Archive for May, 2008

The Cop Stop Hop

Saturday, May 31st, 2008


A few years ago, I took home a gal-pal of mine who lived in a neighborhood the Visitors’ Bureau never puts on postcards. After dropping her off, I made a right and immediately saw a big set of multicolored, flashing lights quickly filling up my rear view mirror. The police stopped behind my car and treated me to a light show for which I would have paid money in the 60’s.

I turned off my engine and put my hands in full view on top of the steering wheel just like I was taught on “America’s Most Wanted”. “License, registration, and insurance card please?” Wow was he young! What’s the minimum age for police applicants these days, thirteen?

After handing over my forms, I watched him go back to his car. I waited while the computer check turned up nothing as I knew it would. He came to my window again and handed me my stuff as his partner stood behind my car.

“Sir, why are you in this neighborhood tonight?” I saw he was getting ready to deliver his “dangerous drug area, stupid to be down here buying” speech. I made a quick decision (sometimes, even I don’t know why I do the things I do).

“All right, Officer, you got me – I know it’s against the law.”


“I’m a male prostitute.”

The flashlight beam poured over my face. “For men?” he naively asked.

“No, for young women. They’ve been after me my whole life. Now I’ve decided to charge.”

Time stopped. They sure didn’t go over this at the Academy. Was I disrespecting the police? (Oh God, No!) Was I serious? For what would he arrest me – aggravated delusions? What would the Captain say about this? Finally, he made his decision.
A smile crossed his lips but I knew he was holding back a laugh.

“How’s business?” he smiled.

“Not so good. I think it’s the economy.”

“Get otta here!” he laughed.

As I started my car, I saw the silhouette of his head dancing in the flashing lights as he filled in his partner.

Most times, you’ve just got to make your own fun.


A Nation of Spoiled Crybabies

Thursday, May 29th, 2008


Finally the Memorial Day long weekend is over and maybe we can get a break from whining snivelers – at least until summer vacations begin. On network news:

“We used to drive to Aunt Hilda’s (two states away) every Memorial Day but this year we just can’t afford the gas!”

“The airlines are stuffing us in like sardines and my flight will be late! I take this trip every year but never again.”

“We can’t afford to go anywhere in the RV. I guess we’ll just stay home.”

Awwwww. What sacrifices we have to make in the real world! So Congress drags before one of its committees a gaggle of oil executives who made “obscene” profits off American consumers. (Are the cameras on?) “Do you know what you’re doing to this nation’s families?” blubbers a tearful Congressman.

Oil exec looks confused. If we could put a microphone into the man’s mind he would say, “Uh, yuh. I’m making a profit for the shareholders of my company and providing thousands of jobs as we compete in the world market place. Now YOU are just sucking up to the local voters – just as you did years ago when we asked you for more drilling rights in Alaska and other ‘Forever Wild’ regions. I may be a corporate pig but at least I’m not a goddam hypocritical leech sucking off the taxpayer’s teat as I ask all of us “pigs” for contributions to my lousy election campaigns!”

America: we will NEVER again have cheap gasoline and heating fuel. GET — USED TO IT and STOP SNIVELING! We are still the only country in the world where the poor have color television sets and cable. FOR CHRISSAKES – if you can’t appreciate what we have, at least be thankful we don’t get what we deserve.


Make mine rare. Better? Don’t make it at all.

Monday, May 26th, 2008


Did you have a cookout today? Many Americans did because it’s a tradition. The husband (usually) drags out the Webber grill, fills it with old charcoal (vintage: Memorial Day, 2007), dumps on too much lighter fluid (a definite lack of creativity naming this product), lights it, and then jumps back from the 2-foot flames.

“I’ll be ready for those steaks in about 10-minutes!” he shouts to his eye-rolling wife who is just thankful he didn’t set the house on fire. Then Dad fixes himself another drink – his fourth. He thinks, “if I can just get through this bullshit before 1:00 PM, I can still catch the first inning of the Yankee game”. The kids groan when they see a backyard inferno like they haven’t seen since the newscasts of the California wildfires. Ahh, charred rawhide for dinner-again this year. The charcoal briquettes might be easier to eat.

