I’m not one post the minutiae of my life on FB.  Who cares when I left work, was having a bad day, running out of toilet paper, etc.    Some of you know what the euphemistic term books means, which could give and immediate insight to this story.  Many of you have other euphemisms.  Suffice to say if you hung out in the girl’s room at Mountstock ya know what I’m talking about.   Friday night I decided to bake a pie.  I haven’t made a homemade by in 13 years easily, possibly longer.  Buying the crust is actually making a homemade pie.  You’re cheating by avoiding the most difficult part, the crust.   A friend was coming over and I was gonna cook dinner.    Well once or twice a year I’ll cook dinner for my mom on mother’s day or her birthday, but other than that no.  Last Christmas she criticized the size of the yam pieces I cut.  In any event I use the recipe in the Joy of Cooking recipe for making the crust.  One should never read books or go into the girl’s room at Montclair High (oh, that word’s ironic) before cooking, especially if you’re cooking something you’re not used to.  Even though I hadn’t used that recipe in years as I started mixing the ingredients it all came back to me. The dough was looking mealy like it was supposed to it was wonderful.  The last ingredient is 5 tablespoons of water.  I know the water should be cold, that works better.  Unfortunately I read 5 cups not 5 tablespoons.  When I originally premeasured the water I did think, “Wow that’s a lot of water.”  And, later when I started adding the water and I was getting this stuff that was like the consistency of paper mache, I thought, “Hmmm something’s wrong.”  Needless to say it was like a Lucy episode. 

I Can't Do It In 10 Minutes, Irene

This was written in response to the hurricane.  It just took me a long time to post.

    I can’t do it in 10 minutes. Well, I guess if I leave my shoes on. It’s this weather. You wear so many inconvenient clothes when it’s wet. Gawd, it takes me 10 minutes to unbend my umbrella. When I was young I could do it in 10 minutes. When you’re young you can fire reload, fire reload, fire reload—you can even grit your teeth then fire and reload one more time. But at my age its fire—and I’ll let you know when I’ll reload again. But, the advantage with age is that you’ll hit the bull’s eye more often. When you’re young you’re all over the place. You’re hitting there—over there. Gosh, the gun could go off in your hand. You don’t care just as long as you’re firing. You’re so selfish when you’re young. But, as you become more experienced the reloading process can take a long time. You want the whole experience to last as long as possible—eventually you’ll get your stance, wet your sights like Gary Cooper in Sergeant York—and ever so slowly place your finger on the trigger, feeling the smooth warm surface, then squeeze. Now that takes much longer than 10 minutes.

More Prozac Please

I thought you could listen to something while you were reading.

THE LOOK a poem by HOWARD GARDNER

I'm Sure I'll Hear About It

I’m not exactly sure what my friend, and famous LA poet, Laurel Ann Bogen would say; but, I know that when you’d try to offer an apology before reading your poem there was a general cry of, “No editorializing.” Or,   “No apologies.”  Obviously, in lieu of that comment let me offer my apology, and hereby explain that the following is a rant.  This, at least by my definition, means that it’s stream-of-consciousness.  I belong to a group of writers in Montclair, New Jersey called The Write Group.  On Saturdays we get together and write to three prompts, at 15 minutes a shot; meaning, we write for 15 minutes to each prompt.  It’s a great group of people.  We are all so different, though some are archetypal characters but it always makes for an enjoyable Saturday morning, especially when Denise brings her scrumptious baked goods. This prompt was: I’m sure I’ll hear about it.  In my last read through I’m not sure that title fits.  Maybe it should be something about love.  The main thing is that I post something to my blog and not spend so much time worrying about perfection, which by its very definition is impossible.

