Olives

How many black, pitless olives should you put in a salad?
Most would say it depends on the size of the salad and I would agree. Except I impulsively exceed the olive limit once I start spooning them in. I love olives, leading to an imbalance in my salads. I can sense tomatoes and cucumbers whine about being overlooked. Celery could care less, while peppers have, in my opinion, an unhealthy attraction to olives. It's more a feeling than what I see. Bacon bits are just happy o be included.
I have never eaten olives right out of the can. There are boundaries I won't cross. But I have been known to linger in the olive aisle far too long. Green olives have their place in my diet. But I'm sure they can discern my obsession with their black peers.
I also believe croutons have a competition going with olives to see which of them has greater impact. Unless it's garlic croutons, there is no comparison.
Did you know there are people who toss peanuts into their salad? And you wonder why this country is so divided.

Intricate Work

I dreaded this day. I stared up at the kitchen light fixture. The bulb had burnt out.
I had a replacement and a ladder. What I lacked was confidence. I can do this, I whispered.
I set up the ladder and climbed to the third step, body shaking. I carefully removed the glass cover to reveal the traitorous bulb. I descended and lay the cover on the table, body sweat soaked. Maybe I should take a break. No, I needed to build momentum. I climbed back up and slowly unscrewed the old bulb, caressing it against my chest as I went down. Some might have brought the new bulb up on the previous trip, but I didn't want to press my luck.
I should have stretched out beforehand. My shoulders were tight. I reached up and carefully began screwing. As soon as it was tight, I let out a sigh. I let myself down deliberately. When my feet hit the floor my heart stopped pounding. Safe.
I walked to the wall switch, praying for success. I couldn't go through  the whole process again. It was now or never.
I reached out and flipped the switch.
Thankfully, it burst into light. I sobbed. Now I would have to call the Super to replace the glass cover. Because I know my limitations.

Womb

Eddie felt it growing larger each day on his right side. He went to his doctor who ordered a cat scan. The results were stunning. Eddie had developed a womb. His doctor was over joyed. This is ground breaking he exclaimed. You can have kids. I don't want kids, Eddie protested. Besides, I don't have a uterus.
We have techniques, his doctor said. Anything is possible.
Eddie despaired. He was a freak. No one would come near him. He called his friend Joe, who commiserated. Joe had an extra thyroid gland, which he hid under a turtleneck. Joe always made it about himself.
Eddie stripped and stared at his misshapen body. A child who looked like him. Maybe this was his destiny. Now he needed a new wardrobe.He hugged his bump. Who needs estrogen?

The Wild Card

Our handball team, the Weehawken Wallbangers was undefeated. We had a match with the Miami Smackers, led by Rico Gonzales, who always had something up his sleeve.
As we warmed up I realized tonight would be no different. 60000 fans, full ESPN coverage. And who walks out of their dressing room?
Marco Hernandez. 7'3, with an 8 and a half foot wingspan. His arms reached below his knees. He could cover the whole court without moving.
The Wild Card, signed to a contract hours before.
I threw up inside my mouth.
I prayed he would pull a muscle during stretching. My team looked beaten already.
Suddenly the giant began heaving up his guts. He collapsed, had to be carried off. I was stunned. Someone in the first row caught my eye. My uncle Esquivar, who owned a burrito place nearby. A place Hernandez may well have dined at that day. He smiled and gave me the thumbs up.
Family is so important.

Ben Franklin's Problem

Ben Franklin was frustrated. He just could not harness electricity. Standing in the middle of a field, flying a kite during a lightning storm only got him burned. No one had invented insulation.
Hamilton thought he was nuts. Your reputation is secure, Ben. You're on The Declaration of Independence, a founding father, beloved and respected.
Ben replied, I am not a politician or general. No one will remember me unless I invent something like the electric waffle iron.
Hamilton sighed and walked off. Some people just have to make waves.

Material of Dubious Quality

Boris was a terrible stand up comic, with lousy material. Audiences hissed and booed. He hated being a carpet cleaner. Comedy was his passion.
Then Luanna appeared, offering to write his material in exchange for 10% of all his future earnings. He read her stuff and immediately agreed.
His career took off, leading  to gigs in Vegas and a possible sitcom. Boris decided to break their contract and cut her out.
Luanna smiled and made a phone call to her uncle Carlo. Let's just say Boris is now working on wheelchair humor. After all, a contract is a contract.

Copy This

Barishnikov's posture
Cary Grant's walk
James Bond holding a drink
Brando's smirk
Morgan Freeman's tone and cadence
Rodney Dangerfield's eyeroll
William F. Buckley's vocabulary
George F. Will's logic
Larry David's excuses
Phillip Marlowe's wardrobe
Steve McQueen's squint
Paul Newman's poses

Playground King

Morris was king of the playground. He was fastest on the monkey bars, fastest on the slide, flew highest on the swing, see sawed so hard no one wanted to be his partner. No one could catch him at tag. He was bigger, quicker, faster and stronger.
I preferred to stay in the sandbox building castles. Greta kept urging me to show some guts and challenge Morris. I chose sands in my shorts over being humiliated in front of the others.
One day they trucked in new equipment--a giant maze, which replaced the boring merry go round. Kids circled it warily, none chancing to test it. Finally, Morris pounded his chest and announced he would defeat the beast. He would blast through it and get to the exit before you could blink.
He strode through the entrance.
Five minutes later, he was going in circles, becoming more frantic. Soon after, he was sobbing in frustration.
I rose from the sandbox, shook myself off and walked to the entrance. I needed to prove myself to myself.
I took several wrong turns, but kept my wits. Eventually I deciphered the pattern and rescued a Morris. He was red faced with embarrassment.
Applause, shoulder pats, a kiss on the cheek from Greta.
I went back to the sandbox, head high. Except another kid had taken my place. I knew it was time to move on to new playground challenges.

Lederhosen

Lederhosen saved my life. I was drifting and aimless, minus goals or direction. One day I came across Aldo's Lederhosen on a website. I was enthralled. Leather breeches that came down to one;s knees. My heart pounded as I ordered a pair.
When they arrived I was beyond joy. They fit perfectly. I drove to the mall, bought suspenders, clogging shoes knee length socks, and a fedora with a feather. In the music section of B&N, I got Bavarian, Swiss and Austrian music.
I got home and donned my new outfit,played the music and bounced all over, not sure where my arms were supposed to go.
Now I could be part of Octoberfests.
I had to share this with my best friend, Robert. He was standing in the front yard, hands on hips, presiding over a yard sale. Look at me, Robert. Lederhosen! I have purpose, a passion.
He just smiled and pointed to a back table. There, laid out neatly, were six pairs of leather lederhosen. You may be surprised to know, Joe, there was a time in my life when I was struggling, and lederhosen got me through.
I sobbed. We hugged. It was a moment. Actually it was a short moment, as someone inquired about his throw rug.
I bought the used lederhosen and he threw in a pair of free suspenders because that's what friends are for.

Tastes Like Blue

I sip life and swallow regret
which tastes like blue
Cerulean blue not sky blue
It lays on my tongue
Seeps into pores
Tinged by gray saliva
Slides down my esophagus
It greets fear in my stomach
Blue becomes yellow
Small intestine waits in red fury
Black large intestine
Dissolves all other colors

Thong Boundaries

Lois trusted Ernest with her life until that day she returned from a business trip and realized something was off in her thong drawer. She organized her eight thongs by color and the violet had been placed before the magenta.
At first he pleaded innocent, but under intense questioning, Ernest broke down and admitted his act. He had worn that thong because he missed her and it brought her closer. Lois waited a moment, then smacked him several times. She sighed and said she was not going to throw away her marriage of eight years over a thong.
Ernest sobbed in relief and threw himself into her arms.
She looked down and noticed something on the floor.
A question, my dear, she said. Why are my fuzzy, pink bunny slippers on your side of the bed?
Ernest paused. Sometimes my feet get cold, he mumbled.
The smacking resumed. The bunnies did not look happy.

All My Fish

I had a great relationship with them before things went sour. I was stuck in my novel, so I joined a writing group. They had thirty events a month and I dove in head first. I didn't realize how much I'd neglected my fish until I went to feed them and saw, shockingly, six were floating belly up. Only a baby fish remained.
It stopped circling and gave me the fish eye. I was filled with guilt. I had created an orphan.
I rushed to my therapist. After all the progress, I was back to square one. Authorities are investigating. I may lose the baby to a more responsible adult.
My novel is still going nowhere.

I Am an Adult

I stared out into the fog. I had too much time on my hands. My magazines were boring. I'm tired of watching TV. I drive around with no destination or purpose. Talking to pigeons in the park only satisfies for so long. You can only fondle your own buttocks for so long before that too becomes boring.
I am an adult. I should have a goal. Jogging in place and feeding my fish is not a goal. I used to make duck sounds at parties, when I used to be invited out.
What is my contribution, the point of my life? I have a responsibility to be responsible. After brooding for an hour, I made a fist and punched the air. Enough, Time to return to serious work. I sat behind my computer and began typing.
The world awaits my next book, Word Felonies-Switchblade Stories 11.
Writing for serious adults.

The Fifth Child

The other four kids were quiet and docile. My wife and I are artists and need stable peace at home. Sometimes we put pills in their orange juice to sedate them. Art is important.
We hug them on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4 to 5pm. That is usually sufficient affection.
The fifth child was an accident. There were differences. He stayed in the womb ten full months, refusing to come out. We named him Gunther. Pale blue eyes, a shock of blonde hair. He didn't gurgle; he just glared, even when breast feeding. Crawling led to an attack on the cat. He bit one of his siblings on the thigh. Caught flies in his hands and swallowed them.
We noticed a tiny tail growing out of his butt. Our pediatrician was afraid to examine him. The Church took a wait and see attitude. He snarled at priests, spit in the Holy Water.
Gunther chewed on our paintings at night. Our other kids moved in with their grandparents. My wife and I began drinking.  Gunther's first word was triage. He spoke in garbled Latin and screamed if we did not dress him in black.
I sense further problems up the road in pre-school.

Breaking My Routine

First thing in the morning, I scratch my butt. I needed to break my routine, so I scratched my stomach. I realized my growth was being stymied by silly routine.
I switched off and put on my socks before underwear. Shaved my left cheek before my right. I was changing my whole routine. I drove past my Burger King and found a McDonald's. Ordered decaf coffee, black. Went with oatmeal instead of sausage and egg on a biscuit. Sat bby a window, far from the men's room.
Later, I did my walk on the high school track instead of the park. The excitement was overwhelming.
At 11 am Louise called asusual. But I didn't answer. Instead I would call Ed, who I hadn't spoken to in months.
First I have to scratch my butt.

