(from the files) 435. a forest fire just in time

i'm in the midst of a grand forest fire.
leaves ablaze in orange, red and yellow.
a smokeless sting to the eyes that lifts my heart.
it is autumn.
just in time, once again.

snooki, simon and shyster publishing, and some left over thoughts

i have had plenty of time to think this morning, and i'm pretty much thought out.
i can tell because it's 10:49 in the morning and i'm already thinking about dinner.
and while that can be a fun endeavor, it pretty much signals the end of my creative juices for one day.
besides, it hard to be creatively juicy when i just received word simon and shyster publishers has signed snooki to a book deal to write (that's funny) a romance novel (that's downright insulting to the genre).

but hey, what do i know?

i reference a quote from last year by simon and shyster ceo, carolyn reidy, that puts a spotlight on her company's challenge: "we must do everything in our power to uphold the value of our content against the downward pressures exerted by the marketplace ...".
that "downward pressure" is in reference to the creepy, lowly digital book world, the dark underbelly of the noble publishing business.

golly carolyn, i can't imagine why those dastardly e-books are growing at such an alarming rate—not when big publishers like you are hell bent on providing the freshest, sharpest authors of our time, like snooki, justin bieber, meghan mccain, and future catch, levi johnston—just to name a few.
i mean, i understand your terrible conundrum, what with the limited resources available for publishing hardcover books already.
believe you me, it's soothing to know you are diligent and unwavering in your selection of what constitutes "the best and brightest".

heavens to betsy, why with the brilliant talent you've uncovered, it's no wonder that the slouches i've come to know, the likes of randy johnson, buffy holt, david b.dale and many others referenced in this amateur-time blog, must wait in the wings, like the bench warming fools they obviously are, hoping beyond hope for an act of goddess oprah to get them in the publishing game.

i get it!
yeah, it's no goddam wonder all right—it's no goddam wonder the e-book market hasn't carpet bombed your hardcover ass centless.

well, if that doesn't beat all get out?
i guess i had a thought or two left after all, one of which is, it's a pizza night sure as shootin'.

benny and andy get back at planet bizarro

benny said, ya know what i don't like?
andy asked, what benny?
benny said, that planet bizarro.
andy said, and how! i don't like the idea that right this second some idiot named "ydna" is doin' the complete opposite of what i'm doin' just because.
benny said, that makes two of us.

the boys thought a little.
then andy said, hey are you thinkin' what i'm thinkin'?
benny said, yeah, i think so. let's do it.

so benny and andy got in handstands and began talking in backwards english.
and when they were all done, andy said, that'll learn 'em.
and benny said, yeah, who do they think they're messin' with anyway.

meanwhile on the planet bizarro, poor ydna and ynneb were cuff-handed and dessot in liaj for being gnilhtrae seips!

mr. smarty leaf

i was sitting at cranelegs pond, kinda feelin' sorry for myself, when this brilliant red-orange leaf landed in my lap.
i picked it up and looked at it for a moment.
then i said, hey leaf i feel sorry for you.
the leaf said, why's that bobbalooey?
i said, well because it takes you your entire life before you become the best color you can be, and then just like that, you die.
the leaf chuckled a bit and then said, you should be so lucky bobster.
and i thought, yeah whatever.
but i didn't tell him that because ... well ... because he was a leaf for cryin' out loud, a dyin' one at that.

so i tossed him in the wind and went back to pondering my mundane state of affairs before i was so rudely interrupted by mr. smarty leaf there.

the right wink

the right wink from the right person at the right time can shine the sun on my darkest of moods, but if that wink rides atop the saddle of a certain, devilish smile, well then, let pan play jigs with his pipes cause my flailin' feet are fixin' to stepdance with the stars of the seein' sort.

my take on humor

a cranelegs pond visitor sent me an email asking if i might comment on my secret to writing such robust wit.
initially, i was humbled.
but an answer was called for, and an answer i would give my inquisitve friend.
or why even be in this business, i say!
so i gave the question considerable thought and responded: "cranelegs thanks you for asking such a probing question. here's my answer, if i may. you see, it always comes down to word choice. for example, why use run when you can use scamper. capisci? scamper is funny. that's humor my friend. that's the secret!"

