Unfinished Wood

I love unfinished wood. I love its potential. Clean, distinguished, waiting for me to do something with it. Shellac, varnish, even paint. I buy unfinished bookcases on a regular basis. This far I haven't decided how to finish them. But what if I just left them alone? Wouldn't that send a strong message that I'm secure within a simple, unadorned life?
Cherry wood has its place. I do have one cherry wood bookcase, but, honestly, it has lost its luster. There's no charisma that speaks to me. Yes, one can find mystery in wood grain, but it's the absence of grain in unfinished wood that truly intrigues. I mean, not that there isn't grain, but it is so understated it never overwhelms the idea of the wood, which is nature brought into our homes.
I believe my books prefer an unfinished bookcase. It's just a sensation I have as I sit quietly in my parlor, open book on my lap, soft music playing, twilight seeping through my half closed blinds.
In my deepest meditations, I sometimes feel unfinished, waiting for someone to shellac me with a soft brush.
I am my own poem.

Hoop Angst

It has been years since the Knicks were worth following. During that time I was able to read dozens of classics, engage in numerous intelligent discussions, visit museums and perform volunteer work. I was a well rounded, valuable citizen.
Now, all of that goes by the wayside. The Knicks are competitive, their games meaningful and here I am in front of the TV, punching furniture as it heads down the stretch, back and forth. I must wait for a time out to make a cheese sandwich.
Why do men never outgrow their passion for sports? My basketball remains in my trunk, where it's been since I bought it two years ago. I will eventually have to face the fact that my post moves and head fakes aren't what they were. Maybe if I wait on the bench for some kid to come by, some scrawny, knobby-kneed kid, I can challenge him to a one on one. I didn't say it had to be a boy. Girls are a viable challenge for me at this point.
Seven minutes left in the game. Let's go, Carmelo.

Dust

I do not dust. Dusting is not masculine. Sweeping, shoveling, hoeing, chopping ice, all masculine. My personal dust would fill excavation sites. I don't care. I'm standing firm on this. I'm also standing in a pile of dust.
Tony Randall dusts. Channing Tatum doesn't. I rest my case.
If I allowed comments I'm sure a maelstrom of heated opinions would ensue. This is something people feel strongly about, especially those who visit me and can't breathe.
I have to sign off now. I'm calling an 800 number to take a Panera survey in hopes of winning $2000. I'm certain the questions will be masculine in nature. Those are the only surveys I take.

Martian Safari

The problem with Martian safaris is distinguishing between the Martians and their animals. My name is Louis and I run Martian Expeditions LLC. Some of my clients bring back endangered species and it's my regrettable duty to inform them these creatures must be returned. Most demand refunds until they see the fine print on the contract.
Sometimes Martian dust storms wreak havoc on our outings. Sometimes it's crooked, psycho tour guides, and once in a while nausea from the trip itself interferes with enjoyment.
Overall, it's a profitable business, especially since we began booking Earth safaris for Martians. There are strict rules for what the aliens can hunt. The Roseann Barr kidnapping, as well as the wounding of Dr. Phil with one of their advanced stun guns led to boundaries.
Somehow, we convinced the Martians rats and roadkill were a delicacy here. So we get a profit and clean up the environment at the same time.
Their weapons can stun prey for up to two hours, during which the aliens can probe up close every pore of their helpless captives. Some earthlings use this exact approach to dating.

Even at Midnight

They come even at midnight. The entities. I lay there as they watch me. During the day it's not so bad with other people around me. I told Angie from Human Resources about them. She chuckled.
What do they want from me? I'm just a guy, a regular guy. I've tried singing, humming, fake snoring, touching myself. They remain, hovering over me. In the street they surround me, hissing softly through my conversations. They have no real physical presence, morphing from form to form. One resembled Cloris Leachman for a moment.
The night has its terrors and this is but one. I shall have to marshal all my courage and deal with this threat. If one tries to sneak in bed and lay beside me, I will make room, but absolutely no spooning with an entity. It's downright unnatural.
I'm convinced they are counting my nocturnal farts.

Tough Ladies

Colleen Dewhurst
Bette Davis
Joan Crawford
Babara Stanwyck
Lauren Bacall
Rosiland Russell
Sgourney Weaver
Amy Ryan
Pam Grier
Jessica Biel
Kate Beckinsale
Kathleen Turner
Jennifer Lawrence
Katherine Hepburn
Sharon Stone
Sophia Loren
Emma Stone
Cathy Moriority
Linda Hamilton
Angelina Jolie
Elizabeth Scott

Popeye in Love

Once I fell for Olive Oil I had to announce it on Facebook. First, I posted "Popeye is in a relationship". I got a flow of congratulatory responses.
We flooded FB with hundreds of photos of us doing everyday things, hugging, at the beach, jet skiing. Olive got a snake tattoo on her skinny arm, which I love. No one could be happier.
Then, one day I scrolled down and was stunned to see this: "Bluto is in a relationship." Turns out he was seeing Betty Boop. I love Olive, but, c'mon, this was Betty Boop. Bluto was uncouth and a slob; Boop was all class. Didn't make sense. Their photos mirrored our photos.
Then I came across this post: "Wimpy is in a relationship". What the hell? The guy couldn't afford a burger. I looked closer and read it was with Steve Canyon. Who knew?
Dondi has just sent a Friend request. We have nothing in common, but I don't want to hurt the kid's feelings.
Between you and me, Olive's voice is getting on my nerves.