I’m Sure I’ll Hear About It

I love that you feel
you love me
even before you know me,
that happens a lot
it’s my affable nature that often gets me in trouble.
My chameleon personality
sheds its skin quickly
takes on the personality of the environment,
it’s not that I’m not truthful
it’s that there are all sorts of truths,
there’s my truth
your truth
his truth
the collective truth
there’s To Tell the Truth
hosted by Bill Cullen
with a panel of radio stars
faded B movies actors
and the last to be introduced
was always Kitty Carlisle,
I think she had a silent S in her name
I never understood, why use a
letter that isn’t pronounced?
That isn’t subtle.
Kitty was the last one introduced
because there’s something about her name
that allows you to easily say it with a flourish,
some names are like that
like when the public address announcer
at the Fabulous Forum
would announce Jabbar’s name after he made a basket
Basket by Kareem   Abdul   Jabbar!
Jabbar and Carlisle have the same rhythm;
you see I bleed
from one idea
melt into another idea
and step into the next one
and when I say something out of turn,
or annoying
it wasn’t me that said it
it’s that other guy
it’s one of my several personas
I’ve developed over the years.
There’s the one that’s affable
I can always seem affable
even when I’m really not,
that’s why sometimes
after I left the principal’s office,
wherein I was supposed to be the one being reprimanded
I’d easily turn the tables,
and as I was leaving the office
I knew that whatever administrator I’d been with
wouldn’t have realized I had just insulted them
for another few minutes after I had left.
It’s just my affable and polite way.
I got that politeness from my grandparents,
they’re Bermudian, more British than the British.
It takes a minute to realize you’ve been insulted if there’s a British accent attached
or that kind of formalism behind the remarks.
Besides, you might even think it was a compliment
for a moment.
So don’t think you love me
you might have just fallen for one of my many personas
But I’m sure I’ll hear about it.

New Cat Poem

This is my cat, Maurice’s poem. He died a few months ago after about 17 years. He was a black cat born on October 31st. I’ve shared it with a few friends. In some respects it’s the first poem I wrote in years, simply because it’s different than the other poems I’ve written in the past couple of years. I did steal the idea from Billy Collins; he wrote a poem through his dog’s voice. Why I would steal anything from that guy, someone who accused me of being a simile machine I have no idea. Poet laureate—eh, what does he know. Kidding--it was a useful comment; not for the poem we were talking about but….

Pet me, you fool

Why did you call me Maurice?
It’s an okay name
but even though you remember
your 7th grade
French dictée
your pronunciation, save tien,
is intelligible.
When others asked why you named me Maurice
you said that I told you that was my name,
I did no such thing
I didn’t talk to you for at least two weeks,
and you named me after only 2 days.
People kept leaving your condo
and your life,
what happened to that 1st girl
that you lived with?
The one that was allergic to me,
but loved me almost as much as you.
After my first 11 months
she stayed in bed a lot
got skinny
bloated up
right before she disappeared.
She smelled of chemicals,
she left one day
with a long thin tube in her arm
and never came back.
I liked her,
hoped I’d see her again.

Then there was that woman that came
every few months for five years,
once she stayed for two weeks
and on the14th she cried and screamed at you.
I thrust a claw in her leg,
she was annoying and I thought you might like that
but you cried that night,
and then again for her years later
so perhaps the claw thing was not a good idea.


Then there was the guy with dreds
he stayed for 9 months,
I liked him and his youthfulness.
You two spun a lot of music,
our condo was the happiest it had been
since that 1st girl
but maybe it was because you two
smoked a lot of pot.
I liked teasing him, pretending
I was a crazed cat.
Once I cornered him
and two friends,
he propped up his mattress
barricaded all of them
in a corner.

How about that woman
who came and sat next to you
while you endlessly played
that damn computer game?
She’d sit silently
for hours watching
until you cried,
she and I talked a lot with our eyes
about the 1st girl.
I liked her too
she smoked too much.

Then my step brother
that dog stayed with us for 5 years,
you went away for a week
someone with a key
took him.
He never came back home,
I missed him like Dorothy did the Scarecrow,
we always played
chased each other continuously
from the living room to the bedroom
until I’d get
my nail stuck in his chest
then we’d sit still,
at attention
until you gently pried us lose.
He was nice to curl next to in winter
to sit next to on the window seat,
we used to think about the passing cars together.