okay.
look.
forget the fact that i sent the original email to myself.
the point is i had a good answer in search of a question.
and god knows, if i waited around for someone else to ask, well there's no telling when this gem would be shared, if ever.
so i got a little proactive.
took the bull by the horns and slung it something good.
i just didn't need to send an email response to myself with auto-reply on is all, some 10,341 times before servers began crashing and smoke commenced from out of my motherboard.

see there?
that's what i'm talking about.
"commenced"!
that's a funny word.
it's killer funny, and it just came to me naturally, like hyenas to a fresh carcass (or something else gross like that).

a fractured learning from grandma

it's not often that i have very little to say.
and when such a respite occurs, i'm best off listening to my grandma's mantra: if you have nothing good to say, say nothing at all.
of course, my take on that gem is: if you have nothing good to say, say something pretty stupid.

so ...

i really don't like tofu.
it might just as well be called toefood to be honest.
actually, i have it on good sources that it was left behind by aliens as some sort of cruel joke on us dumb earthlings.
which leads me to what really is stuck in my craw—other than knowing what a craw is, how one would stick it, and why that would be bothersome.

i think we are the butt end of a lot of jokes from distant galaxy comedians—along the lines of "elephant jokes".
it wouldn't surprise me if the first communication from outer space we intercept is something like: hey, why did the earthling eat tofu? because it was time for dinner!
i mean, that's probably some top shelf humor in some solar circles.

anyway, the whole thing bothers me, as stupid as it may sound.

ebullient karma

mom said, it's not normal to be so happy all the time, what with your being out of work and all.
i said, it's my ebullient karma. i can't help it.
she said, i don't care what kind of fancy-shmancy, imported automobile you drive, you shouldn't be so happy.

alix and crab cake sandwiches

keaton is on a two week business trip to europe.
in her absence last night, alix, my pseudo-step-daughter, cooked up some scrumptious crab cake sandwiches for me and the boys (i.e., ed, my nickname for her boyfriend, short for eating disorder, he eats everything in sight that hasn't touched an onion; and my son, who goes by "dr. no" because he answers "no" to questions like gangsters take the fifth—such is the state of my posse these days).
anyway, believe me, i'm not complaining.
alix has been doing a great job of using leftovers from a huge seafood festival party we hosted this past weekend.
but i'm starting to think the leftovers might be getting ... well ... not so lefty, just over.

i expressed this concern in not so many words to keaton's long distance inquiry as to how the crab cakes went, when i responded, well they were delectably affable going in but very crabby coming out.

brain squinting

sometimes if a squint my brain just enough, i can actually understand what the hell obama is trying to say half the time.
unfortunately for him, most people are natural born eye squinters, if they are squinters at all, and have neither the time nor desire to be gettin' all brain squinty.

(from the files) 650. a bad thought with legs

keaton said, i should be home in about forty minutes.

then this crazy thought from out of nowhere crossed my mind, i wonder if she'll walk through the door in a little lacy, french maid number.
holy smokes what a bad thought.
don't know what prompted it, but there it was all the same.
it's not like she's done that before—she hasn't.
geez, my mind is really broken.
anyway, i needed to respond.

so i said, plus tard mon amour.
keaton said, oh my, french. it sounds sexy. translation please?
i answered, oh nothin', don't pay any attention to me.
keaton said, okay, whatever. look, i just remembered,  i need to make a quick stop to pick something up but should be there soon.

then i thought, hmm ... a quick stop to pick something up? just remembered? merci!

so i responded, no problem, take your time. see ya later.

i can be so cool under the pressure of a bad thought with legs.

