I'm Not Moving Until I Write Something!

With that title, it's tempting to just say, "There! I wrote something. Good-bye." But I'm too stubborn to give in that easily. So what if I don't have any ideas? Who cares if my brain is devoid of any creativity? Well, *I* care, but who cares what I care about? Are these rhetorical questions? What the hell is a "rhetorical question," anyway? Who am I? What am I doing in the middle of a baseball diamond at midnight on the moon? I can't even play foosball! Why can't I be young again, only not like I was when I *was* young, but more like someone who's really pretty and popular? Would I have been popular, if I had been pretty? Would I have been pretty, if I had been popular? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. So...if Mike's eye had had more beauty in it, would he have thought I was pretty? Would he have been beholden to me? If you are still reading this, do you feel like you have something in your eye? Don't rub it! That'll just make it worse! Try rinsing it with some Midol. I'm getting cramps in my fingers, from typing so fast. How many fingers does it take to cross the road? To get to the other side, Silly! When is a riddle not a riddle? When it's a rhetorical question! Whillikers! Am I done now?

A Fruit By Any Other Name

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A ripe orange is orange.

A green orange is not orange.

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A single nut is sane.

More than one nut is nuts.

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One pear is not a pair.

Two pears are a pair of pears.

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A grapefruit is not a grape.

But it is a fruit.

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A grape is a fruit.

But it is not a grapefruit.

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An apple is a fruit.

Unless it's a computer.

----Warning! It's about to get worse!------

You can have a date,

and still be alone.

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The used car salesman sold me a lemon.

I was ripe for the picking.

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I paid for the banana with three dimes and a nickel.

I call it "the fruit of my coins."

Marital Bliss - A Fairy Tale in one act

Scene 1 - A living room in a modest home in Lancaster, PA. A middle-aged man and woman are standing in the middle of the room, looking agitated.

Man: Cut your goddamn hair! You look like a hag!

Woman: No! I like my hair long.

Man: Well...fine! Go live in Hagerstown, with all the other hags.

Woman: If you're going to insist on insulting me, I'm going to stop holding back and start telling YOU to cut your goddman POT BELLY!

Man: I don't have a pot belly!

Woman: Yes, you do! Why don't you go live in Pottstown? You'd fit right in.

Man: Wait...this isn't fun. Let's be nice to each other.

Woman: Yeah, I agree. You leave me alone about my hair, and I won't mention your gut. Okay?

Man: Okay. But I really do wish you'd cut your hair.

Woman: Yeah? Well, I really do wish you'd shut the fuck up about my hair!

Man: Stop yelling at me!

Woman: I'm not yelling!..................Okay, I guess I did yell just then, but it's because you drive me crazy!

Man: You ARE crazy!

Woman: So are you!

(Man leaves room, slams door behind him.)

Woman (yelling): Come back here, you coward!

(Silence...)

Scene 2: Woman goes into bathroom and looks in the mirror.

Woman: Shit! I DO look like a hag. But it's not because of my hair. It's because I'm fucking old! He just thinks it's because of my hair, because I had short hair when we first met. But he had a flat stomach back then, too. Well, I'm not cutting my hair, no matter what. I want it to get so long that I could wrap it around my neck and hang myself with it, like Rapunzel did to her stepmother. But before I do that, I could experiment with pulling it back really tight, and see if it would smooth out the wrinkles in my haggy, old face.

(Bathroom door opens. Man peeks in...)

Man: Honey...I'm sorry. I won't say anything more about your hair, if you don't say anything about my gut.

Woman: Gut? What gut? You look great, Sweetie-pie.

Man: So do you, Baby Doll.

( Hugs...kisses...)

And they lived happily ever after.

It's Lame, But I Have to Write SOMETHING!

It's been a MONTH since I posted anything on this sorry excuse for a blog! I don't have any good ideas, but I have a couple of bad "poems," so I'll post them. I've lost most of my readers, anyway, so it doesn't really matter. I'll entertain myself, anyway.

_____________________________________________________________

My floor is a mirror

When I look into it

My world is upside down

I am walking on the ceiling

I see the sky through the windows

The windows are upside down

The birds are flying below me

The sun is rising in the west

I am growing younger by the minute.