Now that I’m gone
to the hole in your backyard
I hope you can keep
someone in your life consistently.




I still might rework this a few times, but I like it now. Well, the title I’m not so sure about, but I’m whimsical. I’m like an annoying parent with my poems, tugging at them straightening their ties, seldom leaving them alone. I’m just hoping to find the right image for the blog site

Dating To The Internet's Melody

When did dating via the internet become so provincial? I remember when I first went on AOL. People had been telling me about chat rooms for years. I couldn’t completely grasp the concept or their appeal, even though my best friend at the time was such a chat room whore. He praised their benefits because he’d met a lot of women in various chat rooms. Some were probably fairly normal—while a significant number were licentious. I only maintain that deduction because of what came to be my own experience.

My friend stayed with me for a few months, when he was between houses. His estranged wife finally put him out for years of smoking crack, losing his job, and finally getting arrested. After being released, he had no place else to go. Having proven himself irresponsible for a number of years to a myriad of people, both friends and family, left him few viable options. He was forced to come out west where I lived in LA. Don’t we all follow Greeley’s command and end up out West? When he stayed with me he’d lock himself in my room downloading porn; he shared some bestiality pics with me on several occasions. It’s amusing to look at those images once or twice—they’re outrageous, but really that cartoon bubble above your head is mostly saying, “Eeeww!”

Once I ventured in the chat room realm I found it easy to engage women in conversations, subtly tuning them in the direction of my fantasy, making my fantasy their fantasy. Clearly, I wanted to get them hot and bothered, to steer them in the direction of a randy conversation, creating an atmosphere of either, I want to screw your brains out, or I want to make love to you depending on their personality and proclivities. I suppose being articulate, and a story teller by trade, has its advantages. That’s what you do teaching high school English, you basically tell stories. For a number of years I’ve explained themes and characterization of 19th century novels to hyperactive or apathetic students in a way that held their interest. My problem is that I’m too psychologically unbalanced to avoid having my mouth write a check that my ass can’t cash with regards to women. So, yes my mouth often gets my ass in trouble. More times than I care to admit I’ve found myself in an embrace, wrestling on the couch or sprawled on someone’s bed, then suddenly, without warning, announce, “I have to leave.” Half the time I don’t answer the door for people I do know. It’s all part of my psychosis—a never ending battle of meds, therapy, TV, heritage, marathon video game sessions, long rambling conversations with other depressives or a few friends that can bare the burden of my reluctant, hesitant friendship, which often includes broken dates—even for an occasion as benign as coffee. That’s something I can’t understand. Why can’t I simply have coffee with a friend? I’d like to think I understand myself pretty well. I understand I hibernate because as a kid growing up I found it advantageous to not leave my room, stay protected in my little world of army men with their intricate stories, and other random day dreams. It was violent outside my room.

Women often claim on their online profiles that they don’t want a man with baggage. Personally, I believe after a certain age we all have baggage. As for myself, I just don’t have baggage I have an entire American Tourister collection!

I also understand that it’s so hard for me to sustain a romantic relationship because I’m so apprehensive of them ever since my wife died. After my wife passed, the first woman I dated developed a fatal blood clot in her leg 2 days after we had sex; then, the 1st long term relationship after becoming a widower was harrowing because my girlfriend was diagnosed with breast cancer 8 months into the relationship.

What I like about internet dating (I use the term dating for want of a better term) is the fact that you can get to know someone before you meet them. Of course you don’t truly know them, they may in fact be lying to you—but you can get to know their character. It’s hard to completely hide one’s personality. You can hide your wife but you can’t hide your personality. You do know them in a sense so a blind date with someone you’ve met on the internet is more like a blurred vision date, not a blind date, but a cataract date--whatever.

