Fuming

The guy at my Socrates Cafe conversation group is fuming. His hands are twitching, grabbing at his pants, squeezing together. His breathing is labored, his forehead sweating. The man is impatiently waiting his turn to speak. When he does speak, he goes on forever, a monologue morphing into a diatribe. He rambles, asks rhetorical questions, stumbles over words, ends thoughts in the middle. He is convinced we're ganging up on him. "You misunderstand me." That is his mantra. "Don't interrupt me" is what he tells the moderator, a quiet, graying man, soft spoken and adept at avoiding confrontation. "You are in a position of power and you keep interrupting."
Sometimes Mr. Fume loses his breath and has to pause. His points are almost interesting, even if you disagree, but his abrasive behavior is making us uncomfortable. I saw him take the decaf coffee, so caffeine can't be his problem. If he is unstable or on medication that is not working, how do we deal with it? "Define your terms" is another phrase he repeats. Values, culture, The Constitution, these are his blockade points. We spend many minutes defining what should be obvious and take forever to reach the actual topic we're supposed to be discussing, which in this case, is immigration.
I tried placating him by noting he brings up good points, but that only serves to aggravate him more. He wants to rant the entire two hours while we listen. We have a deranged dictator in the room and the citizens are in a quandary about how to depose him, beyond locking him in the closet.

Funny

Sofia Vergara is being interviewed before the SAG awards and is asked what was it about her current boyfriend that led her to choose him. This woman's body is 3-D without the glasses. Her answer--he's funny, he makes me laugh.
Stop right there. How many of these drop dead gorgeous actresses and models give exactly the same response when asked that question? I am so sick of hearing these Amazons rate humor as their highest quality in looking for a partner. Be honest. Think of every guy who's dated or married any of these women. Have ANY of them showed even an inkling of wit? Can they tell funny stories? Ad lib at parties? Do impressions or accents or dialects? Can they balance odd things on body parts? Do any of these studs possess the capability to create humor in any form, including funny faces? Tell the truth ladies. It's got nothing to do with humor. They are with these women because they are hung like rhinos and can go all night.
I am a funny guy, ask anyone. Yet I can't get a handshake from these women or even a shoulder squeeze. Humorous guys get the fast talking, wise cracking, nervous tic types, always off to the side making snide comments IE. Whitney Cummings, except now she's a babe with her own sitcom. Then again Julia Roberts married Lyly Lovett, so maybe there's still hope.

In the Zone

For a writer, there is nothing quite like being in the zone. That is when ideas are flying at you and you can't type fast enough. In the zone means you don't eat or answer the phone and neglect your personal hygiene. You ignore beautiful, scantily clad women in your bedroom doorway giving you a come hither look. Nothing matters but slamming through as many pages as possible before you lose that muse. Actually, it's not even a muse, it's a tsunami of wit, metaphor, symbol, and sharp dialogue coming together causing facial flushing and tremors.
Every writer in the zone is certain he is creating the great American novel, even if it's only an essay. As the sentences burst free, he imagines huge book deals, TV guest spots, monster sales, eventual screenwriting opportunities and lunch dates with Sienna Miller. Finally the world will recognize his importance and his tomes will enter the canon of classics like Little Women and The Scarlet Letter.
I feel the heat overcoming me. I must abandon this blog and quickly transfer to my novel, which I've been working on for eight years. In the zone I can finish the damn thing once and for all. Then I will deal with the scantily clad wench, who I suppose has gotten impatient and gone out for a taco.

My Haircuts

My hair cutting place loves me. I pay $10 a cut, have no preference for any of the women barbers, never need a shampoo, close my eyes as soon as they put the apron on me and sit quietly. Most are bi-lingual and outside of a quick comment about the weather, it is all business.
Beyond my excellent behavior, what ingratiates me to these women is my hair. There's not much of it. I hold up my index finger, say #1, and they nod happily. #1 is the easiest haircut to perform, being a tad longer than complete baldy. I'm am done in three minutes, and that includes trimming my eyebrows.
I stand, giving a two dollar tip, and walk to the payment desk. They return to their conversation, reading gossip mags, TV watching, or head outside for a smoke. My head contains no bumps, sores, or pimples. My ear hair is under control, my nostril hair carefully trimmed. I smell pretty good. In short, there is nothing disgusting about me. I am the ideal customer.
I do feel nostalgic in that chair. I'll open my eyes and peek, seeing a few small clumps of gray hair, pitiful, frankly. In my youth, there were piles of dark brown follicles all over the apron and on the floor. They had to call in special South American cleanup teams to get the area ready for the next customer. The Hair God is what they whispered. Now it's simply, have a nice day. I just checked. My ear hair isn't as under control as I thought.

