I THINK RESOLUTIONS ARE IMPORTANT

RON’S WISDOM SALONA fictional advice column

Dear Ron,

Well, the new year is upon us, Ron. Do you have any resolutions? If you do, how long do you think it will be before you break them…  lol?

Jester

Dear Jester,

I have made one resolution, that is the one I make every year: to be a kinder, gentler person. So far I have been doing alright, but that is probably because I haven’t spoken to anyone since January 1.

I think relolutions are important. They make us think about summoning our will power, rising to the occasion, and reaching for our goals. They give us purpose, solidify this purpose and give us solidity. For the solid, they provide even more solidity. For the less than solid, they are a source of strength.  For the fragile, they are a challenge. For the challenged, they are a motivation. For the motivated, they are an even greater motivation. For the wicked, they are a reason to do good. For the good, they may be a reason to do better. For the best, they are a prod to do better than best – give 193 % rather than only 192%. For all of us, they are resolutions.

A wise Irishman I met one spring day at a hop remarked to me, “Mankind must resolve to march, and once marching to go on marching as long as possible.”  He then suited action to word, and strode around the table until he collapsed. Whenever the new year is upon us, I always think of his red face.

Happy New Year to all my readers, and AVANTI!

MY WIFE SNORES LOUDLY

RON’S WISDOM SALONA fictional advice column

Dear Ron,

I am in a delicate situation. My dear wife snores LOUDLY!!! Lying beside her is not unlike occupying trackside seats at the Grand Prix.  She is so sensitive and ladylike in her manner otherwise that I have never been able to break it to her gently for fear of of ruffling her feathers. She would accuse me of lying, or worse, confusing her with someone else I have slept with.

It has landed me in an awkward situation as you may well imagine. I love her but I just can’t bear my middle- ear crackling like tv. static all night long. Please don’t talk to me about earplugs. I have tried them but they always end up up my nostrils or in other orifices before I can drift off.  I have begun to twitch uncontrollably of late because of the stress. How to find relief, O Wise One?

Twitchy

Dear Twitchy,

Have you ever considered murder? Just a touch of rib-tickling there, Suffering One. I think I know why the good Lord gave females the ability to produce sound: It is to make it improbable for their husbands to get in a word edge-wise, even while the they are asleep.

One method I have tried with some success with my own better-half when she is making a racket on her back is to take hold of her nose, pinching it so that she cannot breathe, forcing her to open her mouth wide to suck up any available 0xygen. It calms the din.

Of course, one must keep right at it if she is not to close it again and bring on a renewal of her “music”, which is counterproductive if one is to get any decent sleep. You might try clothespins. Clip one on to her under lip and see what happens.  My last resort would be to plant sand bags around her head and dig yourself under a hard pillow.  Throw down a substantial dose of Ambien as well to make certain. Good luck and keep me abreast of the developments.

I hope this helped

HOODIES LOWER IQ

RON’S WISDOM SALONA fictional advice column

Dear Ron,

I have a problem with my hoody. The cords always come uneven, which is driving me crazy. Any suggestions?

Cord Crazy

Dear Cord,

First of all, you shouldn’t be wearing a hoody. It puts too much weight on your neck, which drags energy from your  brain and lowers I.Q. Plus when you are in a hood it is like being in a vault and nobody can see your ears, which may cause prejudice on the part of future employers and prevent you from ever finding a job to support yourself and your family. You are likely to wind up in poverty and destitution.
If you are willing to chance that outcome, I would advise you to stare straight ahead at all times, not allowing your eyes to fall on your uneven cord tags, convincing yourself, all the while, that they are  hanging  perfectly equal.

I hope this helped.

HOW TO WEAR YOUR TUQUE

RON’S WISDOM SALONA fictional advice column

Dear Ron,

This falls into the fashion category.  When I wear my tuque I am not sure whether the label should be at the back or at the front.  I have tried both, but always fear that it is at the wrong place, which makes me lose the concentration I need to try to find a decent job.  Where do you think it should go?