*****************

I am a dragon

I breathe fire

I have sharp claws

I have sharp teeth

I have a whiplike tail

I could destroy you

So be nice to me, please

Until I've had my coffee

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am a pussycat

I am soft and warm

I purr when I'm happy

I have claws, but they're hidden

So pet me, please

and I'll rub against you

Living Libido Loco

My meno paused, then left for good.

"Good riddance," declared my libido, unpacking her bags.

I'm moving in.

-

She was lively, she was lustful.

Then depression jostled for space, dominating my moods.

Libido hid out.

-

Medication to the rescue!

SSRIs did the trick, evicting that nasty depression.

Come back, Libido!

-

Yeah, right. Read the label, sucker!

Those meds and I can't live under the same roof.

Libido moved out.

-

"I'll try something else," I pleaded.

Look! This one says it will make me happy AND horny!

I lied, but it worked.

Hi Kuh! How Are You?

I understand men.

They are such simple creatures.

All they want is sex.

-

Though I'm a woman,

I don't understand women.

We're complicated.

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Some of us use sex

To get what we want from men.

It's a win, win deal!

-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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I dislike summer,

but not as much as winter.

Spring's okay though.

-

Too hot or too cold.

Is "just right" too much to ask?

Apparently so.

-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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It's late and I'm tired.

I'll go to bed now, and dream...

Dream of "just right" sex.

-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'S no Fun!

It's snowing again. We don't need any more snow, goddamnit! There was plenty of snow on the ground yesterday, then more was dumped on us this morning. It finally stopped around 2 pm and I thought it was done. But NOOOOO! That witch, Mother Nature had to flex her stupid snow muscles again, and now I don't even want to look outside, for fear the goddamn house is being buried in the disgusting stuff.

-

I thought global warming was supposed to take care of this unpleasantness. Surely by now we in the mid-state region should be able to grow orchids outside in the middle of winter. But all we can grow now is gigantic icicles! I actually saw some icicles yesterday that reached from the eaves of a neighbor's house, all the way to the ground.

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One week from today is Groundhog Day. That little bastard better not see his shadow, or he's going into my stew pot!

Earth vs. Moon

I'd much rather live on the Earth than the moon. Sure, the moon looks pretty from a distance, especially when it's full, like tonight, but up close, it's just a big, ugly rock. Of course, the Earth has some big, ugly places too, like the Bronx and most of Afghanistan, but it has a lot of really pretty places too. Especially in the Spring, in my back yard. In fact, my back yard is pretty for nine months of the year - Spring through Autumn. Winter sucks, but even when it's ickky Winter up here in the northern hemisphere, it's Summer down in the southern half of good old Earth. On the far side of the moon, it's always winter, cold and dark.

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Here on Earth, the best things in life are free - flowers, butterflies, blue skies, sunshine, love and sex (if you're lucky). On the moon, you'd have to pay a hell of a lot to import most of that, and it wouldn't last long, with no atmosphere. Atmosphere is especially important for good sex. On Earth, moonlight provides some good atmosphere, but on the moon, you'd be either in the too-bright sunlight or total darkness. Also, you'd be confined to those bulky spacesuits and helmets, which would be a real downer, if you know what I mean.

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There would be some advantages to moon life, the absence of talk radio and drivers-yakking-on-cell-phones, for instance. But for now, I'm staying right here, enjoying the lovely light of the full moon from a safe distance.

Taxation Without Precipitation

Mark Twain said, "Everybody talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it." Well, that was then and this is now. I have a suggestion for our clueless government: Tax the weather!

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There could be different rates and different measures for different kinds of weather. Pleasant, sunny days should be taxed at the highest rate, since people would be in a better mood on those days, and less apt to complain. Extremely hot, humid days would have a lower rate per hour, but we could make up for the reduced income to the state by taxing sweat. Granted, it may be difficult to accurately measure the individual taxpayer's sweat, but I'm sure our brilliant legislators could come up with a method.

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Taxing rain should be easy. The government could install computerized rain gauges on every taxpayer's property, which would not only measure the number of inches in the gauge, but automatically compute the amount of rain falling on the entire property. The per-unit charge would be higher after a drought and lower after generalized flooding.

