Who Knew What?

Did the Madoff family know Kim Kardashian was having marital troubles? Did Ryan Seacrest know Regis was leaving the show? Did Charley Sheen know Valerie Bertinelli was a binge eater? Was William Shatner aware that Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez vacationed separately? Was Robert Duval in on Julia Roberts cellulite problem? Is Bruce Willis going to be a father again and how does Cybill Shepard feel about that? Are we to believe Goldie Hawn's first husband reporting her beastial behavior? Was Snookie aware Gene Hackman had retired? Was Rick Perry in on Chaz Bono's persistent irritable bowel syndrome? Was that Kelsey Grammer arm wrestling Mitt Romney at an Elevation Burger outlet? Do we believe Bob Barker's report of seeing Vanessa Redgrave getting dry heaves outside a Domino's? Was that Josh Groban romancing Condelisa Rice at a DC Five Guys? Did Lindsay Lohan slap David Cassidy at MOMA? Did Salma Hyack then slap Lindsay? Did Kathy Griffen then push Salma against a wall? Why wasn't Antonio Bandaras in the middle of this? Can someone please discover Faith Ford in a compromising position with Ed Harris? Is Cher still privy to insider info about Wilford Brimley?
From time to time I will include juicy gossip to give your brain a rest. You're welcome.

Laundry Quandry

Every time I bring laundry down to the wash room of my condo block I pray no one will be there. I am not anti-social, but sharing that room with strangers makes me uncomfortable. Some don't speak English very well and I find myself nodding a lot. Others are overly friendly, asking me personal questions. Women are skittish, which makes me feel guilty for being there. Men seating on a bench waiting for clothes to dry, with no TV or radio on, has to be at the top of the Awkward List. If you toss out a sports reference to break the silence, you might get a puzzled look as often as an intelligent response. You can't gossip--men don't gossip. Okay, Hilton Perez, but that's it.
Doing push ups against the wall might pass time while impressing others, but how many can you do before exhaustion sets in? Dance steps might get you punched. There should be no eye contact whoever is there, loading, unloading, sorting. Whistling only makes things worse. Soft humming might ease the tension as long as it isn't Neil Diamond.
Why should there even be tension in a laundry room? We're all owners. Except, well, some are behind on their common fees and we glance at each other in suspicion.  Nobody likes slackers. Or people with way too many chinos. Invariably, someone will leave a damp sock in the washer. We go by the honor system, placing the item on a table for return to owner. Spare change lying around is finders keepers. At least that's the way I've been playing it.
Reading the paper works best, just submerging oneself in the pages, pretending not to notice that hot lady pouring fabric softener. Maybe if I hummed loudly enough...

Mitigating Circumstances

I was at my doctor's and had to do #2. I've been seeing him, and now his son, for twenty three years and we've had a good relationship. Hell, I'm still breathing.
I was on edge because I was getting blood work results. This affects my digestion, so I had to use the facilities. Well, to my surprise, the toilet wouldn't flush. After I lifted the lid and checked to see if the flap was in the up position (it wasn't) I monkeyed with the pressure valve to no avail. A plunger is useless without water flowing in. Strangely, water was flowing through the hose, but not getting into the tank.
I quietly notified the receptionist who told the doctor and his son. Among the three of us we had about sixty years of formal education and we had no idea what was wrong or how to fix it. So up went the Out of Order sign and I felt for those following me with appointments who had to go.
It was only after I'd showered next morning that I realized the temporary solution was simple. Fill cups from the faucet and pour them into the tank until it fills up. Then flush. In my defense, I wasn't focusing because of worry over blood work results. I have no excuse for my physicians' brain lock.

