cooperation. Help them build additions to their colonies. Porch decks, a library, a gazebo for their hootenannies.
I did not know ants liked Americana music. Do they square dance?
Shelly, you are too busy sucking them through that flabby snout.
Your snout suffers from shrinkage, Ricardo. Marion interrupted. What will we substitute for ants?
Ricardo sighed. I have done the research. We will substitute guano.
That is bat crap!
There are toppings, many delicious toppings.

My Minions

Behold my minions, my horde, my pillaging horsemen. Weapons gleaming in the blazing sun, we traverse the endless desert, conquering villages, collecting camels. We are predatory, stealing fruit and vegetables, busty women, craving power and conquest and high fiber.
There is only one cursed thing that forces us to dismount and engage in silly dancing. It happens whenever we attack Harmonica Village, where all the residents play harmonica, even the kids. We cannot resist. Our weapons are useless, our steeds embarrassed for us. When our ridiculous prancing finally exhausts us, we mount our stallions and ride away from these 12 tone demons.
Across this wasteland we ride, heads held high, none speaking of the travesty we have endured. In order to continue pillaging we must have a defective short term memory.
Or the camels win.

Off Key

Lucy was a lovely woman who was completely tone deaf. Her experiences with vocal groups rarely lasted more than a week. She traveled the country, staying in flophouses, taking minimum wage jobs, living in poverty, hoping one chorus would accept her.
Finally she threw in the towel, went to secretarial school and became a legal secretary, and eventually a paralegal. One of the lawyers where she worked loved musical theater and often went to piano bars. One day he asked if she would accompany him. Frozen with fear, Lucy fevered over whether her old urge would return and she would be humiliated.
Finally she accepted and that night there they stood around the piano as the man attacked the keys. George launched into a spirited 'Oklahoma'. People ran out screaming. The pianist abandoned his instrument and the bartender and waitress huddled in a back room.
Lucy thought it sounded beautiful.
George kept singing, one song after another a capella, and in the process, broke several EPA laws.
Lucy and George married and moved to a farm far off in the hintwerlands. They sing to each other all day, every day.
The farm animals, one by one, are committing suicide.

Tuesday Weld

I sit in the abandoned barracks writing a film review for a small weekly newspaper. It is the early seventies and I joined the Army Reserves like others to get out of Vietnam. It is a late fall Saturday and none of us has anything to do, so we hide after roll call just in case someone decides we should wash the trucks which hardly ever move. This is my hiding place alone.
I am trying to remember everything I can about the movie because I left my notes home. It starred Tuesday Weld and boy, do I wish she were here cuddling with me. I can hear traffic from the Turnpike and not much else. At noon we drive off to lunch at some fast food place. By one, we stand for another roll call. Then it's back into hiding until four. One weekend a month for six years.
The thought occurs--if I have a stroke I could just lie here decomposing.

Pole Vaulter

Here I am launching my approach, carrying this pole. The stands are packed with young women I want to impress. And why shouldn't I? This is a sport that combines power and grace.
Now I'm halfway down the runway picking up speed. I love how the pole balances in my hands. We vaulters leaves earthly confines and explore the heavens. I must make sure my takeoff is accurate to the inch. I plant and push off in one powerful motion. The pole bends and bends backward until I am almost parallel to the ground. Then I spring forward using torque and kick my legs up and put, twisting my torso.
I hope Mary is watching. I have a crush on her, but can't find the words.
Now I release the pole and pray my momentum carries me over.
What the hell? My back foot touches the bar and it drops to the mat simultaneously with me. The crowd moans. I lay there.
I hate this sport.

The Monks

The monks scurry around in a dark basement of stone furiously brewing beer, enough to quench the villagers. Morris steps on Fredo'a robe, causing him to trip and fall, spilling beer samples across the cold, gray floor.
Unholy cursing ensues. The monks are on edge. Their deadline is near. Already citizens gather outside, shouting. We need our beer. Where is our beer? The fragile monks cease tussling. Let's hug it out, Gregory proposes.
As vital as the brewing is, Allen, head monk, has kept perspective.
What are we next to rocks and mountains?
There is silence.
And what is beer to The Immortals? Frank asks.
Frank is told to shut up and brew.

Myra's Dryer

Let me make this clear, lady. I have dibs on that dryer that I've been sitting in front of for a half hour waiting for some idiot's wash to finish and God help him if he isn't here one second after that buzzer goes off.
I'm going too have to see his butt crack while he empties his mess, so I'm pissed as it is. If you think I'm going to just let you shove your pile of bacteria into MY dryer you are de-loo-shun-al.
You see this ring? My estranged husband gave it to me, the same guy I winged in the shoulder with this piece I have under my laundry bag when I caught him with some bimbo at the Alamo Motel. You may have read about it. I got off-- temporary insanity.
I was in the Seals and mentored that guy in the movie Sniper, for which I did not get a cent. So I am not a happy person. But I can see the future. I see you moving your fat ass from my line of vision or perhaps, doctors removing slugs from that tribute to lard you call your body.
Now, if you want, I'll repeat the whole thing in Spanish. Comprende?

Zeke

We all picked on Zeke at school, His name, dress, stammer, posture, anything was fair game. He hated us and eventually his parents home schooled him and he vanished from sight.
I found out he became a Navy Seal and learned all sorts of things during his three tours in Iraq. When he returned home he lived in his late parents house. It was about that time that suspicious fires sprang up in lots, alleys, abandoned houses, and dumpsters. No one is saying anything aloud, but we know who to suspect.
I have begun wearing fireproof outer garments and watching my back. You see, I was the one who applied Gorilla Glue to Zeke's butt crack while others held him down way back when.
I sense talking things out is not one of his strategies.

Stop, Drop and Roll

I spent all weekend practicing stop, drop and roll. There is a rhythm, a momentum one must maintain. Speed is important of course, but you must keep your head while on fire, which can be difficult. Be careful not to roll under furniture, which would block you from continuing to roll. If you panic you may mix up the procedure and drop before you stop or roll and drop at the same time. So you wind up with third degree burns and a pulled muscle, which may prevent you from getting to a phone to call for help, although who would want to help someone stupid enough to set fire to himself.
Just keep practicing and ignore those who say get a life. You know what your priorities are.
This has been a public service message.