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Snow taxation presents more of a challenge, since most people over the age of 10 tend to think of snow as a curse, not a benefit. Of course, the same could be said of many people's attitude toward government, but we must remind ourselves that, without taxation, we would not have a government, and vice-versa. So, to ensure that the government will survive the winter, we must impose a tax on the snow we receive. Very light snows may be taxed by the snowflake. Heavier snows could be taxed by the foot, with a special surcharge imposed after the depth reaches the roof of your car.
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I urge all concerned citizens to write their representatives with these suggestions. If the weather tax is successful, perhaps we could find a way to measure and tax the air we breathe and the tears we shed!

Stupid Stuff

Today is January 3, 2011. Twenty-eleven. What kind of stupid year-number is that? Year-numbers are supposed to start with "Nineteen!" Nineteen eighty-seven was a very good year. That was the year I left my first husband and started a new life. Nineteen ninety was a good year, too. That was the year I met my second husband. The last good year was nineteen ninety-nine. Then came stupid Two-thousand. It wasn't bad enough that the year-name was stupid. I had to go and get married, which was really dumb! We got along just fine as significant others, each with his own territory. Oh well. Back to the year thing. Isn't it funny how it changed from "two thousand, two thousand one, two thousand two, etc, until January 1, 2011, when the year name changed to TWENTY eleven, enstead of two thousand eleven? At least I THINK it changed...maybe it's just the way *I* say it now! I'm trying to remember if I've heard anyone pronounce the new year name yet. Maybe it's only I who say twenty-eleven. Shit. I'm going to bed.

Red, White and Blue Christmas

by Harry Sanderford and Zelda Martin

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Archie couldn't help but regret all the years he'd wasted competing for Veronica's affections with arch-rival Reggie, only to have her drop them both for Jughead, when his stack-pizzas-like-pancakes, eat burgers-by-the-platterful, wear-a-funny-hat and stay "Skinny Like Me" program went from small time scam to publicly traded empire. And now, this unexpected sighting of Betty on the mall Santa's lap, laughing and kissing his rosy cheek, the Rockwell embodiment of the Christmas Spirit, only served to deepen the shade of Archie's holiday blues.

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Little did he know that Betty was, at that very moment, asking jolly old Santa to bring her a bottle of "Love Potion Number Nine" for Christmas, just so she could use it to attract her secret love, the very same hunky, freckle-faced redhead, Archie.

-

As Archie stood watching, he saw Betty's face suddenly turn white, then red, while that naughty Santa, so lively and quick, looked even jollier than he had been before. A little too damn jolly, Archie thought, and seizing his big chance to win Betty's love, he rushed to her rescue, just as Betty jumped off of Santa's lap and slapped that cheeky old elf hard, right across his merry old dimples.

-

Betty wheeled around, steaming mad, and ran right into Archie's open arms, where, wouldn't you know, the frown on Betty's face cheered up, the rain cloud over Archie's head cleared up, and ...here it comes...wait for it...was replaced by one of those great big damn cartoon hearts!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

16 Candles - or Babies - or Something

Today, my best friend's daughter turned 16. That event made me recall my own year of being 16. I then came to this conclusion: For humans, 16 is a difficult age. Most other animals are old by then. They are babies for a few months or a year, then they're grown-up and on their own, having babies of their own every few months or years and definitely making their own decisions and taking full responsibility for their lives. By the time they're 16, they've had 8 or many more batches of kids, who've gone on to have kids and grandkids of their own. A mouse, if it lived to age 16, would probably have about a million descendents. An ape might have 40.

But a human is still considered a child, at least by his or her parents, has been coddled and protected and is certainly not ready to reproduce (at least in her parents' opinion). The 16 year-old herself thinks that she is quite grown-up and capable of taking care of herself and making her own decisions. What do parents know, anyway? Those stodgy old farts were never young! With such divergent attitudes, there are bound to be problems.

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If a 16 year old girl (ahem) becomes enamored of her 32 year old history teacher, and the teacher senses her receptive nature, the stage is set for early reproduction. By the time the girl is 48, she could have at least 48 descendents. And while the mouse has far exceeded her reproductive capacity, fewer of the human's descendents would be eaten by cats.