Three cents

So far, after five months of blogging, I've made exactly three cents profit from my Adsense application. If 1400 people have viewed my blog, how can that be? Why aren't those readers clicking on the ads below my blog, which is I guess how money is made? Maybe they're too depressed after reading my essays to deal with people trying to sell them something.
Or perhaps the ads themselves are off putting. I haven't been checking. I think capitalism is a noble concept which should be available to everyone. Unfortunately it seems only a handful of citizens actually have access to it. People like Miley Cyrus and Daniel Radcliff. The rest of us flock to Filenes lusting for bargains. Except Filenes
Basement filed for bankruptcy and will soon become a real basement. The sheer number of chain stores gone under is staggering. When Circuit City was replaced by Sixth Avenue Electronics I had hopes that would be my new tech store. Then SAE went under before I could even visit. Every six minutes another Barnes & Noble disappears. Right next to it, a FYE record store bottomed out. Soon, we will have nothing but gelato outlets. I passed an Arthur Murray dance studio and only one couple traversed their spacious floor. How can we call ourselves a capitalist country when dance instructors can't get work?
I know I should be mature about this, but that three cents profit for an insightful, potent blog like this is rather insulting.

White Teeth

I've given up trying to get white teeth. I don't smoke, drink one cup of coffee a day. There is no reason my teeth shouldn't be brilliantly white. It is especially annoying confronting people who I know are much less healthier than me, who couldn't jog around the block, whose teeth are whiter than mine.
I floss and brush up and down and use bacteria killing mouthwash, which I gargle expertly. If gargling were allowed on resumes, I'd be a CEO. A big disappointment has been Colgate Optic White toothpaste, which I've been using for months. It supposedly contains the same ingredient found in whitening strips. I have seen no change whatsoever in my condition. But now my gums hurt because I stopped using the sensitive toothpaste. Of course I could brush twice a day, using each brand, but what kind of message is that sending to my teeth? This is a confused, insecure man I'm chomping for.
I tried this gel which you carefully place on your front six teeth, upper and lower. You're not supposed to get it on your lips because they will stick together. Well, once that stuff is applied and you close your mouth, it's gonna get on your lips, which is what happened to me. Then I did get these strips, which I'm afraid to use. Suppose I stick them on and they won't come off? Or what if I start to gag? I gag easily; the list of gag prompts is long--Michael Myers, open mayonnaise, dust motes on pasta, Jimmy Fallon's monologue, facial punctures for jewelry purposes, bearded men with nose bleeds, Ken Burns' documentaries, the words fecal matter--just typing this makes me gag. My choice-brown teeth or shirt vomit.

Clout

According to a letter I received today, my FIA Card Services World MasterCard with World Points rewards is being replaced by a Bank Americard Power Rewards World Master Card. I'm trying to imagine someone with an MBA sitting alone in a room coming up with these designations.
I won't lose any of my old points. Wonderful. Every time I call up and ask how I can redeem said points I'm told I don't have enough to do anything. Sometimes a recorded voice tells me. Evidently you need thousands of points to get that miniature flashlight, batteries not included. I read the titles on my credit cards and feel intimidated. I won't repeat them because of security concerns, but I'll bet my combined total points on all these cards can get me a flight to Botswana. It's all about clout, who has it, who doesn't.
I'll earn one power point for every dollar I spend. Do power points mean I can take control of any situation, like too many standees on a bus? Will I get a badge I can flash--600 power points and counting? Can I make citizen's arrests and interrogate suspicious loiterers? Why is one bank replacing another? Does the new bank expect me to spend more than I have in the past? There's an 800 number for questions--there always is. I'm not confident they'll answer my queries. I'm usually told to take deep breaths and hum softly by customer service reps.
Does anyone trust Bank of America under any circumstances?