The Complete and Total Loser

The Quiet Car

2012-01-23T17:01:00.000-05:00

A commuter now, the Complete and Total Loser takes the quiet car. The quiet car is his region's transportation agency's way to try to make its notoriously poor service more tolerable by reserving the first car of each train for people not interested in talking to each other or friends on their cell phones. The Loser, having no friends and a poor conversationalist, takes this car. The quiet car's patrons are invariably white and over 30; the young, noisy and sociable people sit in the rear cars, which make up the majority of them.

As the Loser sits in the quiet car, surrounded by people reading books, newspapers, and magazines either in paper or electronic form, he imagines what's happening in the rear cars. He pictures them brimming with people in colorful native garb, dancing, shouting, balancing baskets on their heads, chasing after escaped chickens. He knows this isn't true, but he likes the idea.

Not all is perfect in the quiet car. The trainmen seem to take great delight in using the primitive loudspeaker system to tell riders the names of the approaching stops, something they already well know. The train line has new cars, pictured, which prevent this by having recorded announcements by a computerized female voice. The volume is a rational one, but she talks far too much. Still, the cars are an improvement. They reach the level of quality the cars the Loser rode when he lived in Japan -- in 1986. Ah, America.


Riders ride in silence aboard a train car reserved for those seeking quiet as they commute.

Women v. Men

2012-01-12T21:52:00.001-05:00

Why is it that when men tell women things about women they're told they couldn't possibly understand women because they aren't women yet it's just fine if women are cast as people who know and understand exactly how men think and behave?

What to Do Now

2012-01-10T17:28:00.000-05:00

Send the bodies to St. Bart's.

That's what the Complete and Total Loser wants to do with his parents' remains. That's because he housesat for them for many years while they sunned on a tropical beach. Now they're dead and he's living in the house, having given up his cluttered, overpriced apartment in the city. He'll be here until he and his brothers sell the place in the summer. The Loser wants to send their ashes south so he can live as if they still existed and would be home in early March, ready for spring.

A picture of a St. Bart's harbor one of the Loser's parents took in 2007. The stopped going after 2008 because they got too old to cope with the cobblestone streets and lack of railings.

The Accomplishment

2012-01-01T21:05:00.001-05:00

The Complete and Total Loser's greatest accomplishment of 2011 is one based on something he didn't do, not something he did do.

What that something was is this: After dropping a childhood friend off at the airport to return to his New England home from trip to attend the Loser's father's funeral service, the Loser did not pull into the garage of his newly late parents' house, push the button on the small device that opens and closes the garage door to close it, put the seat back, turn up the music on the CD player, close his eyes and wait for the carbon monoxide to do its work.
There are times that the things you don't do matter more than the things you do do. This is one of them.

A New Year

2011-12-31T19:41:00.000-05:00

The years go so fast. Then you look at how many you've lived and it's such a small number. The total number is tiny and the number at the end, the number which shrivels and kills, is smaller still. Yet we live as if the supply of time is indefinite, which it is, of course, but not for us. Time is bottomless only for itself.

The Loser in Winter

2011-12-28T20:55:00.000-05:00

The Complete and Total Loser is in the back seat of his eldest brother's Mercedes Benz while the three sons are on the way to a county courthouse to file papers in order to be executors of their late parents' estate. The car is huge and it's one of the rare times the Loser, a gimp, doesn't feel cramped in a backseat. Earlier, the Loser had mentioned how he likes winter. Now his oldest brother, the driver, says, "I can't see why you like winter. It's cold, it's dreary and grey."

"Well," the Loser says, "that's three reasons right there!"

A skylight in winter.

The Year the Loser Lost the Most

2011-12-27T15:26:00.000-05:00

The Complete and Total Loser's mother died October 25 of this year. His father, though old, was in pretty good health, died December 15, just 52 days later. The Loser never married or had a family of his own, so he is alone, rattling around in their house doing paperwork at his older brothers' command. He's feeling a little self pity these days, which is natural, he guesses. Sometimes he thinks no one he knows has lost more than he has in 2011. Then he thinks of how dumb he is. The answer is obvious.

The Loser's parents in the very early 1950s.

Hard to Believe

2011-12-22T21:01:00.000-05:00

The Complete and Total Loser, whose parents died less than two months apart this fall, is finding it hard to grasp at the moment that people can simply die. Cease living. People die all the time and he knows that, and the Loser was present a week ago today when his father took and returned his last breath, but right now it just doesn't seem possible that he'll never be around again.

Appropriate

2011-12-21T08:02:00.000-05:00

My father's service will be tomorrow, December 22. This year, that's the shortest day of the year. Perfect timing. It should remind me that the days will lengthen from now on, but I know that there is still a net loss of heat in the norther hemisphere and that many colder days lie ahead.

My mother visits my father after an operation on Christmas Eve, 2010.

It's hard to believe, isn't it?

2011-12-19T09:58:00.000-05:00

It's hard to believe that the 91-year-old man who lay dying, gasping for air on a hospital bed, unresponsive for two days, was ever a young man who grinned easily and had over half a century of healthy years before him. I found a letter a woman had written to my father during World War II, years before he met my mother. They were far apart and he'd surprised her with a telephone call. "Hearing your voice was like rain in the desert," she wrote.
No one's ever said that about me.

My father in his Navy uniform during World War II.

Death Surprises

2011-12-17T20:57:00.000-05:00

Having both parents die in under two months has brought some surprises to The Complete and Total Loser.

My father two days before his death.

Even with palliative care and a high number of morphine doses, there is pain when dying.

They have to turn you every now and then in a hospital bed even when there is zero chance you'll ever leave that bed. If they don't, your bones will push through your skin and you'll bleed and ooze and die horribly. As gentle as nurses can be, this jars the patient and upsets him even when you think he's completely unaware of physical sensation.

When dying, you often breathe through your mouth and it gets dry. In my father's case, it got so dry his tongue split open. The nurses do what they can with their sponge swabs and ointments but there are limits. Too much water and the patient can aspirate. I was telling a nurse that I was surprised no one has come up with a better way to hydrate a mouth. She said, cheerfully, that this was my chance to change that.
You won't see many doctors but you will see lots of nurses. If the hospital is at all good, nurses are gold. Where I was the nurses were fine about being addressed by their first names. Be good to them and don't treat them like their hotel maids. Not that you should treat hotel maids with any less respect than you treat anyone else, but you know what I mean.

They say the last thing to go is hearing, so talk to each other and the dying as if he can hear you. I slept in the room with my father on his last night and talked and sang songs. I spoke in normal conversational tones. Told him things like how pretty his nurse was (true) and that the house was being well looked after (also true). Everyday stuff like that, and memories.

You might find that you can do things you wouldn't have thought you could. Like feed your father ice cream, put a straw in his mouth, hold his hand, touch his face. I didn't do the body washing and things like that but I have no training and I'm not sure if I could have done it well. If the nurses weren't there, I think I'd have figured it out.

When with the dying, at the end it's all about the breathing. When it gets down to under ten times a minute the end is near. Counting the respiration rate gives you something to do and makes you feel involved. At some point they disconnect the monitors.

You'll feel awful if you chat on your cell phone or use your iPad to check your Facebook page. Maybe not for years, but you will one day.

Bring something dry to read. Serious fiction or, better, nonfiction. I read "Longitude," which is about how the first clocks accurate enough to take to sea and use in calculating longitude were made. A fascinating book, by the way. I'm not done it yet.

Bring something to write in and a pen or pencil. You'll have thoughts you'll want to remember and writing them down is still the best way. For example, I realized for the first time how best to measure someone's worth to you and it's also the simplest way to do so.
That method is this: How do you feel when that person comes home from work or wherever he or she was? In my father's case, we were always happy.

As Expected

2011-12-15T16:40:00.002-05:00

The Complete and Total Loser's father died today at 1:32 p.m. Actually, he died at 1:25 but the Loser is not a doctor and although he was alone with him he can't pronounce officially. An MD must do that. He died of a combination of sepsis, renal failure, stroke and the broken heart he suffered when his wife, the Loser's mother, died on October 25 of this year.
What a terrible thing it is to be no one's son.

Completely and Totally Bereft

2011-12-13T18:40:00.001-05:00

This time, the Complete and Total Loser's father is the one who is expected to die in a matter of days.

His mother: October 25. His favorite uncle: three weeks later. Now, his father. Yes, the Loser makes much of jesting that he will be an orphan soon. A 53-year-old orphan.

But really, all three were very elderly. The youngest of them, his mother, was 80. This means that the Complete and Total Loser is losing the chance to garner sympathy.

A Loser Tip of the Day

2011-12-13T06:39:00.000-05:00

Cling to memories of stupid or bad things you did and never let them go. Embarrassment and guilt are among the few emotions you can summon decades later and have feel as fresh as the week they occurred. Let these emotions stymie your efforts to try new things.

A Loser Tip of the Day

2011-12-12T14:06:00.000-05:00

Always take everything very, very seriously. You are entitled to your deadpan wit, but whenever others do the same thing, they're being literal.

A Loser Tip of the Day

2011-12-11T08:15:00.000-05:00

When you know a fact, like, oh, that a ridiculous percentage of heat does not escape through the head, making warm hats essential to surviving the cold, and that the studies that showed they did were misinterpreted military clothing ones of people in refrigerated rooms wearing heavy coats but no hats so of course 60 percent of the heat escaping was through the head, make sure that those around you know this too no matter how long it takes. People will like you for this.

The Loser is Home

2011-12-08T21:56:00.001-05:00

The Loser's father got out of rehab yesterday and is back in his suburban house. Naturally, he doesn't think of telling the Complete and Total Loser this until he showed up to visit on the afternoon of the day the rehab people decided this, despite knowing the Loser is living in the house.

The rehabilitation center the Loser's father stayed in for three weeks.

He told the Loser's sisters-in-law, but not the Loser, who could've used advanced notice to clean up and pack his own stuff.

