Convenience

Convenience stores are lanterns illuminating black street squalls; a light tap on the shoulder by an old friend. As insistent as they are vulnerable, laminated in shadow, they invite us in, away from darkness. One peers inside, perhaps sees the owner leaning across his counter, hope, boredom, anxiety etched on his immigrant's face. His wife sweeps, his children race down its two narrow aisles. A splattering of color fills the shelves. Sudden urges for chips or Mountain Dew, pork rinds or beef jerky are satisfied here. A bandage, matches, a comb, thumb tacks, glue and a newspaper wait for anyone deliberate enough to search. These are not neat, balanced stores. Surgical light glares, the radio plays salsa or meringue. Cowardly businesses close for the night; this lonely outpost, seen from afar, becomes a beacon of sustenance, civility, safety.
 One steps inside, where a customer chats and gesticulates, where laughter prevails, keeping vigil for a sleeping neighborhood that craves identity, needs the store's endless hours, always awake and watching. From the sky, these pinpoints of light are a town's sentries, convenient needles jabbing at the isolation within this urban ethos.

Home Depot Salivating

I want that $5000 gift Home Depot is offering if I do their online survey and get chosen. What would I do with that kind of money in that store?
 I'd buy wood because I love wood. I'd figure out what to do with it after it came. Batteries, lots of batteries, especially flashlight D size, which no one could get before the hurricane. If they sell lanterns, I'd get one  just for the prestige aspect. I'd perform an upgrade on my tool kit. I don't really use tools, except to hammer  nails when I hang a piece of art I've created. Plus a screwdriver to tighten my mailbox, which the super is sick of doing.
I'd get exotic lamps, or what passes for exotic there. I already have a new toilet, so I'd add a glazed tub and new tiles around said tub. A new soap dish and towel rack would complete the bathroom make over.
Shelves, containers, and shoe racks would be next up. Then I'd hit the garden section, pick up perennials, cactus and mulch because I like saying that word. Add a safe for my important documents, if I can find where I put them. New keys, five of each, small locks, lots of sandpaper and varnish and shellac and something powerful like a backup generator. And paint and throw rugs and a new hamper. Alarms for every room and my perimeter. Make my day, interloper.
If there was anything left, I'd get fancy doorknobs. Damn it, I deserve that money.

Insecticide

What are the ethical guidelines for killing insects in your house? I'm conflicted as I ponder the consequences of each decision. Technically it's my house and this could be construed as an invasion. I have the right to control my environment on my property, right?
But like all issues of life and death, it's complicated. If I leave a door or window open, shouldn't I share responsibility for their entrance? Do I differentiate between flying and crawling ones? Suppose some are on the insect endangered species list? Could I be fined or imprisoned for squashing one?
Witnesses might be a problem. People embellish things to get attention. What if a delivery person spotted a flattened mosquito or bloodied earthworm in my living room? Friends and family would protect me, although since I never invite anyone over, that's a moot point.
Do insects have families in any real sense? I'm wondering about possible retribution, being covered with red ants as I sleep. How many of us have had the opportunity to kill a praying mantis, but felt it would be sacrilegious? A case can be made that insects are also God's children. Or possibly the spawn of Satan. These are split second value judgments. It's not like capturing mice who are covered with germs. Germs are not insects. If you lay out a germ's options, it will at least listen and decide.
I admit to getting satisfaction from snatching insects right out of the air or blowing them off the table. Less you think I'm an insect bully, I am quite gentle with butterflies. Unless they get stuck in my pancake syrup. Then it's Last Rites, over and out, bring in the casket. If a roach gets into my stuff, or worse, into my bathtub, I get all Swat Team Fevered. I stun them with spray, tie them to tiny chairs and viciously make them watch old Fabio commercials. It's called Situational Ethics.

Refinance

I am going to try to refinance my condo. I have all the paperwork ready. I shaved extremely close today and found clothes that were wrinkle free. I practiced my sincere smile in the mirror, made sure I had blown all the mucus from my sinus cavity. Valley National Bank advertises a $499 refinance. My brother says that doesn't include the lawyer's fee. I hate it when he comes up with these details.
My new toilet is still working. The expensive car repairs last week have not broken down. But I need some relief from the ever increasing property taxes and monthly common fee. The eye doctor tells me my cataract has gotten worse, but not much worse. Sooner or later that will have to be dealt with. More bucks gone.
Perhaps I should seek a part time job. Nothing stressful. Maybe carriage retriever for a supermarket. Summer is over and I'm too old to be a cabana boy. I'd love to be someone's personal assistant. Do you need help organizing your place? Answering annoying calls? Scraping the calluses off your feet? I'm your guy. Plus I can parallel park under pressure. If you think about it, each of us has little special talents we don't realize. I can stack things that most people can't. My stacks never tilt or fall over. Artisans have commented favorably on my stacking structure. Anyone can stack pillows or shoe horns. I can pile up oddly shaped nick-nacks. That might not get me a new mortgage, but it's the kind of thing one seeks in a personal assistant. Put me on speed dial.

