A bonbon...

I don't know about you, folks, but I'd give my eyeteeth for Marty Scorsese to barge in on the moments of my life. Now that I think of it, I wonder what those spots for General Foods International Coffees had been like if Scorsese had gotten his hands on them.

Merry-Go-Round

Dried out.

Wrung dry.

Burned up.

Bled down.

Bitter.

Angry.

Dismayed.

Frustrated.

Humiliated.

Like a hamster on the wheel.

A runner on the treadmill.

Hearing the same people

Saying the same things.

How did I come to live

In Seahaven?

I’m not Truman.

I hoped I never would be.

But it seems I am.

I hear Traffic

And Transit on the Ones

And Weather on the Eights,

Hoping I were up there,

Dismayed that I’m not.

Life’s not about the traffic.

Life’s not about the wheel.

I wasn’t meant to move around

In mere circles.

Why did they ask me

To stay within the lines

When I doodled in

The coloring books?

I was meant to live

Outside the lines,

Away from the hamster wheel,

Free as a gazelle.

I wasn’t meant to follow you around

In a big circle.

I was meant to run through

The wheat fields,

Giddy with the glee of freedom.

To hell with the traffic

To hell with the rain and ice.

It’s time to get off the merry-go-round

And take delicious, delirious

flight.

The Rantings of A Middling Poet and Essayist...

Just up the road from the Starbucks where I am composing, at a Barnes & Noble in the Carrollwood section of Tampa, FL., the actor Tori Spelling held a book signing this past Tuesday. According to the St. Petersburg Times, the session started at 7:45PM and, because Ms. Spelling has a reported reputation for greeting all of her fans, it ended at 2:20AM the following morning. 1, 400 fans had to purchase Ms. Spelling's newest book, titled uncharted terriTORI, in order to procure an armband and be shepherded in groups of 50 up to the table where she was holding court.

I have no doubt of Ms. Spelling's professionalism, her ability (or lack of it) to write a good, profitable book, or her devotion to her two children. But something bothers me about the whole enterprise: Casting aside Ms. Spelling's pedigree and her role in Beverly Hills, 90210, do you really think that those 1, 400 people would have waited into the wee small hours of the muggy Tampa night to secure the autograph of the star of Awake to Danger, Mother May I Sleep with Danger, Co-ed Call Girl, and other delightful fare? And what about them, anyway? You would think that J.K. Rowling herself had just walked in, nodded her head and given the cue for the boxes to be opened, the final Harry Potter book to come out and for everyone to crack it open in unison, jaws agape in wonderment.

In other words, for the author of Carrie and Needful Things, I would understand the clamor. For my Facebook friends Jacquelyn Mitchard, Marty Appel and others, I would hope to be part of the throng. If Oliver Stone wrote one more book and came here to sign and promote it, wild horses would not only not keep me away, they'd be spiriting me there like Secretariat at the Belmont. For Tori Spelling, I dunno. I sure wouldn't be bringing her raw rhubarb, as one fan did. In Tampa, Ms. Spelling must be like Marc Antony eulogizing Julius Caesar. In, say, Philadelphia, she might just be another violinist on the steps of the Art Museum, playing for change. Which I suppose we all do, in a way.

I also admit to being rather jealous. If I were the child of a famous teevee impresario and I were out there in the public eye, raising small children and being a "perfect" husband, no one would flinch at wanting to publish my memoirs. But I admit my life is far more boring and far less glamorous than that of Tori Spelling.

FRIZZLE-FRAZZLE (Don’t Touch the Marble)


Hey, Kids!

Ya see that little silver marble
Hanging inside the wooden box?
The one suspended inside the box like magic?

See how the marble just hangs there,
Never going up or coming down,
Free from the stingy
Laws of gravity?

Don’t touch the marble.
Whatever you do,
Don’t touch the marble.

If you do,
The marble will go nuts.
It’ll frizzle and frazzle
And fly all over the place.

You can’t stop it from
Frizzling, frazzling
Or flying.
Even with your hand.

Who knows?
The marble might
Break the box
And hurt you.

But eventually
The marble will slow down.
And then it will stop,
And go back to hanging there.

So whatever you do,
Don’t touch the marble.
You understand?

Don’t touch the marble.

THE GLOOM

Days go by
When I want to wash my eyes
And open them to
A brighter, happier world.

But lately all I see
Is the Gloom
That contaminates
And brings about doom.

It’s the Gloom
That makes us crazy
And hangs on to us
Like a stink.

The Gloom is what
Breaks up marriages
And drives pious men
To drink.

I want to believe
That angels and fairies
Lie in joyful wait
In every park.

But I can’t see them
Through the veil of Gloom
That shrouds them
In the dark.

It causes car crashes,
Slips, falls, and broken bones.
It makes evil men rich
And forces good men from their homes.

The Gloom seeps into your lungs
And coughing makes it just harder to expel.
And once you’ve inhaled it
Life turns to living hell.

I don’t know how you avoid the Gloom.
I don’t know how you reject the doom.
But someone better tell me
And that right soon.

I have too much to live for.
I have all this life in me.
Living with the Gloom
Is no way to be.

