FAME

fame is over-rated
it is attainable sometimes
but it is fleeting
it claims you
yet, you work to keep it
it's a fooler
the joke's on you
fame

my fifteen minutes
have turned into miserable hours
hours of insanity
i work for a cipher
a wisp of smoke
nothing solid
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
fame

in the end
fame is the procurement of:
the biggest mausoleum
or the longest obituary
or the procession of a multitude of mourners
who long to be seen
also plenty of shiny limosines
and properly suited embalmers
who rarely put shoes on the corpse
because they can't be seen in the coffin
so money is saved
fame

I LOVED YOU

i loved you at first sight
when you walked into the bar
smelling of cheap perfume
and you disregarded me
which made me love you more
and i pranced about you
i puffed myself up
and showed you my colors
and won you over
time was my friend, back then

so i loved you when i had you
and i gazed at you through my alcoholic eyes
and you smiled at me
and spiked your vein
and we argued about money
then we kissed and made up
and we went on the lam
on city streets
we whored for money
and always seemed to find a way

i loved you when i came home drunk
and my dinner sat in the garbage can,
still warm like my heart
and you blindsided me with the iron skillet
and threw my clothes out the window,
along with my shotgun
and i laughed
then you laughed
and we made love

i loved you when i threw you out
i shook with so much rage and hurt
i thought that i would die
and you were afraid of me
and you never returned
but still i kept on loving you

and later, much later when i saw you again
you served me eggs and coffee
in a dirty diner
and you swung your lovely hips
and you had a few more wrinkles
but they looked good on you
and you smiled that sultry smile,
that only you could smile
and i smiled back at you
because i loved you

A DEMOCRACY FAILS IT CITIZENRY WHEN:

Its media is controlled by the rich.
Its book stores and public libraries start closing.
It extends itself into the domain of other countries,
to participate in wars.
It imports slave labor.
It exports its jobs to the econonomically distraught,
for corporate profit.
It denies meaningful employment to its citizenry.
It allows corporations to fund political campaigns.
It denies collective bargaining and the right to strike.
It begins closing schools.
It starts disenfranchising Public Broadcasting networks,
and programs for the arts.
It favors and promotes anti-national diversity,
in favor of Constitutional laws, and generational customs and mores.
It becomes multi-lingual.
It feels that bureaucracy is more important than its citizenry.
It employs banks, stockbrokers, and corporations,
as national economic advisors for government.
It allows special pensions, health insurance and perks
for its regulators while they are in public office;
and when they move on to the private sector.
It becomes an oligarchy rather than an extension of the people.

MOM'S WINDOWS

she always wanted her windows sparkling clean.
she handed me the warm rags dipped in vinegar and water.
i was on a step ladder behind the evergreens
to wash the picture window
she always said, "be careful you don't fall"!
she quickly handed me a dry rag to finish
she ran inside and checked for streaks
and pointed them out to me
we did the whole house this way twice a year
i enjoyed the smells of the cookie factory
next door to mom's house
i also painted window frames and gutters for her
cut the grass and trimmed the hedges
cleaned her grease trap
fixed the furnace and other things
plastered ceilings and walls
it was a labor of love
she rewarded me with home made german-polish food
and good whiskey
we sat and talked about so many things
i miss her so much now
she lived to a ripe old age of ninety-four
i never heard her say a bad thing about anyone
she was solid as a rock
she never shirked her duties
she loved unconditionally
she wanted her windows clean
so she always had a clear view
and that she did

I GOT OUT

Prison eventually gives you clarity.
If not, it gives you death.
Yeah, death...
either physically or emotionally.
I chose clarity.
I realized they owned my body,
not my mind.
When incarcerated, a man or woman does time.
Time...time...time...
The sky goes on forever,
so does eternity.
Prison is relative.
It ain't shit,
unless you let it own you.
I kept my body in shape.
I improved my mind.
I kept my eyes and ears open.
I watched.
I listened.
I stopped playin',
except with the parole board.
There, I spoke of spiritual epiphanies,
and finding Jesus.
But I ended with,
"I don't give a fuck about you people anymore".
I told 'em to do what they wanted to do.
I chose not to beg, anymore.
They sensed my internal freedom,
so I got out.
But I really wasn't free.
I never will be.
Neither will you.