No matter how much time passes, the Loser still has problems accepting his role as the low man on the family totem pole. Meanwhile, the Loser, back in his grimy apartment, has found that the cold weather has driven mice inside, where they're making making themselves heard, rustling papers at night. He made a ridiculously easy trap out of an empty paper towel tube and a dab of almond butter:


A paper towel tube, a little peanut butter (or something like it), a trash can too deep for a mouse to jump out of and a rodent's lack of intelligence can make a simple yet effective trap.

The Loser, though he eats meat, cannot bring himself to poison or use kill traps on mice. It seems like a dirty trick on a creature not capable of any ethical wrongdoing on its part when it occupies his quarters. When he catches mice, the Loser stores them and sets them free a bike ride from his apartment, in a field. They probably become prey for area hawks, but at least they get a sporting chance.

A mouse prepares to spend a night in an empty jar of clinged peaches.

The Loser Seeks Love Online

2011-12-04T19:41:00.000-05:00

The Complete and Total Loser, needing constant reinforcement of his Loser status, has an online profile at OKCupid, a free dating service. He logs in about two or three times a year and activates his profile. When doing that, it must for a week.

Seven days is all he needs for the Loser to see that there's no one for him.

You have to read between the lines for most of the profiles. That's when you see that women want rich men, with hair, who love fine dining and vacations. It surprises the Loser how many of them talk about things that are the opposite of what he or any man he knows likes to do but, well, these are women in their 40s and 50s who are single. Indie bands? Dancing? "Exploring" little antique shops on weekends? Cats? Emoticons?

So far, five days in, just one woman has written to the Loser. He clicked and looked at her picture and, no kidding, it was like a large cockroach had landed on the screen. He moved the cursor to the photo so it brought up any others she may have posted of herself. Worse. And descriptions: "Curvy" = fat. "A little extra" = Get-my-harpoon!

The Loser feels good about himself these days, however, so he's having fun with this week. He is clicking "not interested" in all the women the service suggests he may like and clicking on "hide" for these and others who's profiles he views. It gives him some satisfaction to be the one rejecting for once.

Not the woman who responded to The Loser, but close.

A Physical Peculiarity

2011-12-02T22:14:00.000-05:00

Lately, when the Complete and Total Loser urinates, it feels mildly like an orgasm. He's always liked relieving himself, but it's gotten more pleasurable the past few months. He was happy about this until he realized this grim fact: His pissing isn't getting more like orgasms; his orgasms are getting more like pissing.
Drat.

Not even the esteemed Mayo Clinic can help the Complete and Total Loser.

The Loser's Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T12:41:00.001-05:00

Most people he knows would rather be doing something else today.

The women are doing the cooking (Still! In 2011!) and the men are going because the women are making them.

The Complete and Total Loser is doing what he wants. When he turned 50 a few years ago he decided to slip off the shackles of tradition that require such days to be observed so he spends them solo, eating a simple meal, snoozing and reading. Soon, he'll visit his father in the rehabilitation facility he's been in since a mild stroke led to a fall last week. He will stay in his father's and late mother's house. He has a book to read, a Netflix movie to watch, and laundry to do. It's gotten chilly and he's dialed the thermostat up to 70.


The Loser's father eats institutional food for Thanksgiving.

The Loser Dislikes Marathons

2011-11-21T13:05:00.000-05:00

Thousands of people, clogging up vital routes, making it hard for The Complete and Total Loser to bicycle to work. Helicopters overhead, loudspeakers with gabby DJs making dumb jokes, bucket-list runners. Why the hell are they held in cities? They should go out where the air is clean and the roads open.

As the Loser crossed the road a woman said, "Why can't you go around that way?" The Loser is usually very polite and accommodating, but in this case he said to the woman, "Because I want to go this way. If you don't like it, blow it out your ass." Honestly, he never talks that way.

The Loser wonders what Phileidippides would have said if he'd been told that one day his fatal run would be done by flat-chested women with great legs who do it for fun and later go shopping. Kind of a stupid thing to wonder, actually, but he is a Complete and Total Loser.

Marathoners screw up even pedestrian and bicycle traffic as they compete in an annual race.

Hospital Beds

2011-11-20T08:05:00.000-05:00

The room the Complete and Total Loser's father is in is a good one but like all the rest is structured for medical work more than comfort. It has an amazing bathroom with a shower the Loser would kill to have. The view isn't good; an interior courtyard, interesting only architecturally. (The Loser now wishes he had done something about the room his mother died in last month. She could only see a brick wall.) In all the hospital rooms the Loser's seen the past few years however good the view is the patients aren't able to see it. The beds are always angled toward the TV.

The bed has a perfect mattress and side rails that protect but don't confine. Large tables swing over at a perfect height for reading or eating. And from the panel on the inside you can turn on a radio, a TV, a light or call a nurse to tend to intimate functions.
The Loser puzzled over how small his parents have seemed in these beds. Yes, they both have been ravaged by time. Both were five foot ten in younger days and sturdy. His mother weighed less than a hundred pounds at her death and his father, 91, has little muscle mass now. So there's that. But still. Small.

The Loser finally realized why this is so: It's the beds. They articulate, another control. The positions they choose is never flat so their bodies are bent, crumpled, like a snake lying on an accordion, and so they appear shorter than ever.

The Loser's father rests after a hard day of medical tests.

The Other Shoe

2011-11-17T21:04:00.000-05:00

An old phrase has been going through The Complete and Total Loser's head since a few days after his mother's death three weeks ago: Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The phrase is not that old. It's not from the Bible, Chaucer or Shakespeare. It seems more likely, according to the Loser's lazy Internet research, to be from the Vaudeville era and from a boarding house story in which a man drops one shoe noisily, waking his sleep companions, who then brace for the sound of the other shoe. The sound never comes as the man realized the impact of the first so he removes the second shoe with care and puts it quietly on the floor. Time passes. Finally, an irate neighbor shouts for the man to drop the other shoe and get the noise over with.

Earlier this evening the Loser got a phone call from the suburbs from a kind neighbor. His father, age 91 and alone for the first time had fallen. Not too serious, it turns out (he called for an ambulance himself), but he'll stay in a hospital overnight. He's taking medication for shingles and other things and not eating as well as he should.

The Loser, after consulting with his brothers about their father's condition, will go to the house after work tomorrow and spend the night. It looks now like the Loser will move in to the house sooner rather than later unless his father rebounds enough from his grief to eat right.

The phrase refers to waiting for the inevitable, waiting to get something unpleasant over with so one can continue as before. It's a cheery phrase because it implies that the unpleasant thing will happen fast, like ripping off a Band Aid. This is inaccurate, however. The dropping of that second shoe won't happen fast. It will descend toward the grimy boarding house floor as if falling through syrup, yet it will, despite its slow speed, make a jarring bang when it hits.

Reading and the Time

2011-11-17T08:30:00.000-05:00

He's reading a little better but the Complete and Total Loser is still dozens of pages from finishing The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, a novel he began reading months ago. That's his "home book." When he visits his father in the suburbs he reads the David McCullough biography on John Adams. It was the last book his mother read. It's a nice escape of sorts, a trip to a past in which there were smart people in times that were simpler in some ways.

Meanwhile, he wants to get one of the cheap new Kindles, the one with a touch screen. Stupid, and the Loser doesn't need it; he has a backlog of books to read which, if stacked, would be taller than he is, which is five nine on his good leg. He knows it would be stupid to spend over $100 to satisfy his gadget curiosity and that if he resists the impulse it will fade in a week or two.

A Web site he likes tells the time. It's clear, pared down and it appears huge on his computer screen. He also likes the time site his government has, though it seems to make his browser crash. But it has a small world map with a parabolic representation of where the sun is shining and where it is dark that will explain more about the seasons and movement of the Earth than many books. If you look at it long enough, you can see the world turn.

Signals

2011-11-13T21:13:00.000-05:00

The time is early last summer -- or was it late spring? -- and the Complete and Total Loser's mother, dead for seventeen days now, has summoned a tree service worker to talk about tree removals in the back yard. She has always been a high-maintenance control freak, a label she ignored rather than disputed, and having needless work done in and around the house is a way for her to get attention as her powers diminish.

She wants three perfectly healthy trees removed but her timing in having the tree man come is bad; the Loser, the family nature lover, is there. After the man examines the trees, the Loser asks the pertinent question: Is there any benefit to removing them? Are they diseased? Do they present any danger to anything? The answer is no on all counts and the Loser gets the man out after some minutes of heated discussion between he and his mother.

He ends the discussion after the tree worker has left with this:

"Mom, how much longer do you think you're going to live in this house?" Her health is failing precipitously and she's talked of moving to an assisted living facility.

"Five years," she says, though she doesn't say it like that. What she says is more like, "Five years?" Her eyes widen.

The Loser sees in her face at that moment a mix of helplessness and denial that pangs him but he suppresses at the time.

"OK," the Loser says. "Five years. So why not let those perfectly healthy trees stay there and let whoever moves in after you and Dad move decide what to do with them?"

She doesn't mention the trees again for what turns out to be the rest of her life.

The Loser is beginning to see that exchange and other things as signals of her impending demise. Some are subtle and just entering his consciousness. Others seemed obvious then but the Loser preferred to perceive them differently at the time. (What good does dwelling on gloom do?)

On one of his weekly visits the Loser's mother says, "I found something of yours the other day." It was a tiny wooden chest, a souvenir she'd gotten in Florida in the mid 1960s and given to the Loser. It's the size of a stack of four decks of playing cards and the Loser used to store his boyhood coin collection. It had been missing for decades and he'd thought of it sometimes but assumed that it was just one of those things that gets lost as the years pass. Where had she had it? Why did she find it now? Was she going through old things? If so, why?

Unmoored

2011-11-10T22:06:00.000-05:00

It's upscale, the area the Complete and Total Loser's father's house is in, but like any crowded suburb these days diversity is key to commerce and profit. This means that despite the region's population of the upper crust, old monied and elderly residents there are enough working class folks around to support a Wal*Mart. And a Hooters restaurant.