Beautiful Blond Baby Boy

There was a baby boy

With blond, fair hair

And chubby cheeks

Sitting beside me

At a restaurant.

When I saw him,

All I could see

Was me

At that age.

I had blond hair

Just like his.

Chubby cheeks

Just like his.

He was cuddly

And adorable

Like they always said

I was.

And he had the wonder

And joy

That I wish

I still had.

I smiled at him

And occasionally

Stole a glance

Whenever I had

A chance.

But the thought

Never left my mind.

That beautiful

Blond-haired

Smiling

Happy

Baby boy…

Used to be me.

THREE BATTING HELMET MONTE

And other vagaries at the ballpark

(to Carol, who helped inspire it; and to Messrs. Sheppard and Steinbrenner, lions among the lambs in the annals of sport)

Very recently, I met my very dear friend Carol at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, FL. I was invited to sit with her and her boyfriend and watch the Rays take on the Cleveland Indians—an incalculably sweet gesture, particularly in view of the fact that the seats I paid for were further from the action and may have cost less. The game itself was fairly routine; the hometown Rays shut out the Tribe. The atmosphere gave me room to contemplate things I hadn’t thought of before—specifically, what takes place between innings, and between the seats among us spectators.

For example, the beer vendors. You don’t really notice the beer vendors while you’re watching the game, particularly if you’re watching at home. When you’re at home, the vendors just sort of melt into the overall crowd noise. But when you’re in the ballpark, and you have a chance to notice them, you may find yourself marveling at the various and sundry ways in which the vendors yell and hawk their wares. The best of them, it seems, have voices that would sound right at home at the circus—at Tropicana Field, it’s fitting that they’re right under the big top. They sell beer in aluminum bottles, ice cream that’s about a minute from melting, and boiled peanuts. I’ve never had a boiled peanut, but I’ve heard tell that they taste of old leather. And the prices! Donald Trump himself would probably fire the vendor for charging him nine dollars for Eskimo Pie that may melt on his cufflinks.

Another thing I’ve noticed: the security guards that line the foul lines during pitching changes, between innings and at other times. Again, you don’t notice them especially when you’re watching on television. The crew-cut, tough-looking security guys stand there on the foul lines, expecting a riot that never takes place. It’s not as obvious as, for example, the Philadelphia Police Department with canines and on horseback, and the steeds taking a dump on the warning track. This actually happened, supposedly while Tug McGraw was trying to strike out Willie Wilson and win the 1980 World Series. But it’s quite interesting to observe the guys out there, looking buff and tough, daring a streaker to come on the field so that all the fans can see just how tough life can be if you get on their field.

There are fun things, too. At the Trop, during every game, three guys dressed as water, Pepsi and Sierra Mist (no doubt from the source) bottles hold little forty-yard dashes, no doubt fixed. There are supposedly variations all over the country—bratwursts and sausages in Milwaukee, pierogis in Pittsburgh, cheesesteaks in Philadelphia, and so on. At least I think they’re cute –we could take a straw poll of players and see how the like it, because I seem to remember one instance in Milwaukee some years ago where a Pittsburgh Pirate actually attacked one of the sausages.

Cuter still, at least at Tropicana Field, are hat shuffles. Basically, it’s no different from three-card monte, and usually some sweet-looking child is trying to guess where the ball is, and if he’s right, he wins ice cream. And you know what? The child gets an awful lot of help. Not so long ago, the Yankees were visiting the Rays on a Sunday, and the hat shuffle came about. When asked if the ball were under hat one, two or three, it is reported that the moppet replied, “Four!” Everyone laughed, even the broadcasters.

The jumbotrons are somewhat of a magnet, too. I remember one of the first jumbotrons, at old Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, which was called Phanavision. In comparison to some of the monstrocities of today, it was small. But nowadays, it seems to me that some are quite content to watch the jumbotron, even the umpires. The first two times I was ever at Tropicana Field, one of the umpires, the crew chief in fact, was an older man named Joe Brinkman. I noticed that between innings, Brinkman would not talk with other umpires or players; he was content to spend that time watching the big screen, rapt at the little commercials and other temporary diversions. Why do I think of this, you ask? Because the other night, another umpire was doing exactly the same thing. God alone knows why I think of these things.

I will tell you the one thing I don’t like about baseball, that I don’t really notice when I go to the park, but I see all the time on the tube. It’s the spitting. The endless, mindless, meaningless spitting. You don’t notice it on grass, and maybe you don’t much mind. But on artificial turf, it’s even more appalling than the act already is. I don’t know what the spitting says—I don’t really want to know.

Besides that, name me the one sport that provides good, clean, wholesome fun for the whole family besides baseball. God help me, I do love it so. It’s been so good to me since I was a little boy sitting with my grandfather, seeing Mike Schmidt stare down Nolan Ryan at Veterans Stadium. I wish I could get to the park more often. And I wish you could notice the things I do when I get there…

I Gotta Get This off of my Chest...

I could write reams about the flapdoodle that basketball player LeBron James, his former boss, and their various satellites have put us through this week over where James will play basketball next NBA season, and that they continue even now to put us through.