Talk about safe sex. Although cyber sex is played out for me, it was okay in the beginning because I didn’t masturbate until I was in my late 20’s. Nine hundred numbers had just become the rage. I worked at a public relations firm off the Sunset Strip (77 Sunset Strip SNAP SNAP a Quinn Martin Production ). I’ll never forget the address, 6464 Sunset, the corner of Sunset and Wilcox, pretty much Sunset and Vine. It was an office made up of fledging actors and disgruntled musicians. Any one of them would tell you there was a call for you on such and such a line, you’d pick-up the phone and there’d be a sex phone operator panting on the other end. I became tempted at home to dial those same numbers, quickly release any tension that had accumulated during the day.

Unfortunately what my wife saw was a $200 phone bill; then there was a lot of ‘Splain’N to do. But there always was a lot of ‘Splain’N to do concerning my physical affection. I recall staying up writing or reading, and despite the fact that my wife was pretty, in perfect shape; she practiced ballet, she ran 20 miles a week, and was more than willingly affectionate—it was me that couldn’t handle the affection. I liked it, loved it, desired it, needed it—but I couldn’t handle it-- it was so foreign.

My mom only hugged me if we took a picture with so many people that I had to sit on her lap to fit everyone in the frame. I guess that wasn’t really a hug, but I’ve always referred to it as such. Or when mom used to work 2nd shift and we slept at my grandparents’. When she’d come to take us to our own beds I’d always pretend that I was asleep so she had to carry me. I longed for a hug, for touch—some sort of physical affection; and, I knew as early as 1st grade I had to manipulate the situation to get it.

It takes a long time for me to feel comfortable around anyone anyway. When I was married I probably hurt my wife by staying up late then slipping into bed quietly once I was sure she had fallen asleep and wouldn’t touch me, hug me—have her legs wrapped around me like she did every night. I liked being close to her, but sometimes it was all too much. After she passed, I craved that sensation, longed for the feeling. Now, even though people would probably laugh incredulously if you’d describe me as not being affectionate—it’s obvious from my interactions with lovers, dates, or failed potential sex liaisons that I still have a problem with closeness on a monumental level. It’s not uncommon at the apex of turning a flirtatious evening into that pinnacle moment of actually having sex, I’ll suddenly announce without warning, and no segue of an excuse, “I have to leave.”

Among other things, I’ll realize that I don’t know this person that I’m about to be extremely intimate with, hence I freak out.  After all, mom didn’t say she loved me until I was 45 as I cried my eyes out one New Year’s Eve. My mind and heart were tortured that evening with visions of my best friend of 35 years (yeah, the bestiality guy) running off with my girlfriend. It’s those types of incidents, which make virtual relationships so much more appealing than real ones—less of a chance to get hurt.

Another curious thing about internet dating is that, for whatever reason, I find I’m constantly making connections with women that are far away—and I mean really far away--like half-way across the country far away; sometimes even as far away as Germany. Hmmm? The distance is undoubtedly a reflection of my subconscious struggle to make real connections.

Everything is so virtual now anyway. We’re on our cell phones talking to a friend or lover about something completely innocuous instead of having a real conversation with someone standing right next to us in line, at the bus stop, or the subway station. What often makes me appealing on the internet is my propensity to not go into any overt sex talk. It’s as if I’m the only man that still has the ability to long for romance. It’s not that I’m such a gentleman—I am—but the reason why I don’t dash into sex talk is because I truly want to make a connection with someone.  I’d much rather have friends than anything else. I’ve had too many failed romantic relationships and have become too pessimistic to believe that I’ll ever find that person I can become one with.

“A man has to know his limitations,” the voice in my head says in Dirty Harry’s raspy voice.

I do recognize (“You better recognize,” followed with a queen’s classic Z snap) my limitations, and they’re many. I can be your friend—but beyond that I tend to get a little unsettled. And that’s what we all are looking for--that settled feeling. That’s what we all want I believe; even men that pose as players. I think we all want our best friend to also be our lover. I was lucky to have had that for 17 years. There was no one I’d rather hang-out with than my wife. We were one and that’s what I search for on the internet, to find the person I can relate to physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually. To become one. We all want our hearts to dance to the lyric of our lover’s melody.