It's been there for years, the Hooters, and it stands out on a corner near a huge shopping mall. The Loser and others drive by it while on their way to classier places. On Tuesday, the Loser drove by when he went to pick up some speaker wire at a Best Buy. (There are people who work at Best Buy, nice enough guys, who are unaware that their store sells something as low-tech as a 50-foot spool of speaker wire, by the way.)

He's passed it many times, but this time, two weeks after his mother's death, something strange happened: He almost went in.

As the Complete and Total Loser's faithful readers (number: zero) know, the Loser is not successful with women. He's never had a girlfriend and he hasn't had sex since 1997. He knows that the shallow stuff -- prostitutes and the like -- will not fill the void in his life and that trying to do so will only look pathetic to others and himself while magnifying his loneliness. Still, he was tempted. Why not go someplace and be waited on by a smiling woman in provocative clothes? he asked himself. The fries are excellent, he's heard, and while he's no fan of chicken wings (horrible, greasy little things only palatable when drunk) there are other items he'd probably eat.

He realized something he'd already known on some level: We live, many of us, by our parents' prescriptions more than we know. The Loser is no mama's boy. They ended on a good note these past few years, though his bitterness at his failed life sometimes took its aim at her. But he's gone months barely speaking to her and was hardly the doting son for years at a time. He lived overseas for half a decade without one visit home.

Wanting to go to a boob joint after her death made the Loser realize the extent to how much her judgment has meant to him his entire life. Without her alive, he feels free in ways he'd rather not.

The funny thing is, she'd probably have encouraged him to go to a Hooters. She'd always hoped he'd meet a nice girl and find love and expressing at least some interest in the company of women would have made her happy.

Dying Scene 2: Swabs and Bubbles

2011-11-09T22:57:00.000-05:00

She will never eat again. Her choice. Really, looking back, the Complete and Total Loser's mother was eating a minimal amount for months, always with a current excuse.

"My stomach hurts."

That kind of thing. She was wasting away, not that everyone looks strong and thick at 80. She wanted strawberry smoothies and other fluids but barely touched protein, saying her daily Boost, the drink for seniors that has around 300 calories, was adequate.

She will drink, on this morning of last full day of her life. The Loser, at her request, holds a cup of water with a straw to her mouth and she takes a few sips. She still knows who the Loser is, he can tell, but doesn't really acknowledge him directly. By noon she doesn't drink but asks for swabs.

The swabs are little sponges about an inch and a half long by an inch on the end of a plastic stick. You dip them in water and bite on them to release the water or juice on them. They're a safe alternative to crushed ice, the Loser guesses, and you'd never see them outside a hospital.

For hours, the Loser dipped the swabs in a Styrofoam cup of water and puts them in his mother's mouth. She squeezed the swabs between tongue and pallet to get water. Her tongue was dark, almost black. After some dips, the swabs get gunky. The Loser throws them out and opens a new one.

Meanwhile, the Loser's mother wore one of those double plastic tubes in her nose for oxygen. There's a little box on the wall with water in it. The oxygen bubbles through the on its last leg from someplace beyond the wall to his mother's failing lungs. The bubbling is a steady, pleasant sound, soothing, like sounds from his parents' small koi pond.

Big Boy Shoes

2011-11-08T16:55:00.000-05:00

"My wife died five days ago," the Complete and Total Loser's father tells anyone who will listen.

It's a lie. The Loser, his brothers and his father are two weeks out from her death. It's a forgivable mistake, given that after 59 years of marriage two weeks might as well be five days, but the Loser dislikes it when anyone imparts sad information to get sympathy from strangers.

Grief, to the Loser, isn't some bad substance that lessens when you spread it around. It's a private thing that aches within, and sharing it with others is a sign of weakness. The Loser has always reacted with anger when his father shows such signs. It's important to the Loser that he respect his father. Why would the guy coming to clean up fallen tree branches need to know this? What difference could it make to the woman at the shoe store?

About the shoes. Why are the elderly so stubborn sometimes? The Loser's father has been wearing beat up moccasins for months now. He put on a decent pair of shoes for the funeral a week ago and a pinched nerve burned for days afterward. The Loser kidnapped his father today, driving him to a shoe store after his father voted and insisted that he try on a few pairs. The store specializes in making comfortable shoes and it's where the Loser, a cripple, of course, buys his left shoe every few years. His father fought this the whole time, only grudgingly entering the store.

The woman was nice and used to dealing with the elderly. She listened to the Loser's father, shared her own stories (her husband of 32 years died of an aneurysm two years ago), and let the old man's crankiness roll off. By chance, two other women came in the store at different times and both raved about the shoes there. One, on hearing of his father's nerve problem, urged him to get the widest shoe he could and not, under any circumstance, let a doctor persuade him to seek a surgical solution. He bought a wide pair.

Now the Loser's father is sporting black leather shoes. The closures are Velcro, which makes sense when you're 91 and no longer fond of laces. The Loser slipped the proprietor his debit card and had her ring up the sale as fast as she could.

The Loser's father carries his late wife's ashes, delivered minutes before, from the kitchen to the bedroom.

Life with Father

2011-11-07T00:43:00.002-05:00

Single his whole life, The Complete and Total Loser has no reason not to spend his days off, Monday and Tuesday (the Loser works in retail, low level), with his father, who's 91, since his mother died October 25.

This is week one.

The Loser came back to the suburban house Sunday night after five days in the city. He was worried about what he'd find. Yes, his father has taken care of himself and his mother for the past year, two, sort of, but life without his wife of just under 59 years -- how would that be?

Undecided. The house is tidy. The Loser found his father in his favorite position; standing in front of the TV in the kitchen, watching it, eating cheese, sipping a drink. The sink is empty, the dishes washed. Fine.

But. He hasn't watered the plants the Loser brought inside last Tuesday during the cold snap. He hasn't eaten any eggs and the bread is all still there. There are four messages on the answering machine going back three days that he hasn't heard. He is clean and he talks of throwing away tax records he's kept for ten, fifteen years.

He's hard to reason with. Always true, but it seems worse. The example: He wore dress shoes to the service last Monday. These days he's been wearing loose shoes, little more than slippers, everywhere, complaining of edema. At the end of the day, after wearing the dress shoes for less than five hours, he had a sharp pain in one foot. The pain, six days later, is subsiding but still comes and goes. The Loser offered to take him to a shoe store that specializes in comfort shoes and the old man flat out said no. No. Doesn't need them, he said. It took the Loser several minutes to persuade him to go and even then it's a maybe.

After his father went to bed the Loser checked his email and found this from an old family friend a few years younger than his mother:

I did call your Father once and he said he didn't want phone calls. I asked if he wanted to have lunch with Joan and me next Wed and he said NO. But I will call on Tues and ask again. I know it is soon for him.

The Loser is starting to worry.

Dying Scene 1: The Perfect Touch

2011-11-06T08:25:00.000-05:00

The nurse is slim and carries herself well. She's around 40, maybe late 30s, and lean, trim. She's the Complete and Loser's type, but he's not really thinking along those lines now as this nurse is caring for his dying mother.

The nurse, her name is Lauren, is the day shift nurse and works a 12-hour shift, which she tells the Loser she likes because she can get involved with her patients and get a better feel for what's happening with them. It also means a four-day week, but her schedule is complicated and she works weekends sometimes. When the Loser worked in a hospital in the 90s it was a pediatric hospital and the nurses wore a variety of brightly colored scrubs. This is not a pediatric unit and the nurses wear tailored scrubs, all dark -- but not navy -- blue. They look professional in these. (One poor nurse is so fat she wears a maroon top as they don't make a uniform her size. The Loser's heart aches for her.)

When she says goodbye to the Loser at the end of her shift, she reaches out with her left hand and sort of rubs his right arm up and down a few times, ending with two pats. It's the perfect way for her to touch him. It's human contact and consoling, but its duration and method don't indicate intimacy.

The Loser's cynical enough to know he's not the first to merit physical contact with this nurse, but charitable enough to think it's not a practiced method she's been taught.

A Few Minutes with Andy Rooney

2011-11-05T08:11:00.002-04:00

Andy Rooney, dead at 92. The Complete and Total Loser liked him. Not for his observational powers or writing ability but because he is the last of his era to appear on a weekly, national news show of the reputation and reach of 60 Minutes.

The Loser, with his own current loss (see any previous post of the last few weeks) hadn't known Rooney was ill. Now he can only see Rooney's death through his personal filter.

Both Rooney and the Loser's father had a solid purpose in life; Rooney, his broadcast; the Loser's father, his wife's care. Both lost those purposes. Both are over 90. One is dead.

Uh-oh.


Andy Rooney

Back at Work

2011-11-03T04:18:00.000-04:00

Today was the Complete and Total Loser's first day back at work since his mother died last week. Remarkable, how ordinary things seemed. Polite expressions of sorrow from some coworkers, some conversations with others. The youngest among them remained silent, which the Loser found curious at first until he remembered that such an event is new in scope to them and even those who've experienced such loss have done so under a filter of youth and their experience is remote from the Loser's.

He is an expert on loss now, of course. This stage of it, anyway. His expertise will fade over time as he adjusts to the new reality of having only one parent.

The Loser Writes on a Train

2011-11-02T04:30:00.001-04:00

The Complete and Total Loser grabbed a free alternative weekly from a box before the train to the city arrived. He opened it once seated and found he'd read it days before. So he took out the small book with blank pages he'd been using to make notes and to-do lists in over the past week and wrote instead.

It's been a week. I'm on a train, one of the old ones with dirty, sagging seats, on my way back to the city. I left my second bike at Devon Station. Will it be there and intact on Sunday when I return? Can't say. Don't care.

A plus to the old trains: No loudspeakers blaring out the stops at ear-splitting decibels due to incompetent microphone use. It's like the old days, the conductor announcing, except the conductor is black.