I could go on and on about the vanity, narcissism and self-absorption of a twenty-five year old man who seems to think that the world is his own personal parquet floor, and all around him are acolytes who would come from near and far to kiss his ring, if he had one to kiss.

I could fill a book about Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert, who brims with rage and volcanic rhetoric, to the point where he slashes prices on wall decals of LeBron James to $17.41, in reference to no less a personage than Benedict Arnold.

I could aim my dismay at ESPN, which, let's face it, made LeBron James a star and ought to have broken him, but instead fanned the flames of the whole controversy and poured tankers full of gasoline upon it.

I could be a little more nostalgic and wonder what Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and about sixty other players, players I grew up with and enjoyed, think of this odious mess, in which no one is the hero that they are.

But the truth is, I wasn't watching last night. I was home, listening to classical music and then to Miles Davis's album Nefertiti. I don't even have cable.

I wouldn't want to have watched anyway. The whole enterprise has been just disgraceful. Sports are about the guy at one side of the net or the other, hoping the ball bounces their way. The moment we forget that, why even watch?

Thank God I Am Not A Journalist

I don't normally do this, Reader. But as a prerequisite to reading this, I want you to read this interview of Isabelle Huppert in this past Sunday's Independent. Much of this consists of Huppert being heroically tolerant and protective of her privacy while Robert Chalmers peppers her with leading and side-door questions like he fancies himself Bill O'Reilly. Here it is:

Isabelle Huppert: 'I don't have a reputation for being difficult' - Features, Films - The Independent

When I first read this piece, last night about this time, it was as much of a peak experience as fans of Huppert have when seeing her newest film, thrilling to everything she says and does. However, the more I thought about it, the more I thought of George Carlin. In When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?, Carlin reeled off his list of favorite actors, names like Hackman, Pacino, de Niro among others. George then said something that made me thank God I never became an interviewer: "They're actors, not celebrities. You don't see them all the time on TV. They don't cooperate with Access Hollywood or Entertainment Tonight. They keep to themselves. That's why their work is so good. Good for them." If George Carlin looked down from Heaven and saw how Isabelle Huppert conducted herself for the Independent, he'd doubtless grin from ear to ear.

And then, I thanked God that I did not become an interviewer of celebrities. I don't think there are very many public personalities I'd meet and not need a dentist's bib to catch the drool. But I wouldn't want to be a guy like Robert Chalmers seems to be; his aggressiveness and determination, while admirable among his peers, is off-putting to a layman like me.

And that leads me to my larger point. I wanted to be a journalist when I was younger. I wanted to be in a newspaper, and possibly be a film critic in the end. The more I heard and read about people like David Bloom, Kimberly Dozier and Bob Woodruff, the less I wanted to be on the front lines. I'd see all of these investigative journalists and suchlike spit questions like fireballs from a dragon's mouth at people who just as soon wouldn't want to talk to them, and I'd be agog.

A couple of years ago, I was visiting my father in suburban Philadelphia, which is where I am from, and he revealed that he was secretly glad I did not become a journalist. That's when it all coalesced. And I thought, "He's so right. Thank God I came to poetry. Thank God I am not a journalist." As alluring as it may have been to be a crusader, travelling all over the world, uncovering conspiracies and cover-ups and suchlike, deep down, I believe the price would have been so outrageously high to pay. I would never have been the beautiful soul people say I am today. I don't think I would have a soul.

And I believe I would end up like Robert Chalmers, pissing off legends like Isabelle Huppert.

This morning, the pernicious, maddening rain awakened me at 5:30AM EDT or thereabouts. Try as though I might, I could not get back to sleep. I was remembering words one of my dearest friends in life had told me yesterday: "This is the kind of day where you want to stay in bed with your lover." The feeling and the desire had latched on to me as though magnetized. I was all alone, but I wanted to be touched, held and beheld by a gorgeous woman. I am so ready to be loved...

After about an hour of this, at 6:30AM, I gave in and checked the computer for e-mail. On my Facebook page, I wrote this:

"Yesterday, someone I'm close with told me that it was a good day to be in bed with a lover. Those words reverberate in my mind and in my heart even now. The rain has awakened me on my day off and I wish for all the world I had a lover here with me. The sound of the rain is driving me mad. I want and I need a lover; her breathing would be all I want to hear."

And in response, someone whose name I will not soil my hands or soul with, despite the fact that he attended the same high school as me, said this: "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but ur never gonna have 1."

I now feel the sting of his attack more acutely than when he first said it. It is as if he had assumed God's place and were now the arbiter of who does and does not deserve love, companionship, and His grace. For what it was worth, I immediately deleted his comment, so that the people I love would see I am not unlovable. For me to respond to him directly would have taken a hostility and vindictiveness I do not believe I possess. It also would have indicated that it was okay for him to say such an ugly, spiteful thing in the first place.

I don't know why people say such hateful things. I've often said, even on this blog, that if people loved one another like they say they love God, the world would be so much happier. I wish this man, if he can still look himself in the mirror and call himself that, would understand that concept.