Dreadlocks

Like many white people I am on a waiting list for dreadlocks. It's a long list and, frankly, I'm sick of waiting. I tried growing my own, but they resembled 17th Century French drape tassels.
I follow black people with dreads, intercept them and inquire if they are planning to change their look. Invariably the answer is no. I offer money. I offer to teach them about white people stuff like ballroom dancing, fly fishing, ping pong, ski lifts, lettuce, swivel chairs, hockey, tie pins, square back hair cuts, etc. No dice.
I will remove my cap and try to guilt them by displaying my fire bombed scalp and my big ears. Dreads would solve both problems.
I don't have tattoos or smoke hemp, but that's easily corrected.
I'm staring at this women across from me with her glorious dreads. I wonder if she's curious about ping pong.

I've Got Rhythm

I've got no rhythm. My parents feared rhythm, hated music. Tap dancing drove them underground. If you sing this particular song you must whirl, leap, dance on tables, pound walls, do somersaults.
Old Man Trouble is a separate issue. Just because you've got your gal, doesn't mean he won't bother you. He could be a neighborhood crank or a flasher.
The Army tried to teach me rhythm with endless marching and singing of ditties. Invariably I lost focus, screwed up and was taking away and beaten with a truncheon. Poetry has it. So does math and brick laying, drilling, soldering and cementing. Wall papering does not require rhythm.
During intimacy, some prefer Nina Simone or Andy Williams or Nat King Cole. I choose German oompah bands and accordion music as my back round music.
Nature has many rhythms and the music of birds. If I created a new beat no one had ever heard I would be rich. Let me dig out my bongos and get to work.

Hand Twigs

Twigs growing out of your fingers is treatable, I said. We could operate. We could give you experimental drugs. WE could dip your hand in brine.
You have such soft, beautiful hands, Mr. Bascomb. My wife used to have them. Until she took up mixed martial arts and now comes home bruised and swollen.
But this isn't about me. It's up to you how you want to treat this. The lilacs growing from the twigs will have to die.
What? Lift your arms. My God. Garlic bulbs growing from your armpits. This, my friend, is serious. I'mgoing to have to call in another specialist. Any other surprises?
Please don't pull down your pants. I don't want to see this.

Latecomers

They stumble in mumbling loudly
Can't see a thing
Have no idea where empty seats are located
Take forever to remove their coats
Take even longer to actually sit
Asks people around them how much they missed
Remove food and chomp away
Leave early causing more dosruptions
Accidentally trip on chair
Curse everyone loudly
Swear never to return

Closing one A.C. Moore

The A. C. Moore arts supply store near me is closing in April. No warning. I walked up to the cashier with two glass cases and my coupon and the elderly woman sadly pointed to the sign above the register informing us that store will no longer honor their coupons. I was speechless. Finally I stuttered, but if I spend $5 and you scan this I get a $10 gift certificate.
She just shook her head. I could sense those behind me getting restless, so I slunk away carrying the pieces, which I was going to paint, back to their shelf. I tried to gather myself in the parking lot, all the while processing how my life will change. I will have to drive 15 minutes on a highway to reach the next closest store, possible getting stuck in traffic or sliding off the road in bad weather.
Nothing is forever. I wanted to hug that cashier and offer sympathy. But she will get unemployment. Someday soon I will return and walk every inch of my beloved store, even the craft and yarn section. Not the scarves though. Scarves have no business in an art supply mecca.

Shelved Masterpieces

So here I sit looking at one of my bookshelves. Who am I kidding? I will never reread The Naked and the Dead. I will never get around to Three Plays by Sean O'Casey. Nor will I attempt to finish The Collected Stories of Tennessee Williams. Nausea by Sartre? Please. I have enough stress. Even in a blizzard I shall ignore these.
Why don't I just give them to Salvation Army?
Because these, like dozens of other masterpieces that line my shelves, define the intellectual rigor with which I approach life. Watching me walk through a Shoprite parking lot, you would cease loading bags into your trunk and take note--that is a man with serious intellectual rigor.
I will read mysteries by Henning Mankell because he has a cool name and is Scandinavian I will ignore the dirty parts in D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers and examine it for sentence structure.
I will always keep an unread Jonathan Franzen book on my coffee table in case I get a visitor. I will listen for his intake of breath as he contemplates the kind of mind who is hosting. First I need to find someone willing to come over and share thoughts. The super is always busy and the woman upstairs keeps yelling at her dog.

The Sharper Image

Lois was lonely. She wandered through malls, staring into store windows, trying to make eye contact with anyone. She came upon The Sharper Image place, a company that specializes in selling high tech objects to people with way too much money. Things like scales that weigh you while playing old Al Martino songs.
     In one section were three male robots, designed strictly for companionship. Lonnie, the salesman, led her over. He could tell she was lonely from her expression.
     Now here is an interesting model on sale for $129.99. We call it The Carl. Push that on button and listen. She did as told. Carl, short, stocky, with a round head and cherubic smile, began speaking. "We are The Write Group, and we have over 30 events every month designed to develop writing skills and speaking skills. We have day and night events, Sunday events, field trips, seminars, our own t-shirt and special handshake. If you give me your email I'll add you to our mailing list."
     Lois hit the off button. Does it ever stop speaking, she asked. Lonnie shook his head. The rumor is its programmer had a nervous breakdown during the coding. That's why it's on sale.
     They moved to the next bot, a thoughtful looking, professorial type with kind eyes and a graying ponytail. This is The John, Lonnie said. Lois pressed the on button, expecting quiet philosophy.
     "I like to ground cadaver bones into dust and feed them to my pet armadillo. Sometimes I bite myself just to see how fast the blood pours out. Aliens kidnapped my little sister and ate her vital organs, except for the pancreas, which I keep in a freezer in the basement."
     Lois hit the off button and shuddered. I don't think so, she whispered.
     One bot remained. Lonnie noticed she seemed more excited. This was a strikingly handsone figure, muscular, almost godlike. Lois pressed the button and took a breath.
     "Good day. My name is Joe. As you can see, I can attract any woman I want. But I choose you, young lady. Take me home and you won't be sorry."
      He said not a word more. Lois paid $499.99 and carried it out with some difficulty, her hands cupping his sculpted buttocks. Her expression had changed.