Two seats in front of me is an African-American man, an albino. Pink skin, white hair. He seems fascinated by what's happening behind him and turns to look often. I don't turn and I hear nothing out of the ordinary. A couple talking. It's a mystery and a little troubling. He is looking beyond me. Good.

It's 4:30 in the afternoon, the first of November. Sunlight slanted through thinning trees strobes irregularly in the train car. Fast, then slow. Stop. Slow, then fast. The movement of the train.

It's been one week and eight hours now since my mother died. Tonight will be my first back in my noisy, cluttered apartment since before that. I have no idea what it will be like.

A restless albino rides on a train.

How the Loser Spent Halloween

2011-11-01T00:25:00.003-04:00

Fifty nine years ago Monday, October 31, 2011, the Complete and Total Loser's parents got married. At 11 a.m. this same day the Loser, his brothers, over 200 people and the Loser's father gathered in a church for his mother's funeral rites.

The Loser spoke to the gathered. It went well, considering that he has never, in his life, spoken in public. He didn't fall apart or blow more than one line. He's not sure his remarks were appropriate. People seem big on biography and the mentioning of many names in eulogies. The Loser mentioned just three names: His mother, his father, and Kurt Vonnegut. That's another story.

On Saturday the phenomenal storm knocked out the power in the suburban house the Loser has shared with his father for a week now. When the power goes off, the heat does, too, and the house temperature dropped to the low 50s. Cold for inside. The Loser knows he shouldn't whine; the storm killed a dozen and many others are still without power. At 10:35, as the Loser and his father did their final inspection for the service, checking ties, making sure buttons were buttoned, the power came back. Lights glowed, the refrigerator hummed, digital devices reset their clocks and beeped. The Loser was tempted to look heavenward and to thank his mother for this but A) he is not a magical thinker and B) if she had a hand it in, it would have been damn nice of her to get things on the night before, as had happened in many areas nearby.

The Loser spent the last hours of the evening writing Thank You cards to friends who had expressed their condolences. Being a Loser, he has few friends so there were only eight. He actually wrote to everyone who attended the service on his behalf. A childhood friend, a coworker, a couple he's known for over a decade. Three cards.

Her favorite chair is a comfortable one, and the Loser sat in it using a book she liked as a hard surface to write on. Flowers from the service sat before him. He wrote in cursive, meaning that if the recipients keep the cards their grandchildren surely won't be able to read them. The Loser will put stamps on the envelopes tonight and mail the cards tomorrow. Done. Over.

Detestable

2011-10-29T17:42:00.002-04:00

Episcopalian ministers used to call themselves ministers but these days they call themselves priests. It's an adoption of Catholic terminology and the Complete and Total Loser gets this. While "minister" and "priest" may be as equivalent in the religion game as "lieutenant" and "captain" are in the Navy and Army, when fighting demonic possession or administering last rites, people call for a priest. Even Episcopalians.

The Episcopalian minister who met with the Loser and most of his remaining family (one brother was absent) to help plan their mother's service following her death Tuesday told them to "use this opportunity to bond as a family."

Right.

The problem is the eldest of the three sons (the Loser is number three). The man is, by any description, an asshole. Nearly 60, his sense of humor is frozen in time from when he was an adolescent. He delights in making mere misstatements of fact designed to upset and worry others. He carries these lies -- they don't rise to the level of a joke -- for long minutes before telling people he was "kidding" and further humiliating them by telling them they have "no sense of humor."

This is teasing, not joking, a bully's way. It is like stealing the crutches from a cripple, laughing at his agitation, returning them only when satisfied at the level of torment.

The Loser's brother does this to everyone. The Loser, of course, friends, family members and even his dying mother. Earlier today, after the Loser told his brother to try to inflict less stress on their 91-year-old father, he asked the Loser, "Do you believe exercise is good for you?" The Loser answered "Yes."

"Well," the Loser's brother said, "if it's good to get your heart going when you're exercising, I'm doing the same thing with Dad."

You read that correctly. The Loser's brother, father of two, founder of a company that bears his name, owner of four houses in three states, has no idea that there are different kinds of stress and that not all are beneficial.

Stunning.

This photo's of the Loser's mother when she was a little girl. It appeared in an issue of The National Geographic Magazine in the 1938.

Insane Food

2011-10-28T20:39:00.000-04:00

They draw the line at casseroles; there have been none. But people are bringing the Complete and Total Loser and his father ridiculous amounts of food since his mother died Tuesday at 80.

Crudites, which, if you're as ignorant as the Loser was until just a few years ago, are just cut up vegetables.
Lasagna. A comfort food. Warm, soft, yielding, filling.

Shepard's Pie, which is something no one with a personality would ever eat.
Cookies, of course. Soups. Rotisserie chicken. And yesterday the parents of the Loser's sister-in-law brought a comically huge ham. It's the size of an entire pig. And the Loser and his family have never been fans of the meat, which they find salty and associate with forced Easter dinners with people they weren't even related to.

The Loser has seen comedians include descriptions of food brought after deaths as part of their stand up routines. They joke about grief and its relationship to hunger. He's laughed at this, but he gets the point of the food bearers. The attempt to nourish others is a direct way of helping, and it seems appropriate when the female head of a household -- traditionally the one who cooks -- dies.

Meanwhile, the Loser's father, 91, eats the food, as does the Loser. Except the ham.

Road Rage

2011-10-27T12:26:00.003-04:00

He's always known this, but the Complete and Total Loser was reminded Tuesday that when you get so mad at the idiot driver in front of you for driving like the moron he surely must be that you want to ram his car, yank him out and pummel him, try to remember that he may be driving his elderly father home from the hospital in which they both spent an hour with their wife and mother's corpse and may be just a little distracted by the events of the day. The Loser is saying this and it didn't even happen to him. It just made him think about it.

The Loser's father contemplates the family koi pond a few hours after his wife's death.

The Loser's Mother

2011-10-26T00:41:00.000-04:00

Below is the Complete and Total Loser's mother, who died early yesterday morning at the age of 80. The photo was taken well before the Loser was aware of what cameras were and possibly before his existence. He's unsure. He found it in a photo album when he was a boy and always liked it. The Loser can tell that there was love between the photographer (his Dad) and the subject.

February 1, 1931 - October 25, 2011

2011-10-25T11:07:00.002-04:00

The dash between those two dates represents, in this context, my mother's life.

This Horrible Event

2011-10-24T23:19:00.000-04:00

What you won't know until it happens to you is that the hospital death of a loved one, besides being filled with grief, is grindingly dull. The same stupid stories and platitudes over and over again as new uninvited visitors come to express their sympanthy. Also, The Complete and Total Loser is finding while tending his mother during her final hours, much of the process is simply repulsive, but he won't go into descriptions of bodily fluids and the like.

The Loser's mother's last coherent sentences were demanding an end to her suffering, for the Loser to choke her to death. He half considered this early during the night shift, but decided that his resume would not be enhanced by an entry reading, "October, 2011: Matricide." It's awful, but the in the 220 million years of mammalian existence evolution has strove to maintain life at any cost. That means that although the Loser's mother's spirit is gone, her body fights on, and in the four long seconds after each exhalation it commands her to breathe yet again, even against her will.

Mundane Crap

2011-10-23T07:59:00.001-04:00

He's learning firsthand things he's read about for years.

The simple, day-to-day stuff that he still does, even while fully, searingly aware that his mother lies in a hospital room knowing her end approaches. He's doing laundry as this is being written. He plans to shine his orthopedic shoes tonight and prepare his work lunches in advance (banana nut bread sandwiches with almond butter and honey, foiled, wrapped and frozen).

She's taking it fairly well, The Complete and Total Loser thinks. He can't help be a little surprised by this. Years ago, in the late 70s, the Loser worked at a movie theater and got his parents in to see the movie "All that Jazz," which is largely about death. It had music for Mom, nudity for Dad. Perfect! When they came home the Loser's mother cried at the Loser's perceived cruelty in getting her to see the film. A mean joke, she called it. Surely the Loser knew that she, now in her mid 40s, was depressed by the notion of her mortality.

He did not. Honest.

Now, beaten and dazed by time, the Loser's mother announces her coming death to the Loser and his brother as they enter her hospital room.

"I'm going to die," she said.

"So are we," the Loser said.

"Yeah," said his brother. "Everyone does."

"I won't be here tomorrow," she said.

"Oh? Where will you be?"

She pointed to the ceiling. "Up," she said, pointing heavenward. At this, she nodded righteously at the Loser, the family atheist.

"It's gonna get cold on the roof, Mother," said the Loser's brother.

(A side note: The Loser's brother, a winner, spent about 75 percent of the hour and a half they spent in the hospital room on his Blackberry, emailing workplace contacts, sending notes to his wife. In one way, this is fine; his mother -- obviously a bit preoccupied and hazed with illness -- didn't notice. But the Loser wondered if doing this won't come back to haunt his brother who, despite being an insurance lobbyist, does have some depth to him. At the same time, the Loser regretted slightly the fact that he is a smartphone holdout -- real contacts only for him! -- and had nothing better to do than avert his eyes while the cute Russian-born nurse checked his mother's tubes and things.)

The Loser is thrilled while at work, where it's busy, but he does find that he's making more errors than usual. But it's hard for him to care about that now.

Weeks

2011-10-21T08:20:00.002-04:00

It's coincidence but memorable things have always happened to The Complete and Total Loser on October 18th. Memorable to him anyway. In his childhood years these events were on the order of beloved pets disappearing, returning, fighting, or having offspring. As a teen and early adult, they involved major rejections and departures. Early in his middle years, in 1996, he was robbed at gunpoint while sweeping leaves outside his apartment on a bright autumn October 18th.

This time, now in his 50s, the date was the one the Loser heard official word from a doctor that his mother's life would end in a matter or weeks.

If you haven't lost a loved one it's always going to be a shock to hear that someone close to you will be dead in a determinate amount of time no matter how ill they've been.

The Loser's father seemed even more reluctant to accept this than the Loser, even though at 91 he's had several of his own close calls with death. The Loser attributes this to the momentum of nearly 59 years of life together.