Label Me Worried

Dear Label Me Worried,

I  myself never wear a tuque for the simple reason that you never know which side is front and which is back and you always tend to make a fool of yourself. I will have to look that one up in order to answer your question.

I am back. With an excellent find: an organization that seems to know everything there is about  them. One of the tidbits of fact that I gleaned from them is that “tuque” is not a good name for the hat because it is too hard to spell, so they want to change it.

As far as the label problem is concerned, I could not find the answer there to it. Of course, you could always try wearing the label on the inside, which may stun some people at first, but then you might,  who knows, start a craze if it catches on.

If you wish to get creative, why not just get a very large sock to pull down over your ears?  Socks don’t usually have labels affixed to them, so you would be safe. But please do not choose to don one of those those wiggy things with the two strings and attached pompom  at the top that tries to project the image of a thin-brained creature who is visiting our planet from afar.

Good luck on this, and on finding a rewarding job.

MY BEDSHEET DILEMMA

RON’S WISDOM SALONA fictional advice column

Dear Ron,

I don’t know what to do about my bed sheets. I wash them, I dry them, and you know what happens? They come out all wrinkled. Now I have to sleep on wrinkled sheets. Not only that. When I look at my sheets I think of my poor face which is starting to look like a prune and I want to heave.  Can’t they make sheets that don’t wrinkle, or is that too much to ask in our age of miracles?

Bedroom Blues

Dear Bedroom Blues,

I can sympathize. There is nothing sadder than wrinkled sheets. A close second I think would be world hunger. Wrinkles are also dangerous  in that they chafe and can even cut the skin if you are unlucky enough to be an active sleeper.

What pops immediately to mind from my bag of advice options is the iron. Yes, it is a chore and cuts down on your shopping time, but it has been known to fight the bumps. You would have to get a large ironing board, though, because the ones we usually  find are too narrow for sheets.  I am not sure where these can be purchased, but common sense tells me to locate a shop which caters to the over weight .

If that is not to your liking, a cover-up is the next best  strategy.  Throw a spread over it so that you won’t know it is there, and that way it will be out of mind and not cause you anguish. Or shut your eyes before you hit the sack and snap off the lights immediately, of course, remembering to  keep them closed  in the morning when the sheets are likely to be even more wrinkled.

If you are feeling really testy about the matter, I would encourage you to find others who share your problem and band together to harass the makers of those wrinkle-prone sheets with a constant barrage of e-mail, threatening to sue if they cannot come up with a better product.

You might like to cut down on mirror time as well so that you are not as pained by the prune effect. Good luck and let me know once you get the problem ironed out.

MAYBE YOUR PANTS DON’T BREATHE

RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column

Dear Ron,
I have a kinda sticky problem. If I am in my car, driving for at least a half hour at a stretch, my behind gets very hot, to the point that I begin to feel like what I imagine an egg must in the process of getting hard boiled. It does not feel too great I can tell you. What can I do about this other than to stop driving?
Baked

Dear Baked,

I have pondered this considerably and have come up with a possible explanation. Your trousers. Maybe your pants don’t breathe sufficiently. Or maybe your underwear is too tight. Try clothes that enjoy breathing.  Cotton is an option.
Otherwise, I would keep the window wide open, and elevate your backside from time to time to invite air contact. One cheek at a time is a good way to do it, rotating each to get maximum contact for about thirty seconds, but carefully watching the road at the same time. Good luck and rotate responsibly.

POETRY BOOK

THIS IS MY POETRY BOOK

Twilight Dances is a collection of poems which explores the dark side of the human experiment in a serious lyrical fashion. In it the author allows thanatos, or the instinct toward a worldly death, take over and color many of the poems from various points of view, and people, some even from a comical perspective. The book is divided into three parts: Identity and Aspiration; People Known and Dreamed; Observations of Culture. There are a total of 140 poems in rhymed and free verse forms. The style is spare and transparent, though sometimes bordering on the lyrical and romantic. This is decidedly not a light read.