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If there is a moral to this story, I don't know what it is, but I am glad I'm not 16 anymore. I'm also glad I'm not a mouse.

Here's a tandem exercise I wrote with Harry Sanderford last winter. He didn't feel that it was up to our usual high standards, so we didn't post it. But the older I get, the lower my standards become, so I say...To Hell with standards! Let 'er rip!

Through the Window Glass

Maggie leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the Greyhound bus window. Over the river and through the woods, she thought, watching the snow east of Interstate 95 gradually melt away into skinny pine trees and palmettos.
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Finally, after two days and two nights of hard riding, stopping only for bathroom breaks and scrumptious bus depot meals, Maggie's heart skipped a beat and she felt something like a smile forming on her formerly gloomy face when she saw the sign on the highway that read, "FLORIDA - 1 mile."
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Florida was a coin burning a hole in Maggie's pocket. After all, her name was short for "Magnolia," not "Margaret," like most people guessed, and freezing NY winters spent with cold company had taught her one thing; not every tree is meant to drop its leaves and stand stoically awaiting the arrival of spring.
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As the bus rolled into Jacksonville, she was tempted to jump out and start dropping some of her leaves, but she fought the urge and held on to her seat. She was headed for Kissimmee, her old home town, where she had arranged to re-connect with Bubba, her high school sweetheart.
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Twenty years ago, with youthful curiosity and ambitions far too great to be contained in any small town, Maggie had grabbed her diploma, loaded her Chevy and left Kissimmee and Bubba behind, like shoes that no longer fit, to run barefoot out into the world.

-

But now, with sore feet and aching heart, she was back in town, pulling into the bus station, and looking for love. Then, through the steamy bus window, she saw Bubba, all 300 pounds of him, none of which included any hair on his head. Bubba, spitting tobacco onto the sidewalk while scratching his huge ass, and Maggie suddenly realized that snow and ice weren't so bad after all. She dived under her seat and rode that bus all the way back to Buffalo, where she lived happily ever after.

It's Halloween, my favorite holiday. Tonight we celebrate the dead and the undead. We pretend to believe that the undead are alive. But most of know, deep in our black hearts, that the dead are not undead, they are un-alive...which means...are you ready...they are DEAD! Do you hear me, you superstitious fools? Do you wish to be undead when you die? Would you want to drag your crumbling corpse out of its comfy coffin and go gallivanting around the graveyard and scaring the living to death? Okay, I admit that it beats just lying there forever, with nothing to do but rot, but we have to be realistic here. Like, how the hell are you going to lift the lid of that coffin, when it's got six feet of heavy dirt piled on top of it, even if you do happen to be undead? Hm? Give up?

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Now I suppose you're going to trot out the old "spirit" business. "The spirit lives on, though the body decays." I'm sorry, sonny, but I'd rather drink my spirits than communicate with them. I do admit that sometimes my steely certainty is compromised by certain unexplainable events. For instance, tonight I made my traditional trek through the cemetary, down by the abandoned church. I do this every Halloween night, to demonstrate my haughty disbelief in such silliness as spirits hovering over the gravesites. I strode confidently down the path through the center of the cemetary and was feeling quite frisky. But then, I felt a bit of a breeze, no...it was almost like a soft breath, brush across my forehead, and then the back of my neck. It made me just a tiny bit nervous, but I brushed if off and walked on. Then, there was another breath, and another. I turned around and saw a tiny, bluish light, bobbing around, just out of my reach. I blinked, thinking it was my imagination, and then opened my eyes WIDE, as more soft sparks of blue glimmered in the air, all around me. I felt like I was slowly spinning, propelled by soft puffs of air circling me. At that point, I almost succumbed to superstition, but somehow managed to pull myself together and took off running as fast as my puny legs could go. I reached the groaning gate just as the church's chimes struck twelve.

-

Once outside, I regained my reason, and scoffed at my foray into fright. And next Halloween, I will take my traditional trip through the cemetary once more, but at midday, not midnight.

Ha Ha Haiku!