"The only two people who've influenced my life are my mother and your mother," he told the Loser as the two sat in a tiny room near the ER room in which doctors were treating his mother. The Loser reminded his father that he did have three healthy sons, of which just one was a loser, and four thriving grandchildren, but his father was focused on his wife.

The Loser knows that when one spouse dies, merry widow stereotypes aside, the other often follows soon, but he had hoped that his father would be an exception to that. He has always been good around the house, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry for all; not the average man of his era who ordered pizza when the wife was out of town and couldn't run the dishwasher. Also, he has his own circle of friends and regularly does old-guy stuff. Prostate cancer support meetings. Discussion groups for Civil War buffs. Church gatherings despite his disbelief in an actual supreme being.

But now, judging from how he took the news Tuesday, the Loser is unsure of this. In just minutes the Loser saw his father age five years, which at his age is a lot.

Soon, probably

2011-10-13T07:23:00.000-04:00

Will she make it to 2012? Not that dates and numbers matter, but The Complete and Total Loser can't help wondering if his mother will be alive two and a half months from now.

Not that he'd call her current state "alive." Yes, she's more alive than many. She gets up and eats, showers and all, but the majority of her waking hours are spent either making his 91-year-old father miserable with her petty demands (she bangs her cane against the floor like a hag in a Dickens novel) or just lying there, waiting. The Loser thinks that if he costumed himself convincingly like the Grim Reaper and entered her room she wouldn't be a bit surprised.

He thinks these thoughts, light ones of her death, almost wishing it would happen soon, then feels awful. He wants his mother to die! When it happens he'll want to slit his throat for this!

But no. The Loser doesn't want his mother to die. His mother is a strong, smart woman who went to work as soon as the Loser, her youngest, was in first grade. She worked full time when many women married to men who made enough for them not to have to stayed home. She did well. She sold real estate before it was a cliche. The Loser's mother is funny, a good singer, stands on her head at parties, rides a motorcycle (for one summer in a vacation town, but still), has smoked pot when it was very illegal, drives too fast and is a good cook. His mother calls the Loser down from his room while washing dishes just for his company, laughs with him at reruns of "I Love Lucy" and Jerry Lewis movies on television when he get home from school, and splits a Tab with him while she's needle pointing, making room for the cat on her lap, and saw him through four leg operations, holding his hand to draw off the pain.

The Loser wants his mother to live forever. The woman he wants dead is the emaciated, feeble, needy woman who's responding to age with bafflement and pain, like a little girl slapped across the face by a stranger on the street. Who responds to the daily loss of life by trying to control others around her, never missing a chance to tell anyone in earshot about every ache.

That's the woman the Loser wants dead. But when it happens, he'll know that his wished his mother dead also.

Remember "The Secret"?

2011-10-07T12:03:00.000-04:00

Remember the book "The Secret"? It sold millions of copies, was made into a popular DVD, had all sorts of testimonials to its powers and then ... faded away. The photo below is of a copy in a library bookstore in The Complete and Total Loser's city. (It's been sitting there for days.) Books there are only $2 and $3 (for hardbacks) because there are many more books than readers.

Back to The Secret." If so many people bought it and it worked, why are more people than ever having such bad times? The Loser knows why: It's because New Age, feel good, positive thinking things don't work in the long run. For ever one person you find who says something like this book changed their lives for the better, you'll find a hundred who did what that person did without success. But watch. The ideas in The Secret, itself a repackaging of old ideas, will be tweaked and retitled and be a best seller to a new generation of losers a decade or so from now. Maybe sooner.

Things in Common

2011-10-05T22:05:00.001-04:00

Steve Jobs's death today saddens the Complete and Total Loser even though he and Jobs, a successful man with a family, have little in common except that both used Apple computers, are in their 50s and are bald men. Really, that's about it.

The Loser learned recently that he has a one in three chance of getting pancreatic cancer. Not bad odds. So there's a chance he and Jobs will eventually have another commonality.

The Wall Street Takeover

2011-10-03T22:20:00.001-04:00

Like many losers, The Complete and Total Loser would like to see a societal upheaval of some sort. A zombie apocalypse, an alien invasion, an asteroid strike -- such things would be fine with him. He fantasizes that somehow the lack of skills he has to succeed in the world will morph into skills that will help him survive in a speculative fiction future. Really, though, he knows that he would be among the first on the zombie menu, the first to be vaporized by a spaceship's ray gun and the first to freeze and starve to death in a nuclear winter.

The Loser knows nothing will come of the current activity in Lower Manhattan. The rich are too rich and have their hooks in the politicians, who control the police and the military, and also control the media, which knows where its money comes from. As for bypassing the media with the Internet, nice idea but it won't happen. You need slick production values and, these days, a heart warming story line of some sort to hold anyone's attention for longer than a few weeks. Any changes in how we live now will occur in small, dull increments. Drat.

txt msgng

2011-10-01T07:00:00.002-04:00

i txt my girl 2x an hr
we bth find it funy
i txt her whn im in th showr
she iz my litl hony
we txt n txt frm evryplc
wearng mittins or a glov
n i cant wait to c her face
i ges this must be luv

Beauty

2011-09-29T08:23:00.000-04:00

This photo of a spider depresses The Complete and Total Loser.

Look at it. It's hideous. Nubby little hairs, beady eyes, badly proportioned limbs and body. And yet the Loser knows that it's going to get laid within a month, while the Loser hasn't had sex for nearly a decade and a half. Even the fact that whatever it has sex with is probably going to be another spider (let's hope) doesn't make the Loser feel any better about this.

Advice for Men Seeking Wives

2011-09-27T18:15:00.001-04:00

As the Complete and Total Loser's two or three occasional readers know, he's had zero luck with women. An unremembered date late next month will mark his fourteenth year of celibacy, which to the Loser means intercourse.

Nonetheless, he has one piece of advice for men seeking wives. Here goes.

Avoid control freaks. The Loser's mother is one so he knows the type well. It may seem cute when they plan social engagements and tell you what to wear to this or that event, but as time passes it will morph into something ugly. They'll be old women nagging you about tiny details on things like where you've put the mail and how long it took you to go to a store and get items she's sent you to fetch, items you don't really even need.

One way to spot a control freak early in a relationship is go out to dinner. Women judge us by how we act toward the waitstaff. Are we polite, but not too personable to them? Good. (As an aside, it's never a good idea to be an asshole to someone who will be alone with your food and then have your credit card.)

How is she about the meal she's received? Is she going on and on about how it wasn't cooked exactly how she asked it to be? Did she have a lot of demands on its specifics in the first place? If so, look out. By the way, if she's really investing a lot of energy into this meal and food in general, she is a foodie and will eventually be fat.

About Unmarried Losers

2011-09-24T07:30:00.001-04:00

"Did I ever tell you why I never got married?" the Complete and Total Loser said to a coworker he's been friends with for several years. Moments before he'd had an awful encounter with a horrible, rude woman and the coworker was there to see it.

She laughed. "Oh, I know why," she said.

The conversation was diverted and not continued. Until today, when the Loser asked her what she was going to say.

Her answer: "You're too set in your ways."

The Loser's heard that before. It's true, of course. At over 50, the Loser can't imagine living with someone else, making the zillion compromises each day that couples do. When is mealtime in the Loser's grimy apartment? When he says it is! Sex tonight? Sure! It's up to him!

But the answer the Loser's friend gave is incomplete.

The Loser hasn't always been set in his ways. Granted, he may have been a little less tolerant than others, but not so much that a relationship would have been impossible. No. The Loser needed that first girlfriend in his youth that he never had. He needed to be able to overcome his gimp let and oily skin enough to ask a girl out. If he had done that several times and one he liked went out with him, he would have made the usual mistakes, said the dumb things everyone does, and been chastised, maybe even rejected from them. He would have learned from those mistakes and sought companionship again. He would have been comfortable with intimacy, with touching another, with sharing and communicating.

The gist is this: Single losers aren't single because they have poor social skills. They have poor social skills because they're single.

Europe's Economic Problems Explained

2011-09-20T19:01:00.003-04:00

He is not and never been a foodie, but The Complete and Total Loser does know that food is vital to others for reasons other than the Loser's, which is to stay alive.

With this knowledge, if you can call it that, the Loser is able to explain Europe's current problems.

One problem is that the currency is for all, but they're not sharing the same policies.
The countries failing are ones that value food and good times. They love to have long meals and will go home for three hours to eat lunch. Lunch! The Loser gobbles down half a sandwich in twenty minutes.
Because they spend so much time on food preparation and dining, they don't work hard, making their entire countries unproductive.
When an entire country has a problem, it structures itself to hide this. Men in many Arab countries, for example, have the sexual attitudes of 12-year-old boys. This embarrasses them so they blame women and make them wear bulky, all covering clothes. In the case of the European nations facing economic insolvency, they've structured their economies to cover up their love of food and their penchant for sleeping 11 hours a day. This is being unveiled as the interconnectedness of the European Community ripens.
The countries in which people work hard have awful food. England, Germany, others. France is the one exception to this finding of the The Loser's, but they're fueled by nuclear energy, cigarettes, strong coffee and passion.

The Loser's Housesitting Charge

2011-09-12T11:30:00.003-04:00

The parrot the Complete and Total Loser is taking care of now as he housesits in the suburbs for an old friend of the family's bites. Hard. He's been called a mean bird. Over the years he's gotten the Loser a few times, causing wounds just short of a trip to an ER.

He strikes with reptilian speed. Once he bit the Loser's finger as he was offering him a favorite treat. Another time, when out of his cage (the Loser lets him out whenever he's in the house with him) he leaped from above in attack, his beak gouging the Loser's forehead as he tumbled to floor, clipped wings fluttering.