“MOM! Can we go to McDonalds?”

”No!” she yells back. “We’re a family – and families cook and eat outdoors together on Memorial Day. It’s important to your Father.”

Louder groans. “Why?” one yells.

“God friggin’ knows… ,” she thinks as she scoops salads onto serving plates from plastic containers bought at Wegmans.

“Go set the table! Use the paper plates and plastic silverware.” More groans. Even before the kids find the long lost picnic supplies, the wind picks up and a new species of fruit fly is attracted to the smell of burning meat. Finally the family is seated. Paper plates are held down by mayonnaisey salads and one hand – as the other tries to shoo away the unrelenting insects.

And despite the fact that everything on the grill is now uniformly burnt to a crispy black, Dad asks the punch line question, “How would you like your steak?”


No Nudes is Bad Nudes

Monday, May 26th, 2008


Memorial Day traditionally has been the kickoff opening for nudist resorts in climate-challenged regions like ours. I’ve enjoyed nude sunbathing for years and, as others have told me, it’s no big thing.

The resorts have ranged from ‘naturist-primitive’ – like the one we have near Sodus, NY – to ‘pool side umbrella drinks’ such as a resort I know near Toronto. But whatever the location, nudists enjoy the sun and the freedom allowed by a clothes -free environment.

This freedom comes from total body acceptance without regard to the ‘young, beautiful, slender bodies’ and ‘latest fashion’ pressures that dominate our culture. While getting a tan, I’ve seen the bodies of senior citizens, kids, mastectomy survivors, scar victims, fat people, skinny people, and just about anyone else under the sun. It’s hard to believe – but nobody really cares what you look like. For first time nudists, the naked novelty idea wears off after about five or ten minutes – really.

In this society, we associate being naked with sex – but nudist resorts are about as sexy as dog shows. There are no displays of physical affection, teasing bikinis, or “enhanced” SpeedO’s. Sun worshippers surprised me at first. Most are just average, tradition – bound Americans with this one rebellious activity which they do not consider rebellious at all.

Do they worry about skin damage from the sun? Oh please – virtually everything is relatively safe when done in moderation. And anything done regularly to the extreme is usually harmful – especially moderation.


Coloreds Need Not Apply

Thursday, May 22nd, 2008


Is there still racism in America? Of course there is. The fact that you can buy this button for $4.99 + $3.99 shipping on E-Bay is a pretty good indication of it. The ad copy calls it “cute”. I wonder how many Black Americans would think it “cute”?

I’m not a big Obama fan. But there’s no denying he’s an intelligent, charismatic Senator who rose from a lower, middle class background to become a member of one of the most prestigious institutions in this country – the United States Senate. I respect him for working hard to achieve that goal – and succeeding against incredible odds. To reduce this man to a dumb, mocking, racial stereotype makes me sick.

But this is America. Even assholes get to express their demented views and make a few bucks off them in the process. May it always be so.

We’ve come a long way, America – but don’t doubt for an instant we still have a long way to go.


“Allo? Nobody Home.” Click

Thursday, May 22nd, 2008


Since my Grandfather hated the telephone, every caller heard those words and hang-up every time he ”answered”. My Mom and her sister could barely get Grandpa to answer the phone, much less take a message. Once his brother Angelo, who lived six blocks away, walked to Grandpa’s house to tell him he was going to call so Grandpa had better pick up the phone. He then walked back to his own house to call. I think he was just making a point. I hope he was just making a point because the alternatives are too strange to consider.

One reason Grandpa hated the phone was because he was afraid of it – a lot of people were in the old days. He thought you could be electrocuted through the earpiece and no amount of explanation could shake his belief. He thought that if sound traveled through the wires, electricity could too. Of course, this is the man who refused to teach his children to swim because “only kids who know how to swim, drown. Kids who don’t know how to swim, don’t go near the water.” It’s hard to argue against that kind of logic.

I don’t know how much Grandpa influenced me but I almost never answer my own phone. Every caller has to talk through my answer machine and I’ll either pick up or call them back later when I want to – sometimes. People are now shocked when I answer my phone. I always hear, “This is you? I was expecting your machine.” Some sound quite disappointed.