I am not pretty.
True, but I am pretty old!
I did not die young.

The older I get,
The less I care about looks.
Wrinkles hide my flaws.

You can't see me now,
Hiding behind my wrinkles.
That's how I like it.

What happened to me,
The old me, when I was young?
The new me is old.



I have one question.
What is the meaning of life?
There is no answer.

We live and we die.
Don't bother looking for more.
Life has no meaning.


The ocean charms me
Its blue depths, deep as the sky
Full of life and death

Eat or be eaten
Bigger fish eats smaller fish
Prime law of the sea

It's the same on land
Some die, so others can live
We all have to eat

Say What?

One of my favorite bloggers, Anthony Venetulo, alerted his devoted followers to the blog of Micael Chadwick, "The Journey." Micael is inviting his readers to answer 10 questions and link them to his blog. The questions, along with my answers, follow:

1. What is your favorite word?
My favorite word, partly because of what it means and partly because I love to say it, slowly and laciviously is...LUST.

2. What is your least favorite word?
My least favorite word is HATE! I HATE hate!

3. What turns you on, creatively, spiritually and emotionally?
The full moon.

4. What turns you off?
A messy, filthy kitchen with a sink full of crusty, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

5. What is your favorite curse word?
Fuck! Fuckety, fuck fuck!

6. What sound or noise do you love?
Birds singing.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?
Loud, blubbery farts.

8. What profession, other than your own, would you like to attempt?
Absolute dictator of the USA!

9. What profession would you not like to do?
A garbage collector.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Thank heavens, you're here! Johnny Depp has been waiting for you!"

micaelchadwick.com

POWER!

Are you powerful, or powerless? Would you like to be a SUPERpower? Well, power UP! More power to you! Raise your fists and repeat after me: Power to the people! I'm not just talking about MANpower, either. We WOMEN have to get on the power ball. We need a balance of power! A house divided is not a powerhouse.

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So let's all get on the power grid. It's my job to guide you, using power steering. I'll show you the power and light. And no, I'm not just full of wind power, and this isn't a power play. I am inspired by a higher power...the almighty SUN! Yes! Solar power is my power within.

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Don't worry, it's not all work and no power play. Women, enjoy the show, as your suitor delivers his power lines. Men, show your women that you have STAYING POWER! Your power tools will put horsepower to shame.

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In conclusion, I have this cautionary note. Do not always attempt to overpower everyone, or you may find yourself in a power-gridlock. Remember, absolute power corrupts absolutely!

Here's a "flash" I wrote for a contest that asked for a story inspired by the line, "The lady does protest too much, methinks." Unfortunately, I didn't get it submitted in time, so I'll post it here.

Lend Me Your Ears

Once again, Stan was eating dinner alone, while Sadie was out marching, protesting against something or other. Stan had given up trying to keep track of what was riling her up. There was always something she was upset about, something that must be demonstrated against, and some group she could join that felt the same as she did about a particular issue. Some of the groups were small, and marched on city hall. Others were larger, and marched on the state capitol. Today, Sadie had boarded a bus and headed off to Washington to protest the war, or deficit spending, or capital punishment or any of a number of other causes. Who knows? Stan thought. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I'm going to have a talk with her when she gets home.

He decided to wait up for her, and while he waited, he tried to think of the best way to present his case. He had to be very careful not to antagonize her, or she'd be marching on him next! He knew it would not be productive to come out and tell her that he was tired of being alone so often and that he felt that she cared more for her causes than she did for him. She would accuse him of being selfish and uncaring. And then, he would not be able to resist telling her that it was she who was being selfish and uncaring and they'd end up angry and sleeping in separate beds, which was definitely not what he wanted. He pondered some more, and finally, he experienced an "ah-ha!" moment, just as he heard Sadie opening the front door.

He rushed to greet her, pulling her into his arms as she set down her handbag and jacket. "Not now, Stan," Sadie said. "I'm tired." She sighed heavily and turned away.

"Of course, you're tired, poor baby. It's been a long day. I've made some hot chocolate for you. Let's sit down and relax, and you can talk about the march if you feel like it."

"I don't feel like it, Stan. But the hot chocolate sounds good."