Parade Passivity

If you're going to have a parade, keep the damn thing moving. I'm Italian, but I have to admit the Spanish themed parade the afternoon before Columbus Day far overshadows the actual thing. Every Latino country is represented, including all of South America. Colorful costumes, elaborate dancing, large, fancy floats represent high standards of its parade structure. Loud, varied music predominates. There are no stalled floats or gaps in momentum. It's a marching tsunami.
The Italians approach things differently. Sluggish best describes their pace, with long, unnecessary pauses that expand into full fledged stoppages. The floats are plain, there's usually one overly costumed horse and a bunch of old women exhausted by the time they reach 54th Street.The kids look confused. None of the crowd blows whistles. Even Senator Chuck Schumer struggles to look interested. Hardly anyone's body twirls. Spanish people were born twirling.
The biggest difference is the Italians incorporate about 52 high school bands, kids grimly stomping up Fifth venue trying to play an instrument in ridiculous outfits. Who made the rule that high school bands were culture?
The Italians need to ask the West Indian parade organizers if they can borrow some stilt walkers or scantily clad women. Bagpipes will not help this mess.

Library Movies

Library movies are great because they're free. Since it's mostly older folks in attendance, they keep at least one light on for the scary movies. Some libraries have refreshments, but you have to get there early. Old people love their tea and coffee and snacks and can move pretty fast when they have to.
Recently I went to see a movie on a Thursday night at a local library. It was an Indian film and before it began I got into an intelligent conversation with a woman seated a row in front of me. Actually we were the only two who showed up. We surmised the Jewish holiday accounted for the dearth of attendees.
As I say, we talked for a good twenty minutes, as the janitor, who was in charge of setting up the DVD, thought we should wait a bit longer in case someone else showed up. When the film finally began it had subtitles, lots of music, a young couple in love and was beautifully shot, with most scenes at night.
About forty minutes in, we heard a clicking noise and suddenly the picture went out. The sound was still good, but since there were no subtitles without the picture all we heard were characters making unintelligible conversation. Taking charge, as the man must do, I quickly found the janitor, a young man with adolescent hair falling across his forehead.
He took his position seriously, stood there clicking the remote at the overhead DVD player to no avail. He got on a ladder and began monkeying with wires. I suggested he change the battery. He nodded in agreement, left and came back with a new battery. The picture still remained dark. By this time both myself and the woman kept assuring him it was okay, not his fault, we'd leave and call it one of those things.
He just kept shaking his head and proclaiming he would fix this. So much time had passed by then that even if he got everything fixed, the movie wouldn't end until well after the library had closed. He was becoming very agitated; this was an affront to his efficiency. I sensed he would be there all night by himself fiddling with it. He might break down into tears. I couldn't handle that. So I said goodbye and left. The woman was a few steps behind me. Outside we smiled and went in opposite directions. I never got her name. I think both of us sensed that janitor had an element of Jim Carrey in The Cable Guy within him. It wouldn't surprise me if he wound beating the DVD player like a pinata and punching a hole in the piano, which sat there minding its own business.

My Hand Puppet

You know, I'm getting a little tired of people asking why a grown man would own a hand puppet. Can't folks use their time more productively? If you think about it for five seconds it makes a lot of sense. Companionship is at a premium. Hordes are working long hours at two jobs. Depression and isolation cloud our cities. No one calls or writes and social networking with all those smiling strangers makes us feel even more alone.
For a modest price, one can find a buddy that will always listen, never interrupt and continually display affection. You don't have to feed it a or give it shots or have its teeth checked as so often happens with elderly relatives. Roscoe and I complete each other. When I go to a cafe I just sit him opposite me while I order. Sometimes I'll read for awhile, but inevitably I feel the need to converse and he is always right there to absorb my insights. I'll slide my arm into his essence, turn my wrist and point his little charming snout--he's a lizard--at my face and our discussion will take off. Don't think others don't notice. All eyes are upon us as we debate a range of topics.
In retrospect, I have to admit Roscoe was right about Colin Powell. I had high hopes for that man and he disappeared into private life. However, I was right about Greece and the European mess, countries trying to bail them out. Roscoe stated it was all a misunderstanding. Foreign affairs are not his strength.
At the risk of sounding immodest, quite a few attractive woman have shown a marked interest in eavesdropping on our conversations. The fact that they seem to find Roscoe fascinating doesn't bother me. Without my right hand that fellow is just a pile of felt and fabric. I always have things in perspective.