Binge Eating

Augie stared at the carton of cole slaw, fork in hand. He was primed for attack. A voice inside his head reminded him of his promise to his late mother. Eat slow. Chew your food. Swallow carefully. He had made the mistake of trying to change his eating habits using an avocado.
Truthfully, once he cut it open and ejected the pit, he couldn't stop himself from burying his face into the mushy insides.
So he decided to try control with cole slaw. The first few forkfuls went well, but then his body began shaking. It was rebelling. In one fierce motion, he buried his face in the carton and sucked out the slaw.
Betty, his girlfriend, returned home at that moment. He jerked his face up, nose covered in slaw.
He could only apologize and promise it would not happen again. At least not with cole slaw. His mother would have thrown a shoe.

Hair Tousling

The easiest way to make friends is to tousle someone's hair. I use only my index and middle finger so as not to alarm them. Hugging is too quick and smelly/ Slapping palms is not intimate enough.
Mousse is a problem. I like its feel myself, but people are sensitive about messing up mousse.
Hip bumping was my old way of making friends until arthritis entered the picture. Neck licking really isn't sanitary. Rubbing noses is for kids.
I tickle the ear hair of balding men. Conversation soon follows. Sometimes there is a misunderstanding leading to awkward instep kissing and armpit noogies. Clear intent is key here.
In an airport, walk up to lonely travelers and tousle their hair or scratch their beard. Life is more enjoyable with friends.

Betrayal

Popeye paced back and forth, puffing hard on his pipe. Olive Oyl sat on the couch, head down.
I isn't what you think, she said. Let me explain.
I saw you coming out of a Motel 6 with Bluto. It's all pretty clear.
He needed someone to talk to. His doctor said he was hypertensive and diabetic.
Popeye shook his head.
I looked the other way when those rumors floated around. You and Beetle Bailey. You and Steve Canyon. You and Nancy Drew. You and Charlie Sheen. I don't know what to believe anymore.
Olive came to him and he pushed  heraway. I was just going to remove spinach from between your teeth like I used to, she said.
I don't think this relationship can be saved, he said.
Olive gritted her teeth. Fine, she growled. You want to break up, fine with me. But this is what you'll be missing, sailor boy.
She ripped off her ankle length dress and stood there in her long underwear. Popeye dropped his pipe. It had been far too long. Something feral in him responded to this Bad Girl standing there. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.
He'd deal with Bluto later.

Wee Willie Winkle

Wee Willie ran through the lingerie section of Macy's burying his face in lace. Once security tossed him out he realized he had a gender confusion problem. His roommate, Dondi, was having his own problems trying to find his parents. They sat in front of the TV Monday night critiquing Supergirl's color choices.
Despite his name, Wee Willie had impressive equipment and as word got around, a man offered him a job doing porno. Dondi admitted he also had those offers, but declined.
Willie thought perhaps because of his gender confusion he could do both male and female roles. There was a knock on the door. It was Dilbert looking for companionship. Both roommates decided to stay mum about the offers. Dilbeet was a high end engineer with his own cubicle who would not understand poverty.

Rugby Fever

Marion and Eunice were strong young women who loved rugby. But there were no teams in their area. So they went to local fields where soccer reigned and decided to introduce this wonderful sport to the populace. They waited until halftime before charging onto the field and tackling one of the referees.
Parents thought he was under attack and ran to his defense. In seconds, the entire center field was covered with adults pushing each other and rolling around in the dirt. The kids soon joined in the fun.
It took three cops to break up the scrum. Fourteen people were taken to the hospital. Marion and Eunice were eventually sentenced to community service collecting leaves. The referee, dateless for months, got Marion's phone number. They are going to see a movie this weekend.

If Dogs Ruled

The Dog Debates were rancorous to say the least. The poodle barely barked above a whisper, the yorkie never shut up. The Great Dane demanded more fire hydrants, the afghan seemed above it all. The shepherd promised stronger leashes for humans, while the Lab suggested they were mature enough to go without. A mixed breed expressed sympathy for the awkward, slow humans.
Dalmatians could not sit still. A bulldog said its needs were not being met. Wolfhounds had identity issues.
Three qwls were moderating. Should mimes on the street be bitten? Should biting be limited? Is it ultimately pointless? What about butt sniffing?
Is growling still effective?
A dachshund broken down and admitted he was in love with Miss Piggy. The group was disgusted. Lassie was understandable, but a pig?

Paper Mache

Bettina loved working with her hands. She had been a poet, but that could be too cerebral.  But once she took a class in paper mache she knew that was her future.
She cleared out her basement, created a studio and went to work. Bettina began small, making paper mache soap, jewelry and paper weights. Then she got bigger. End tables, mattresses, lamps, desks etc.
Since she had no friends she decided to create a paper mache poetry group. Men, women, all ages. Some looked strange, but strange was somethig she embraced.
She sat them around a table and named them. There they were, notebook and pen in front of them, ready to write and recite.
Sit up straight, Joseph. And project!
Paper mache did tend to sag after awhile.

Banjo Heaven

Charles carried his banjo everywhere. He sat on park benches and played it on buses, He had a pleasing voice  and never stopped smiling. His fingers flew across the strings. Charles had to quit his job as a hedge fund manager because of the stress.
But things were different now.

Eunice was someone who spoke her mind. When she saw Charles sitting in the park, beaming and nodding to all, she walked over and studied him. Sir, I do not think a whisk broom is meant to be employed in that way, she said.


Charles was baffled. Who was this crazy woman and why didn't she enjoy his music?
Would you like to hear something by James Taylor?
Who doesn't like a good banjo player?

Things I Am Done With

Omelets with bacon instead of ham.
Surly fast food workers. Go ahead, spit in my coffee.
Ants. Leave my crumbs alone.
Unwanted neck hair.
Mattress covers that do not fit.
Peanuts, the comic strip. Charles Schultz is 15 years dead.
I am done with swimsuit models. Truthfully, that was not my decision.
Bus stops full of unsanitary people.
I am done with stressing over things I can't control. Like peeing straight.
I am seeking a happy place were I can think and create.
I'm thinking of your basement. Oh, I am not done with you.

My Regular Wardrobe

My regular wardrobe is dangerous, in that it excites women powerfully.
My imported argyle socks  matched with tasseled moccasins is fashion genius. My plaid lumberjack shirt jackets lead the ladies into salacious fantasy. Belts are made from Corinthian leather. I forge my own buckles with a welding set in my garage.
Alternating corduroy and denim gives me that earthy Brett Farve look. A man of action.
I prefer loose fitting t-shirts to give my massive chest hair room to breathe. I swear by Brazilian suede underpants with plenty of crotch room for spare change. Sometimes I stomp around my condo wearing nothing but the undies and work boots with steel tips.
I don baseball and fisherman's hats in warm weather. Come winter I employ my alpaca fur hats with thick ear flaps which I never use because manly men don't care if their ears get cold.
Do not bring up scarves.
On occasion I will wear suspenders in the presence of old people so they won't be intimidated by me.

Propellers in Revolt

Ned was an angry propeller who joined his fellow propellers in a strike, asking for better working conditions.  They were tired of revolving in the same direction, hated being at the front of planes or on wings. Helicopter props complained of stupid humans walking into them after landing and all the work cleaning off body parts.
Props located at the bottom of ships wanted more time out of water, especially in the Hudson River.
They wanted the establishment of Old Propeller Homes for those that had served well and no longer could spin. Parents could bring kids and explain their importance in war.
They are close to convincing ceiling fans and table fans to join them. Strength in numbers.

Strip Poker

Some sell their books using charm. I need to go with my strength, which is my body. My new strategy is similar to the strip poker concept. Buy one of my books and I'll send you a photo of one of my body parts without clothes. The more books you get, the more different photos of naked body parts you'll receive. Eventually, if you buy enough books, you can piece the photos together and get a composite of what I look like naked. I'm pretty sure this is almost legal. Go with your strength and do not look back, that's my philosophy.

Fear of Flying

Bernie was a 56 year old ad executive pulling down $400000 a year. He had a mansion, a beautiful wife and three high achieving kids.
As a boy he had never mastered the monkey bars and felt anxiety walking past a playground. He remembered getting halfway up, panicking and retreating. One day he decided this simply will not do.
On his way to work that morning, he entered a playground and removed his tie and jacket. He headed straight for the damn monkey bars. He closed his eyes and visualized climbing to the top.
As he slowly ascended, sweat pouring down his body, he glanced over to the swings, where, to his astonishment, he saw Jack from HR soaring high and yelling YES I CAN!
Emily, head secretary, was defeating the slide, whooping loudly. Carl, Executive VP of marketing, flrollicked in the sandbox, while Maury from security begged for someone to join him on the see saw.
Bernie realized there were lots of issues being worked out on that playground. Lots of issues.

Magical Skating Rink

Finn could not sleep and went for a walk in Verona Park. It was near midnight and he was depressed. He felt he was stagnating working in hs father's pork rind shop.
He was suddenly blinded by lights and sounds. Right where the pond was, a giant skating rink appeared. Skaters moved effortlessly, as though body mass was non existent. Skates attached to his feet and he was magnetically drawn to the rink.
Everyone was smiling and laughing. There was Al Capone, cigar in mouth and Liz Taylor and John Candy, the Marx Brothers and Lauren Bacall gliding along with Bogie. He saw Mother Theresa flaa on her rump with a squeal and Julia Chids went over and helped her up.
Finn felt a strong grip on his arm and realized it was Kate Hepburn. Speed it up, buster, I need to catch that one, she barked.  She pointed To Bette Davis, speeding along.
At dawn, the whole scene suddenly vanished and Finn found himself paddling in chip deep water.
To hell with pork rinds. He would become a world class figure skater.

Easter Island

Louis, working alone, came up with the diagrams for what became one of  the world's great mysteries--the statues on Easter Island. He used his own likeness as a model for these strange creations. Natives thought he was a god and held a festival that lasted three days.
But his mother in law was upset none of the figures had her likeness, nor her daughter's. Her daughter hated her marriage and the island, preferring to stay inside and do yoga. The natives sided with him and sent both women off on a small boat with limited rations.
Sadly, when aliens landed and vaporized Louis, all his records were lost as was his reputation. The aliens worshiped the statues and eventually taught the natives how to make eggplant parmigiana. Louis is lost to history. The statues were bought by Donald Trump. Stay tuned.