891. tough love

Ringleader Ricky and the Squawker!

it was the summer of '59.
i was seven and a half and eager to be eight.
fortunately, eagerness couldn't change the calendar back then.

i had just completed a rather nasty b&e (i.e., break and entry for law abiding types) at the popoff house with ringleader/four-year-old brother, ricky (a.k.a., "handsome devil"), and strong arm, "bones" eslinger (the neighborhood kid who defined "keeping bad company").

yada, yada, yada—blah, blah, blah.

mom, having been alerted to the affair within an hour by neighborhood watchdog gertrude vanderbeek, grilled me somethin' good, squeezing me for information—had i heard anything on the street about what had transpired at the vacationing popoff's house?
i cracked like a fallen robin's egg under her enhanced interrogation techniques, spilling names and pointing fingers like no one's business.

and when my squawking was all over, she didn't buy my story that ricky was the puppet master, making the argument that if he still wasn't toilet trained, how in the world could he have orchestrated this debacle.
she had a point.
so i took the hit, and some hit it was.

she proceeded to call the police, had me cuffed and thrown in the back of the town cherry top (i.e., police car to you do-gooders), and hauled my guilty ass off to the scene of the crime—detective sheridan and she in the front, i whimpering in the back, behind the steel cage barrier with mounted shot gun just on the other side i suppose on the off chance i should try to make a break for it.

detective sheridan asked, "how old are you son?"
one thing i knew, other than a short life of crime, was that when someone who was not your father addressed you as son, something bad was about to be said, and if that someone was a detective, well then, it was about to be very, very, very bad for sure.
mom yelled, "well, cat got your tongue? tell him how old you are."
i answered quietly, "seven and half." (i don't normally say "half" anymore, although i continue to answer quietly).
he looked at my mom and said, "you have a lucky boy there ma'am, because if he were eight years old, we'd be taking him up the river right now."
i wondered, "up the river"? what river? the only one i know is in the bible, and that's nowhere near here as far as i know.
mom chimed in, "do you know what that means?"
i mumbled through my quivering lips, "na na no."
she said, "we'd be taking you to prison to do some hard time."

i took pause to think about what she had just told me: hard time? prison! that's where they took rocky sullivan in "angels with dirty faces". and they filled him up with electricity. holy mackerels andy! i was indeed lucky—by a mere six months.

i looked out the back window of the squad car and cried my own river as the callous maple leaves snickered in the sultry summer breeze.
and i swear, way off in the distance,  i could hear the tinny bugling of "taps" played faintly and slowly—one death note after another.

mom had heaved a heavy hand that horrible day.
tough love at its toughest best.
and while the tears rolled down my cheeks, as i slumped limply in the back of that black and white, pushing the slipping cuffs back up my sweaty hands, i swore off crime forever.
i haven't so much as jaywalked since.

and now i want others to know.
let my story be told.
if only i might reach one lad, save one life, put the silver in some one's cloud lining, then this haunting indiscretion would not have been for naught.

alas.
thanks ma!

benny's favorite number

so i asked, hey benny what's your favorite number?
he thought very briefly and said, definitely the number eight.
i asked, why's that benny?
he said, well i've actually thought about this alot. ya see the number 8 reminds me of what infinity would look like in the middle of a somersault, and that's a concept that i don't think even einstein had envisioned. it's an angle i came up with all on my own. kinda puts my thinking skills in a whole new light.

(it was at this particular moment that it occurred to me, i preferred the old light benny. he may not have been the sharpest tack but he certainly wasn't the dullest either. now i'm not too sure.)

heavens to murgatroyd!

it was tough believing in santa at age fourteen, especially when i had a younger brother, some six years my junior, who was a no-good, non-believing, loud-mouth santatheist (pronounced: san∙tāy'∙thē∙ist), although he confessed recently, "i'm more a santagnostic about the whole thing, because heavens to murgatroyd, a person can never be too sure of anything these days."