The Loser doesn't think the bird is "mean," per se, but that he has a memory in his DNA that tells him his life is not as it should be. Though he was hatched in the U.S. and hand-raised by responsible breeders, the Loser senses that on some level he knows he should be flying amid tropical trees with hundreds of his own kind, happy in his flock, eating fresh fruit from branches instead of metal bowls, his droppings falling to hungry earth far below instead of on a newspaper, fulfilling his biological imperative. And that is why he bites any human who comes near enough and always will.

It's 9/11

2011-09-11T07:30:00.001-04:00

Unsuccessful in everything, the Complete and Total Loser was an unsuccessful journalist from the mid 1990s to 2002, when he pulled the plug on his career, having reached as his highest level the position of editorial assistant for a wire service.

On 9/11/01, the Loser was hard at work, doing his menial tasks like cutting his bettors's stories from regional newspapers to put in their mail boxes, a morale-building duty. One of the bureau's four televisions was tuned to CNN, which carried early footage of the first plane's hit. (Over the next 20 minutes the other televisions would carry the same feed.) The bureau chief was on the phone talking to the service's headquarters, which is in New York.

"Amazing, this plan hitting the World Trade Center, isn't it?" he said to a head news editor on the phone he called daily to touch base with regarding stories they may take from the Loser's branch. The woman hadn't heard. She stuttered and hung up.

Not long after the second plane hit, the Loser's superiors told him to go to the airport and phone in quotes from stranded passengers and airport PR. The Loser boarded a train, rode it for fifteen minutes, and spent the next twelve hours at the airport, wandering the long corridors until his feet ached. He got no information of any value, but he was not called back to the branch. The staffers were probably glad to be rid of him for the day.

A few hours into his stint, a woman pushing a cart bearing bottled water and snacks came by. She was handing them out to trapped travelers. The Loser asked her about her task and she told him such things were done by the airport when planes were stalled due to bad weather.

Reporters are not to take gifts, even small ones, from anyone involved in something they're covering. The Loser was good about this, but he did accept a small bottle of water from the woman. He put it in his jacket pocket in case he got thirsty later. He didn't, and he ended up taking it home, where he put it in his cupboard. The events of that awful day tainted the water, and the Loser never drank it or disposed of it.

What happens to bottled water over a decade? The water escapes through osmosis and the container begins to collapse.

How to Judge Political Candidates

2011-09-02T08:27:00.001-04:00

The Complete and Total Loser was a journalist once. Not a good one. He did fine at the level of a local weekly suburban paper but failed during his year in the big leagues, where it became clear he would never rise beyond the editorial assistant level. He's a store clerk now.

Anyway, The Loser finds it interesting how an entire branch of journalists are fascinated by political campaigns. The actually call it a "horse race," only pretending to use the phrase as a slam. The two things the follow, beyond candidates' actual words and actions, are the polls and campaign financing. Which leads to a simple Loser Rule:

The more money a candidate raises, the more owned they are and the less likely you should be to vote for them.

The Loser's Thoughts on Food

2011-08-31T07:30:00.005-04:00

The Complete and Total Loser's rear bicycle tire went flat today and he had to walk home from downtown after doing some minor shopping. Outside an expensive hotel he saw a few people taking photos with their cell phone cameras. He looked to see what they were snapping. A visiting movie star? A sports figure? A politician? No. It was, as pictured above, a Red-tailed Hawk eating its latest prey, a pigeon.

The Loser's thoughts on food:

Raw is best for meat. Cooking's a convention thought up by primitive humans to burn off maggots and rotted flesh, and to make tough meat easier to chew. This made it possible for the older people to eat.
Raw is not necessarily best for vegetables. Light steaming releases nutrients and facilitates absorption.
It's not necessary for humans to eat meat. There are perfectly healthy bodybuilders who are vegan. The Loser is not one of them, though he takes it easy on meat and animal products. The ugliest steaks taste the best, by the way.
Eating meat is like driving an SUV, environmentally speaking. The Loser rarely eats beef and when he does, he reminds himself that he doesn't own a car, lives in a small apartment and, most important of all, did not have children.
Putting lemon juice in water will change the alkaline property of your blood for the better. Pure water is great. Water with lemon juice is better. Drinking ridiculous amounts of water (no one even knows who said that 6 to 8 glasses a day nonsense) is not necessary and when you drink coffee or alcohol there is still a net gain of water. When you drink water, do it all at once. Refrain from carrying any kind of bottle of water with you. You are an adult and far too old for a sippy cup.
Taking lots of vitamins is a waste of time and money. Get a multivitamin and take one day. Don't spend money on organic ones. Vitamins act on a molecular level and their origins are unimportant.
If you want to lose weight, avoid sugar completely. The pounds disappear fast.
Alcohol makes you fat not just because of its own caloric content but because it lowers your inhibitions, letting you order that second plate of fries. The Loser is surprised he doesn't hear health experts say that.
Speaking of fries, avoid them and potato chips.
Eating right starts in the store. If it's not in the house, you won't eat it.
Never drink sodas. They're for teenagers exclusively and they shouldn't drink them either. Sugar free sodas are about as bad and should also be skipped.

Relationships (Poem)

2011-08-26T07:30:00.001-04:00

It’s not easy being a couple,
Making one of two.
Your bodies may be supple
But not ready for love’s glue.
Some freedom’s put asunder,
You must like the other’s art.
Don’t you often wonder,
When do the married fart?

The Loser's Favorite Thing to Do

2011-08-24T07:15:00.002-04:00

Being what he is, The Complete and Total Loser lives alone and sleeps on a Posturepedic twin mattress that's on a low futon frame (his aging back said "no" to futons a decade ago). He has a bright light directly above his head. One of those new LED bulbs that doesn't buzz (watch it; some do, and loud).

On his days off, which are Monday and Tuesday (losers often work weekends), his favorite thing to do is lie in bed and go through the weekend papers and the magazines that have piled up over the week or, being honest, past several months.

He does this, and has for years, in a way even he finds peculiar despite his being the one who's doing it. He layers his reading material on the floor on left side of his bed, lies on his back and reads. When he decrees the item read he puts it on the floor on the bed's right, without any attempt to do so neatly. He knows that he'll be the one who has to pick up and neatly stack all the paper's for Wednesday's recycling, but he acts, while reading, as if he won't be. He's like an ape eating fruit, discarding peels and rinds without a thought or care where they go.

Then, when he's gathering the papers and magazines on Tuesday night, it takes him far more time and effort to do so than it would if he'd been neat about it in the first place. Part of him enjoys seeing the history of what he's read. The New York Times, the Sunday edition of the local paper, the small tabloid distributed by his city's mass transit system, the occasional alternative weekly, a thick monthly magazine or New Yorker, both which needed a willful effort to toss (you want to keep New Yorkers for months, to read that long article explaining the financial mess or reread that short story that seemed so brilliant but now, when you look at the title, you're not sure if you read or not), guilty pleasures like the comics and Parade Magazine, a Land's End catalog, the alumni quarterly from his prep school or private college, which he reads now only to see if the girls at the college are pretty (his prep school was all boys) and if any one he knew died.

The floor eventually cleared, the Loser's heart feels a little lighter and he's ready to begin again.

Gone South (Poem)

2011-08-22T11:13:00.001-04:00

In all of my years, and there’ve been many,
I’ve never heard so many say
The economy’s tanked (Do you have a penny?)
And nothing can help save the day.

Cities (Poem)

2011-08-19T07:30:00.001-04:00

Bullets fly, glass shatters,
People swear, shout, spit.
Outside they discuss matters,
Who hears? Don’t give a shit.
The water’s bad, the air, worse,
Lungs clog with fine soot.
Shopkeepers are often terse,
People shop each day on foot.
The schools suck, housing’s pricey,
Brass rings for those who fake it.
The roads are gutted, bridges dicey,
Despite all this I’ll take it.

How to Get and Keep a Woman (Poem)

2011-08-18T07:30:00.001-04:00

Though you don’t need one, get a nice car.
The same goes for hair and for height.
Have two big houses, one near and one far,
And remember that she’s always right.
Think of her only, shun city whores,
Listen when she talks of her friends.
Take her to dinner and open all doors,
Do all this till you need Depends.

Women and Sports (Poem)

2011-08-17T07:31:00.001-04:00

Women athletes are just that,
Get your mind out of the gutter.
When they run the hundred in seconds flat
Do not one catcall utter.
Ignore firm, taut glistening thighs,
Tawny arms, perfect boobs.
Strong backs, flat abs, clear, bright eyes
Aren’t for viewing by rubes.
Small garments make them free to squat,
To jump and throw and twirl.
Don’t matter if you find one hot;
Forget that it’s a girl.

Always be Kind (Poem)

2011-08-16T07:38:00.003-04:00

Always be kind to others
No matter how hard it may be.
Treat them like sisters and brothers,
Pretend you’re all stranded at sea.
Think of your rep and of how others see you
And of how you look to yourself.
If wronged, don’t be too quick to sue,
Be the best book on the shelf.
Your days are numbered and old age is long
And soon you’ll have done your last trick.
When dead your friends will sing a light song
And say “He wasn’t a prick.”

The City (Poem)

2011-08-15T10:50:00.002-04:00

The country is great, nice and quiet,
A place to hear yourself think.
In second come suburbs, such a riot,
You can sit on a porch and drink.
But cities are tops, in everyone’s book,
They’re where you want to live life.
Search a little, and find your nook,
An escape from noise and strife.
Life’s great spent in a really big town,
It’s to city life that I’m wed.
Excuse me a sec, I’ve got to get down,
A bullet whizzed past my head.

Conspiracy Buffs (Poem)

2011-08-12T07:50:00.003-04:00

Area 51 is home
Of aliens quite outrageous.
Half the nation worked alone
Making J.F.K. uncontagious.
Dollar bills and secret shakes
Are how Freemasons talk
About making sure Hostess cakes
Control minds (thanks, Jonas Salk!).
We buffs know that eleven, September
Was a planned out plot.
The motive’s something we can’t remember,
But that don’t matter a lot.
We know what we know, we’re smarter than you,
We know the means and ends.
But tho smart we need a clue
On getting girlfriends.