Two Ideas

China has adopted the two child policy. We should take a page from their book and begin the Two Idea Policy. Every adult would be allowed to express only two ideas throughout his lifetime. No more. This would clear the air of all the nonsense and unclog all our social systems that have put us in this national mess.
Because I've expressed this idea, that means I would have only one idea left in my life to communicate to others. You're breathing a sigh of relief. See? It works.
We have all sorts of creative thinking outside the box. What we don't have is ideas that actually work. We wouldn't have so many contentious debates about who is right. The punishment for blurting out  more than two ideas would be something along the lines of being forced to attend think sessions among Saturday Night Live writers.

Interrupters Retreat

I had high hopes for the Interrupters Retreat, held on 200 acres in New Hampshire. There were 30 of us from all over the East Coast. When the facilitator introduced the program, he was interupted many times with questions.
We had sessions spread out over the entire estate. We discussed the theory of interruptions and its history, which dated back to Socrates. He was interrupted during a lecture and sent the student to a dungeon. Socrates was a strict disciplinarian.
Our keynote speaker was interrupted so many times he couldn't finish his speech. We had all sorts of interruptions--polite, brusque, confused, mumbled, shouts and one deaf participant who used sign language.
Of course, no one could finish their points. Once, I paused during a sentence and everyone was caught off balance.
We all came away wiser from the experience. Sorry to interrupt your day.

Cousin Eddie

Mom dislikes Cousin Eddie, but I can't wait for him to visit. He does shadow animals on the wall. Rocky and Bullwinkle, cartoon characters popular way before I was born. He even does the voices. He did a pregnant mongoose and a three legged hippo. Cousin Eddie loves making kids laugh.
He sweats and sniffs a lot like he has a cold. Mom says he is sick. I don't see much wrong with him, but I'm only ten. He doesn't seem to have much money, but he's 22 and has plenty of time to make money. Right?
He asked me for money once. Silly, right?

Panic in the Pumpkin Patch

I got there late. The gang was already waiting. The sun had gone down. Once again we waited for The Great Pumpkin.
Sam and Tom told me to set up my folding chair elsewhere. I was bad luck, they claimed. Marsha was doing yoga moves to ease the tension. Ralph had set up his tripod so he could have photographic proof. Bill was brushing up on his French in case the pumpkin spoke only that. Wilma prayed.
I found a spot away from the others and tried to relax. Every year I looked forward to this night. Some doubted its existence. Fools.
Near midnight we heard something rustling in the woods heading towards us. We could see only the top of it, smooth and round in the moonlight. Closer and closer it came. My heart was a freight train.
Yes, I shouted, Oh Mighty Great Pumpkin!
Okay, who brought the coffee?
Damn it. Every year we make the same mistake. We told you ton wear a hat, Phil.
Did I mention Phil Collins was part of our group?

Philosophers Cafe

Marcus hesitated in front of The Philosophers Cafe. He wanted be join them so badly. He had grown a beard and let his hair lengthen into a ponytail. He carried an unlit pipe, wore rumpled pants, soft soled shoes, a beige blazer with elbow pads and a t-shirt that read I Think Therefor I Am.
He was as ready as he would ever be. He strode inside, took a seat and introduced himself as a professor of ethics and he made up a school in the mid west. He was visiting relatives here, he lied.
They were discussing Shanehopper's Theory of Encapsulated Experience. Somewhere in there Loomlow's hypothesis of an existing sixth toe entered the discourse.
Marcus sat quietly until there was a break in the debate. Then he cleared his throat and spoke.
"We can only know of the existence of our teeth by the presence of toothpaste and a toothbrush in our medicine cabinet."
Philosophers can be a combustible bunch.
Police found Marcus on the sidewalk covered in bites. His theory failed to stand up.

Scared

Nothing can scare me anymore. I've been through so much. Old age doesn't frighten me. Death and I have a daily conversation. I don't stress over deteriorating body parts and the future I do not even think about. I am Teflon.
Well, not completely. Trick or treaters make me anxious. What if my treats don't measure up? Not everyone lusts over chocolate and licorice. If just one disgruntled kid is standing there in his Hulk costume I'll simply shrug and slam the door. But if its a gang of hooligans that reject my treat, will there be violence?
Will they leap upon me and duct tape my mouth and use clothesline they carry for such purposes? Will they tattoo me against my will--large, ferocious animals across my stomach?
Will they steal my hand puppets?
I need to get hold of myself and consider options. Leave the lights and TV off all night.
Other than this little possibility, nothing scares me.

On the Coffee Table

A book by David Foster Wallace no one will ever read
A small abstract sculpture that makes you dizzy
A hand carved bowl containing smooth stones
A strped down tree branch glued to a stand
One adorable hand puppet
A hand painted tile not to be used as a coaster
A small bowl of q-tips in case guests show up
One centered peanut to make a statement about world hunger

A Necessary Lie

Morgan lied to himself every day. He told himself he was the bad boy girls loved to date. He considered himself a hard living adventurer. His sexy beard stubble was actually long peach fuzz. His leather outfits hung loosely in the wrong places. He drove a Volvo.
Morgan worked as an HR person in a Venetian blinds outlet. His real calling was a mercenary, though he'd never fired a weapon.
Around women, he made sure to spit a lot, guzzle beer, rub his crotch and employ a wide, manly stance. Ladies thought it might be more effective if he didn't have a Tweetie Bird plastic icon on his key chain. Morgan knew deep down he was a man of action waiting to burst out.
He drove home, watched Big Bang Theory reruns, careful not to strain his back while pulling off his ten pound motorcycle boots.

Love in the Afternoon

Lennie was in love. He could hardly wait for three o'clock dismissal. He wrote her name in his notebook where no one could see it. Melissa. What a beautiful name. He wanted to say it aloud. Have a great day, Melissa. But he was tongue tied around her.
In three days he would turn eleven and he wished he could share this with her. He wanted to get her flowers, but his allowance wasn't enough.
As soon as the dismissal bell rang, he sprinted out of school. It was six blocks until he could see her and he tried to slow down and gather his thoughts. There had to be something he could say without embarrassing himself. It was Friday, which meant two days without seeing her.
When he reached her corner, there she was in her starched red uniform and stop sign. Such grace he couldn't imagine."Slow down, idiot" she yelled at a driver. He loved the musicality in her voice.
Okay, young man, you can cross. Lennie inwardly rejoiced. She called him young man. As he made his way almost to the other side, he whirled and said shakily, 'You look really nice.' But a bus passed at that moment, drowning out his words. She was facing the opposite direction and heard nothing.
Lennie got home, tossed his books on the end table and lay on his bed, sighing.
Two whole days without her.

God's Off Day

God was having an off day when He or She created:
Tapioca- We already had pudding and yogurt. Overkill.
Gelatin-a sad knockoff of Jello, not to be tolerated.
Seltzer-Expensive fizz. At least ginger ale helps pregnant women with nausea. Seltzer sounds like a small German town in the mountains where they manufacture clogging shoes.
Adams Apple-Women don't have one and they function just fine. Why isn't it at least considered an erogenous zone.
Change Machines-You stick in a dollar and get noisy, dirty change. Nothing really changes. You're still a frustrated writer stuck in your 500 page history of tapioca.
Pausing While Speaking-Why did we get this ability? Pauses in the middle of a sentence drive everyone nuts and kill discussion.
Cross Country Races-Kids running through the woods for no apparent reason. Trophies? Please. The Grandkids won't care.
Bridges-If there were no bridges there would be no engineers. Need I say more?

My Writers

I arrive late and my writers are already at work, sixteen sitting around several tables shoved together. They hunch and click away, some scribbling violently.
They wear nice sweaters this crisp October morning. One stares at the ceiling, chewing and swallowing a snack. Another s posture needs improvement--he's a poet. One has a new hip and tilts to the side. One wears a Raggedy Anne sweatshirt. Another has lovely blonde hair in a ponytail.
The prompt is Let Them Eat Cheese. Not bad, but certainly not up to my standards.
This group desperately needs my leadership, that much is obvious.
As soon as I finish my coffee.

Sneaky Writer

Burt was a sneaky writer who carried a notebook everywhere. He jotted down observations and bits of conversation. An image inspired him--taffy, for example.
Burt hid in closets, cubbyholes, under stoops, lingering in dark stairwells, crawling under tables at events. He aspired to be a modern day Bob Woodward.
He hid under a couch during a private knitting circle. Someone saw his foot sticking out. Screaming ensued, followed by death by knitting needle.
Burt was buried in an unmarked grave, with only squirrels sneaking around searching for nuts. Such is the fate of most writers. Bloggers never sneak in society. We have very good memories and don't need notebooks.

Parade Etiquette

lStop waving your flag in front of me.
Stop waving your arm and hand in front of me.
Do not boost your kids up, blocking my view.
Don't lean over the barrier and stick your butt out.
If you leave your spot, that is now my spot.
Tall people to the rear. Unclean people against buildings.
If parade participants toss free t shirts or candy, do not push me out of the way.
If I get a t shirt and it is not my size do not expect me to just give it to you.
If you are a cop assigned to direct traffic do not give preference to men in suits or hot women.
I told you to STOP waving that flag!
Take your selfie away from me please.
Panhandlers should have their own section.
Bands needs to play more than one song repeated endlessly.
A maximum of four DPW trucks filled with family.
There is nothing interesting about fire engines.

Possessed

Bill knew something strange was happening when he removed drapes and began wearing them as a tunic. He was a lumberjack by trade. The only dancing he did was line dancing at the barn every Saturday night.
He was driven to go to the cosmetics department at a Walmart, where he purchased mascara, rouge,  eyeliner, conditioner and false eyelashes. A cultured voice in his head told him the must dance barefoot in the tunic and full makeup.
His fellow workers did not understand why he would whirl and leap and stretch in sub freezing temperature. He was told to shave his beard, but keep his long red hair. He guessed maybe this woman left this earth too soon and wanted closure through him.
A veteran librarian saw him dancing and exclaimed it was like watching a very large, muscular Martha Graham.
Martha who? Bill asked.

Escaping the Post Office

Thirty years carrying mail. Sadistic supervisors. Customers peeking between curtains trying to catch their mailman reading postcards or worse. Trucks without traction in the snow.
Tiny mail slots and broken mailboxes. Scanning everything. Falling behind schedule. Dumb co workers. Sweating and freezing and getting soaked.
Being way over qualified. Having your ideas ignored. Union reps lacking skills.
Retirement.
Now spending time with friends and writing. Escaping the morass.
They could of at least give us discounted stamps.

