Didn't Have to End

The Roaring Twenties didn't have to end. 1930 is just a number. The sixties didn't have to end. Look what the seventies brought us--lava lamps, pet rocks and ESP.
The Beatles could have incorporated Yoko into their family. Pink Floyd and King Crimson didn't have to fold their tent. The Doobie Brothers--okay, that HAD to end.
The Carter Administration could have continued if he had just lied to the American people and told them what they wanted to hear instead of the truth that we couldn't be the world's policemen.
Oprah didn't have to end. Yes, she has a network even shut ins are avoiding. Larry King and Regis Philbin had no good reason to quit except they were old. But Betty White and Joan rivers go on and on.
Seinfeld didn't have to end 14 long years ago. Look at what hasn't happened to the stars career wise. Greece didn't have to be swamped with debt. Couldn't the Swiss have bailed them out?
Giselle Bundchen's sun dress didn't have to end at mid thigh.
This blog has to end because I'm going out to meet friends and don't dare think I'm mentioning Yoko Ono in any context.

Compulsive Collecting

Some years ago I began collecting unusual growths from my body. Boils, cysts, carbuncles, pimples, warts, basal bumps, benign tumors, corns, bone spurs, birth marks. I put them in a cooler for preservation.
At some point I asked open minded friends for their growth anomalies and soon I had quite a collection. I sorted them by size and weight. I'm particularly proud of a two ounce carbuncle I sliced off my hip.
Then I got greedy. Sneaked around hospital dumpsters, seeking anything I could take home and add to my stash. I got lucky one night. Found a box of discarded umbilical cords. These lifelines once so vital were shamefully tossed out and forgotten.
You're thinking, this guy needs help. That's your opinion. It's not like I was stealing placentas. Except that one I found that was actually pulsing with life. That has become the crown jewel of my collection. I call it Edward. I don't pretend to know the value of what I have. That's up to E-Bay or Craigslist to determine. I do know that when I die my kids will benefit from this, as their value will only go up. Unlike Facebook. Now all I need is some kids.

Ten Items or less

I was quietly chastised by the express cashier at Shoprite for having over ten items. I counted two bananas as one item. Same with apples, plums and oranges. She said each fruit was a separate item. By your logic, I reasoned, this bag of grapes contains over 250 items. No it doesn't, she responded, because I only have to ring up one price. But you must weigh them first, I argued. That takes more time. Add in the time you wasted counting my items. Plus (I was rolling now), that woman in front of me ran off to get extra paper towels and we had to wait on her.
The cashier insisted that was within express line parameters because she was back before her order was going to be rung up. I huffed that the tension wondering whether she would make it back caused all of us undo stress. I turned to the patrons behind me, expecting them to back me up. Instead, they just glared at me as though I were the problem.
Here's the issue--Pathmark and everyone else has self scanning lines replacing these friction generating express registers. Plus, all the standard express lines are FIFTEEN items or less, providing more leeway for busy shoppers with important itinerary. How Pathmark lost so much money A&P had to buy it is beyond me.
I took my bags and left without another word. When I got home I discovered one of my apples was bruised. That cashier jammed her thumb into my fruit, no question. I'll get her back, depending on the camera angle on the surveillance CD I'm going to demand.

Turkey Neck

After getting my photo taken for my new book, Plowed In-Switchblade Stories, I almost had to vomit. I have a disgusting turkey neck. I knew I had wrinkles, but it looks like an excavation site. There's no way to disguise it. No wonder young people avoid me. I thought it was because I'm boring. Well I am boring, but now I see that blandness is layered over with a patina of horrible wrinkled skin no lizard would leave the house exposing, assuming lizards owned houses.
Now I wonder what the top of my scalp looks like and whether my head has a funny shape. I never bothered with any of this stuff. I mean, I knew my elbows were ugly, but so are yours, everyone's. God must have been aggravated the day he created elbows.
What am I supposed to do? Wear turtlenecks in 90 degree weather? I'm going to make the best of a bad situation. Trim my ear and nose hair, bleach the coffee stains off my teeth, cover the annoying blemish near my nostril with tinted cream, deepen my voice and wear heavy construction boots. Go for the rugged metro-sexual look. Maybe I could wax my neck or go to traction rehab. I heard it's kind of stimulating in a 50 Shades of Gray kind of way.