I DIDN'T GIVE UP

i didn't give up
i had talent
they just didn't see it

i was fired
so many times
this all works on a man's mind

then i got angry
i worked harder
i was accepted
my talents were praised

'til new bosses came in
they brought their own kin
with less talent than me
and the bosses lied
they set traps
they made my life hard
they wanted me to quit
or take a lesser position

and i did
for the money
finally, i quit
i moved on
i had my pride
but pride doesn't feed a family

so i'd find new work
i'd prove myself, once again
i vowed, "i won't quit this time"
then i did quit
but i didn't give up

SWING SHIFT

They'd shoot rock on the last hour of day shift, and turn off the ventilation fans before they slammed the doors on the man cage at night. And the crane "high-balled" the hard-hatted, hard-headed men topside...and the miners laughed as they saw the last of daylight...and they either went home to nagging wives and crying babies...or to dank smoky bars whose atmospheres were'nt much better than the rock tunnels from which they emerged.

And we started swing shift to dead air in a "dog leg" filled with dynamite powder and stale air which gave us headaches, and constricted our lungs...and we sweat as we mined rock...and the rock dust stuck to our skins and got into our eyes and lungs...and we toiled for nine hours in this fashion until we emerged at midnight.

And our families were asleep, so we trudged like zombies to cold showers in filthy "hog houses", and got into our beat up pick-up trucks...onward to deserted taverns with bar girls who had shiners, 'cause their boyfriends or husbands were'nt worth a shit.

And all was good in the quiet of these alcoholic tombs...because we drank to forget...and Ronnie Milsap sounded so sweet, singing his sad country songs about lost love...and I went to bed around four a.m., so my wife and baby daughter wouldn't have to see me drunk.

And I didn't see hide nor hair of them, 'til the weekend...and they sensed my quiet desperation...'cause even though I was there, I really wasn't.

TUNNEL PICNIC

i remember the twang of the guitars
willie and waylon
and johnny cash
it was the company picnic
jack daniels black
endless kegs of beer
and ribs on the grill
smiling faces
replaced the tunnel frowns
we played softball
like we meant it
smashing each other
and laughing like hell
and the children ate cake
and the wives cackled like hens
and we were happy
my special brotherhood
of tunnel hands
were kings for the day
and we let our wives
drive us home
as we slept
like our babies
happy and well fed
but we were drunk too
that's a fact
and the wolf
was not at the door
and our muscled bodies
told us we would never age
and on monday
we came back for more
double jacks slamming
pipe going in the ground
bentonite pumping
all was unwound
and we sweat and cursed
and hugged one another
and were proud to be men
in the tunnel
again.

THE NEXT

and so i walked that dusty railroad track.
i didn't know where i was headed.
but, i was dirty
and looked like a bum.
i was in texas,
near the border of mexico.
i had little money,
no real memories,
just bits and pieces of my past.
like a record that skips,
and doesn't give satisfaction.
i saw some smiles,
and some of the violence.
i knew i had no home anymore.
and i didn't care.
strangely peaceful was this feeling,
not caring what comes next.
and then it all became clear to me,
that the next was alright.
so i kept walking.
i walked con dignigad,
into mexico, por favor.
and the next was bueno.
and then it began,
and then it was done.
it went malo.
so, i found myself walking back.
i walked down the same dusty track.
and i was dirty like a bum.
and i remembered...
some of it.
not all.
and it was alright with me.
and i smiled.
because i knew,
there was the next.
and that was good enough.