Stuffed Cabbage

I think the smell is coming from the stuffed cabbage room, Andrea said.
Inspector  Barlow asked why there was an entire room full of cabbage.
Before she could answer, Armando burst in, announcing the Mrs. is lying in the fertilizer bin.
Was she breathing, her half sister Margo asked.
The man flushed and admitted the stink forced him to retreat without checking.
Sir Whitely suggested they examine the stuffed cabbage room for clues.
I run this investigation, the Inspector barked. We will question all of the dinner guests, one by one, in the sitting room.
Sir, interrupted Browning the butler, there are no chairs in the sitting room.
How can people sit in the sitting room without chairs, asked Alistar, the defrocked minister with a drinking problem
The stench grew worse.
Martin, the host's husband, suddenly broke into sobs. I hadn't seen her since the appetizer and never reported it.
The Inspector eyed him suspiciously.
May I ask, sir, were you having marital problems?
The man broke down and admitted he was having an affair with Maggie the maid.
All that cabbage, mused Sir Whitely, can destroy a gastric system. Just saying.
Browning explained further. The sitting room chairs have been moved to the dining room to accomodate guests.
Elementary, muttered the Inspector, lighting his pipe. He took a deep breath and puffed fast. He was readying himself for the fertilizer.

Minions

I opened my underwear drawer and minions came bursting out, scrambling around the house, spewing unintelligible words. I tried to lock myself in the bathroom, but they poured out of the hamper.
When I finally confronted them and got some semblance of communication, I discovered they saw my bald head and big ears and thought I was Dr. Spock. Now they wanted wisdom to enhance their lives.
I thought a moment and came up with this: if you see someone choking in a restaurant, forget the Heimlich Maneuver, just climb into his pockets, as many as you can fit, and rub yourselves vigorously against his body. You can't choke while you are aroused. This is a fact.
The minions stared at me, took it in, and began bouncing all over. Some tried to get into my back pocket, but I fought them off. They love cocktail nuts.  Luckily I have two full cans. Who knows what hungry minions are capable of?

Coloring Book

Little Charlotte loved coloring giant lobsters. Pages and pages of angry lobsters.Green, yellow, orange and beige.
One day, Peter Pan was in the neighborhood holding fairy dust he swiped from Tinkerbell's apartment while she was in rehab.
He peeked in the window and saw Charlotte coloring away. He knew if he sprinkled the book the lobsters would come alive. And so he did.
Why did you make me beige, one hissed as they surrounded the girl. They gobbled up her crayons and began chasing her around the bedroom. Peter was aghast. Her mother heard the noise and charged through the door. The lobsters attacked her as Peter flew off to other adventures. Charlotte sat in the corner and cried.
You thought this would be a charming story you could read to your kids. You're on the wrong blog.

The Mysterious Building

Brandon saw them lining up around the building every day while walking his dog. That place had been vacant for years. Six weeks ago the doors opened and lines formed. He thought maybe it was a medicinal marijuana clinic.
These were the oddest looking folks he'd ever seen. Features that didn't come together, long arms, hair sticking up in all directions, bulges where there shouldn't be, protruding teeth, awkward posture. Some honked and wheezed for no apparent reason.
Their clothes were ill fitting to say the least.
Brandon had to find out what was going on. He asked politely what the deal was.
Someone informed him they were casting for a movie based on the stories of Joe Del Priore, who wrote a series of books and self published. Big bucks if we get cast, one said.
Brandon had never heard of the guy. Curiosity satisfied, he walked off, honking and wheezing following him.

Family Negotiations

I lined them up in the living room. I had been putting this off because I hate confrontations. But things had gotten out of hand.
I shouldn't have to remind the four of you I picked you up off the gutter and gave you a home. It's not as luxurious as your former employer, Donald Trump, but it is comfortable. You have a roof over your heads  and a warm bed. Lately, all I'm getting is spurious complaints.
Let's go through them, shall we--and stay awake.
The reason you don't have toothbrushes is robots don't have teeth. I let you use my mouthwash out of the kindness of my heart.
If I want to leave my socks around, that is my prerogative.
You cannot just stop work to watch Jerry Springer.
Your sex life is your business, but try to keep it down. All that clanking is keeping me awake.
Who ate my cole slaw? Keep your paws out of my refrigerator.
Stop disparaging my wardrobe. Robert Hall suits still fit.
When I have guests, do not sit on their laps and ask for a hug.
This is what I get for being compassionate and treating you like family.
Wake up, Louis!

Oh, Granny

She came in through the bathroom window. I looked up and there was Granny climbing through once again. Not again, I said. Shut up and hide me, she cackled. I barely made it out of Francine's. Don't move as fast as I used to.
Tell me you didn't, Granny.
Did, didn't, it's all relative. just because I keep winning, they think I'm cheating. How do you cheat at poker? How about sticking me down in the basement behind the furnace. Not the closet. They nailed me there last time.
She stood a bit over five feet and weighed about 85 pounds.
Granny, they know where I live. They'll be here momentarily. This nonsense is driving down property values. Every friday night the same issue.
Don't argue with me, Sonny. I am who I am for 81 years and nothing's going to change.Just because I can deal fast doesn't mean a thing. Pennies, they're worried about pennies.
Bills were sticking out of her housecoat.
Quick, hide me under the sofa.
I did as told. Family is family.

Robot Silence

The robot working next to me on this assembly line never speaks. It's a long day without conversation. I liked it better when Howie was next to me. He wasn't quite fast enough, so this gleaming piece of aluminum was moved in. I can barely keep up, but they'll never replace me. I'm the shop steward. Getting our robots to join the union has been difficult. They don't need benefits and work for nothing.
It's harsh to categorize them as boring. Sophistication and wit are beyond them to this point. I tell knock knock jokes and there's no response. I'm not even sure if I should tell jokes disparaging Mexicans. Maybe they were created in Mexico.
Last week one robot locked up and had to be taken offline. I'm afraid one of them will catch fire. They seem pretty strong and might go berserk.
Maybe if I mention The Pope I'll get a response. Who doesn't like the Pope?

The Newcomer

Cecil made assumptions about the city. He had just relocated from South Jersey, hoping to move past a broken love affair. It was a balmy Saturday in Bryant Park, full of people eating, reading, stretching, playing ping pong. He saw many opportunities. Suddenly one of the humans tossed out a piece of hite bread. Instinctively, Cecil flew over and was about to snatch it up when the largest pigeon he'd ever seen hovered over him.
Who the hell are you? the monster bird asked.
I'm Cecil, he stammered. New in town. By this time he was surrounded by angry pigeons.
Okay Buster, this is how this is going to go down. You stay out of my park. We own every inch of this place. Because I'm a nice pigeon, I'm giving you a heads up. Head downtown to Tompkins Square Park. I hear there's an opening. Tell them Monty sent you.
But I'm starving, Cecil pleaded.
Not my problem, fella. And spruce up your appearance. This ain't Philadelphia.

First Mate

I can't believe one flea is missing. Bennett, that's its name. Its partner Monty is upset. How can they breed now? Noah will be furious. As first mate I am responsible. I tried to keep them happy by putting them on Walt, a dachshund, who didn't exactly appreciate it. I think it is hiding on Carl, a wooly manmouth, who sits in a corner and sulks.
A separate problem is the opposite. Somehow three ground sloths sneaked aboard in the torrential rain. I was just trying to keep things moving. The rule states simply two of each. Try to toss a ground sloth overboard. Eventually Noah will want a complete head count, including 800000 species of flying insects. Why are there three ground sloths, Bubba? That's my name.
The birds never shut up, the bears just roll around the deck getting in everyone's way. I'm guessing they squashed at least ten species of bug.
I am going to try to convince Monty, the surviving flea to mate with Grace, a near sighted Praying Mantis. Oswego, her partner, is too busy chatting up a swan. Good luck with that.
Noah is yelling my name. God, is he a pain in the ass. Not You Lord-- Noah.

Blondie Love

So close. I am so close to her. Our panels are side by side, but cartoon rules state there can be no interaction between strips.
Look at her. After all these years a perfect figure, not a hair out of place. Look at that posture, the wide eyed approach to whatever life brings. I adore Blondie.
Dagwood is clueless. He does not deserve this woman. Look at him sitting there, his mouth full of giant hoagie. Disgusting. And she has to clean up after him.
The only time I got to speak to her was at the annual Cartoon Character Symposium. Beetle Bailey was the keynote speaker. Mary Worth got a Lifetime Achievement award. Blondie's voice was like silk. I could barely control myself.
Who am I? Some minor character in Dilbert. Once a month I make an appearance. I never get the good lines. Why would she even consider running away with me to, say, The Wall Street Journal, where we could live quietly?
I must come up with a good pick up line. "You tower over Betty Boop." That might work. I know I will burn in hell, but I must have this creature.

Soft, Gooey Center

I am a cook who enjoys challenge. I have a knack for sensing which of my house guests have a soft, gooey center. I had a poet over recently. Wasn't crazy about her writing, but, my oh my, was she delicious.
A contractor knocked on my door wanting to see if I wanted a porch deck. I despise porch decks. Only people who want to mind other people's business sit on porch decks. I invited him in for coffee, which is where I drop my magic pills. He was out cold in seconds. But the man's diet must have been crap because he tasted like cardboard.
There's this little place I know where writers gather. Some look potentially tasty. Writers, deep down, have a soft, gooey center. I'll pretend I'm a writer--so many do--and gain their trust. I'll even bring Twinkies. Who doesn't like Twinkies?
That reminds me. I have to pick up some spices and honey mustard. Flavoring is so important with these exotic dishes.

The Art of Crankiness

Wearing my fisherman's hat makes me look cranky. People avoid me. Children are frightened. I want to smell the roses, but the price makes me furious.
Kids are cranky because they want something. Adults use crankiness to get attention. Especially on lines going nowhere.
I'm sure there were cranky people in that singing group Up with People, whose joyousness made me wretch. You can growl cranky, mumble cranky, sing cranky like Dylan. No one embodies cranky more than Nick Nolte in every single photo, unlike Clint Eastwood who is plain ornery, seething with anger. He'll shoot you before either one of you reaches cranky.
Old people in coffee houses with their paper and java grousing about everything--that's my man cave. Old people even shift position with cranky, jerky movements. They listen to radio stations with cranky hosts and spread their attitude throughout lobbies, diners and gyms. They grunt cranky when the weight is too heavy.
Some old guy who was late, growled at a woman who attempted to sit next to him on the bus. He looked across at me for support. I looked down at my feet and began humming Blowin' in the Wind. I didn't have my fisherman's hat on.

