Ode to Being Ignored


Bumblebee in Mimosa Tree

I’ve been wondering as of late,
Why is it that my Social Media posts do not rate,
Nary a like or retweet, share or comment?
How I wish for a little acknowledgement.

Fortunately friends occasionally impart,
With a heart, or even a remark,
A few kind words sometimes left to be seen,
Yet even those seem to be few and far in between.

These feelings take me back to my high-school days,
Life was a drag while living in a daze,
Looking for acceptance amongst the gloom and haze,
The contempt I felt from most everyone’s disdain.

I go through periods of highs and lows,
Perhaps I’m schizophrenic; God only knows.
My moods tear me apart every now and then,
Will they ever stop? I wish I knew when.

Nobody knows you when you’re down and out,
Why is that? What’s that all about?
Is it me who is selfish, filled with all this self-doubt,
Or is it they who are continually running off their big mouths?

Everyone’s entitled to a sporadic meltdown,
So allow me to continue, and please don’t frown,
About my being so melancholy with tears of a clown,
Worrying my destination is certainly hell bound.

You probably say I always complain,
Or think I’m actually going insane.
Or perhaps you don’t even give a damn,
Thinking, why do I always have to be a ham?

Is it attention I seek?
Because of none I feel so bleak.
Am I worthless and dumb?
Might as well be a bum.

So far this poem has two hundred and sixty-four words.
Has any of my rantings up to now even been heard,
Read by someone who doesn’t think this is absurd,
Utter nonsense, poppycock, balderdash, for the birds?

Getting back to my original premise,
Are my offerings on here worse than a blemish,
A pimple, a scab, a lesion, something oh, so bad,
That not a simple mention makes me feel so sad?

A friend once said I should stop with all this self-pity,
Drink a cup of tea, which should work for me,
By adding some sugar to stop from being such a moaning bugger!
Great advice, made me want to hug her; too bad she lives across the sea.

Funny, as I am writing this,
Another friend on Facebook gave me a little bliss,
By commenting on a post made this afternoon,
About a bumblebee in a mimosa tree, with flowers in bloom.

See? It doesn’t take much to make me happy,
My mood has changed from being so sappy,
Wonderful sensations of pleasing self-worth,
Fill my aura, quenching my thirst.

Hoping someone will read these words of rhyme,
Understand my intermittent dilemma; won’t you please be so kind,
By taking a second from your day, just a little bit of time,
To say something constructive, go ahead, now it’s your dime.

This poetic rant and rave will now cease,
Five-hundred words have almost been reached;
Until the next time my insecurity doth raise,
I do promise to behave.

As always, thanks for stopping by and for your continued support.



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How Hot is it in the Philly Area?

Heat-wave-Doane-Academy, Burlington-NJ-06-29-18-s

Doane Academy in Burlington, NJ

Summertime has officially arrived and we’re in the midst of a bloody heat wave already. Not that I want to base this tirade on global warming, but it seems like the dog days of summer have been arriving earlier for the past several years.

Beware when anyone uses a disclaimer with the word “but” included. They are going to surely do whatever they claimed they weren’t about to, like, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you’re as bright as a two-watt light bulb in a sandstorm.”

Last year it was on July 12 that I first complained about the heat. In 2016 the first heat-wave diatribe was on July 8. Ok, so that one was before 2017’s, but by only four days.  The year before that was on July 21st.  In 2013, the first heat-wave rave was on July 22nd. whereas in 2014, my first mention of sweltering weather occurred on July 2nd.

This year, June is just about to end at midnight and we’re already two days into it.

As kids, we experienced “Dog Days” in August, but that was many decades ago in the last millennium, so we might as well consider it in the Dark Ages.

Allow me to borrow from an old comedy bit about unbearable temperatures, and pass on the following nonsense:

How hot has it been in Philly?

The birds have to use pot holders to pull worms out of the ground.

The potatoes cook underground, and all you have to do to have lunch is to pull one out and add butter, salt and pepper.

Farmers are feeding their chickens crushed ice to keep them from laying hard-boiled eggs.

The cows are giving evaporated milk.

The trees are whistling for the dogs.

You no longer associate bridges (or rivers) with water.

You can say 113 degrees without fainting.

You eat hot chilies to cool your mouth off.

You can make instant sun tea.

You learn that a seat belt makes a pretty good branding iron.

The temperature drops below 95, you feel a bit chilly.

You discover that in July, it takes only 2 fingers to drive your car.

