Friday, September 27, 2013


A rope was in desperate need of a drink.

He stumbled into a bar and asked for a beer.

The bartender looked up and asked, "Are you a rope?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well, get the hell out of here! We don't serve ropes!"

Panting for a cold one, the rope soon found another saloon and again, with grace and determination, requested a beer.

"Your'e a rope, aintcha?"

"Well, yes I am but----"

He was suddenly staring at the barrel of a shotgun.
"Disappear and fast! We simply don't cater to no ropes! Never have, never will!"

On the verge of dehydration, the rope entered a third drinking establishment and was immediately confronted by one huge pissed-off server who bellowed out,"Hold everything! Are you a rope?"

Wisdom had taken its toil.

"No. I'm a frayed knot.

A beer was served.

Monday, September 16, 2013


I, the romantic fool, getting more so as with older, just finished watching the season two finale of NEWSROOM.

As the sound of a delicious cover of Pete Townsend's "Let My Love Open The Door" embraced, captured and swept me away, tears began impairing my capacity to see. But my sensory abilities to hear and feel were more than enough to permit the appreciation of genius, which is what Aaron Sorkin is and has.

It's too detailed and dove-tailed for me to try and recap, but take it from me, the last few minutes of this installment was richly overflowing with emotional chords which should strike the heart of everyone who has one.

I'm a Pisces and therefore romantically cuckoo. I'll find love in every tender moment, for it is the oxygen of life. Accordingly, when Sorkin, who made his bones with the West Wing, goes for it, he usually hits a home run. Tonight, it was a grand slam. Biting wit, brilliant social commentary and political dissection all came together in a wind tunnel and rewarded faithful fans with a many splendored thing.

Loose threads were bordered, ambiguity was replaced with optimism and emotional punchlines were perfectly dealt to let you know what is always in the air.

But to the point of this post: I immediately reached for the phone to call my son and reinforce his conviction that I am sentimentally nuts. I blurted out, "Did you just see the Newsroom?" but was cut off  before I could articulate the last word.
"I'll have to call you back," he stammered, "my eyes are full of tears."

My poor son's distance from the tree is indeed short. No DNA is required to ascertain his genes. I adore him. Much thicker than water. Joy of joys.

I'm very grateful. The Lord made room for two of us.

And about the power of love: Believe in it.

Sunday, September 8, 2013


It's 4:00 am, on an early Saturday morning. In about 90 minutes, the sun will make its appearance, innocently and without malice, and will bring to an end my favorite time of peaceful solitude. Most of the rest of the world is asleep, affording me the opportunity to ponder my plate, with everyday's problems in the shadowy back rows, much more tolerable and much less menacing than they will be when brought to full light by the center of hustle and bustle powered by the sun.

No surprises here. I'm always grateful for being able, without interruption, to size up my life in its present and foreseeable posture, during those magic hours when I can push away the things that vex and concentrate on dreams with which I am fully familiar and am prepared to embrace and deal with as they become real, which they most surely will. I am permeated with important information which makes me all the more ready to handle things in the uncompromising light of day. It's like charging my batteries without turning off my brain. When I fall asleep, just before dawn, there are no bad dreams to wrestle with, no negative thoughts to diminish the adventure which every new day brings. I have found that an optimistic attitude causes a thorough expedience of positive accomplishments. It's easier to climb a steep hill when my face sports a smile and I whistle as I walk. I find myself accomplishing good things becayse my positive energy of the night before has caught up and united with other vibes of confidence, coming from other people who have also spent a sleepless night in the serenity zone. You see, I are not alone. In a way, I am part of a non-criminal Ponzi scheme which gives and gets playthings from other members of the club. For we are good people who are eager to share our good fortune and ever present stress with others of similar ilk, if only we could find them.

Time to turn it off. Time to hit the hay. I've confronted several existing problems, wrestled with them all, resolved some, narrowed the scope of others and gone as far as I can, at this sitting.

I'm tired in a good way, like after a workout in a gym. My brained is as relaxed as it can ever be, dormant for the moment but always at the ready.

What have I accomplished? A little bit of slightly turbulent peace.

Temporary to be sure, for another day is about to signal its arrival with the sunrise.

And the entire process begins again.

Hey, that's life.

Monday, September 2, 2013


If it bites you, resistance is of no avail. You are hooked.

Such was my inheritance, as I grappled with the challenge of choosing my life's course. My family was steeped in the undeniable lure of showbiz.

My cousin was a self-ordained vocalist. It was tough getting work, so fierce was the competition which necessitated coming up with something new, something that would distinguish him from the mob of talentless wannabees. And he found it. The road to uniqueness. He discovered a vocal modulation progression which few, if any, before him had even dreamed about, let alone attempt to sing it. He would begin a ballad and surge higher and higher with each chord, until he had perfected the highest pitched vocalization known to man. Although musically groundbreaking, it followed the trajectory of a rocket, so that by the song's dramatic finale, he was singing notes which only dogs could hear.

My uncle was a vaudeville contortionist who, constantly striving for greatness, and always trying to make himself more limber, had his backbone removed, and replaced with mercury. And it relaxed him. At room temperature, he stood about five-nine. On hot days, he'd shoot up to six-six. He was doing just fine until that last cold snap. Shriveled to an inch and a half. Dragged away by the cat.

As for me, my work as a stand-up comic was short lived. You see, I was in deep denial of a memory problem. I would begin a joke soundly and with confidence, but then I'd forget the ending.

"Good evening tables and chairs, I was walking down the street one day when a guy comes up to me and asks if I'm looking for trouble. I stared him straight in the eye, flexed every muscle in my body, and said,"-------------(NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING)----------." I just stood there, praying that the ground would open beneath me, allowing a plummet to China.

Desperate to resuscitate my career, I turned to dancing, forgetting or didmissing the fact that, since birth, I had been plagued with plantar fasciitis. The band would play the opening bars: dud-da-da-da-da-DA!, at which point I would extend my right leg out and DOWN (!) on the floor, scream out in pain and collapse, emotionally and physically. That's when I decided to try my hand at Brain Surgery.

"There's no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Even with a turkey that you know will fold, you may be stranded out in the cold
Still you wouldn't change it for a sack of gold, let's go on with the show."