Reasonable Disarray

The guy shows up with bed hair--strands heading in all directions. Trying to mock my hairless scalp. I hope his tonsils swell up.
My thoughts are also in disarray. I am attending a writer critique session centering on a novel by an attractive woman. She has published before and everyone likes her.
I think her protagonist is nuts. A 17 year old female warrior who is out of control. If the author wanted her to symbolize female empowerment.I beg to differ. She's a wing nut.
But if I express that the group will shout me down. I will be seen as a cranky old man, jealous of her success. They may force me to do hot yoga. Even if I praise parts of it I will not get the hug I seek from this hot lady. So I will not say what's on my mind and take the coward's way out. Anything beats hot yoga in my Spandex.

Selling Connecticut

The President cleared his throat.
Citizens of Connecticut, I know this is difficult for all of you. Congress and I debated this and searched for other solutions. None of them solved the problem. Our country is drowning in debt. Selling one of our states to China will raise billions, especially if you clean up Bridgeport.
I'm sure you will be allowed to keep this country's values. Of course you won't be able to vote, worship, stage demonstrations or consume cheese. Chinese hate cheese. But they have nothing against a good casserole.
Sacrifices must be made. Massachusetts has Boston, NJ has the shore. We offered Delaware and they refused. We offered Puerto Rico and they laughed. As your President, I will do everything I can to make this a smooth transition, but you have to meet us halfway. Learn some Mandarin. Pennsylvania has pledged to donate tons of brown and white rice. Maybe toss in some quinoa. That's the spirit of America.
I'll take some questions now, except about bitcoins, which I still don't understand.

People Who Judge

Neighbors
media
doormen at clubs
banks
Olympic skating and gymnastics officials
choral directors
relatives
landlords
hairdressers
choreographers
cops
medical personnal
Internet trolls
fashionistas
critics
inspectors
interior decorators
teachers
drill sargents
proof readers
jurists
shrinks
wine tasters
beef jerky experts

Dancing in the Dark

So often I feel like I'm dancing in the dark. Where is my life going? I'm doing a tango without a partner, tap dancing around committments, waltzing into trouble. I need a metaphorical flashlight to guide me as I tunnel through my golden years.
I sit alone in a cafe sipping coffee and reading a book. I watch people strolling past in the heat. A short, old Latino man sits two seats away and drums loudly on the counter with his chubby fingers. maybe he is trying to get my attention. I do not speak Spanish.
A woman sits between us. He stops drumming and utters one word--Bella. She thanks him and we sit quietly. Their little dance has ended.
I am dancing with words. Later I will meet friends for lunch and dance with bread and salad.
What does it all add up to? Will I always be stumbling in the dark, pretending to understand the moves? We should have a floor diagram showing all the correct places our feet should be. Meanwhile, I will suck in my stomach, straighten my posture and assume the position--whatever that position is.
Finger drumming may well hold the key.

Summing Up

What have I accomplished?
I got a degree from Rutgers, spent six years in the Reserves, taught school, delivered mail, painted, photographed, wrote everything from stories to poems to essays to theater.
I've made friends and lost enemies. My personal hygiene has never wavered. When I dip chips into salsa others stop and watch. I've taken many pills and eaten hundreds of avocados.
I dip my dance partner deep and long. I have an impressive warehouse of entertaining stories and jokes. A priest, a minister and a rabbi walk into a pet store. What? Heard it? Okay. How about a spooky tale from summer camp? Not in the mood? Fine.
Have you ever been dance dipped? Let me take you through it. First, stretch out. Give me your leg.
You can trust me.
This will add to my accomplishments.

Annoying Sayings

That's a moot point
What goes around comes around
Karma is a bitch
You never stop being a parentWhat will future generations think of us?
It is what it is
You had to be there
I feel your pain
My home is my castle
Do not leave the seat up
It ain't over til its over
Cat got your tongue?
Death and taxes
Freedom comes at a price
Watch, listen and learn
The customer is always right
You deserve better than me
Rules are made to be broken
I've fallen and I can't get up

Daydreamer

Liam was a happy person. He always looked on the bright side. Control only what I can control, he told himself. Liam did have one issue--he liked to daydream. So it came to be one day he was walking along, thinking about the previous week, when, for the first time in his life, he made the 7-10 split during a bowling match.
Head in the clouds, he went right past a sign attached to a mailbox. Next thing he remembered was waking up in the hospital. The sign said, Warning! Circus performers rehearsing. Steer clear.
Doctors told him one of The Flying Walendas--Grandma Eunice--had slipped off the high wire and landed on him. He had a concussion and a neck sprain. She was unhurt.
This was almost enough to turn him into a pessimist. Do they daydream?

The Quiet Ones

They sit alone in cafes, librries, parks, in cars, watching, just watching. Never speaking, they dot our city, creating tension by their very presence. Do they eat? Read? Nurse one coffee for hours?
Faces lack expression. Sometimes they will grab a butterfly and hold it in their palm before releasing it.
Children sense not to approach them. Adults observe warily. Are they working for the government, just waiting for orders?
We should band together and take action. They are different and a threat, these quiet ones. They should be quarantined. No one has ever heard them laugh. Maybe they were put here to pay for our collective sins. Have they migrated from New England where this behavior is normal?
Maybe we should introduce them to karaoke.
You have a better idea?

Marching Band

You have to control the trombones. Talent-less kids honking away, disrupting the flutes.  Goosing the majorettes with the stem.
Thirteen stinking halftime minutes to perform three pieces we've practiced for hours. Half these kids cannot march to save their lives. Parents are recording every mistake and of course I get blamed.
Wally and Melissa are competing for #1 on the xylophone, pounding away like it's the end of the world.
State competitions are living hell. Nervous breakdowns among the trumpets, drummers drinking too much Red Bull, saxophones sliding into depression.
One year there will be a complete meltdown and the kids will return to the band bus and systematically destroy it. And I will get blamed.
Alright, line up, you maggots!

Angry Barber

I asked for my cut hair and he went ballistic. It's on the floor, full of bacteria, he said I want to sell it online if I become a famous writer, I explained. You'll spread disease, you fiend. Where are you going to keep it? In a bowl, I said.
Which you will use to hold soup for guests and they will see one hair floating to the top and vomit. You beast.
By then his face was flushed and he gasped for breath. I told him to calm down. he called me a hair molester. People heard from outside and charged in. One held a crucifix inches from my face. Demon! he cried.
Call my old barber, I pleaded. He fell and broke his hip, the angry barber shouted. You cursed him.
Feeling threatened, I ran out the door, not before hearing the guy ask, sure you don't want a shave, Spawn of Satan.