TWILIGHT DANCES: A COLLECTION OF POEMS

Kindle Edition

by Ron Kozloff (Author)

HOW IT HAPPENED

We sit in opposition
Like cars gearing up for a
Game of chicken.
The wind blusters in your
Eyes, your piano voice comes
In crystals. I feel the years
Between us that have
Fallen off, revealing a hard
Skeleton  of love in place.
But
How  we try each
Other for fault! Your vanity,
my hands cut off at
The wrist. I have no
Stomach to pick through
These remains again or retrace
Plot points on the map
To here. I see it as a
Happy accident that
We have survived
Together at all,
Certainly not any of my
Doing.  Was it the god
Of inertia who intervened,
limited horizons pressing
Against motion?
Were we not brave enough,
and if so,
Has it not taken us down
A step?
Or
Was it something else entirely,
A flame of recognition
That held a mutual gaze
And burned everything else
Away?

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HOW TO BEAT AN INSULT

We have all been insulted some time or other in our life. And it is important that one learns to take insults well if we are to retain any measure of self-respect. When someone says to you, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” How can you most handily respond to that?

Act interested . Go, “Why don’t I go fuck myself, indeed?” Have your  fingertip at your lip, your head cocked at an upturned angle while you say this.  It is possible, though unlikely, that the big-mouth will join you in attempting to answer their own question,  Or you could choose to remind them it is none of their business. Your insult to them. But the better course is to stay on the high road and not play tit for tat.  It is possible that the person decides to up the ante with a more direct “Fuck you” or “Fuck off.”

Now you must clarify matters. Explain to the frustrated soul that you don’t wish to do either. Be firm but kind. Remind them that we live in a democracy, that they are neither your guardian nor your stockbroker (if in fact it is the case)  and that you don’t wish to take their advice. Or, contrarily, that you may just do what they have suggested. Thank them for their tough-love manner and wish them well in their day.

If this leads to a physical threat, raise your hand and take on a stance of “Brother, you know not what you do!”  in the style  of Harvey Keitel, admonishing his flock in Martin Scorcese’s old movie, The Last Temptation of Christ.  It is always useful to have a model in mind when you make a magnanimous gesture. It may even get uglier. If so, employ one of Ghandi’s tactics and sit on the ground. Do not allow yourself to be hurt, but don’t resist either.  Do the right thing, a la the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. Hopefully, a crowd will encircle you that includes a burly off-duty policeman. If that doesn’t happen, play dead, or convince the person that it is time for your nap. It is always amazing what people will accept at face value. The important thing is to keep them guessing and preferably under the impression that you cannot be bullied, or that you are mentally unbalanced and capable of untold destruction if pushed to it.

The best alternative, however, may still be the flight reaction. But usually it does not come to that. What is the worst that can happen? You die. There are worse things than death,( which I won’t get into at this juncture.) Suffice it say that even if you did die, you would know (how, I have no idea!) that you did the right thing. You did not insult back.  You did not steep to their level. You acted with dignity, forbearance, a smattering of intelligence, bluff. You danced well. You went out in style (whatever that means) Could they say the same? It is more than likely that they will at some point regret what they said or did to you, or they may even become born-again and go on to years of meetings in dank basements with badly dressed overweight people .

You will have changed the person. they might never insult another person again, or at least in the same manner.  You have made a difference!

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LIFE STUDIES 1

IMG_1370

I KNOW I’M GETTING OLD

I’m  getting old.These days  it feels better to sneeze than to masturbate.

I know I’m getting old. I don’t have the energy I used  to have. It’s become a big effort for me to  complete a yawn.

Why do they call it “growing old?”  Everything about you shrinks.

You get older. Inevitably there are problems.  Erection problems.  It’s sad.  But thank God there are now  pills available. I used to have to pay to have sex with other people. Now I even have to pay to have sex with myself.

I’m  getting old.These days  it feels better to sneeze than to masturbate.

I know I’m getting old. I don’t have the energy I used  to have. It’s become a big effort for me to  complete a yawn.

I know I’m getting old. I used to like to play with myself. But now I forget the rules.

When I think about dying soon, I feel sad about all the soft food I’ll miss.