THE WAKE

The funeral home is in the old neighborhood.
Once it was a bastion of Anglo-Europeans.
Now, it has evolved into decrepitude,
because of the influx of poor Hispanics.
Taco joints, and thrift stores abound on the main street.
I see humble businesses, currency exchanges, and pawn shops.
The once clean gutters are now filled with trash.
The few "white skins" who are left,
are now stooped over and elderly.
They shuffle along glancing furtively.
They look like frightened birds.
I park my car where it won't get smashed.
I heave open the door of the death house,
and my olfactory senses are greeted by funeral home odors of:
mustiness, the sweet smells of flowers,
and freshly brewed coffee.
I sign the book and take a prayer card to add to my collection.
I greet family members and people I don't know.
I say: "sorry for your loss", "sorry for your loss",
"sorry for your loss", "sorry for your loss".
Then I kneel at the casket and view what once was my friend.
The wax, doll-like features of his face, resemble him.
But I know he is not in there.
I've done this ritual hundreds of times before.
I've seen the rosaries in the hands.
I've seen the family pictures, the awards, the photos.
I've studied the rememberances of a life well-spent or mis-spent.
Then I think of my own mortality.
I quickly dispell these thoughts for other notions.
Then I look at the young women.
I take in their inviting flanks and ample breasts.
I notice their makeup and breathe in their perfumes.
They are alive.
And so am I.
But someday we will be old and dead.
So I leave the old neighborhood.
I choose not to go to the bar,
where the young women and men will sit.
They will laugh and flirt.
They will drink and lose their inhibitions.
Later, some will make hot, spontaneous love.
And I ponder these things on my way back to suburbia.
And I think of my days of youth,
And then I enter my home.
And I say my prayers this night,
in respect for the dearly departed.
And I think of my friend.
I think of us when we were young.
And I feel more alone.

AN HONEST PRAYER

What penance must I do...
to regain my innocence?
Is is too late?
An act of contrition,
doesn't seem enough.
Neither does saying a rosary.
I built this dilemna.
I crafted it with ill deeds...
wrongful intents,
calculated crimes,
against what is pure and good.
Now I seek absolution.
But, I know not how to pray.
My prayers seem dishonest.
But, I am happy for my shame.
Maybe this is my penance.
To carry the weight of sin,
like Marley's ghost.
And maybe will come a day,
when I feel the light,
enter into my darkness,
and I will see the truth.
And all will be forgiven.
This is my hope.
This is my prayer.

THE GHOSTS OF FRIDAY NIGHT

The night is filled with "magic" in the early hours.
The lights twinkle behind the bar, like in a sordid amusement park.
The neon crackles and beckons to me.
The ice cubes clink, and the lovely amber elixir is poured.
The smoke from dozens of cigarettes,
curls provocatively to the brown ceilings.
All of it got better, as I got drunker.
I liked moving from bar to bar.
like a honey bee on a mission,
sucking drinks from many flower.
I was a bar hopper.
A lounge lizard.
My adrenaline rush would subside.
To take its place was a warm alcoholic haze.
Then came the rejections from women I offended.
I didn't know why, but I really did in my heart.
I knew I was too drunk, but never admitted to it.
They were nasty women.
A male drunk thinks he is charming.
So did I.
I was different...Didn't they see?
Oh well, so I thought.
These evenings I ended up alone...
most of the time.
Other times I "scored" one-nighters with lonely,
or drunken females.
What I remember most were the all night bars,
in Cicero, Illinois...
a darker, more dangerous clientele...
toughs, con men, hookers, hard core drinkers and drug addicts.
The cops trolled the streets for us at night.
So, I stayed until morning.
I listened to lonely jazz.
I saw the sun come up through bars,
on nicotine stained windows.
All that was left was a few bucks in my pocket,
and bad breath.
I was alone with a few others.
We were the last of the Friday night warriors...
locked in the same jail,
on tattered bar stools.
Then driving home in a haze,
seeing soccer moms,
guys teeing off,
Saturday morning shoppers,
and this made me sick to my stomach.
I fumbled with my keys,
trying to find the slot of my apartment's door handle.
I swayed and tumbled in a heap on my bed.
I'd sleep all day.
Then I'd wake up, in the late afternoon or early evening.
I'd shower and spruce up, and pour my first drink.
Then I anticipated the rush of adrenaline,
The twinkling lights,
the crackling neon,
the clink of ice cubes,
and the endless horror,
of the repetitive nightmare of my song,
which played over-and-over again in my head.
And I liked the song so well,
I didn't change records for a long time.
And when I changed them,
I hated what I had been listening to.
So I stopped the music.
I white-knuckled it every night,
and paced the floors, and prayed,
and begged God not to let me drink or drug.
And I did this for three years.
And I was bored, because I longed for my fantasy.
But I knew it would kill me.
So I stuck it out.
And after a number of years,
I felt a strange peace,
and I didn't want to get high anymore,
or to pick up a floozie,
or sit on a bar stool,
or partake in the adrenaline rush.
So now I shop early on Saturday mornings.
But I look in all the cars,
for people like I used to be.
Like ghosts from my past,
sometimes I see them.
And they are clutching their steering wheels,
willing themselves home.
And I pray for them,
even if God doesn't listen.
But, I do.