Pop Up Business

All sorts of ideas for temporary pop up businesses come to mind in these nervous times.
Pogo stick rentals. Great exercise, no exhaust fumes, lightweight, teaches balances.
Soup on the Run. Harried commuters zip past, holding out soup bowls. Spot flashing by beautiful people for a fee. Marriage proposals created, $3 a word. Fifteen minute bassoon lessons. Spank a ballerina.
Create whole life philosophy involving uncooked vegetables. Refold road maps. Renting elders who speak no English for companionship. An argument stand, where someone will argue with you about anything. Shirt stains licked off for a fee. A tattoo parlor specializing in skull art for baldies. Rent a Witch, Rent a Surly Person, Rent a Tackling Dummy, Rent an Economics Professor, Rent a Perry Como impersonator.
Arrange blind dates at nudist beaches. Sell pauses to men whose women won't be quiet. Donuts with smaller holes and more donut. Teach florists how to make a fist. Create edible shoe horns. Create a No Fart Zone.
Train insects to bungee jump. Exfoliate the naval area. Create new uses for mousse and funnels. Perform frown adjustments. Charge people to tickle you. Use a magnifying glass to discover what is in between toes and sell the images. Buy Katheryn Hepburn's old furniture and charge people to smell it.
Set up a 1-800 Blame It On Me number where people can dump all their problems on you. Be Christ-like. For $50 an hour.

Liz Claibourne R.I.P.

One day I'm driving past and the Liz Claibourne sign is gone. I email someone I knew who worked there and was told the company had been selling off its assets for two years and my friend left long before the inevitable final closing. Did anyone know of this? I read the financial pages all the time and had no inkling.
Certainly I'm concerned about all those out of work, but I'm especially worried about Liz herself. Is she living on the street? Designing clothes alone in some dingy basement? What else can she do? How shocking would it be to walk into Stop & Shop and see her bagging groceries. Does she have any family? Probably too busy with her career to marry and raise children.
What is it like to have your name on a huge sign for years and suddenly see another company's moniker there? Has this remarkable woman been able to maintain her identity? If the same thing happened to Hugo Boss would he survive?
I'm imagining dozens of formerly hot designers skulking through subway trains, in darkened alleys, battling the elements, begging for spare change. Laura Ashley in tatters, her face a silent scream, wearing matching rags and purse.
I'm thinking maybe Liz squirreled away a few million. I'm okay with this. But if Wendy's disappears...

Childhood Games

I took my childhood games seriously. I stood with my calculator when we played leapfrog, trying to determine the exact amount of speed and thrust I'd need to leap over opponents. If some kid's back rises two inches over the norm it screws up the numbers.
With hopscotch, the same basic elements come into play. But balance and quickness are paramount. I usually emptied both pockets of marbles before I entered the fray. Buck Buck combined speed, thrust, balance and courage. If you landed wrong, either you fell off or your testicles got crushed.
Flipping baseball cards is all about angle of release, the twist of the wrist, footwork on the release. Plus you had to compensate for wind gusts. Careful analysis, using illustrations on my Etch-A-Sketch, gave me the advantage.
Spin the Bottle is all about percentages. I'd punch in numbers to the point where I could predict where the bottle would stop and position myself accordingly. Size and weight of the bottle, circumference of the circle of participants, room temperature, in or outdoors, relative strength of twist action for each individual, etc. all were factored into my calculations.
Yes, I did quite well at these games, but for some strange reason the other kids hated me. Go figure.