Dance World

I went out to get breakfast and everyone was dancing. Garbage men, mailmen, landscapers, road crews, cops, EMS workers, all dancing to their own beat.
Dancing is not my strong point, but I hate being left out. Soon I was at the diner watching the wait staff and counter people thrusting hips, whirling and gyrating. There was no music. I tried bopping in place, but spilled my coffee. I snapped my fingers, but that was weak.
Finally a waitress grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. She threw me into a fierce tango and I was in heaven. Then the door opened and a man in flamenco garb stood glaring. Her boyfriend. I tried to explain, but he leaped on my back and pummeled me.
How did I get out of this?
I fell to the floor and played dead. It worked for me as a kid with bullies and it worked again. I never got to finish my breakfast.

Mirror, Mirror

I have two large mirrors covering my wardrobe and they keep streaking. I've tried spray, sponge, spit, talking to them to no avail. I heard beer might work and I may try that next.
I need everything in my condo to be in top shape. I'm trying to do a reverse mortgage and the appraiser comes and determines its value and how much the bank will lend me. Streaky mirrors could be a deal breaker.
A friend told me if this mortgage goes through, read the small print. I may be required to enter, exit and walk around inside backwards. I can't sleep thinking about this. Will I be monitored? Will I have to do my feet first in the shower? Eat dessert before the meal? Answer the phone with "Nice speaking to you"?
Is it possible my friend is pulling my leg? I have cataracts and can't read the fine print.

New Jersey Things

Flooding in Hoboken
Sullen gas station attendants
Fear of eye contact with strangers
Potholes imported from Pompei, Italy
Mass arrests for stealing cherry blossoms
Eating unhealthy food down the shore
Parades featuring old people walking slowly
Snappy put downs and snappy come backs
Thousands of self published authors pleading for recognition
Rutgers grads working part time at trader Joe's
Smoke stacks
Dead bodies in shallow graves
Babbling on public transportation by self published authors
Petting zoos full of bacteria
Scam artists breathing the same oxygen as corrupt politicians

Hard Boiled Eggs

My shrink tells me I'm on edge. I need something to calm me. I need an activity. He suggested creating hard boiled eggs.
I trust the man and went at it full bore. I bought eggs. I boiled them. Placed them in cold water afterward. I adjusted the lighting in the kitchen. Put on soothing music by Enya. Donned a surgeon's mask and gloves. Placed one egg on a sterilized tray and took a deep breath.
Carefully I peeled the shell away, taking care not to remove the white with the shell. It took me half an hour for one egg. But my mind was taken off my anxiety.
Just when I reached the very end of the process, a stupid bird slammed into my window. I screeched and squashed the yoke into a hundred pieces.
I wanted to grab a steak knife and attack the bird. Somehow I calmed myself using breathing techniques. I assumed the dumb bird has cataracts.
Now I must begin again with another egg.
Or maybe I'll just take up jigsaw puzzles or adult coloring books.

Dream Team

In school we played murder ball. Others called it dodge ball, but we knew better. We students, full of anger and frustration, sought decapitation.
Our dream team consisted entirely of Mafia kids. No one wanted to face us, especially after certain vague threats were made in the locker room. Our gesticulations all meant 'horrible death' in Italian.
We even thought about starting a pro league. Our gym teacher was a fierce Armenian who claimed his team back home was better than ours. The players all were children of their underworld. We fumed. Contacted our fathers. A match was set up. ESPN coverage. Las Vegas took bets. Publicity boomed. Expectations rose. Oh, the excitement.
Then a bunch of tree hugging liberals passed a law outlawing the sport.
We will go underground. Mutilation in gym shorts is part of our heritage.

SWimming in Ideas

Lately, I've been swimming in ideas.This happens to writers after a dry spell. This morning I stopped at a local place to have breakfast and wrote a flash fiction piece. "The Pessimist Cafe". A guy pulls off the road to stop for coffee and enters this cafe.
Everyone inside, including the waitress, is totally pessimistic about the world. The guy hits "Walking on Sunshine on the juke box and as soon as that song ends, someone presses "A Hard Rain is Gonna Fall".
I think this story is publishable.
When the attractive waitresses see me writing in a notebook this morning, they must assume I'm creating something vibrant and powerful and I really believe their respect for me is growing.
I just wish I didn't have this hole in my sweater, which you can't see because I'm wearing a black sweat shirt underneath.
Yes, I'm swimming in ideas, some of which I'm certain will make me enough money to buy a new sweater.

Piano Magic

Billy Joel was stubborn. He refused to play on my piano. You don't play, you don't eat. I said. You are a criminal fool, he replied.
Look, I'm your biggest fan. I went through hell kidnapping you. He scowled. Your piano isn't tuned. I scowled. So tune it.
I don't do that stuff, he snarled. You should have snatched Elton.
All he does is pound away at the keys. You are a true artist. Play Miami 2012.
You would never let me starve.
You, Billy, don't know me.
So why did you buy a piano if you can't play.
It impresses guests.
You are a dabbler, fella, one who paints a little and writes a little. You should have kidnapped Dali.
He's long dead. Listen, I made pot roast. I am one hell of a cook. Play one lousy song and you get a meal fit for a king.
And then what?
I'm tired of your attitude, Billy. Then I let you go and go after Pearlman. I love the violin more than the piano.