[actually, i was challenged to used "heavens to murgatroyd" in a sentence. this is what i came up with. frankly, i'm not sure what to make of it.]

when you're up to your eyeballs in quicksand, it's tough to be an optimist.

at least that's how i feel these days.
what, with the tea party just looming like ozone before a lightning strike.
is it really possible that this last long breath of white privilege and self-pity, most of it used to sustain glenn beck's mouth runnin', will suck the oxygen out of all of us.
i don't know.
it seems likely given the trajectory were on.
i mean let's face it.
this is a house divided.
for some time now.
but it seems dangerously divided these days.
like we might need a new mason-dixon line (or a couple) to carve up this bad boy.

well, one thing we can all agree on: these are some tough days for optimists, of any flavor.
and to be funny to boot?
downright impossible.

(from the files) 114. blogging in the buff

warning: if nudity offends you, skip this post.

i am writing this blog entry in the buff (with the exception of my favorite brackish white sport socks).
let’s face it, skin sells, and i readily admit i'm stooping to a cheap marketing ploy.
but nudity in the hands of a desperate blogger is a formidable tool, as i suspect this little publicity stunt will be splashed all over youtube shortly, launching cranelegs pond into the internets blogosphere.

uh oh, here comes the starbucks manager and she doesn’t appear to have my grande non-fat gingersnap latte, or for that matter, a sense of physical humor.
better go before it gets nuts around here, so to speak.

615. a spam email worth commenting on

occasionally, i rifle through my spam bucket to make sure that i haven't inadvertently spamatized legitimate emailers.
as i do, i can't help but notice a few ingenius email subject lines, and some not so much.

well today i got one beyond "not so much".
insane really.
i received the following plea from a very forthcoming (so to speak) ashley madison, who announced: "life is short! have an affair! meet married women tonight!"

i responded: "agreed, life is short, but if keaton ever got wind of this, she would simply make my life in particular really, really, really short and quite tortured in its final hours. i'll eat a snickers bar instead, thank you very much."

225. driving with senior parents

i suggest whenever you begin to envy the life your darling, retirement-village parents seem to share, drive them somewhere for six hours.
it will snap you out of it in a hurry.
that is if you don’t suffocate both of them with their 6 foot by 6 foot roadmap first with all the "best way to get there" arguments already.

(from the files) a fine writer's paradise ruined

it's early morning.
the sky is november gray.
there is a cold drizzle darkening the patio slate.
a fresh pot of mild columbian roast caffeinates the kitchen air i breathe.
chamber strings sulk quietly, occasionally interrupted by a crack from the log fire.

i am so ready to write today.
ah, to be one with microsoft word.
at peace with my laptop.

but what will it be?
a love sonnet perhaps?
the next twainian short story for my "still living in the sixties" collection?
maybe an essay on nature's wondrous moods?

hmm ... a blog post?
yes!
a blog post it will be.
but not just any blog post!
the bloggiest!
one that will catch oprah's attention for sure.
already i can hear my snappy one liners moving her audience to near laugh riot.
by the end, she offers me her job in surrender to my greatness.
but i refuse because i am still humble.
a five hour standing ovation ensues.

yes, i see it all.
yes, indeed!

but let me not get ahead of myself.
first i need a subject.
what can i write about?
empty the head (no difficulty there).
let it just come to me.
quiet the mind.
there.
let it happen—

"tin shoe cannoli"

huh? what the f@*k!
well, that certainly was a fine writer's paradise ruined.
apparently my empty head has debris strewn about like a new jersey county fair.

238. flirting ain’t the same

keaton said, i still like to flirt occasionally to see if i still have it.
i said, oh i stopped years ago when i started getting pats on the head and asked if i had wondered away from the home.