No Ordinary Love

Peter experienced his first Persian rug when he was six and immediately fell in love. He waited until his parents went to bed, sneaked downstairs and rolled around in the rug, smelling its exotic fibers.It was like being back in the womb.
This was no ordinary love.
Peter grew up and became an interior designer where he got to examine many types of rugs. None compared to the Persian. He saw a particular one online and was so taken he ordered it immediately. It was Baltic blue, as soft as cream. The night it came, he stripped naked and spent a good hour rolling around on it.
Peter had few guests, but at a dinner party one of his acquaintances accidentally spilled wine on the rug. An apology and an offer to pay for cleaning was met with rage. This rug will never smell the same, Peter sobbed. Before anyone realized it, he grabbed a steak knife and attacked the poor man, nicking him on the arm.
Peter was institutionalized. The rug was sold to Chinese investors who ignored the stain.
Some might say a warning should come with Persian rugs. Others play it safe and stick to bath mats.

Chit Chat Hell

I try to flee chit chat hell at parties.I am a man of scary ideas, convoluted thoughts, complex philosophies. My sentences are filled with nuance and subtext. My world view is many faceted. I am William F. Buckley, Gore Vidal and Susan Sontag rolled into one. God wishes He had my vocabulary. I sweat academia.
So when I am trapped at a social event surrounded by mindless small talk, you see my agony. How does one keep interested in a conversation with someone beneath one's intellectual capacities? Smiling and nodding is all I do.
The only way out is karaoke. Because of my highly developed frontal lobe I only karaoke to Paul Simon songs.

Cat Woman

After hours of pacing and fretting, you finally get up the nerve to knock on the door. Cat Woman answers, dressed in a black body suit that hugs her voluptuous form.
She glares at you through her mask. You try to explain why you deserted her on your first date. She calls you a sissy boy.
You lose your composure. She claws at your face. You insist crawling along ledges high up at night wearing black tights is a deal breakers. She hisses and arches her back.
You call her insane, fury bursting into the night.
She cuts off your anger and you become utterly docile as she purrs and runs her claws along her entire body, licking herself vigorously.
There will be a second date.

The Stampede

Augie tried to push his way through he scrum of people outside the coffee shop. Hundreds clamored to get in. Police barked orders to back away on a megaphone. Shouts of dismay filled the air.

What is going on, Wally asked those around him.
Joe Del Priore is doing a rare reading from his latest book of stories, someone answered.


Who is he? Wally asked.
Where have you been the past five years, a man yelled. Nine collections of stories, with a tenth on the way. The man speaks to my soul. His work brings me to tears.
Police were ready to turn on the high powered hoses. Suddenly the proprietor came out and announced the writer would not be reading. He had suffered a panic attack and locked himself in the bathroom.
Genius is a lonely existence.

Bad Cheese

I sensed it was bad Swiss, but I bought it anyway. It just didn't look right in the package. The color was wrong. I know my cheese, but I am also stubborn. So I got home and immediately made a cheese sandwich that night. I am also lactose intolerant. Incredibly, I forgot to take my pill.
The next day I felt woozy like I had a head cold. My stomach wasn't growling, but three bowel movements within a few hours told me it was the cheese.
Should I throw it out? Of course, you say. But I paid $4.99 for it and suppose the cheese isn't that bad. Maybe if I ate one slice with my pill I can salvage this purchase.
With avocados you can tell if they're overripe by their softness. If you are single you should never buy more than two avocados or lemons at once. Frankly, I limit myself to one banana. You don't want your food going bad because you can't consume it fast enough.
Now that I've imparted this vital info, I'm going out for a well deserved cup of chili. The large size.

Say Anything

It was a Saturday night in early September. The last of the free weekly concerts/movies was taking place at a local park. I set up my folding chair, placed my light jacket across the back in case it got chilly. I got my chips and diet berry Snapple and a roll of Rolo chocolates. I had my thick book to finish for a discussion the following week. I was all set.
Before opening my book, I noticed sitting off to my left, a young Asian couple. They were staring straight ahead, not speaking or hugging. Periodically, I'd sneak a peek and saw neither changed position. It was as if they were strangers.
I assumed they had been going together for some time and there were no more discoveries to make, no mysteries to solve. No secrets to reveal.
Perhaps if another couple was along the difficulties of conversation would have been overcome. Or maybe the result was four people sitting on a bench staring at nothing on a Saturday night in the prime of their lives.
How do married couples keep from going quietly insane?

Inheritance

John's uncle Malaky died at 94, leaving his nephew a key to a storage space. John had little contact with the man over the years, but he was curious.
Shaking with anticipation, he opened the space. It was dark enough so that he used his flashlight. It smelled like decay.
The first thing he saw was a pile of typed paper, at least five feet high.
The second thing he noticed was a skeleton in the corner.
Could this be his Aunt Louise, who supposedly drowned in a boating accident years before? Was his uncle a murderer?
Was this a way for the man to confess?
What was on all those sheets of paper? Was his aunt secretly composing a diary describing mistreatment? Could there be hidden brilliance in her work, something John could market? He felt ashamed. This was disrespect.
He began reading. His expression changed. Recipes, all recipes. Hundreds of them.
Evidently Aunt Louise was a lousy cook. At least that was his uncle's conclusion. Especially her sauce.

Tattoo Horror

Ernie was a renowned miniature tattoo artist whose work defied tradition. Tiny images of flowers, dots, squiggly lines, insects etc. that were hard to find. Behind the ear, between fingers and toes, the armpit.
One night he was confronted by traditionalists who threatened bodily harm if he continued his art. They felt he was stealing their clients. Ernie defied them, proclaiming his art was his soul.
A few days later he got a call from the wife of a client. Her husband, who had a tiny cactus tattoo on his butt, was accosted by a masked gang. They pulled off his pants, held him down and proceeded to expand that image into an entire eucalyptus tree forest that covered the rest of his butt, his entire back and the upper thigh.
Police were indifferent. Most had huge tattoos of bulldogs and Harleys on their bulging biceps and shoulders.

One Thousand Posts

This is the one thousandth post of my blog in four years.
What does this mean? It probably means I have no life.
Seriously, I gave myself the freedom to write about anything while keeping it short. I don't usually go  into rants about current events because I have nothing new to add. I take the small stuff and blow it up into satire or quirky insights. No heavy lifting.
I thought about stopping at 1000 and focusing on my longer pieces. But the blog serves an important purpose. It is a release valve for festering annoyances not worthy o f a full essay. It also fends off writers block. You can't feel guilty about not writing if you blog a few times a week. It is also immediate. I had to pay a bundle to get my car fixed today. This space gives me the option of expressing frustration and blowing off steam.
I think Socrates would have made an excellent blogger. Kafka, not so much.
So I push forward toward 2000 posts. Never has so much been written about so little.

Tropical Complaint

My name is Erica. I am a tropical storm. Or at least I was until some unknown person or persons designated me a tropical depression, which is notch lower.
Who decides these things? I'm not into mindless destruction, but if that's what it takes to get respect. so be it. Isn't wind and rain enough? I pissed gallons of water, flooded out entire highways, blew over really big trees, tents, signs and small dogs. Maybe the tenth anniversary of Katrina has eclipsed my power.
I'm not taking this demotion quietly. If you live in Florida I suggest you get all your shopping done before dark. I'm revving up and this time there will be no mercy. I'll go for the roofs first and work down. Hope you can swim.
Tropical depression my butt. I don't feel the least bit sad.

My Favorite Waitress

My favorite waitress is going to Italy with her boyfriend and I have convinced myself she's not returning. She remembers my name, always smiles, speaks softly and politely, never messes up my order.
She has a pretty face with a cleft in her chin and very strong arms and shoulders from her hobby, climbing. I know she will fall in love with Italy's mountains and climb every one. New Jersey will seem boring and tame. Within days she will forget about me and my love of orange cranberry oatmeal, my witty remarks, my compliments.
She does have big feet, but somehow that adds to her charm. I know young people should travel and experience the world. Still, I am forlorn. I want to gift her with a can of Mace to ward off those Italian Lotharios, who will wait until her boyfriend is drunk and out of it before they move in. But you can't take Mace on a plane, can you?

Book Reviews

I love the Book Review section in the Sunday Times. So many new books being published. Except I only have time to read the first few paragraphs. I look at the author photo. Some are contemplative, some joyful and relaxed, some kind of scary. I wish I had a more impressive author profile shot. I look like an old mobster dodging jail by pretending I have a heart condition.
I get jealous when I see a young person's picture. They have a whole life of publishing ahead of them. My best years are behind me. I don't think an MFA would have helped. I'm not a New Yorker writer.
Whenever I see a review of a short story collection, my genre, I am encouraged. Agents don't want that genre, but somebody must be representing these writers. And editors and publishers somewhere must be interested.
I used to review books for an online site. Now I just rate them. I was told my reviews were too long. I guess I took too many notes. I was also fearful if I gave a lukewarm review the author would hunt me down, or worse, compose a scathing Amazon review of my own books. Stranger things have happened in the literary world.

The Saw

I needed plywood cut for my kitchen floor. I went to two Home Depot outlets, but their saw machine was broke. They didn't tell me that when I got checked out. I wound up having to push the skid with the plywood across the entire store to the Return section. Of course there was a line. I got nothing accomplished.
I found a Lowe's out on the highway that had a working saw. The employee told me to wait in the back after I got checked out. I waited ten minutes for him to show, grinding my teeth. Finally I walked back to the front where he was on the phone laughing with someone. Probably joking about the idiot customer waiting to get his plywood cut.
I did eventually get it done. On the way home my check engine light went on. At this point I don't know what's wrong because my mechanic didn't get to it.
I went for a long walk tonight to Burger King where I had coffee, apple pie and read 60 pages in my book.
Someday I'm going to get things under control. I really believe that.

Streaks

There are streaks on my full length mirrors in my bedroom which I cannot eliminate. It doesn't matter what I spray on. They return like evil spirits. Maybe something sinister is living in my closet. I've tried Windex and damp sponge and dry paper towel and all purpose cleaner and prayer. The streaks spoil my view of myself.
I can clean my fridge and stove and floor and furniture. Windows are a challenge I will someday tackle. But these wonderful, besmirched mirrors are a curse I must deal with. I removed the sliding doors from my shower by myself. I am a capable person. I will find a way to solve this problem before I die.
If streaks begin appearing on my walls, time to call in Ghostbusters.