ON LONGEVITY

i have a shaven head.
bald looks better.
a comic goatee and mustachio,
salt and pepper.
as i drop in weight,
my skin sags.
doctors tell me it's better this way.
i'm healthy.
i am getting older.
i am a pariah.
no matter how stylish i try to be,
i am still sixty-two.
i opt for comfortable shoes.
fucking rockports.
i used to laugh at people wearing them.
my cowboy boots invite me.
"put us on, yah old fart"!
they look at me arrogantly every morning.
they stand like soldiers in my closet.
they antagonize me.
"give us away to a younger man...
a REAL man".
even my socks cause me agony.
their elastic bands cause me circulation woes.
Now, i wear a diabetic's socks.
they gently cradle my calves.
they have rubber grippers on the soles,
so i won't fall down, and not get up.
ha!
i am disgusted with my situation.
this wasn't supposed to be me.
as my body struggles to function,
i laugh at its foolishness.
I exist in this husk of self,
like so many before me.
and now i know what this feels like...
a new experience,
on the journey,
to longevity.

WHAT I HEAR

i heard a sea of poets,
over my long years
scream...
of the destruction,
the desolation,
the desecration,
of the nations
of this world.

and now
as Japan melts down,
once wearing the crown
of economic renown.
it is now engorged
with death and fear.
and through this year
the mideast burns
with polity spurned.
but no powers see
realities.

both east and west,
see no more
from shore to shore,
as obama dreams
of "the final four".
we rule no more
for madness has come...
and man has undone
the balance of mother earth.

i heard a sea of poets,
over my long life,
scream...
on all matters of things
to no avail.
so put me in jail
for my words.
truth is a pill.
more bitter still,
are the realities we see
on national tv.
for the end is now here.
they all laugh and sneer.
still, nobody hears.

FIRST PLACE

I always try for 1st place.
2nd place is for the first loser.
I try to give it my all.
I never give it less.
I try not to whine, and make excuses.
I am always my own worst critic.
These are the ways I try to achieve excellence.
I live each of my days according to this plan.
I share my knowlege.
I share my wealth.
I found that all I give away,
comes back to me tenfold.
I feel like a winner.
I am joyful.
Remember:
A laborer works with his hands.
A craftsman works with his hands and mind.
An artist works with his hands, mind, heart, and soul.
Be top notch.
Be first place.

HIGH STEEL

I looked at the 256 ft. free standing, tower crane.
I knew that in a day or two, I had to make the climb.
It made me queezy and nervous.
My first time took all the guts, I had in reserve.
I climbed up 100 ft. of structural steel...no hoop ladders,
just iron and cross-section lattice.
Men with vertigo, never make it past the first ten-or-twenty feet.
The inner tower had hoop ladders.
Let me tell you, you breathe a sigh of relief when you make it this far.
At this stage, I was out of breath, and would tie-off for a minute of two.
Then I would climb the remaining 130 to 140 feet to my operator's cab.
I saw the whole city of Chicago from my "perch".