968. the best part about hair that grows

the best part about hair that grows is that it has to get cut, eventually.
and that means you have to find someone to cut it.
and right after a dentist and before a car mechanic, the hair cutter is the most sacred bond i have that's not of the marriage or domestic partner sort.
a bad haircut is the equivalent of a flapping dry nostril booger atop the head.
you just can't take your eye off it, and for all the wrong reasons.
a good haircut is tantamount to self-confidence, making the hair cutter relationship as important as any one can have.

this is the story about such a hair relationship.

upon my return to new jersey many moons ago, after a three year stint in phoenix, i found dexter.
i was a walk-in to a hoity-toity joint in an upscale mall.
he was great.
fabulous hair-cuts and boy did he give me a lot of attention.
it didn't take long for the sacred bond to gel.
things were moving along swimmingly too.
that is until dexter suggested we go out for drinks ... to a cabaret ... which to my way of thinking was getting away from nurturing the "sacred" in order to stress the bondy part a little too much for my liking.
i guess i was sending out same sex vibes, but i think it's just my affable nature getting all misconstrued.
that's happened a few times, if the truth be told.
sooo ... i told him okay but only if my girl friend could join us, which was pretty bold considering she wasn't within thirty miles of the joint, that is if i even had one at the time.
anyway, i'd have to convince a female stranger in the mall to play the part, if he called my bluff.
a real george costanza moment.
well poor old dexter there was visibly crushed (could you blame him) and fortunately dropped the offer.
but the sacred bond was never the same.
soon, we decided it best to go our separate ways.

alas, i entered the long, lonely process of searching for a new sacred bond once again.
two years to be exact.
painful ones at that, bouncing from barbershops to two bit haircut factories, only to find emptiness at the end of dull scissor blades and the bottom of a bottle of blue comb antiseptic.
but i would push on.
and in my lowliest hour, i struck gold.

desperate for a decent haircut and to reclaim my heterosexualness, i decided to change course and give a female hairdresser a whirl.
not that my hair needed dressing.
it just needed cutting.
but this concept of dressing the hair was untapped and i was quite lowly and vulnerable, if you need to be reminded.
a little walk through the local yellow pages and there she was, just a hop, skip and jump away.
i found june of june and company in 1987.
june was running a small salon in a tiny rented house amid a hodgepodge of little town shops, rundown strip malls and brand spanking new shopping plazas.
quaint is a word that comes to mind to describe her salon, much like her patrons.
actually, i'd call her clientele rustic, like fluffy blue hair rustic.
it's the kind of place in which i immediately felt young and vibrant.
and they loved my material.
it's not every day that mature women, preparing to contact venus with their hair dressed up in tin foil, rods and oil paints under mind melding domes, can carry on in witty conversation with the likes of a virile, dashing young man, such as myself.
i gave them cause to enjoy the rest of their eighties.
and as for me, it simply confirmed that the kid still had his mojo, contrary to whatever some of you are thinking right about now.

now let me say this right up front, june was a slippery pete of sorts.
after the first hair dressing, she massaged my head and shoulders for a good five minutes.
dexter did that a little too, but i thought he was just fastidious about how my shirt sat upon my shoulders.
this was different.
being in the state of mind i was in (i.e., confirming my sexual proclivity), i have to say, i ... i ... well i got a little aroused.
not full blown or nothing mind you, but there was definitely twitching amidst me south-of-the-borders.
and it was just the sign i was looking for!
a new sacred bond was established, albeit still a little more bondy than sacred, but at least every one was on the right team.
oh yeah, the hair dress was pretty good too, i think.

and that was that.

yada, yada, yada ... i've been in sacred bond with her ever since.
over twenty years and only one breach.
i was desperate, she was on vacation, so her salon partner dressed my hair in my moment of need.
let me tell ya something, i learned quickly that an in-a-pinch replacement is a no-no in the salon constitution of sacred bonds.
there was bad karma there for a while, resulting in a few suspect cuts to my ears, nothing some iodine and snoopy band-aids couldn't repair, but cuts nonetheless.
however, a sacred bond is a sacred bond, and it all sorted itself out in about three years.

oh yeah, before i forget, you know that massage?
there was only one.
it was her male-patron, sacred-bond creation technique ("the old head and shoulders" in salon parlance).
i know this to be true because i have it on good sources that other guys had the same experience with june.
now that's some slippery salon shenanigans alright.

but hey, men are simple creatures who get what they deserve.
good for her.

you go june girl.
she is like a sister really.
been through marriages, kids, divorces and new relationships together.
now my son goes to one of her young hairdressers.
it's a family affair really.
and one of these days i'm going to write about the joint.

yeah ... soooo ... that's the best part about hair that grows.

thoughts

there’s something to be said about thoughts best left unsaid.