Stan guided her to the couch, and went to the kitchen to get the drinks. He handed Sadie her cup, with a graceful flourish. "For you, Madam!"

Sadie smiled. "Oh my! With marshmallows even! This will be the best part of my day."

They sat quietly, sipping their drinks. Stan decided to make his move. "Sadie, honey, I've been thinking."

"Uh-oh..."

"No, no...it's good! Just hear me out. It seems to me that you're alway demonstrating against something. You're showing the powers-that-be what you think is wrong with what they're doing. How about this? Instead of 'pro-testing,' how about 'testing-pro'! Try being pro some cause, be for something. Instead of being anti-war, for instance, be pro-peace! Instead of being anti-drilling in Anwar, be pro-drilling someplace less attractive. Do you see what I'm getting at? Honey? Sadie?"

Sadie opened her eyes and yawned. "Oh Stan, I'm soooo sleepy. Let's go to bed. I have to get up early, because I'm marching on City Hall tomorrow. We're protesting something or other."

(This is what can happen if you've had too much wine before posting on your blog.)

Why did I leave California, if I liked it so much, you ask. Hmph! I was dragged, I tell you! Dragged, from my California home, my fingers digging into the rich soil, over the mountains and through the woods, leaving civilization behind forever, forced to follow the man I didn't love, into the wilds of godforsaken UTAH! Utah - land of the setting sun. Dark superstition and light madness. There was nowhere to run, no one to turn to as I battled the demons of the desert.

But was that bad enough? No! Of course not! Five years later, when my torn and ragged fingers had finally healed, the March of Whines was resumed. Off into the always rising sun we drove, finally stopping at the Beast of the East, Lancaster Pennsylvania.

After several more years of suffering, my wild ride was resumed, this time led by a Greek God, truly, the God of Lust, who rose from the ashes of my incinerated libido and raised me to heights never known in the Mountain State. I became a poet!

I am Zeldor! See me soar!
Never again shall I muffle my voice or deny my choice!
I will lead the parade in the March of Rhymes.
I will reside in the middle of the riddle.
There can be no worse verse.
I will pine for the sublime.
But I will never be clever.
I will moan alone.
I won't try.
Goodbye.

Take Me To Your Lender

I was flat broke and needed some money to pay the rent. So, I hailed a cab and told the Arab, or Indian, or whatever the hell he was - he had brown skin and some kind of fucking accent I couldn't understand, and even though I was a skank, I wanted to be polite - anyway, I asked him to take me to the Screw U Mortgage and Loan Company on 69th St. Now...we started out on 35th St, and this Raghead starts driving south toward the lower numbers instead of north, toward 69th! I said, "Wait a minute, you're going the wrong way!" He have me some ishkabibble about road work or something, and I said, "Look, Mister, if I had money to burn, I wouldn't be going to a fucking loan company, would I? Now turn this fucker around, or I'm going to shoot myself in the goddamn head!"

-

"Oh no! Please don't do that, Madam. My last customer did that and it cost me the price of a camel to clean up the mess!"

-

Then he turned around and re-set the meter, if you can believe it. So I had to give him credit for that, and resolved not to call him a Raghead anymore, even if I hadn't actually said it out loud. Not that I would have anyway, you see, because to me, "a rag" means a Kotex! You know, like when you're in your period, you say, "I can't fuck you tonight, Johnny, because I'm on the rag."

-

So anyway, we got to the mortgage company and I paid the Kotex-head his lousy $20 and even gave him a tip, "Kelso in the 4th," but he didn't get it, so I called him Poopy-head douchebag, and the cab took off like a camel in heat.

-

It was hot in the mortgage office too. I sat in front of a desk, with some little twerp in horn-rimmed glasses looking at me like I had just crawled out of a toilet and was sullying his dainty office chair. I started out being quiet and deferential, but after that schmuckette turned me down, I started yelling at him, which felt really good. I could feel the power boiling up in my gut and I reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels. "Lend THIS, Asswipe," and spit in his face.

-

Of course, I had to get out of there fast, after that. I hailed a cab and told the new raghead to take me to the racetrack. I was going to put my last 20 bucks on Kelso in the 4th.