Finney's Fanny

Under the Volcano, directed by John Huston, is an old film I caught up with at a library screening. We were told this film won lots of awards. A half hour in, I wondered if we were seeing the wrong film.
From what I could discern, the entire enterprise concerned Albert Finney's character staggering around soused in some foreign country, maybe Mexico or Spain. Finney does a good drunk--hell, he's Albert Finney. And Jacqueline Bissett plays his old flame, returning from who knows where. She has nothing to do but look chagrined over her former paramour's condition. At one point he falls down in the road and almost gets run over. I was rooting for the car.
But what really set me off was a brief nude scene when Bissett and Anthony Edwards put Finney in a shower to sober him up. We get a glimpse of the actor's butt and rotting whale meat comes to mind. We are also treated to an even briefer glimpse of his genitalia as he emerges from said shower and a worm peeking out of a forest best describes that scene. Soon after this, appropriately, the DVD began breaking up and I left.
If you're going to show Finney naked, you have to do the same with Bissett, that's the rule. We got no naked Jackie, not even a naked Katy Jurado, who had a small role playing a woman with a thick accent and too much makeup, not much of a stretch.
This whole frightening experience led me to compose a list of famous people I never want to see nude.
Gary Busey, Jane Pauley, Wilbert Scott, John Goodman, Ann Coulter, Anna Wintour, Richard Dryfuss, Dave Letterman, Al Sharpton, and certain distant relatives who've let themselves go.
What was John Houston thinking?

Stare

I realize now that they can see me through my open blinds. All of them, if they choose, can look down into my living room, can observe all my activities. My garage is right across from my condo, part of a line of garages. Above them are two rows of windows, most with blinds drawn.
But they can peek and I would never know. I could stand by my window and look up at them, showing I have nothing to hide. Perhaps a quick glance would catch them unawares. I would mouth no words, but my expression would make it clear I know they are spying.
But if I look up at them, they'll think I'm the one spying. They'll take umbrage, feeling their right to look out their windows is being challenged. My response would be that from my angle I can see virtually nothing, but they can see everything.
What is everything? What exactly do I do in my living room?
I watch TV. Lie on my couch. I paint, relaxing in my recliner. I reorganize books and cds. I talk on the phone. Sometimes I will be at the computer writing intense essays like this and printing them out. I will relocate my coffee table knick knacks. For sure, I am well over the knick knack quota. So what?
I won't be exercising or flexing or touching myself in any way, except to scratch. If I pick my nose, which is very rare, they won't be able to see because my back is to them. However, with binoculars, these beasts can notice my arm moving to my face and extrapolate from that a nose picking event.
Should I shut the blinds like a coward or should I flaunt my ordinariness? One day I am certain I will have a visitor and then these decisions will be complicated. I have decided right now to remove my shirt and display my upper torso for the voyeurs to indulge. Why hoard ripped abs and pulsing pecs? Why indeed.

Workshop

I have an upcoming workshop of my monologues at a local theater. The following is a list of anxieties we stage writers experience before the event.
Will the actors show up?
Will they show up sober?
Will an audience come?
Will the air conditioner break down or drown out the words?
Will performers demand changes in the text?
Will they argue about what the order of appearance is?
Will all the props be in place?
Will they project so the back row can hear?
Will there be a Q&A afterword with tough queries?
Will the read through raise doubts about the work's quality?
Will I have to sleep with any of them later?
Will hot women in the audience want to meet me?
Will everyone laugh where they're supposed to?
Will there be a side exit to flee if the whole thing bombs?
Theater is my life.

Boris

I am Boris the Angry Bohemian. I am not a slob. This is a lifestyle choice. I am unconventional, an artist. My hygiene is peripheral to my philosophy. I do not whine about inequality. My concerns are not whether I am of the 1% or the 99%. Nothing is permanent, especially money and grapes. I establish my own criteria for living and none of it has to do with social acceptance.
I am the edge of cutting edge. My history is unimportant. My education is what I perceive. Whether you afford me your attention is not my concern. I am my own reality show. I will paint for 14 hours straight or I may not paint for days. I am walking poetry. I despise your middle class values, except skiing. I embrace cross country skiing. But I wear Bohemian outfits and if I fall I will contemplate the entire process, lying in the snow, and reaching weighty conclusions.
Yes, I can be ponderous, usually after a few beers in Bohemian-tinged bars. Our circle deconstructs politics, power and sex, not in that order. My God has never forsaken me, although occasionally He seems preoccupied. In the past, I have prayed for soap and shampoo and He has answered. Hand sanitizer is for cowards.
These are anti-establishment flies buzzing around me. I can smell myself just fine and it is sublime. I do not panhandle. My art sustains me. I ponder the void that is the universe, as well as the do-nut hole in Medicare prescription coverage. As long as I can ignore the bourgeoisie underpinnings of our society I will be separate and apart from the rest. Except other Bohemians, one of whom stole my sleeping bag. Bastard.