(from the files) 617. buying sneakers

i dread buying sneakers.
probably go once every ten years.
and each time i do, it becomes harder to find what i'm looking for, which is a sneaker.


it always goes the same way.
i walk into one of these meccas of athletic shoes, when i'm immediately approached by a young, fit human dressed like a roller derby referee.


young, fit referee: hi sir, can i help you?
me: i'm not sure.
young, fit referee: well, as you can tell we have the largest inventory of athletic shoes this side of madison square garden. so ask away.
me: okay, i'm looking for something called a sneaker. you know, something that feels better than a shoe and is good for making quick cuts and sweet dodges during a rousing game of red rover during recess.
young, fit referee: gee sir, never heard of red rover. some sort of paintball war game affair? because we have six, maybe seven, different types of what i like to call athletic enhancement foot apparel for that? sure we can find something for ya.
me: um ... never mind.


and i leave empty handed—those kind of sneakers.

614. benny needs some sensitivity training

benny said, hey! did ya hear the one about the mick and the wop?
i said, no, and i don't want to.
so benny said, oh that's right. you're mister politically correct. let me rephrase that. so did ya hear the one about the irishman and the italian?
i said, no, and i still don't want to. humor based on ethnic stereotypes isn't funny to me anymore. it's uncomfortable actually.
then benny said, all right mister prius-owning, chardonnay-sipping, microbrew-drinking, bible-hating, homo-loving, godless elitist, fine. have it your way. no ethnic jokes.

benny took a moment to think.

then he asked, hey, did ya hear the one about the blind fag and the deaf retard?
i said, benny, com'on. it's the same thing.
benny said, oh sorry, i meant to say the visually-challenged homosexual and hearing-impaired, mentally-handicapped guy?
i said, oh forget it. no, i haven't. what?

so benny proceeded to tell me his joke.

and when it was over, i smiled and said, sorry, i don't get it. it's not funny.
then benny said, well of course it isn't funny a-hole! that's because i couldn't use fag and retard. it lost its pizazz.
so i said, yeah, i guess. maybe that's what it was. sorry about that.
then benny concluded, you've become one of them humorless liberal losers. you need to lighten up man. like that poem guy said, take the low road more travelled once in a while.

and i chuckled as i thought, now when benny quotes poetry, that's funny.

red-tailed hawks

every time i spot a red-tailed hawk gliding nearby or perched high in old man apgar's dead maple, i'm thankful they don't pay much attention to those jokes about new jersey lesser birds chirp along the migration trail.

665. what came first, the penis or the brain?

i said, it's like the chicken or the egg, which came first?
benny said, ya know the problem with that expression is that it's female centric. there is no answer because women can't make up their minds. now if you want an answer to the question, ya got to ask the male version of that.
andy said, yeah, that makes sense i guess, but what is the male version?
benny said, easy. what came first? the penis or the brain?
andy said, that's a no brainer. the penis. get it? no brainer ... penis! not brain.
benny said, exactly.
and they broke into a brief moment of comforting man laughter.

i waited for the boys to settle down.

then i said, depends on your definition of "came".
benny said, no it doesn't. either way, it's penis. that's the beauty of this.
andy said, yeah, that's true. i have to agree with benny on this one.

i thought for a moment.

then i said, i don't know. it's harder than that.
benny said, the only thing hard is the penis, dickhead.
andy said, no, no, better yet, braingroin. get it? dickhead? braingroin?
benny said, that's a good one—braingroin!

and then they broke into more man laughter again, except this time i could tell it would be a while, which gave me pause to think that based on this conversation, i couldn't argue with their conclusion.


so i joined in all the hooplah and thought, is this my posse or what?