I know I’m getting old. My idea of excitement is humping a comfortable quilt.

I know I’m getting old. My idea of getting ahead is lying down before bedtime.

I feel so tired at times. I must be lacking something:  Youth.

I know I could set the world on fire again if I only had the energy to pick up the matches.

 When I see a pretty girl go by I still think of doing something with her. Like sharing a cup of strong tea.

My idea of “doing the nasty” is picking my nose in public.

I must be getting mixed up. I invited a woman to my place for a drink the other night. Well, she had a couple. Then she crosses her legs and says to me. “I’m hungry for something.” So I brought her some cabbage soup.

I must be getting old. My idea of a hot date is to go out with warm shoes.

When I saw this girl go by today, I was thinking about drilling her, and it shut off my pacemaker.

You always hear that we need to control our gas emissions. It’s not that easy. I wish I could control my own gas emissions.

When we’re young we have dreams. Of power, glory, adventure.  The future is open. We either reach them or we don’t. Whatever. What kind of dreams can you have when you get old? There ain’t a hell of a lot to look forward to. But you do plan anyway, like what suit you should choose for the Big Snooze.  Some people think about their funeral and how all their friends will come and pay respect to them.  Everyone will be sad, of course. That’s important.  Their family will hold hands and weep.  But I just can’t imagine myself being put into a box and lowered into the ground. Even if I am dead. Maybe I’ll still know it’s happening and want to get out, and it will be like a dream when you want to scream and can’t. I wonder how claustrophobic people feel about that. I mean there is no way out, like being stuck in a small elevator for eternity. With pretty lousy company . It is no wonder then that religion gives you a way out. Your spirit ain’t going down.  Your spirit will leave your lifeless body and rise up up up to… Some Better Place.” But how does that work? And what is a spirit? Nobody has ever seen one. Except possibly ghost hunters.

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HE IS SO…  SHE IS SO…

He is so stupid he can’t even answer the question, “How stupid are you?”

How dumb is she?  Scientists plan to keep her brain on file to research amoeba.

He is so stupid he can’t spell the word “I”.

She is so stupid. The first word she uttered  as a baby was “duhduh” instead of “dada.”

How stupid are they? Let’s say they could be outsmarted by dinosaurs. By the way, they think dino saurs are Italian blisters.

He is so stupid he thinks vagina is Regina’s twin-city.

She is so fat her friends call her “Canada.”

She is so fat she is considered her own neighbourhood.

She is so lonely she thinks the mosquitoes are giving her love bites.

She is so ugly (inside and out)  that her poster is mandatory on every abortionist’s wall.

When you say, “I’m crazy about you,”  to someone doesn’t that just cancel out your intention? You are telling the person you like them a lot but that you must be crazy for thinking  that. Better to say , ”I’m sane about you.”

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WHAT…? WHAT…? WHAT…?

What is a snob? A snob is a person I can feel  superior to.

What is it with women and babies? It makes you want to put on your diapers.

What is wrong with complaining?  If I didn’t have something to complain about my life would be unbearable.

What is it with old people concerned about making more money? What could possibly be going through their minds? “Oh a couple more grand and I could afford that really special box I’ve been eyeing.”

What is it with clothespins? They always look angry. At least the ones I know.

What on earth do they do in heaven?

What is stress? It’s being in one place and wanting to be in another. When you get there you realize that you don’t want to be there either. So you move around until you come to the conclusion that there is nowhere that is really that great, and you relax.

What is it with charity? “Oh, he’s a lovely person, he does charity work.” And it’s always for children. “How  he just gives and gives to the little ones. And he doesn’t have to. He’s a celebrity.” That’s all well and good but aren’t there other people in the world who need help too? What about people on death-row?  Or teachers?