You discover that you can get a sunburn through your car window.

You notice the best parking place is determined by shade instead of distance.

Hot water now comes out of both taps.

It’s noon in July; kids are on summer vacation, and not one person is out on the streets.

You actually burn your hand opening the car door.

You break a sweat the instant you step outside at 7:30 a.m. before work.

No one would dream of putting vinyl upholstery in a car or not having air-conditioning.

Your biggest bicycle-wreck fear is, “What if I get knocked out and end up lying on the pavement and cook to death?”

You realize that asphalt has a liquid state.

This present incarnation of Dante’s Inferno is supposed to last until next Saturday before any relief is forecasted. Brought the Cooper in for its yearly, major service earlier this week and had the air-conditioner recharged, the serpentine belt and valve-cover gasket replaced, the oil changed, fluids checked—replenished where necessary—new windshield-wiper blades put on, and had the tires rotated. Methinks it’s time for a road trip to a more temperate location.

Thanks for stopping in and for your continued support. Remember to stay hydrated. Hope you stay cool!


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IDGAF: Generically Speaking

Melania Trump wore a Zara cargo coat the other day, on which the back of the garment had been inscribed with graffiti-style lettering, stating, “I Really Don’t Care, Do You?”  Photographers had captured her alleged fashion faux pas, which was plastered everywhere on the Net.

Media pundits, Social Media chroniclers and crybabies all formulated their own theories about her intentions for donning the outerwear from the White House to boarding a flight at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, taking the President’s wife to Texas.

Many felt it was in poor taste, or “tone deaf,” for her wearing such a descriptive article of clothing to a visit at Upbring New Hope Children’s Shelter in McAllen, a detention center for migrant children; although, she had changed into an unmarked, conservatively fashionable jacket on the plane before going to the center that contained 60 captured, undocumented immigrant children.

The number of those incarcerated who were separated from their parents at the US/Mexican border and sent there by the Trump Administration’s Zero Policy was not noted.

This week’s tirade is not meant to be a political statement.  There’s too much of that going on daily for my liking. Reading the comment section of any article on the Web that allows them, I find moronic statements made constantly by those who have nothing else in their intellect but to turn everything around and politicize the situation, regardless of whether the contents of  the story has anything to do with politics.

My Social Media timeline is filled with such nonsense as well, parroting whatever the poster’s political affiliation deems as talking points.

Also, I don’t wish to analyze Melania’s reasoning for her sartorial choices. I like the lady, regardless of how I feel about her husband. A President’s wife and young children should be off-limits. It’s not their fault, unless the chief executive’s spouse, or elder offspring blatantly put themselves in the position for criticism, many of whom have done so regularly.

A variety of memes have popped up, using the First Lady’s aforementioned overcoat as the brunt of the joke, or for a counterpoint to the original message employed. With that in mind, I would like to add my contribution to the shenanigans with the following bi-partisan, take-it-either-way, multipurpose meme that can be used for any occasion:


Generic Expressive Outerwear

The garment’s saying can denote two things: either I “Do”, or I “Don’t” give a rat’s ass, to put it in milder, safer-for-work terms; but you should get the gist of the original meaning.

To finish up this diatribe, I was wondering how most people would express their surprise if the the expression, “Oh, my God,” was banished from our vocabulary?

Case in point:

OK, so that was a young kid, expressing his astonishment. We’ll cut him some slack. How about this next one?

Alright, or all right—depending on which side of the formal English-writing fence you might be leaning against—so the preceding one was scripted. I tried to find a compilation video on YouTube that had just scenes of people saying only “OMG” candidly, but none were available except for those from porn clips.

It might be worthwhile putting one of the former, safe-for-work videos together some day; however, I’ll leave you with this next one:

In closing, if “Oh, my God” were to disappear from our vernacular, “Holy Shit” would be the phrase I would most likely use. Pardon my vulgarity.

Thanks for stopping in and for your continued support.



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Steal This Blog

Steal This Blog

Spoof – If Abbie Hoffman were alive today.

Abbie Hoffman, a political and social activist, was a counter-culture hero who wrote a literary gem during my hippie days, entitled, Steal This Book. My best buddy Marco picked up a copy and learned several of its techniques for ripping off the establishment to garner freebees in return, for which he recruited my services to aid him in one of his nefarious adventures.

Early in the book, various scams described how to get free food, like going into a self-service cafeteria and finish the meal of someone who left a large quantity of food on their plates. Use of slugs in automats was another suggestion.