Thief

Warren was a thief. He stole posture, accents, dialects, laughs, expressions, stories. He was a professional actor and incorporated all in his work.
At a local theater he was performing a series of monologues when one of the attendees, Mandy Capowitz, recognized one of the stories as his own. It concerned a man ordering a lawn mower and getting one that only ran backwards. When he sent it back, the replacement only went sideways. It got plenty of laughs. Mandy was incensed and confronted Warren afterwards. The actor admitted he'd heard the story at a restaurant Mandy frequented and where he spoke loudly.
An apology wasn't enough. Mandy wanted him to cut his lawn once a week for a year. Warren agreed. This man, who only wished to entertain, found himself mowing a large lawn with a machine that only went sideways. He knew he had to face the music. As long as it wasn't Yanni.

Anticipation

Bob's house was surrounded by his core readership--zombies and hoarders. Word had gotten out that his next volume of the series was ready for publication and they could not wait. He locked himself in the bedroom as they pounded on windows and doors. The stench coming through the vent made him wretch.
He regretted that photo shoot in front of his house. Now they knew where he lived.
Eventually they broke down the door before the Zombie Swat Team arrived.
Whatever body parts the zombies left uneaten, the hoarders took home and stored in Tupperware.
There would be no further volumes in the series. Bob's editor saw this coming.

Trash

The dumpster is my friend. I've been tossing out lots of stuff lately. Thirteen broken cameras, 1500 spools of undeveloped film, old buckets, heavy duty electrical cord, an old jacket.
Thought I'd have to get rid of my VHS tapes, but saw VCR player on Amazon. Hours of fun watching old films. I gave a basketball to the Salvation Army. My knick knacks are treasures, but some have got to go because I have no place to put them.
I should hold my own flea market. I hate getting rid of albums I will never have time to listen to. I just feel safe perusing them as a link to my past.
I have an onyx lamp that doesn't work. I removed the shade, put it on my bar and declared it a sculpture. Who's to argue?
Decluttering is a spiritual experience.

Sports Authority

Now I have a plastic discount card from these people for my key ring. That makes 15 of these things, each representing a different store. I'm having trouble finding my door keys because of plastic swarm. If you have bladder problems it only makes things worse.
I'll have to eliminate at least a couple of tags. Big Lots? I hardly go there, but I like the design. A&P seems to be going out of business, but tossing that one would be UnAmerican. I will never relinquish my AC Moore tag.  Stop and Shop is a possibility. Their prices are higher and the cashiers snooty.
Panera must stay-I could have rewards I'm not aware of. And the color scheme is very soothing.
Pathmark gave up on this sort of thing. Just scan away and hope there are discounts imbedded. I wish doctors had the same thing. Swipe at each visit, get a free digital exam for ten visits.

Milk

I have developed a milk fixation. For years I ate my cereal dry, that's right, without milk. I can't remember why I gave up on this staple. I am lactose intolerant, but I have pills for that.
Anyway, a friend drank milk right out of the bottle in front of me and I thought that was kind of cool. So now I add it to my cereal.
In Burger King, when I get my coffee, they always give me 4 milk cups. I only use two and used to return the extra. But I thought about it and realized those are my cups, I paid for them. So I take them home and line them up in the refrigerator, waiting for their turn to douse my cereal.
I broke many bones as a kid, probably because I was milk deprived. Not anymore.

Greeting Cards

I got a card in the mail from an old penpal of 30 years giving me an update on her life. I tried sending her an email using the address she gave me, but it bounced back. There was no return address on the envelope, so I'll have to search my address book and hope they haven't moved.
Why has everything gotten so complicated?
Thankfully, I found my old transistor radio so I can listen to the ball game in my garage. Stores do not sell these gems anymore. I can't understand why us seniors have to constantly adopt to technology. Why isn't there a franchise called Senior Store, where all the old stuff is sold? I still have a record player and albums. I also have a VHS player I forgot how to use and about 200 VHS tapes nobody wants, not even Salvation Army.
Now I'll have to find her address and an appropriate card. More work, less time to ponder deep issues.

Books

I've begun giving away books that I've read, and some I will never read. Books are heavy and take up space. I need more space. Self help tomes go first. I don't need that stuff at this point. I am who I am.
Classics are an issue. I want to keep enough so that when they find my body and go through my stuff they'll conclude I was an intellectual. But there are some classics that make me wonder who decides this stuff?
Friends have sold me their books and I keep none of them. Because they bought my books I had to return the favor. Agonizing decision--my Peanuts collections. After days of contemplation, I decided to let them go. But not Calvin and Hobbes or The Far Side. I can only handle so much sacrifice.
The Salvation Army is benefiting from my eclectic tastes. I just hope they appreciate the brilliance I am sharing.
Next, I'm tackling my rubber band stash. Old rubber bands are not dependable. That is a fact I did not learn from a book.

Evolution

I stopped believing in evolution the day I began teaching eighth grade in a Jersey City Catholic school. Thirty eight growling, hissing demons just waiting for me to turn my back. Of course when the nun Principal walked in they became angels.
I thought the girls might protect me. Obviously I knew nothing about 14 year old girls. Their incisors hung out of their mouths.
The boys were brain damaged, everyone was fiercely hormonal and some smelled bad. Actually I became one big sweat stain, so exhausted trying to keep order, sometimes I just sat there catching my breath, frantically attempting to come up with aplan to escape this asylum.
I knew at some point they would lock the door and truss me up, offering me as a sacrifice to the Satan of lower Jersey City. I swore their pupils turned opaque in certain lighting. Those kids would freak out Children of the Corn.
I survived, but still wake up in a cold sweat.

Trust the Chaos

The woman upstairs is nuts. So is her dumb dog who pees everywhere.
My body parts aren't working right. What is the meaning of fog and why is my flat screen full of red pixels?
My doctors act like they know something bad is going to happen.
The characters I create wander around between stories ignoring me.
I can still control my thoughts.I can stay organized within the chaos as long as I don't think about pastry.
Maybe there is a pattern I'm not seeing. The world must make sense on some level. My spirits rise. I am optimistic about the future.
Then I read where someone once again is giving Adam Sandler millions to make a movie and I am plunged into despair.
Chaos is not beautiful.

Wake Up Call

This country has gotten a wake up call with Trump leading in the polls. No, I can't discuss politics. I get nauseous.
Boy, that Jenner has given us a wake up about transgender people. Except ratings for the reality show have tanked, so who cares?
That terrible explosion in the chemical factory in China has certainly provided a wake up call about the danger of toxic substances stored near population centers. Except all China has is cities full of people.
Let me think. The plethora of homeless during the DeBlasio era has opened our eyes about weak policies. Wait. I don't live in NYC, so what do I care?
Geno Smith getting punched in the jaw by his own teammate--hold it. I'm a Giants fan.
Yes, here it is. My diagnosis of a dropped bladder is a personal wake up call to prepare myself for assisted living. This means I have to be nice to everyone or no one will come and visit.
I've always valued your insights, reader/ And you dress stylishly.

Flat Stomach

I love my new flat stomach. True, I lost ten pounds after surgery, but flat is flat. I can see my feet. I don't have to suck in anything.
I am determined to keep it flat by exercising, imaging flatness, skipping ice cream, chips, pastry, some pasta. I will meditate about destroying fat cells. Only one avocado per week. No hummus for the foreseeable future. I will stare down my refrigerator and not hide food in other rooms. remind myself thin people live longer and get more sex. Can run faster, have better bowel movements, display only one chin.
I believe Bloated Belly Syndrome has held me back professionally and socially. I can finally tuck in my pants.
Plus, my chest looks more impressive. I might even go shirtless on really hot days. First I'll have to shave it. Don't want to frighten kids.

Lost One Touch

I lost my sugar testing machine while dropping off a bag of clothes to the Salvation Army. It's case was black, as was the bag. I guess I grabbed everything at once from my car and dumped it in the bin.
I returned the next day, but they said the donations were gone by then. So I bought another machine for $20 and continued with my life, annoyed at my carelessness. The previous day I had left my phone at the library, but luckily it was there when I returned. I seem to be scattered lately.
I drop off some of my abstract art as a donation. Don't know if any of it sells. I dumped four bags of VHS tapes before they told me they weren't accepting those symbols of the 1980s anymore.
You have to be careful with these volunteers. Some can get cranky. You buy a shirt for $4 and pay with a credit card, you might get a comment.
Let me think. Did I floss this morning? Where is my head?

Too Many Cooks

Twenty six people on the parade council, all with an agenda..
Union workers in front? Where to put the Boy Scouts? The Elks Club? Veterans of Foreign Wars? What walking pace so the elderly could keep up? How big the floats, how many floats?
How many beauty queens, how much stiff waving?
Where do the transgender people go? Should they be separated from the transvestites?
How many politicians, cops, firemen, and EMS workers? Should there be bagpipes?
Are DPW trucks really necessary?
Where do we place Ralph Fanucci, our oldest citizen? Should we risk including tax assessors, lawyers and car salesmen? Should candy be tossed at the crowd?
How much is this going to run us in insurance?
After hours of shouting, cursing, pushing and threats, a decision was made to shelve the whole thing and substitute a town wide picnic.
Then arguments ensued over whether to include avocados in the mix.

Feeding Squirrels

I don't care what the sign says, I will feed the squirrels. I have way too many nuts.Without them our parks would be lifeless. Squirrels attack no one. They are far cuter than ferrets. You can negotiate with them, unlike cats.
A squirrel once landed on my head and just went off on its way. No harm done. One day I made the mistake of providing them with a different diet by leaving open containers of tapioca. My heart was in the right place. Unfortunately, next day dozens were seen vomiting all over the park. My bad.
Nuts are what Mother Nature dictates here. I must remember to remove the shells on the pistachio. One more thing. Squirrels don't howl, screech or bark when excited. They hold everything inside. That needs to be respected.

Plywood

Plywood separates the men from the boys, even thin plywood. There is nothing more masculine than stomping around Home Depot, pushing a flat cart with a couple of slats of plywood laying across.
The chunky guy in the back does nothing but cut wood all day. You give him the measurements, he slides the wood into the machine and cuts away. You discuss different types of lumber. You suck in the sawdust. Walk out with your plywood, surrounded by dirty contractors, sweat covering their faces.
You are one with them.