The first few days are kind of un-nerving, but I got used to it.
My free stander was erected outside of the building,
that was to be built. The crane stood alone.
The building would come up floor-by-floor as I poured concrete.
I had to be careful not to knock my concrete man off the columns,
as I swung the bucket his way.
When I worked high steel, I never thought about falling.
I walked many a beam on Chicago's high rises.
Often we were forty-or-fifty floors up.
We walked these beams often leaning into the wind.
Sometimes we walked with our bodies swung sideways to counter the winds.
The men and I who worked these jobs had no fear.
Fear meant death.

I went to night school at my Union Hall in order to take the test,
for my City of Chicago, Advanced Crane Operator's Certification.
I learned about lifting capacities, charts, formulas for weights and shapes of materials to be hoisted. I studied electric-hydraulic systems, motors, and diesel and gas engine construction and operation. I learned to read blue prints, and set up jobs. I learned about cables and drums, and grease fittings, tracks and rollers. I did all of this on my time, after working a ten hour shift on my day job. I studied every night until midnight, then was up at four in the morning for my shift the next day.

Nowadays, some people think that guys and gals like me, make too much money. These people are mostly wealthy corporates, and construction business owners who grant large campaign funds, and promise jobs to politicians in favor of anti-union, "right to work" state legislation. It's sad. We have skills. We union men and women sacrificed many hours to earn our standard of living by becoming proficient in our trades.

The next time you see a tower crane in the city of Chicago, be thankful that you don't live in an anti-union state. I sure wouldn't want an eight-dollar-an-hour "buffoon", flying steel over my gall-darned head! Governor Walker of Wisconsin apparently doesn't see it my way. To me, he is just a rat-type scab, who will get a nice posh job, in some anti-union corporation's office, after he deceives and guts wages from the hard-working middle class. This guy is supposed to be a public servant. He only serves the God of "mammon". Thank God, Governor Quinn is a friend of trade unionism in Illinois. We have no fear of steel falling on our heads, here in this great state! Buy Union! Support Union! Amen.

THE "IN BETWEEN"

when you stop going somewhere...
anywhere
and people don't look at you anymore
you fall into the "in betweens"

you are not part of the machine
just a useless gear
but do not fear
this new place you are in...
is really keen!

there are greater things i glean...
as my crystal ball
brings me to the future
the "in between" is a waiting room
feel the love

and go onward
on your path
toward the light
to magical scenes
that you now see in your mind

verdant greens
and crimson reds
the spectrum between black and white
the rainbow of your mind
is this great "in between"

so, walk with god
these last, few, gentle steps
enjoy the new light sheen
for beauty lies ahead
beyond your "in betweens"

WINTER BLAHS

The dreariness of these Midwestern, March days really gets into a man's head...Especially if he is retired. While my wife is at work, I mope and type stories, or network with a whole plethora of people. I watch movies, do laundry, read books, and generally do the same old things every day.

They say that winter depression is related to lack of sunlight. LOSAD? "lack of sunlight affective disorder"?...They have a name for everything these days.

Being depressed has to be worse in San Diego. It's mostly sunny and warm there all the time. Imagine being a depressed old man, where everyone is young, drinking mojitos, wearing thongs, carrying surfboards, and smiling big smiles showing perfect, pearly-white teeth! grrrrrr. They strut their youthful promenade, down quaint boardwalks. These youngsters have perfectly muscled bodies, tans, and BMW convertibles. I certainly would hate the idea of having to look at them every day. I guess this is why I stay in Chicago.

Everyone here is bundled up and pissed off! We all look like shit in the winter, whether we are young or old. Everyone is waiting for April. Yeah, we think of sunny days here in the Midwest. Then come monsoon rains, or sleet and snow. So much for daffodils. Snow is very depressing in April, but I expect it! It's no big deal to a hardened Illinoian. Spring usually lasts a couple of weeks, then we are plunged into oppresive heat, and dank humidities.

My air conditioner runs all the time. I see my pension checks going down the drain to either cool or heat this old house. Oh well! At least there's TV. I have 900 channels of "tom-foolery" to look at. If that isn't depressing, I don't know what is!