Is screening calls inconsiderate? Well think of how many people call you to whom you’d like to talk – or talk at that moment. Once I figured my percentage to be about 1 in 5 or 6. Those aren’t great odds.  Certainly not good enough for  me to pick up.

Rude? Well give me a call and we’ll talk about it.  Right.


A Role Model? Not now. Just a …..

Wednesday, May 21st, 2008

Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser.


                                             Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser.Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser. Sore loser.


Just Another Man You’re Going to Blame

Monday, May 19th, 2008


Human test trials for the male birth control pill are now going on in England. The pill should be on the market in a few years. The research money spent on this stupid project was as wasted as George W’s Yale tuition.

WOMEN – here’s a hypothetical test: say you meet a really hot guy at a cool party. There aren’t any telltale tan lines of a wedding ring on his finger. He looks like he works out almost as much as you do. He’s clean, kind of good-looking, and is neither a hairdresser nor an interior designer. He’s actually asked you three questions about your life and only spent about three quarters of the time talking about himself. He says he likes to dance (“Well, they all lie a little…”).

A bouncing boobed bimbo shakes on by and he never takes his eyes off you. Bingo! You’re slightly drunk – so you invite him back to your apartment “to talk.” When he actually pays for the cab ride and gives the driver a good tip, you think – “should we rush a June wedding….or wait another month?”

As soon as you enter your apartment, passion melts the wallpaper! Clothes fly everywhere and at one point in the melee, you kiss your own forearm! After tumbling into bed, you open the drawer in your night stand, take out a condom and hurriedly hand it to your new lover.

He smiles and says, “I really don’t need that, Baby – I’m on the male birth control pill.”

WOMEN, Do you say …….

A. “Wow! You really DO have a great sense of humor!” or

B. “You HAVE to – I don’t want to get HIV again!” or

C. “Good! I WANT to have more children!” or

D. “Geez – I thought only prison inmates said that!” or

E. “Right. How selfish of me to put an unwanted pregnancy before your minute and a half of pleasure!”

Male birth control pills will become viable only when women trust men enough to put down the toilet seat every night.


Looney Laughter

Monday, May 19th, 2008


Years ago, one of my siblings needed some crisis mental health care. I won’t say which one of my brothers or sisters needed assistance- but both my sisters have lived in France now for over 30-years as devout Muslims – praise Allah! Draw your own conclusions. My family, along with other families in similar straits, was invited to a group discussion to talk about our situations.

Asking my family to discuss in public “our problem” was not a great idea. Hell, we hardly talked to each other. Letting other people know our business in front of other parents with looney kids seemed destined to crash out loud. But my Father agreed when told we didn’t have to talk if we didn’t want to. He and I uncomfortably sat down in a circle of chairs filled with family members and their problems.

Precisely at 7:00 pm, this huge mountain of a guy started to rumble. He had on a white shirt, buttons working hard to restrain his girth, a tie he may have won at a carnival weight-guessing booth, and glasses sliding down his sweaty nose. He put his hands at his sides, palms up, and in a voice lush with authority said, “Why are we here?”

Immediately, a nervous, skinny Dad started machine-gunning a tale of horrors and woes about his problem daughter seated next to him. Daughter bent her head and stared at the floor. Everyone was uncomfortable – Dad’s indicting story went on and on. Problem started to cry. Just then this older guy with a beard walked through the door and said,

“Ralph, get out of my chair. People, I’m sorry I’m late. I’m Dr. So & So and I couldn’t find a parking space.” Big Ralph got up smiling and started to roll his mass to another seat.

I lost it! As the rest of the group stared at the psychologist liked stunned sheep, I was uncontrollably laughing into my chest – I just couldn’t stop! My Father glared at me. Finally I got my laughs down to breath-held chuckles and Dr. Psych began talking. His first words? “Well, why are we here?”

That did it! A blast of laughter roared out of my face. I excused myself while getting up to go into the hall. Ralph beamed and I winked at him. That nut had CREDENTIALS!


Death by Reality

Sunday, May 18th, 2008


A lot of people from the Class of 1968 died. Some lost their lives – many lost their dreams. As we used to say, “Same difference.”