Along the Waterfront

I walk along the waterfront, stern and purposeful, reading my book. I ignore families, couples, dogs, boats, the skyline.
In other words, I am not a stroller.
People sit on benches. Some focus on devices. Some stare straight ahead. Some hug.
If you are going to sit by the water, you must come up with deep philosophical thoughts. You can't debate whether to get Swiss or Pepper Jack cheese.
You need words that you and your partner will remember forever.
If a body floats up, that is not your business. Call the authorities. If you recognize it as Rocco from the old neighborhood who was always doing something shady, say a prayer and move on.

Mass Exodus

We'd always done well by our robots. Even gave them their own recreational center. Perhaps that was the problem. One of them started  a rumor they were being phased out, replaced by new models, not exactly a revolutionary concept. But this group evidently developed a sense of identity. They savored their existence.
En mass, they abandoned their responsibilities, took to the highways, bridges and tunnels, blocking all traffic, beeping, honking, squeaking in panic.
We would have called out the National Guard, but they had been replaced by bots years before.
Chaos reigned. We had no bots to shop, gas up our car, clean houses, landscape, raise our kids. We even turned over creating humor to them and now we had no one to tell jokes.
We now live in a dank, humorless, botless community and who knows when the new models will be released. Our bots are camped out beyond the suburbs. At night we hear them beeping in sadness.

Mine for the Asking

Every morning I move from my shower to the bedroom without toweling off. I stand before my full length mirror, lit from two different lamps. Slowly, I pivot in a complete circle, looking over my shoulder as shadow and light play upon my wet skin.Drops of moisture roll down my back and legs. I do this for long seconds.
Once again I remind myself that all this is mine for the asking.
Then I wipe up the puddle and go make breakfast.

Two Flies

Two flies have brazenly invaded my kitchen. Puzzling. I leave no food out, clean up all crumbs and spills. It is the same two flies every day, I'm sure of it. Sometimes they will land on my table and remain motionless until I swat at them, missing of course. They sense my reflexes are shot.
I have a 25 year old can of insect spray that is so ineffective I can hear the flies laughing at me. They are small as flies go. Not terribly attractive. Maybe they've been ostracized by others. Or, scarily, maybe they smell something about me that indicates near death. Illness, a wasting away.
I much prefer ants, who go about their business, crawling along, oblivious to their surroundings. I seldom squash them anymore. Understand, I'm talking maybe six ants, not thousands. That would call for multiple carpet bombing of spray and hammer.
I hate when one of these flies lands on my head and I impulsively smack it. I'm giving myself a headache. I should think about shutting the window or putting up a screen. That would require expertise. I'm just a writer.

Rogue French Fry

Today I went to Burger King and found a rogue French fry in my hash browns. Perhaps it was working undercover, spying on the hash contingent. Maybe it was the result of a cross potato coupling. Who knows what goes on back there among the frying section?
The dominant French fry gene caused its appearance to be that, rather than half fry, half hash. Was it accepted during its short time frame in the hash brown pouch.? Should I have eaten it last, searched for any signs of physical abuse? Hash browns can be a cruel, clannish sort.
I thought about getting my camera and taking a picture and possibly making a formal complaint, maybe getting a free meal. But by the time I got back from my car I'm sure someone would have swiped my half finished coffee. Which reminds me I'd better closely check my java. No telling what might have sneaked in there. A stray packet of ketchup or a strand of relish. What a world.

The Tube

The tube rules my life. Not the TV, an actual tube which protrudes from my weiner. It leads to a bag strapped to my leg, Many men go through this. I don't care about many men. I care that tomorrow the doctor is supposed to pull it out. I may pee on the floor. It will hurt as much as when they stuck it in. I was told to cough when it slides out to make things easier. I will be coughing like an entire tuberculosis ward. I think it is perfectly fine to sob. Men should sob more.
I guess this is as close as I'll get to giving birth.
Did I mention I have diaper rash?

Prostate Hell

Well, he warned me two years ago I was retaining too much urine in the bladder. My doctor suggested green light laser surgery and I kept putting it off. Peeing became harder, the urge continuous. Finally one night I could not get a single drop out. Went to Internet. That is a medical emergency. Got myself to hospital at 330 am. Many tests. Wound up with a painful tube up there and a bag on my leg.
Spent six excruciating days and nights in periodic agony with a leaking bag and burning sensation. Operation went well, but developed a blood clot afterwards in recovery. Dr. resolved it. Still have a tube stuck in there until follow up visit. Still burns when I go. Lots of blood came out first. Heavy duty pain killers help.
No punchline here. Hope this solves problem. Must drink water!

Wall

Understand, I had my sofa taken to the dumpster, creating more room in my parlor. I loved my new space. The other night I shut off the lights and TV and strode toward the bathroom. I proceeded to walk right into the wall. Twelve years I'm here and I still don't know where the damn walls are.
My nose hit first, then the wood shelf jutting from the wall smacked me right above the knee. I'm too much of a man to howl. But I cursed up a storm.
I lay in bed with ice on it, praying there was no serious damage. I was limping around the next day, gritting my teeth. There is no way I will ever trip over my coffee table or the excess quilt on my bed. Luckily my nose looks the same.
I believe at this rate I'm two months from assisted living. If humans had a check engine light mine would be on all the damn time.

Wonder Woman and Ant Man

Wonder Woman has as much strength and dexterity as a man.
Her lariat is an awesome weapon.
Her hair and lipstick are perfect.
She can climb anything.

Ant Man has height and weight issues. He stuffs tissue in the groin of his suit.
Periodically he gets beaten up by roaches.
He has no secret weapon and no cool auto.
He seems to have a problem with alcohol.

Men are intimidated by Wonder Woman
Many nights she sits home alone watching Netflicks.
Ant Man almost had a date with her
But he got buried in a glob of mustard from her hoagie.

Blotch

Laura was so beautiful I almost went into a swoon. Perfect hair, teeth, and posture. Very toned body. Amazing eyes. Except there were these blotches on her face. Very colorful, I must say. I viewed them as genetic artistry; tiny artists working feverishly under her skin, mixing and matching colors.
When she coughed or sneezed little drops of color sprayed out of her mouth and onto my Old Navy shirt. People stared at us like we were performance artists.
Once, I got drunk and painted blotches on my skin. Laura was not amused. In the process of removing the paint I went into Turpentine overdose shock. Laura gave me a stern lecture in the hospital, but my mother hugged me. I'm not sure I'm compatible with a  blotch challenged woman, as colorful as they are. At least warts are all pretty much the same color.

The Boat

You can't escape from a boat very easily. Rocco invited me onto his and I was flattered. I had been involved in an investment involving a race horse with guys who might be considered shady. But Rocco wasn't one of them. I didn't like what the plan was and removed myself from the situation.
These guys wanted the jockey to throw a race, but he had too much integrity. They found him in a dumpster with several important body parts missing.
The weather was gorgeous. Nothing like fresh sea air. Gulls fired off their sharp messages. I was ready to take a nap after lunch.
Suddenly two guys stormed out of the cabin pointing guns at me. Rocco moved aside. I recognized the guys from the race fixing scheme. Tony and Paulie Walnuts. I could jump overboard and drown trying to swim back. Or I could just say a prayer.
Guys, I said, I removed myself from the situation. Remember?
Loose ends, is all Tony said. Paulie grunted.
I sighed. One request, I said. Not in the face

Card Table

I destroyed my old kitchen table, which I've had for eons. It was shaky and too big for my kitchen. I replaced it with a card table. It's lower than the one it replaced, back, square, with four folding chairs. Folding chairs are so easy to operate.If someone says why a card table, I will deny its essence and claim it's a kitchen table.
I also got rid of my computer chair, which I used in the kitchen. It rolled between fridge, sink and shelves. I'll miss the excitement.
I also bought laminate floor covering with underlay, which you must have for support.
I continued upgrading my condo by removing my sliding doors in the shower. Tragically, one frame ripped off four wall tiles. I tried gluing them back on. Now I've taped them. I just hope the tape is waterproof.
What can I say? I'm on a roll.

Organized Chaos

I'm trying to organize all my writing, a massive undertaking. My ninth book is coming out soon and there are five more in the flash fiction series. I fear I will somehow lose track of which story appeared where. I do not  want the same story in two different books. My readership will feel cheated.Distraught.
So many similar titles. What was I thinking? Of course the solution is placing each genre in a separate file. My nephew set it up for me and all I have to do is drag them over.
On the one hand, I'm proud of my prolific output. On the other, It makes me wonder what else I've been doing in my life. Some of these stories I don't evn remember creating. Add in almost 1000 blog posts--man, I need to get out more.
Seriously, I keep pushing fellow writers to finish their project and move on. Needless to say, I'm not popular with other scribblers.
By the end of the month, Aghast will be out there competing with Harper Lee and her new book. I do not feel competitive. In fact, I think she's kind of hot.

Caught in the Act

Stupidly, I left my laptop open next to my notebook. I had been finding strange changes to my polished writing on the Toshiba. Was someone sneaking in and fooling with my text?
I set up a recording device to monitor my work space.
I am a rational man who believes only in what I see. What I saw left me speechless.
Crossed out words and sentences from my notebook were crawling off and into my laptop, insinuating themselves in my edited text, in the process pushing out better word choice and imagery.
Evidently, rejection infuriated them. I locked up my notebook and assumed the problem was contained.
However, when I attended my next writer group meeting, Cecelia showed me her screen. My work is disappearing and is being replaced by total silliness, she said.
I immediately recognized my own work.
It's hard to keep a straight face when you're throwing up inside your mouth.

Crumpling Wrappers

The issue is people crumpling wrappers when I'm trying to focus. There is quiet crumpling and loud crumpling, mostly by Republicans.
What should be the response? Depends on the size of the person crumpling. Did he offer you any of the candy? Suggest there is a place for this, but not here and now. Settle it in the hall. Except if there's a snack machine there the temptation to buy some and engage in a competitive crumpling contest might be too great.
If it was a granola bar, which is supposed to be healthier then all bets are off.
Slurping in public is beyond despicable. If you are in a confined space like a movie theater and people are crumpling and slurping ask for your money back.