At “fancy sit-down restaurants,” grab a table with dishes remaining from the previous patron, and scoff up the leftovers real fast. When the waitress comes by with a menu, say you have to go outside for something and split.

As another swindle documented: after ordering a large, expensive meal and eating half of it, take a dead cockroach or piece of glass stashed away in a pocket and place it on the plate mixed in with the chow.

Make a scene by loudly calling for a manager and act insulted and humiliated, saying something like, “I could have been poisoned.” Refuse to pay for the meal and leave. Many times the establishment will attempt to talk you into accepting a new meal on the house for the inconvenience incurred.

Marco, nor I for that matter, weren’t very good actors and strayed away from the scene-making endeavors. One of the book’s “free-loading tricks” seemed more appealing to us, which entailed that we enter a diner at separate intervals and sit next to each other at the counter, acting like strangers.

The first individual should have ordered a hefty meal and had it served before the second hooligan enters and sits next to the first, whereby the latter then orders a cup of coffee and a Danish, timing each other’s consumption so that the waitress will have placed the respective checks on the counter when both scoundrels were almost finished and telling her that will be all.

The one who had the large meal is to take the check of the one who had the smaller, bring it to the cashier and pay the lesser amount before leaving the premises. When the remaining accomplice gets ready to leave, he’ll call over the waitress to tell her there must have been some mistake with the check, stating he only should be charged for coffee and Danish, not for steak and lobster with a piece of chocolate-mousse pie.

Thinking we could pull it off, I played the part of the coffee-and-Danish guy, while Marco went in first to order his extravagant dinner. Watching from the car in the parking lot, I saw when his meal was served, waited about five or ten minutes before going in, and sat next to him before ordering.

Out timing was perfect. Both checks sat on the counter. Marco pick up one of them and proceeded to the register after leaving a decent tip. One of the instructions in Hoffman’s book was to never stiff the waitstaff.

In the corner of my eye, I caught Marco doing an about-face and heading to the men’s room. After several minutes of his not exiting the loo, I became a little concerned and picked up my check to end this charade.

My charges were for a coffee and Danish. Marco had picked up his own check inadvertently. Before paying, I went into the restroom to check on him, and no one was in there.  He had pulled a disappearing act evidently by exiting out the window, for which I found him outside waiting for me.

I declined switching roles to get my part of the deal, never wanting to partake in another one of Hoffman’s schemes. So much for my life of crime. As my dad once said, “All I have to do is spit on the wrong side of the street, and I’d get caught.”

Happy Father’s Day, Pop, wherever on the other side you may be. I miss you!


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Ode to Woe is Me


Electronic drum set, now collecting dust!

Felt like writing a poem for this week’s tirade,
Grasping for words that rhyme: how about Miami-Dade?
AT&T just sent me an invoice, for which they want paid,
Regarding long-distance service on my Verizon account, canceled on the 8th day of May.

Since I have a cellular device with another phone number,
I decided to place my landline asunder,
Now disconnected from the grid,
Placed in the graveyard closet where my old electronic components are hid.

So now I have to hassle with AT&T’s corporate machine,
By calling an “800” number, stating I used only two days utility—billed for thirty it seems.
Most likely I’ll be placed on hold after being transferred to someone and being told,
To hang on again, not to worry, I won’t be left out in the cold.

Don’t you hate those MIDIs being played,
In between the messages that regularly say,
All agents are busy, and please remain on hold,
While listening to that lame music, if I may be so bold.

Even worse, after putting up with all those elevator tunes,
Holding the phone against one’s ear, feeling like it’s about to fall off soon,
Not wanting to miss the next available agent, hoping to have my problem resolved,
But getting disconnected instead, wanting to throw the blasted phone against the wall.

There’s always something to bug me in my life,
Why can’t I live without something that gives me strife?
Is it Karma that comes to play,
Weekly, monthly, yearly, every day?

A song sung by the Grateful Dead,
Contains a lyric which the band once said,
“Cause when life looks like Easy Street, there is danger at your door,”
Something I can agree with forevermore.

What else can I complain about in this week’s poetic diatribe,
To make up my 500-word quota, now 197 words shy?
My neighbor downstairs hasn’t been a twit,
No cigar-smoking, nor calling the cops, having his regular fit.

That’s ‘cuz I’ve stopped playing my drums,
Such a shame not being able to have some fun,
No single, double, triple or flam-paradiddles,
Ratamacues, dragadiddles, stroke rolls or paradiddle-diddles.