TV (Poem)

2011-08-11T07:31:00.002-04:00

TV brings news from all over
And is friendly, interesting, too.
With TV you’re a world rover,
From here to Kalamazoo.
With rabbit ears you see lots
With cable much much more.
You watch porn if you’ve the hots;
Don’t need to get no whore.
If it offends you mustn’t gripe,
Don’t whine and bitch and cough.
It may show you nothing but tripe,
But you dare not turn it to off.

Things I Didn’t Do (Poem)

2011-08-10T07:29:00.003-04:00

I didn’t murder O.J.’s wife
Or hurt her good friend Ron.
I didn’t take J.F.K.’s life,
Nor his son’s, John-John.
I’ve never nailed an intern
Or killed a London whore.
Chicago I did not burn,
I hid no votes for Gore.
I’ve not lied about W.M.D.s
Or caused famine in a nation.
I’ve never charged false fees
When I’m away on my vacation.
I’ve never done a caper
By picking a building’s locks.
And I always take one paper
From the paper honor box.

My Will (Poem)

2011-08-08T08:49:00.001-04:00

Here I am at the age of fifty
Shuffling off the coil.
No wife, no kids, no things nifty,
And I’ll soon be under soil.
This will be brief, I ain’t got much,
But what I got I’m giving to friends.
Just use ’em as you wish and such
Till you all meet your own ends.
Jennifer, you get my microwave
I know you love to nuke stuff.
Chris, of dudes you were my fave,
Don’t like my old bike? Tough.
Kim, my vacuum’s just for you
Do change the filter yearly.
Kathy, you get that chair that’s blue,
I hope you love it dearly.
My cordless phone is for you Val,
You can gossip while you move.
My recordings are for Laura, my gal,
(The old ones have a groove.)
My artwork goes back to its makers,
And you know who you are.
My clothes I’m sure will get no takers,
To Goodwill in a car!
My computer is now obsolete
Not wanted by even the poor.
While taking what’s left to the street,
It can prop open my door.

A Loser Idea

2011-08-07T07:13:00.002-04:00

Many of the customers in the store The Complete and Total Loser works in are elderly. When you get old, your muscles lose their tone and that includes the anal sphincter. That means gas escapes. Today, someone just feet away from the Loser was really ripping them. The Loser is good at not turning around or responding in any way.

He does, however, have two plans for when he's elderly and burdened with a similar problem.

1. Stay home. Always. Even now, the Loser sees little point in going anyplace.

2. Carry his cell phone with him at all times. (The Loser has one but seldom carries it with him; he has no friends so he receives no calls.) If there's an instance of audible flatulence, the Loser will grab his cell phone, put it to his ear and say, "Hello?" People will think he's a funny old coot with a humorous ring tone rather than the truth.

Things to Not Think About (Poem)

2011-08-05T08:00:00.016-04:00

Someday you will decay and whither
Your muscles will turn to jelly.
Punks may beckon you come hither
Laugh and slash your belly.
Your mind will slow your memory fail
Your skin will droop and sag.
In any light you’ll look like hell,
When nude, doctors will gag.
Now richer than Zuckerman,
Loved by each girl and boy,
It's never gone beyond your ken:
Others get far more joy.
Even when all is going great
And on an upward trend,
You remember at a definite date
Your life will meet its end.

Dogs (Poem)

2011-08-04T08:12:00.003-04:00

A cat can be a wonderful pet,
Clean and quiet and small.
It can be the best thing to get,
If your apartment isn’t tall.
But a dog can be the living end,
Loyal, steadfast and true.
So he’s called man’s best friend,
Just the companion for you.
Unlike other critters he feels much joy,
He jumps and dances and smiles.
How good to say, “C’mon, boy!”
When walking those lonely miles.

Relax, America!

2011-08-02T20:32:00.003-04:00

Don't fret too much about your economy. Not because the passing of the budget bill will make things better. It won't; your problem is more related to unemployment than debt, and this bill will make unemployment worse (thank you, Tea Party).

But that's a digression. What The Complete and Total Loser is saying is don't worry about a huge collapse of your monetary system, one that will lead to a Somalia type problem, making America resemble the one in The Road, as interesting as that would be.

Think of your economy as a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. The American balloon is huge, of an eagle, let's say. It's being pulled down the road by dozens of workers and is near the front of the line. Behind it is the China balloon followed by the balloons of other nations. The American balloon springs a leak. It's huge by any standard, a gash several feet long, but the balloon is so big that the amount of helium leaking out barely makes a difference. As it continues, however, the balloon begins to lose its shape. The wind deforms it and gets caught in the folds rather than going around as it would a fully inflated, firm balloon, making it harder and harder for the handlers to pull. China passes it. Then Japan and the EEC. The balloon sags more and drops lower and lower to the pavement. Its towropes start getting tangled around light poles then fire hydrants.

Meanwhile, the people holding the ropes argue and debate how best to pull the deflating balloon faster and pass the balloons that are receding in the distance in front of them. None, though, address the leak and how to fix it. But all this takes many years, decades even. Too slowly to notice.

So save your money and don't buy those three-day survival back backs you see at Home Depot. Those are $39 and are mostly water anyway. Go shopping, window shopping if you're unemployed. Watch TV. Go online. Relax.

Some Music (Not a poem)

2011-07-31T23:48:00.001-04:00

It surprises the Complete and Total Loser how much sentiment, the mawkish kind, music can bring out in him. At times it makes him fear he'll develop an attachment to soft, pink things, calendars with kittens wearing clothes, sad movies.

The video online by the Slovenian singing group, Perpetuum Jazzile, for example. It's getting some attention because they create a rain and thunderstorm effect. But that's a poor imitation of the real thing, the Loser thinks. He likes the song. No, he likes the singers. The 70s style and pastel colors the men wear. The unabashed femininity of the women. The way the man doing the boombox looks like Seinfeld. You take one look at them and though they sing in English that passes for native you know at once they're not American but from a country where people are more often kind than not to each other (yes, I know Slovenia's history, but there are differences when considering daily interaction).

It warms the Loser's hard, aging heart.

What’s Important (Poem)

2011-07-29T08:00:00.004-04:00

Food, shelter, clothes, money,
Health, water, might.
Air, music, friends, honey,
Silence, safety, light.
Dirt, plants, sky above,
A better cure for gout.
Warmth, perhaps a little love,
And things to think about.

If I Were Blind (Poem)

2011-07-28T07:45:00.001-04:00

If I were blind I’d see no reason
To ever leave my place.
I’d stay inside each season
And never shave my face.
On treadmill I’d walk or run,
My bike a stationary.
When my phone-work day is done
I’d spend time with my canary.
When friends invite me out to eat
I’d say, “What are you cookin’?”
Then I’d prepare the same meat,
And phone dine stead of lookin’.

Conservatives (Poem)

2011-07-27T09:39:00.001-04:00

Pity us conservatives,
Have mercy on us please.
Our policies were bad biz,
You’ve got us on our knees.
We backed the wrong horse twice,
Last time that we’ll do that!
We’ve only thrown bad dice
And we’re drinking by the vat.
So when we talk on Rush or Fox
And attack you libs and get ya
Don’t take it hard ’cause we ain’t gots
Good stuff in our agenda.

Uh-oh (Poem)

2011-07-26T09:02:00.003-04:00

The pole is melting faster than thought
At nine percent a decade.
If warm theories you haven’t bought,
Hope you like warm Kool Aide.
Many people get riled and mad
When change is blamed on man.
You’d think that they’d instead get sad
And correct all that they can.
If scientists are wrong about causes
And we’ve cleaned up pollution still,
Won’t it be good to have such pauses
And exercise our will?

Plane Crash Dream (Poem)

2011-07-25T09:00:00.002-04:00

I’m on a plane, it’s going down
Don’t know the reason why.
On my face not smile nor frown
(Why won’t the damn thing fly?)
Can’t see outside, windows are fogged
No idea when we’ll smash.
I wished more of life I’d hogged
’Fore conversion into hash.
At eight hundred feet per sec
My end will come quite fast.
I wondered if at time of wreck
Would this thought be my last?

Shock (Poem)

2011-07-24T08:00:00.003-04:00

It’s funny what we’re shocked about
When we learn news of the day.
It matters more when headlines shout
This politician’s gay!
Norway’s horror made me sad,
Put fear inside my head.
But this lesser news was just as bad:
Amy Winehouse is now dead.

In Sympathy (Poem)

2011-07-23T09:00:00.003-04:00

I have sorrow for the she or he
Who has to work outside,
And those who live far from the sea
And have a fatty hide.
I pity the Amish, the Hasidic Jew,
All covered up with clothes.
It’s down to ninety, ninety-two,
But them’s the nighttime lows.

Toxic (Poem)

2011-07-22T09:56:00.001-04:00

My state’s toxic level is number two
I read earlier today.
The article was on Yahoo!
(The writing was just okay.)
We burn heaps of coal to power stuff,
Huge amounts of it.
I’ve lived here decades and breathed enough;
My lungs have turned to shit.

Rehab (Poem)

2011-07-21T10:23:00.001-04:00

Never been in rehab,
But I sure wish I could.
You go in feeling unfab,
And walk out feeling good.
People cut you lots of slack,
And forgive all your misdeeds.
They’re just so glad to see you back,
After a some months of stringing beads.

Suicide (Poem)

2011-07-20T09:20:00.004-04:00

Suicide is wrong and bad
So don’t you ever do it.
Killing you makes others sad,
An’ that’s the main thing to it.
Mental strife, it comes and goes
But laughs weigh more than tears.
At the apex of your lowest woes,
Please do take heart, my dears.
One life is it and there’s no god
Seek help, don’t write that letter.
It’s cold and lonesome ’neath the sod,
Hang on ’cause things get better.