Maybe I should start drinking again. I can eat more junk food that I see on TV, to comfort myself. I can take up smoking again and buy some good "street drugs". I have "fat man" clothes in my closet, so what the hell? This kinda' life ain't so bad! I can quit going to the gym. My aches and pains from brutal workouts will go away! I can efficiently mask my pain with alcohol and drugs.

I'll be happy for a year; then I can go back to my stoic ways. But what if I die in the interim? You see? Nothing makes me happy anymore! I'm just a greedy, old, depressed and selfish man!

Winter sucks around here, that's a basic fact...but at least I can watch American Idol! There! Now I'm happy again.

YOUNG AND DUMB

i was in my late 20's
still young and dumb, and full of cum...
as "they" say...
whoever the hell "they" are.

I lit a cigarette in my pick-up truck
it was a hot, sweaty day,
and i just worked a twelve-hour shift
on a ghastly construction job.

and i needed a beer
and i saw this young female
sticking her thumb out on the road
and i hit my brakes
hard
and my truck squealed to a stop
and she got in

and i looked her up and down
and she was a "looker" with red lips
and full breasts
and i asked her if she wanted to get a beer

and she said "no".
so i pulled over and told her:
"get the hell outta' my truck",
so she gave me the finger
as she left

and i looked at her lovely ass
and it swayed magically
and i thought about it
as i sat at my favorite stool
in the tavern
and the first beer went down good
just like all the rest.

COMPANY TIME

a man finds ways to even up the score.
i wasted hours in my working life,
by pooping on company time.
i hid in bathrooms.
i hid in locker rooms.
i stole cash from the till.
i always "dogged it" when no-one was around.
my bad behaviors were only perpetrated,
against evil employers.
a man has to learn tricks,
to keep his sanity.
he needs to get even:
for low wages,
bad conditions,
insults to his humanity.
It felt good to screw with them.
fight injustice with treachery.
i think of what i owe them now.
and i come up with zero.
not a damn thing.
they hired high-priced efficiency experts,
who figured workers behaviors.
they added us screwing off and stealing to the costs.
yeah, the cost of doing business.
the bottom line is always in favor of the owners.
so poop on them.
anyway,they pooped more on me.

FAT TUESDAY

today is a day for ribaldry...
and young women who show their tits
for cheap, shiny, colorful beads.
and the young ones get drunk.
and the old ones get drunker.
and people puke on street corners.
and billy clubs drip blood.
and money passes hands.
and jails are filled.
and 'Nawlins serves up cheap drinks,
at expensive prices.
watered down alcohol,
sometimes.
and the gumbo is spicy.
and the whores walk their walk.
and the desperate howl at the moon.
and the rich sleep in fine hotels.
while street people hide under cardboard shanties.
they breathe dank air into emphysemic lungs.
then the sun comes up as usual.
or the rain blows blustery sheets.
and ash wednesday is welcomed.
then all is fine,
as street cleaners work.
and the party continues for most.
but a few have lenten promises to keep.
no meat until holy easter.
sacrifice, denial, and prayer...
are to atone for the nights sins.
it's as if all will be well,
but in reality it isn't.
the drunks and the people of god,
are one and the same.
they are children of this imperfect world.
they are followers of insane dictums and behaviors.
strange dualities are possessed by man.
show me your tits tonight.
tomorrow i will receive my ashes.
remind me of my mortality.
all in this world can be cleaned up.
then dirtied again.
then cleaned up.
this is the cycle.
it never ends.
amen.

CHANCES

i'd rather be a bum
a convict
or a fringe character
than...
one of the walking dead.

one of those who never took a chance
and takes the same train
every morning at seven a.m.
and listens to the same woman
complain...

in the same house
on the same block
in the same town
for years never ending
mindlessly accepting...

normalcy
mediocrity
religiousity
duty
then dying...

like a bum
or a convict
or a fringe character
in a bed
in the same kind of hospital
with the same stenches...

and knowing
the hopelessness
of the fact
that i might have lived
by taking some chances.