What can we say about the educational system today ? That it’s a system, that is a machine, and that it doesn’t educate, but rather cranks out graduates that are probably worse off than when they began. They may have more information and skills but their minds are weaker. They have lost curiosity and the ability to think for themselves.  They are dispirited  and they are shorn of any meaningful connections to each other and to the world. All their knowledge is chopped up into so-called facts and there is little joy in gaining it. What they have they don’t know what to do with except to go on taking in more facts. There is nothing about what constitutes a valuable life in most schools. Or what life is. Or who they are. They are shown death in life. It is no wonder that many kids hate school. Shame on this society that pretends to be enlightened. Let it shovel its shit somewhere else.

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WHY …?

...

Why do people always say they have “an inferiority complex?” Can’t some people actually be inferior?

Why is life designed to be so hard? Everything is so hard. It’s like you’re failing a course you never even signed up for.

Why do the insane always hear voices that tell them to kill people? Why can’t they hear voices that tell them to do something nice for a change?

Why do days go in a straight line and time goes in a circle?

Why is it that what is written has more credibility than what is spoken? It must mean that if you can spell you can’t possibly tell a lie.

Why do people need to look in the mirror while they are brushing their teeth? Do they want to make sure their teeth are still there?

Why do they call it “growing” old when  everything about you shrinks?

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PARENTS

thank my parents. They gave me the gift of life. But is a gift supposed to rip your skin off every day?

I was a sensitive kid. I was confused too. My father was always telling me to be a man. And my mother was always telling me to be a woman.

Do I have any regrets? Maybe one. That my parents had a sex life.

I was a lonely kid, an only child. And I had no friends. And my parents were not much help. When they had people over they locked me in the closet and told me to play. It was years before I could understand why other children didn’t smell like wet rubber.

My parents were cruel. As a kid I didn’t have any friends and they wouldn’t let me make any. So I found an imaginary friend, and they even took him away from me.

I wanted to learn carpentry and build things but my parents thought it would ruin my manicure.

When my mum and dad wanted some quality time together, they gave me a quarter and told me to go out and play.  On the street.  At rush-hour.

My mother was stern. Once I was real sick and she came to my bedside and sat with me. She said to me tenderly, holding my hand. “I want you to know that if you die, I will be disappointed in you.”

My mother was not very maternal. She didn’t breast-feed me. She bought me milkshakes .

I think she wanted a girl. When I asked her what my genitals were for, she said they were a place for me to store my lipstick.

I don’t think my mother loved me as much as she loved the milkman.

My mother was very friendly person. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew her name. And her rates too.

Sometimes as a child you know why you’re not loved. And if I ever forgot, my mom would leave me a little note to remind me.

I am an only child. I was told that I was special. After I was born my mother not only tied her tubes , she also tied her neck.

I used to go out grocery shopping with my mother sometimes when I was a child. I remember she’d pick up a frozen steak and shout out, “You could KILL a man with one of these!”

My mother died when I was very young. I was lonely. I went up to a lady once and said, “Will you be my mummy?” She said “Of course, I will. Do you want a cigarette?”

My father was a cruel but sentimental man. He once told me that the Marquis de Sade was the brother he never had.

My grandfather was romantic. He was also  a scrap-metal dealer.  We would be out looking at a heap of scrap metal and he would say,” You know, you can find love in all kinds of places.”

You know, when you get your first bicycle, you get those two little wheels in the back till you can learn to balance and not fall over and hurt yourself. Well, all of my friends’ parents made sure that they had those little wheels on their kids’ bikes.  Not my folks. They didn’t buy those wheels for me.  In fact they didn’t even buy me a bicycle. They got me a monocycle instead.

 

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UNEMPLOYMENT

Powder sky framing softly exploding bursts of whiteness and the cinnamon brickwork and the murmuring, grumbling city machinery and the empty stomachs and heart that cannot be sated and pains that have become housebroken and the boredom factor at high- grade fuel and the ever-present hunger for work, the peace that work may bring.      

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STAIN

You were so colorless before the event, so perfect that you passed through our field of vision unnoticed. You would always be there, though left unappreciated for the many functions and movements you performed in the world. Then the fire, then the blemish as an aftermath that put you on the map. You are now marked, dignified in your ugliness. You have acquired history, a sense of having lived and suffered, which we will exploit as an added feather in our cap.

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