I've been terribly remiss in contributing to GotPoetry lately. There's a number of semi-valid excuses but I'll save them for more precarious situations.
I don't write as much and it usually takes the form of short essays or statements though I try to maintain the flow and simplicity of my earlier scribblings. I still strive to be amusing.
Here's some new stuff. It's part of a collection of essays,poems, and short statements called "Funny Stuff" that I'm shopping around.
Hope you enjoy. Take care.
Once is Enough
“Then they made love again.”
What a load of rubbish...
And from authors I admire like John Irving, Robert Parker, Hemingway.
Fact is once the hero reaches a certain age, no matter how macho,
He doesn't make love again...willingly.
He gets up and takes an Ambien with a glass of milk;
He cuddles 'till his wife falls asleep then catches the 4th quarter of the Laker's game;
He skips through the obits looking for familiar faces while on the john.
After a certain age, why tempt Fate?
Thank your god that it went well for nine minutes, hope your mate feels the same,
And move on... move on!
You're not freakin' eighteen anymore with a V8 under the hood, Mario Andretti,
Be thankful that Old Sparky started up, didn't stall, and sputtered 'cross the finish line.
Fact is once you reach a certain age, just planning to make love is exhausting:
Homework done(check), kids asleep( check), mother-in-law tranquilized( check);
Shower and shave, floss, test the batteries, visualize,
By the time foreplay begins, you're like a boxer in his corner before the 12th-round bell.
“ Then they made love again.”
Bullshit.
Why not “They kissed softly, she rolled over on her side, he put on his anti-snoring device,
And they slept happily ever after.”
The End.
Self-Sacrifice
I'm a Roamin' Catholic,
Attend Mass at a different church in Worcester every Sunday.
I believe that Jesus gave up his life to save us from damnation...
Sometimes.
As Good Friday approaches, let's reflect on whom I would take a bullet for:
1.My wife of course but not the ex. If it's not in the divorce decree, I'm not doing it.
2.My seven children including my oldest daughter who hasn't spoken to me in six years.
Boy, will that make her feel guilty!
3.My three grandchildren. Empty the gun, it doesn't matter.
4.Mixed feelings on my Mom. Instinct would probably have me Secret Service.
On the other hand, she's 81 and had a good run due partly to my intervention.
Once, I locked her in the car with a bee even though we're both very allergic.
“ You've lived your life” I reasoned from the driveway.
So, I'm ambivalent on Mom.
5.Some nieces and nephews who show potential.
6.Two of my three son-in-laws.
7.I don't have many close friends except Mike whom I've known since kindergarten .
Also, John, my brother-in-law, who shares my sense of humor.
Maybe, three more friends but I'd wear Kevlar.
8.Barry Manilow. He writes the songs.
That's plenty...Don't want to go overboard.
No strangers, world leaders, athletes, or pets.
Some lists are probably longer; I might be on someone's list who's not on mine.
I can live with that; I'm no martyr.
Bonding
During the process of adopting Dustin and Joey, we drove by a construction site on the campus of UMass Memorial Hospital.
“ What's that big thing,” Dustin the four-year-old asked.
“ That's a crane,” I replied.
“ What kind of crane,” Joey the five-year-old inquired.
“ The Crane of Death,” I replied.
Next morning, the boys' social worker called our home:
“Dustin and Joey really enjoyed their weekend with your family. They're especially fascinated by an apparent crane of death,” she remarked.
“ As well they should,” I replied.
We adopted the boys late that Summer. The special bonding that originated at the construction site has strengthened over our six years together:
Every other Thursday, we ride the Elevator of Death to visit their counselors on the third floor at Children's Friend; this July, we'll scream down the Waterslide of Death in old Cape Cod; there's also the Ferris Wheel of Death at the Spencer Fair on Labor Day.
Semantically speaking, it's the perfect marriage of wonder and fear. What more can a father share with his sons!
Just yesterday, we had a wonderful family picnic on the grounds of Raytheon Integrated Defense in Andover.
“Look Dad, the Missile of Death,” Dustin exclaimed.
“Let's not go overboard, little buddy,” I replied.
Parenting in the Semi-Golden Years
“I'm too old for this shit.”
Dustin and Joey are a spirited nine and ten; I'm a well-worn fifty-four. We adopted the boys five years ago when the youngest of our other four children was thirteen. It's been a wooden roller coaster ride ever since.
The boys were in seven foster -homes the first four years of their existence; their birth parents neglected them, at best. We knew it wouldn't be easy raising them. Like climbing a mountain made of broken glass.
“ I'm not looking for sympathy... maybe a little.”
The boys are night and day in personalities: one reckless and aggressive; the other silent and submissive. Both lie with seemingly the utmost sincerity without a second thought. Parenting them is Orwellian in nature.
The techniques I perfected with our other kids don't work on Dustin and Joey: the voice of God goes unheeded; Knute-Rockne encouragement rolls off their shoulder pads; they spend more time writing “ I will not (pick your bad behavior)”at the kitchen table than recalcitrant monks.
“It gets better, Mr. Fusco, honest it does.”
We go to the classes and counseling. Encourage the boys to own their behavior and its consequences. Have them notebook their actions and reasons why. I crystal ball to their teenage years and cringe.
I also cringe at my feeble attempts at parental interaction. I'm no longer the patient, calm port in the tempest we call home. With my oldest son off to college, my name tag reads “warden” more often than “father.” I shake my head way too often.
“Every kid deserves a chance.”
Dustin and Joey's birth-mom has three other children with three different men. The only time I met their birth-dad, he spent the two hours of his supervised visitation under the table with them at Chucky Cheese. Every day, we swim against this cultural tide to give the boys a crack at happiness. But the waves seem over our heads...don't they?
Yesterday, I watched Joey hold the door so his book-laden teacher could enter their school. Dustin scored five points at his Saturday morning basketball game and thanked his coach for a great season. Both the teacher and the coach complimented my parental skills in raising such well-behaved lads.
“I'm too old for this shit...maybe.”
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