CRYPTIC

How do I?
Now, do I?
I do now.
And how!
So, now what?
"Do now again".
How do I?
Now, do I?
"Yes".
Yes, what now do I do?
"I thought you knew".

THE THREE DOLLAR MOVIE SHOW

For a mere three bucks, a person can still view a current full-length feature film on the big screen. There a variety of reasons however, that it comes so cheap! The seats in the theatre are dilapidated and caved in, from 300 lb. popcorn eaters who have been lounging in them for the past 40 years. The floors in these mom-and-pop kinda' shows are rarely mopped. Your shoes stick to the floors like a fly sticks to fly paper. Women bring their screaming brats to these cheapie shows. There are a lot of people with NASCAR t-shirts who have missing teeth, and they always sit right in front of you. They talk and laugh during the movie and usually smell of body odor and whiskey. The movie screen has a hole in it the size of a tennis ball, which distracts me every time I am there. My feature film always seems to be in the #4 viewing room where the holey screen exists.

The movie reels are pretty beat up by the time they make it to these type of movie theatres. The kids who work at the concession stands always burn the popcorn; and I have to fight for air due to my emphysemic lungs. The air-conditioning is set really high, so that the movie show owner saves money on his bill in the summer. Conversely, in the winter the thermostat is set really, really low!...brrrrrr.

My wife, Debbie loves these theatres. I can't figure it out. I hate crowds and waiting in line for anything. I'd rather rent two movies for two bucks, order a pizza and stay in the comfort of my own home. I can always "pause" the movie when I need to 'tinkle', (which is often). Plus, I don't have to worry about anyone smashing into my new sedan in the parking lot. At home I can burp and fart at will, and take my socks off. I can't scratch my balls or sit in my underwear at the movie show. For me, the best way to see a movie is in TOTAL comfort. I like my home theatre system with the big screen HDTV. I like my surround sound system. The sounds pulsate through my body with such force, I would be worried if I had a pacemaker! Now that's "total experience".

I have three remote controls I don't understand, 969 channels I don't use, pornography, games, and every single sporting event known to mankind. All this stuff, shows and re-shows 24 hours a day, 7 days a week! As long as there is a phone and I can order carry out food, I never have to leave home...unless I want to go to the gym or a wake/funeral. I hate when someone dies and screws up my viewing schedule...especially on weekends. I save a lot of gas money by staying at home, too!

When I ramble on like this, my wife looks at me incredulously and walks away shaking her head in disgust. She just doesn't get it! Women are certainly strange creatures. Oh well, pass the popcorn.

(excerpt from "A Spider in the Corner of my Mind"...available on Amazon.com)

THE DINER

i always went there after midnight.
it had a row of stools in front of the counter.
the place smelled of eggs and old cigarette smoke.
it was hot in there year 'round.
newspapers were free.
i drank endless cups of coffee for a dime.
the food was hot and good.
a man could get breakfast, lunch, dinner, 24/7.
it was open 24 hours a day.
city people ate there.
cops, hookers, cab drivers, factory workers...
just regular folk.
the jukebox played the oldies.
the place was interesting.
i eavesdropped on the stories,
the fights,
the tears,
the hope or hopelessness of the day or night.
now it's gone.
so many of these relics are gone.
the conversations are gone, as well.
in its place stands a taco bell.
i never go in there.
i miss the diner.

VIP

i was on a VIP list once.
went right to the door man.
people were lined up.
must have been a couple-of-hundred.
they wondered how i had the "juice".
i felt important.
i wore a black fedora.
black cashmere overcoat.
had my briefcase with promotionals.
i got right in.
i was on the list.
i was "somebody".
i got free drinks.
i had a girl on each arm.
i threw back my head late at night,
and did a shooter of tequila.
fell off my bar stool.
passed out cold.
i slept in the managers office.
he woke me up at closing time.
after all, i was a VIP.
i left the city at 5 a.m.
couldn't find a place to piss.
i ended up pissing in a sink.
it was at a yellow cab garage.
i looked disheveled.
the cabbies yelled at me.
i hauled ass home.
i was a VIP.