I like especially the ratamacues,
Yet I can’t even have a barbecue,
Out on the terrace of my flat,
A township fire ordinance is against that.

Methinks I need to move,
Said that last year before my lease was through,
But here again I renewed it until May of 2019,
Boxing up all my stuff is definitely a pain in my spleen.

Not looking forward to moving again,
Having done it too often, my friend.
Hold on while I count the times…,
‘Twas 35 or 36, but that doesn’t rhyme.

If not such a procrastinator,
I would be packing some now and a little bit later,
Until the dreaded deed will be all done,
Throwing out mounds of junk until there’s none.

For the furniture I’ll hire a moving company,
These old bones have moved too many times already.
I’m finished lugging stuff up and down a few flights of stairs,
Let someone else do it, I don’t care.

Too bad, because I really like this place,
Aside from the inconveniences I hate,
Mentioned oh, too often in this journal as of late,
So I’ll not bring it up again until another date.

My 500 words have been met,
Thanks for allowing me to share my discontent,
Until the next time I feel like rhyming,
I’ll say good day and night. How’s that for timing?





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The Saga of Michelangelo Rotundo


Michelangelo with John Lennon’s Sunglasses

Recently in the news, parents of a thirty-year-old deadbeat son had to sue him for making the moocher move out of their home, in which he had lived for years without paying rent or doing anything to help with upkeep, buying food, doing menial chores, etc.

The young man wasn’t working and was implored by his parents to start making money.  “There are jobs available even for those with a poor work history like you. Get one—you have to work,” they said.

After serving their offspring a series of eviction notices, each giving him different time frames to vacate the premises, the freeloader did not. He claimed his folks had no right to kick him out, which prompted the parents to institute legal proceedings.

A judge who presided over the lawsuit issued an ultimatum on behalf of the elders, insisting the son move out by June 1st.  The idler began to vacate the premises on this past Thursday, May 31st.

In the meantime, this self-entitled, millennial slacker made a reported effort to find gainful employment, as noted by the following copy of a job application left behind in his vacant room at the parent’s home:

NAME: Michelangelo Rotundo (Not his real name)

DESIRED POSITION: Reclining. HA! But seriously, whatever’s available. If I was in a position to be picky, I wouldn’t be applying here in the first place.

DESIRED SALARY: $185,000 a year plus stock options and a Warren Buffett style severance package. If that’s not possible make an offer and we can haggle.


LAST POSITION HELD: Target for middle management hostility.

SALARY: Less than I’m worth.

MOST NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT: My incredible collection of stolen pens and post-it notes.



PREFERRED HOURS: 1:30-3:30 p.m., Monday, Tuesday and Thursday.

DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIAL SKILLS?: Yes, but they’re better suited to a more intimate environment.

MAY WE CONTACT YOUR CURRENT EMPLOYER: If I had one, would I be here?


DO YOU HAVE A CAR?: I think the more appropriate question here would be “Do you have a car that runs?”

I may already be a winner of the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.

DO YOU SMOKE?: Only when set on fire.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE DOING IN FIVE YEARS? Living in the Bahamas with a fabulously wealthy super model who thinks I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread. Actually, I’d like to be doing that now.


SIGN HERE: Leo with Cancer rising.

Rotundo was hired allegedly by an individual who was looking for an accountant, which was Michelangelo’s major in college.

The interviewer was a very nervous man who ran the small business he had started by himself.  “I need someone with an accounting degree,” he said. “But mainly, I’m looking for someone to do my worrying for me.”

“Excuse me?” Rotundo said.

“I worry about a lot of things, but I don’t want to have to worry about money. Your job will be to take all the money worries off my back.”

“I see,” Michelangelo said.

“I’ll start you at eighty thousand.”

“Eighty thousand dollars? How can such a small business afford a sum like that?”

“That is your first worry,” the employer said.

Ah, a match made in heaven. That just goes to show you: all’s well that ends well.

Sorry for the old jokes, thanks for stopping in for another bit of nonsense, and merci beaucoup for your continued support.

As a postscript after my having watched and listened to the entire phenomenal clip from George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers, featuring the lightning guitar work of Elvin Bishop, I’d like to know how people who post these videos on Youtube sleep at night knowing they cut the endings of songs off so quickly, which annoys the hell out of me. OK, this tirade is now complete. Later!


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