When the Ball Drops

From a distance, there is shouting and horns, tiny explosions, confetti floating down like bleached fireflies. The Christmas decorations are already superfluous.
When the ball drops is the void suddenly filled? Will good friends morph through walls, hugging and toasting each other? Do bad memories erase quickly in a haze of cocktails? Does the shell of isolation finally crack?
We need a different song to replace Old Lang Syne. Perhaps "Maybe" by the Chantels is more appropriate; it offers hope for a different future.
Ryan Seacrest is in mid-sentence when I shut the TV. This night is too, too long. I listen as the horns fade into silence.

Behind Every Man

Behind every man there is a jet stream of gravitas. By virtue of his gender, man possess weight. Women are graceful and compassionate, but the element of gravitas is lacking.
I expend little effort in taking command of a situation. It's how I open a door, enter a room, gauge its contents, carefully place myself into a chair, establishing my dominance, a damn force field of intimidation. When I clear my throat the others lean forward in anticipation.
In FRONT of every man there is challenge, conquest, power, choices that mold entire nations. Behind us is the sweet vapor of remembrance of accomplishments with all that entails--subjugation, bending others to one's will. Mesmerizing those who would impale themselves seeking transmutation of power, our power.
Yes, behind every man lies a parchment containing insights and ideas for the ages, and that sweet aroma of iron-fisted, single minded dominance.
Unless he has had cabbage for dinner, in which case, the aroma is not quite as sweet.

First Night Joe

To generate some cash, I've created First Night Joe, a series of events held at my place on New Year's Eve for those sick of shelling out big bucks charged at various venues, as well as for tea teetotalers. The fee is $10 and it runs from 8PM to 3AM. Certainly if you wish to BYOB that's fine.
The evening will consist of vibrant conversation, light refreshments, music of your choice--I have an eclectic CD collection--some dancing in my limited space and karaoke if you're up to it.
The bulk of the festivities will focus on you watching me perform various activities--mixing salad, writing, painting, reciting my poetry, doing impressions of 1940's character actors, perhaps a soft shoe. I'll also be modeling some wardrobe items I bought at Marshall's during their post Christmas blowout. I have a unique collection of my old sneakers dating back to 1975. I will reveal my mom's broccoli rabe recipe, and show six albums of family photos from when we lived in a tiny apartment in Union City and I had to share a bed with my brother who kept me up half the night.
Of course we'll all watch the ball drop together in between aerobics. I expect my friends to be in top shape. It's the least you could do for me. I'll use the admission money for therapy, as you might expect. Let's welcome in the new year together.

My Blood, My Nerves

They're testing my blood flow, measuring my nerve responses. Shackling me to a table, sticking me with pins, zapping me with electro-shocks, tightening collars around my thighs calves, ankles and big toes. There is no one to hold my hand or calm me. My mouth is dry as I anticipate each shock, each sting, each tightening. Nasal discharge pours into my throat. I can't speak without stuttering or slurring. They stare at screens, chart lines and graphs, do not make eye contact.
The soft music playing on the intercom makes me close my eyes. I try to slow my breathing, inhale deeply and hold it. If I dare twitch when I shouldn't I can only imagine the consequences. I can hear low voices to my left coming from the waiting room. Ominous voices. Perhaps they are discussing what to do with me if my scores fall below a certain point.
Ow. That one hurt, but I dare not verbalize this. I try to small talk them, but my words clothes-line like damp laundry. They are uninterested in my opinions. I am a slab of flesh, pale and vein covered. The whirring of the collars, the bands tightening; my body tenses. Why couldn't they give me a lollipop before the procedures?
I hate my podiatrist.

Crew

I need a crew. I know this term is associated with hip hop artists, but I feel the concept should be expanded. As a writer I experience isolation. There are points where my mind is Hoda and Kathy Lee, babbling fragments of ideas without structure or logic. On the other end of the spectrum, I will stare at furniture, specifically dust on furniture, waiting for one stinking idea.
If I had a crew around me, interacting, rubbing my shoulders, offering encouragement or just yapping to each other, I'd have constant stimulation, which would lead to ear popping sentences, entire paragraphs, and maybe a short story. I'd probably have to change my wardrobe (early nineties slob), drink more, wear facial jewelry and many rings, but those are minor sacrifices.
If I went out to, say, Walmart, my crew would follow me in, surround me, comment on my purchases like copy paper and fuzzy slippers. Then we'd head to Wendy's, commandeer two tables, talk loudly and forget to throw away our trash. I'm not sure what else crews do. Once this expansion is accepted, other professions could adopt the crew concept. Museum curators, park rangers, short order cooks, pole dancers, computer tech guys, game wardens, the list is endless.
One possible problem is space if my crew wants to actually live with me. I'll do the cot thing for awhile, but not as a steady diet. Bad back. And I don't have enough enough socks to cover their needs.

Garbage

What to do with all this garbage we are generating? Work out a deal with Canada?
Are people bartering their garbage with neighbors? The new coffee machines eliminate coffee grinds. Reusable bags is a step in the right direction. Creating throw rugs out of pet dander is progressive. Universities offering courses in compost heap creation is another way to go.
I have a beat up old recliner. I sit in it and paint. Instead of using turpentine, I've gotten into the nasty habit of wiping my brushes on its sides. The result is a frightening abstract painting on both sides of my recliner. I could pay the super $20 to take it to the dumpster, but I'm embarrassed to let him see it. I actually obtained a perfectly good rocking chair from said dumpster. I wish I could say I have fond memories of that recliner, but all I recall is falling asleep at a bad angle and waking up with a sore neck.
Perhaps my biggest garbage problem is getting rid of all the bad sentences I've written. Suppose a garbage man with an English degree comes across a packet while dumping barrels. Would he become furious and turn me in to the composition authorities? I heard they use truncheons.

2012 Here I Come

I'm turning over a new leaf. New priorities, new approach.
Next year I'm attacking my nose and ear hair with a high powered trimmer. I will have my bathtub re-glazed and my tiles power cleaned, in case I have visitors, which never seems to happen. I will be more positive, more assertive, create distinct boundaries around my space and loudly inform people if they have invaded my territory.If the food is not cooked to my specifications I will send it back with a stern glare.
I will impart little information about myself. Let folks speculate who the real Joe is.My mystique will have length and breath. When I stride into a room there will be dense murmuring.
I will ask for free refills whenever possible. I will see at least one movie with subtitles. I will sue one person. I will learn to ski, play backgammon, to mold clay into something recognizable, to rumba without a partner if necessary, to change my transmission fluid, to stifle coughs in a crowded theater. I will focus on reading people's faces to determine if they are trustworthy enough to enter into my inner circle, and make no mistake, I will have an inner circle. Finally, I will have a lot more fun without resorting to battery operated devices.