Exercise (Poem)

2011-07-19T08:54:00.003-04:00

Exercise is good for you,
So do some every day.
It keeps us all from being blue;
It makes you feel OK.
Walk fast, run hard, swim and bike,
Lift weights or play some tennis.
Roll a big wheel down the pike,
Box a man named Dennis.
Throw a ball and do sit ups,
Ski down or cross a field.
Stand up tall and win some cups,
Use well what you were dealed.
Exercise will keep you fit,
Make sure to do it often.
I do much more than just a bit,
And will carry my own coffin.

Soccer (Poem)

2011-07-18T09:03:00.002-04:00

All hail Nippon, they won the game,

Good job, my Asian friends!

Ratings soared, ad rates insane,

A commercial for Depends?

We Yanks don't like this football sport

And I'm here to tell you why:

We simply can't and won't support

A game that ends a tie.

Dieting (Poem)

2011-07-17T10:14:00.001-04:00

I’ve been on diets several times
To knock off a few pounds.
I tried a fork that had no tines,
It was crazy as it sounds.
I drank quarts of water really fast
To fill my empty belly.
Someone said fat wouldn’t last
If coated with KY jelly.
I ate just meat, eschewing bread,
They said that that would help.
But soon that seemed so very dead,
I once heard a cutlet yelp.
I stopped dieting, said, “Screw this mess,”
And lost a fifth my weight.
The secret, I found, was to eat less.
I did and now feel great.

My Confessions (Poem)

2011-07-16T10:08:00.002-04:00

I was raised pretty rightly,
But I haven’t always been good.
Here are my wrongs, written sprightly,
With a pencil made of wood.
At seven I stole Mike’s G.I. Joe,
His gun, his boots and all.
At nine big kids told me to go,
So I hid their ball.
At eleven I copied from a girl named Dee,
During a math test we both were taking.
It was the first time I ever got a B,
My hands, they were a’ shaking.
At 15 I took ten bucks from Mother,
I bought candy, a record and Mad.
At 16 I eavesdropped on my big brother,
To see what girlfriends he had.
In college I cleaned up my act
And did only good for years.
At times I showed too little tact,
After downing too many beers.
Just two more wrongs I’ll now relate:
At thirty I touched a girl’s thigh,
At forty, and this contained some hate,
I shot a man to watch him die.

The Weekly Suburban Paper (Poem)

2011-07-15T11:00:00.003-04:00

Oh, the weekly suburb sheet,
It details so much of life.
Local crooks, turn up the heat,
Talk to a commissioner’s wife.
High school sports are pretty cool,
Zoning issues cause some big trouble.
A kid drowned in a public pool?
Circulation may very well double!
And don’t forget the society page,
Gowned women, black-tied men.
School pages talk of the latest rage:
Blue jeans are back again.
Last and saddest are the obits,
Accounts of lives lived long.
Grandkids’ names listed like hits,
Look out, don’t spell them wrong.

Big Bombs (Poem)

2011-07-14T11:45:00.001-04:00

Big bombs are good at killing lots
While they shop or go to work.
They blow up adults and the tots,
They kill with one quick jerk.
They get airmailed or sent by truck
And sometimes in a car.
They’ll turn a good bod into muck,
Some will fit inside a jar.
They do their job so super well,
There’s just one problem with ’em:
It doesn’t take too much to tell,
That they’re a coward’s weapon.

Horror Movies (Poem)

2011-07-13T11:59:00.001-04:00

I've sat in many movie places,

Feet stuck right to the floor,

Seen raw fear on actors' faces,

And been scared to the core.

Hitchcock's "Birds" ruled my roost,

The suspense was something frightful.

DePalma's "Carrie" gave my heart a boost,

A shock ending so delightful.

At age ten vampires filled my head,

Men turning into bats!

I still see creatures 'neath my bed,

And have a fear of cats.

Now all that scary movies do

Is show tortured people screaming.

Cut open here and out comes goo;

Little tension, zero meaning.

Do you have class? (Poem)

2011-07-12T10:55:00.001-04:00

Do you belong to the upper crust,
Or on C list and not A?
Blow on your specs, remove the dust,
And take this test, O.K.?
If you wear a sports jersey,
And sing "Happy Birthday to Yous!"
In the Social Book you won't be,
Hang on for more clues.
Is the only suit you have for court?
Do you lick finger to turn a page?
Chew gum and smoke, are you the sort
Who thinks Doc Phil's a sage?
Have you donned a nutria pelt?
Do you drink beer from the can?
At airports must you remove your belt?
Do you address your friends as "man"?
If this is true, you ain't Main Line,
But it's cool, just swell, you'll see.
When dead your buds will think it's fine
To paint car windows, "RIP."

I Get Girls’ Numbers (Poem)

2011-07-09T17:25:00.002-04:00

Saturday is here it’s time to don
My grade-A party suit.
I’m sure that I will come upon
A babe who’s really cute.
Chicks dig me, yeah, they like my style
They think I’m clever, cool.
They talk with me for quite awhile;
A stud, I do so rule.
I think I meet chicks from TV,
This ain’t no shuck and jive;
The numbers that they give to me
All start with five-five-five.

Scientology (Poem)

2011-07-08T07:08:00.002-04:00

L. Ron Hubbard once made a bet
With other sci-fi scribes
That a new religion he could net
By a novel with holy vibes.
Dianetics was the result
It worked, you’ve seen the news;
It pulled the spoiled into its cult
T. Danson, K. Alley, Tom Cruise.
Half a million think of ancient lizards
When planning how to live
We’ve sometimes asked our social wizards
Will this crap never give?
They say Who knows, but it’s all right
All faiths will have their day
Religion is fiction for our plight;
It keeps dark death at bay.

Middle Age (Poem)

2011-07-06T07:59:00.004-04:00

The first sign I hit middle age,
Was around ten years ago.
My hormones began to cease their rage,
To the point of sometimes no go.
Young female beauty lost its power,
I treat them like all others.
They are just another pretty flower,
I hope they’ll be good mothers.
It’s sad that my heart gets no kicks,
From past passions and fears.
But it may be good to save those ticks,
For my declining years.

The Girl for Me (Poem)

2011-07-05T09:30:00.003-04:00

I can’t describe in words Miss Right,
Outline my wants and needs.
I couldn’t pick her out by sight,
Nor find her among weeds.
I’ve turn ons and offs, to be sure –
Brunette, thin, no armhair please.
Not tall, smart, she’s the soup de jour,
Limit: One cat with no fleas.
I saw a sleeping girl on a winter bus,
It lurched, eyes met, she smiled.
Decades ago, in Minneapolis,
I’ve kept the moment filed.
I had a second to have my say,
No guts, no words, no groan.
The smile faded, she looked away,
And since I’ve lived alone.

Money (Poem)

2011-07-04T12:40:00.000-04:00

I’ve worked hard for years,
I’ve earned my keep.
I’ve seldom had to borrow.
I respect my fears,
I sow then reap,
And save for dark tomorrow.
I never made the bigger bucks,
I have no yacht or mooring.
But meeting rich folks for some yucks,
I’ve always found them boring.

My Love Life (Poem)

2011-07-03T08:26:00.001-04:00

I’ve been crazy in love only twice,
The first time was in college.
She decided it’s women she found nice,
And in time she shared that knowledge.
Time two was someone I found a beauty
Shy, smart – she had it all.
With her I’d have done full marital duty,
She said yes, but in St. Paul.
If you saw me it’s fine if you just ate;
I’m not so bad to see.
(Friends don’t believe I’ve been celibate
Since 1983.)
Women don’t just like looks and money
And men who aren’t too old.
Other things draw them like bees to honey,
Or so I have been told.

City Girls

2011-07-02T21:57:00.000-04:00

In his teens, the Complete and Total Loser visited the city just once or twice a year, if that, despite living just a short train ride or drive away.

That was suburban life in the 1970s for the unadventurous types; cities were dangerous places where the likelihood of being a crime victim was high. It was far safer to stay trapped in the suburbs, with its lawns to mow, leaves to rake and rides to shopping centers and movie theaters to be had.

When he did journey to the city, it was the girls that impressed the Loser most.

Suburban girls were gentle and soft. They spoke in modulated tones and had no accents. Their clothes were expensive and staid. They dressed like younger versions of their mothers, who knew your parents or your parents' friends.

The city girls wore halter tops, smoked openly and used double negatives with thick accents, dropping their g's, swallowing vowels and swearing. Their breasts were firm and you could see their nipples. Their cheeks were scarred by acne but their arms and shoulders were smooth and muscled, powerful. They were daughters of men who worked with their hands and they'd fight other girls for dates with men who wore uniforms.

They were so far from anything the Loser knew they may as well have been Ming Dynasty concubines for all their mystery.

Future Pet (Poem)

2011-07-02T08:33:00.001-04:00

When it comes to liking the household pet
I’m good with cane- and feline.
But thinking of which one to get
I’m waiting before to choose mine.
The brave new world of gene splicing,
Should give more options for us yuppies.
It will be oh so enticing
To see litters of pitties and kuppies.
Half cat, half dog, that’s what I’ll pick,
A friend both loyal and mysterious.
The idea may make some sick,
I am, however, completely serious.
My Persian pit bull will climb a tree
And scare off all the bad guys
He’ll me-ark! and then jump up on me
And bloody both my thighs.
Or how about a golden catriever
To fetch my pipe and slippers?
She’ll purr and whine, a stress reliever,
I’ll feed her beef and kippers.
My cog or dat I’ll keep for life
My house will need no locks.
But I’ll need to find a good strong wife
To clean the litter box.

Hard-Ass Dads (Poem)

2011-07-01T08:22:00.003-04:00

It’s good to have a hard-ass dad,Mine was mild and weak.
Tough ones keep you from being bad,
I’m polite but much too meek.
The plus of being the nice pops,
Over ones who are never lax.
Is when the pushing never stops
And junior kills you with an ax.

Death (Poem)

2011-06-30T22:42:00.002-04:00

Death

Death can come so quick and fast

We never see it coming.

We try to make life last and last

We eat right, take up running.

When loved ones die we soon regret

The things we never said.

They wanted was us to get

Nearer to death's bed.