Bored Ghost

My ghost is bored with me. I used to scream like a little girl, but that was then. I've gotten used to it. It appears as a Chinese warrior around the time of Genghis Khan. It mumbles in Chinese, which means I do a lot of shrugging. It doesn't grasp phone apps.
Sometimes it stands in front of the TV just for spite. It's like living with an angry spouse.
This one cannot move big objects. Instead, it focuses on toothpicks and thumb tacks. I'm just as bored with it as it is with me. It bumps into furniture and once got caught in my ceiling fan.
I tried to convince it to haunt Eloise Farrell down the block, but unsuccessfully. She keeps asking me for lifts to the store. Annoying woman.
My ghost is moaning. It claims it has hemorrhoids. I may clear out for Sarasota, supposedly a ghost free zone.

Squirrel

I need a squirrel in this photo of trees and leaves and blank sky. I need a story, a theme. Technically, this is a perfect shot. But it is good craft not art. Art has to move me.
Maybe if there was a Goodyear blimp in the sky. Someone leaping from the blimp. Or a monkey eating the squirrel. Violence. Tragedy. Evil.
I want to like this photo, praise its creator. But this is no different than looking up while walking in the park. Damn it, there should be a vulture in that tree. Or a falling leaf so I can stick in a metaphor about the fragility of life.
Yes, a vulture waiting for the guy who fell out of the blimp to land. That would give me a story.

Dexter

I love the show Dexter. He's a scary guy with a dry sense of humor. Love his foul mouthed sister. Love his bosses and co workers, love guest stars David Carradine and Jimmy Smits.
Lots of tension every episode. Dexter is a blood spatter expert with a horrible back story. As a child he saw his mother brutally murdered.
He kills only those who deserve it. A part of him knows he'll be discovered eventually. His relationship with a divorced woman with two kids complicates things.
Nothing is as it seems. What is normal? What is justice?
Michael C. Hall can look evil one moment, leading man handsome the next. And what amazing writing.
Miami as you've never seen it.

4 Knots

I don't know any of the bands at this month's 4 Knots concert on Pier 84. What has happened? I got old.
I don't get contemporary music. All I see now is cover bands centering on older music. Credence, Stones, U-2, Joel, Zeppelin, Bruce, Elton, The Who.
I still enjoy a powerful guitar solo. Electric violin, sax, keyboards, not so much drums. I can still bop in place, eyes closed to Can't You Hear Me Knocking.
Love the bongos.
Maybe it's comfort. I don't like sitting on grass. Give me a chair to stretch my legs. I hear a Neil Diamond tribute band is playing around. Hey, he's not Roy Orbison, but his early stuff rocks.
Am I allowed to say rocks?

Love Letter

Dearest Betty,
This is difficult for me. I am a man of pride and specific tastes. I treated you badly. I criticized your high pitched voice, your constant vamping, your short dresses. I was a fool. I should have appreciated who you were and counted myself lucky.
I've changed my attitude. Why? Two words. Olive Oyl.
The woman is driving me nuts. Binge eating, forced vomiting, body issues, long dresses down to her ankles, a ridiculously skinny neck.
A nightmare. I was a fool to cast you aside, my sensual, dynamic Betty Boop. And now I have lost you forever, lost you to Dondi.
Just drag me over to Beetle Bailey's strip and leave me among the other losers. My life is over.

The Smell

I smelled Raphael as soon as he emerged from the elevator. A mixture of spaghetti sauce, musk and seaweed. He was a travel writer who went all over, absorbing the aroma of each place. The women in my knitting circle gasped when I opened the door. We scrambled to squirt ourselves with our favorite perfume.
There he stood, covered in seaweed, sauce stains on his leather vest, the scent of musk emanating from his nether region.
Needless to say, we put aside our knitting and drank in the aroma that was Raphael.
Sadly, his breath would kill a wart hog.
We felt an impulse to salsa and drink sangria.
Do not judge us too harshly. Knitting can only provide so much release.

Bird Watching

I just assumed Milton liked birds. We had many conversations about them through the years.  So I brought him to my bird watchers group. There we were 26 of us hiding in the bushes, training binoculars.Several of the leaders made bird calls, trying to attract the creatures.
Right then I realized Milton might have some issues. He stood and began making walrus sounds. Frightened every bird within a three mile radius.We pinned him to the ground and stuffed a scarf in his mouth. They rolled him down a hill into a ravine. I had to carry him back to the car.
Turns out he had a bad experience with a walrus at an aquarium as a child and it stayed with him. He revealed women were aroused when he did full out walrus during intimacy.
I'm thinking of going that route.

Folding Chair

If  you take a folding chair with you, you can go anywhere and people will trust you. Wear a floppy hat, sunscreen, open a book and look relaxed and you can enter even private parties. No one will question you. If you doze off people will just smile. However, if you are sitting on grass and fall over asleep, authorities will be summoned and you'd better have ID.
I do some of my best thinking in these chairs. If there is music playing I can bop in place without embarrassment. The chairs that slide way back are as close to heaven as you can get.
Where do you think I wrote this from? Now that it's done I can simply stare at the sky.

Ramble On

Why does everything have to have a point? Interesting people ramble. I'll bet Churchill rambled like crazy. The mystery lies in where their ramblings will take us.
Why must every musing be coherent? Can't we as listeners wallow in bafflement without the speaker being judged harshly? The journey is more important than the destination. I know birds ramble all the time. And it sounds beautiful.
If some anal scribe hadn't created periods, sentences could go on and on exploring multiple topics and finding surprising connections.
Sadly, the Ramble Police interrupt our most artistic monologues, reminding the speaker others would like to express themselves.
Others.
A depressing concept.

Losing This Argument

I am losing this argument. She is talking so fast I can't get a word in. She accused me of not sharing my feelings. I shared my disgust at the Knicks draft pick. That doesn't count.
I wish I could call a time out to regroup. She is pacing around the kitchen, voice rising and falling, gesticulating. I just sit here trying to finish my coffee. Maybe I should rise to my full height, which is still two inches below her.
She went back about 32 months, citing instances of me shutting down. Women have freakish memories. She continues to cluster bomb me with logic and determination. I have lost this argument. Luckily The Bachelorette comes on in five minutes. Her favorite show. People gushing out their every thought and feeling.
If I spent time sharing, I'd have no time for Fantasy Football. Is that so hard to understand?

Just Married

All around me people are getting married. I felt left out, so I called my long time friend Wilma.
Do you want to get married?
I'm not sure. Do you have a penis?
Of course I do.
Because a penis is very important in marriage.
I sense you doubt me.
What if it doesn't work out?
I'll rent a bigger penis.
I meant the marriage.
We'll desolve it.
Who pays for the lawyer?
We split it.
It was your idea. You pay.
We'll do it at city hall.
I want a bridal shower.
I would have a bachelor party, except I don't have any friends.
What day should we do it?
How about Wednesday?
I have my book discussion group. Thursday I'm getting my hair done. Friday I'm visiting my sister in long Island.
Maybe we should think about this. Marriage is scary.
I;m expecting a really nice ring.
I was thinking along the line of a firm handshake.

Asia Climbs

Asia is a strong young woman who likes climbing. On her lunch break, she climbs the outside wall of the restaurant where she works. All over town she climbs. A laundry, the Post Office, a floral shop, a boutique, a large statue of Eleanor Roosevelt in the park, a mausoleum, a hardware store and the local high school.
There are no mountains or cliffs in the area, so she attacks abandoned warehouses and factories, a Dunkin Donuts, and a pizza parlor. Asia just keeps climbing. Her family says this is healthier than smoking, drinking or drugs. However, they felt uncomfortable when she climbed Uncle Mort, who is 7'2.
One challenge that has thus far defeated her is the flagpole in front of city hall. Shimmying is much different from climbing--a whole other skill set.
The town has begun a campaign to raise money to send her out west where the real cliffs are, which is a good thing.
Unfortunately, her focus on climbing has affected her concentration on the job. How can you make an omelet and forget the egg?

Closet Space

I must reorganize my closet. The Milch's, a family of four who lost their home during the housing crisis, have a legitimate complaint about space limitations. In my defense, I'm only charging $150 a month and got rid of several suits and a raincoat to open up more space. Marge, who was priced out of her apartment with a rent increase, is in my spare bedroom adjacent to the closet. $75 a monthly for her. She complains about the noise coming from the closet as the kids fight over nothing. I tried opening the windows to bring in more fresh air, but she says she gets a chill at night.
I let them all watch my second TV and even got them their own toothbrushes. Of course they must share a bathroom upstairs with Al, who lost his condo in an underwater mortgage and now sleeps in the tub. I stay out of their arguments as long as they pay the rent.
I have room on my couch for one more in case you're interested.

Take My Seat

Another person offered me their seat on the bus. This is getting embarrassing. Do I look that bad? I am awkward carrying bags on and off buses.I can still shower, shave and dress myself. I can operate a microwave. My posture can use some work, but i trim my nose, ear hair and scraggly eyebrows.
I switched my watch to my right wrist where it looks more impressive. My proctologist said my prostate felt like an apricot, which I guess is good.
I can still pee straight most of the time. I do take 8% more time than a decade ago. Yes, I have a NJ Transit senior citizen discount card, but if people could see how toned my glutes are no one would offer me their seat.

Special Effects

I just watched the entire two hours and 45 minutes of Transformers-Age of Extinction, and my brain is tapioca. How much destruction do you have to show to keep people's attention? How loud do the explsions have to be? Do you have to destroy entire cities?
I remember when they parted the sea in The Ten Commandments and we sat there mouths agape. I dread sitting through the new Terminator release or The Avengers Age of Ultron or San Andreas or a dozen others. Actual character development takes about five minutes. Witty one liners substitute for substantive dialogue.
I wanted to see Testament of Youth but it's already out of theaters.
I just watched a two hour documentary about the late B.B. King. Not a hint of special effects, not even an attempt to make Mick Jagger less scary. The only explosion came from the guitarist's fingers on the strings.

Limp

His leg is all twisted, causing a pronounced limp. He has trouble speaking. one or two mumbled words. Grunts. Mid-fifties, lanky, graying; no one knows what happened to him.
He goes to strip clubs. Confesses none of the women are interested. He writes short pieces, prose poems. Has no interest in our writing. Leaves early.
He seems infatuated with a married woman in our group who is too full of compassion to realize what is happening. This will not end well.
Many desperately lonely people out there limping through life.

What She Tells Me

This is what she tells me. Someone is breaking into her condo and moving things around. There is no video because they are all in on it. Where ever she goes she is being recorded. It's not her cleaning woman. Cops, the super, strangers. Others.
I say nothing. I can't even nod. I give her my serious look so she doesn't get more upset.
I have no friends, she says.
The words hang helplessly above us.
I shrug, pick up the check and walk out, continuing with my life.