I’m in a holding pattern.

Keeping an even keel.

Staying the course…I’m not making any sudden moves.

Maintaining the status quo.

I tried to make shit happen. Tried to get the ball rolling in a new direction…

I ran a craigslist ad to sell scruffy

Nobody showed up with a bag of cash.

Plenty of Looky Loos.

One guy swore he loved Scruffy. Said he had the cash.

Then he vanished.

Nobody appeared like The Millionaire and said, here’s a check.

Michael Anthony (Marvin Miller) hands check to Betty Perkins (Inger Stevens) in a 1956 episode.

I wasn’t asking for a million. Only twenty five grand.

I don’t know why nobody rushed forward with a check or cash. Maybe money’s tight.

You ever see tight money?

Tight money’s the kind that comes with high interest rates.

But I’m not offering financing.

Well, fuck it. Now I’m stuck fixing up old Scruffy.

I smashed my face all to hell

So what happens? I go to work fixing up Scruffy and the very first day I trip and fall and smash my face all to hell. A good solid trip and fall. The kind of case, Claudine, my ex-girlfriend, a trip-and-fall Attorney, would drool over. Nothing like a quick settlement from a trip-and-fall case. The only problem, I got nobody to sue. I’m the complainant and the defendant. I guess I could sue myself. But that would be like peeing on a dead cat. Kind of pointless and even gross.

Now I got a goatee.

Mainly to hide the scars.

I never had a goatee. Never had any kind of beard, either. Not even a stash. But the Plastic Surgeon, the lady doctor that did such a swell job patching me up, she said don’t shave for three weeks.

I end up with this scruffy beard that frankly looks like shit.

I figure I’ll trim it down to a goatee.

So that’s what I did.

A silly ass goatee. I’ve always taken dudes with goatees with a pinch of derision. Sissy ass phoney baloney’s. Now I see them differently. Maybe they’re just trying to give a boring face a little character. You know, make themselves more appealing to women. I’ve always appealed to women without the need for a goatee. At least until I got old. Now I’m old I no longer give a shit. Okay, maybe I give a shit a little bit. But I don’t dwell on it.

Here’s the deal: I got this goatee and I’m looking at myself and I’m thinking, okay, this is good. Not because I’m trying to attract Broads at my age. It’s more of a now-I’m-looking-like-a-cool-old-dude. This matters way more than attracting the Ladies. This is about survival. This is about walking around and people give you room. Thugs think twice about mugging your ass. It’s very important to look cool when you’re old. Cool means you might be dangerous. Dangerous will keep the Punks from fucking with you. Nobody messes with the cool old dudes. Vincent the Chin said it. They interviewed him in Prison. Asked him how he was doing. He said, “Nobody Fucks with me.”

Of course it helps to be boss of the Genovese Crime Family.

Anyway, like I’m saying, I got this goatee. I think I’ll keep it for a while.

I could shave it off today and I’d have a righteous scar. Actually, that might work better than the goatee. I’ll look truly menacing. But maybe not. Maybe I’ll just look like this strange old dude with a crooked lip. Meanwhile, it’ll take me a couple weeks to grow back my goatee.

I’m thinking I’ll hold onto the goatee for a while.

Everything’s on hold

This is the nature of a holding pattern. You just drift along like you’ve always been doing. Maintain your course. Keep it steady.

Hold your position.

Some people find this kind of activity abhorrent.

General Patton was right. In a war the best defense is a good offense.

I’m not fighting in a war.

Unless you consider old age a war against death…in which case your only recourse is to lose and laugh.

Hang on til you outlive everybody.

Bobi with Guinness certification

Consider Bobi. Bobi has outlived everybody in his pack. He’s in the Guinness book which is kind of like winning the Nobel Prize for Dogs. He’s a purebred Rafeiro do Alentejo, which is a kind of Portuguese Border Collie. I don’t know if he’s herding cattle at 31 years old. Probably not. Probably he just lays around and gets up from his naps mainly to eat. I don’t know if he laughs. I imagine he chuckles. He lays around thinking, “Damn…I outlived everybody. Now what?”

Bobi’s in a holding pattern.

I’m still slinging free booze samples

Yeah, it’s a job. Three days a week. Sometimes four days a week. Last week I worked one day. But I’m still working. My schedule is up to me. I work the days I choose. The locations I prefer. Supervised by nobody. Accountability determined by a computer terminal.

It’s a kind of Phantom Zone Job!

I appear out of the void.

I offer my samples to souls set adrift on the banal patterns of life!

Grocery Shoppers.

I offer a taste of booze to fellow phantoms.

Some find my offering a pleasure.

Others are less than pleased.

Still others seem transfixed by my presence.

As if I’m conducting a kind of twisted Eucharist.

I can’t help them escape from this Phantom Zone we all occupy. It’s up to God. And if you believe in nothing, God help you.

I’m only the Booze Sample Dude.

But I don’t let on I have nothing substantial to offer them.

We all need a little hope in our lives.

Unless you enjoy drifting…

And I’m happy to serve these people.

Because that’s my job.

As for those tormented by stasis?

All I can advise is find another place to pee.

And finally there’s the office

Where I blog to a vacant audience…except you, of course.

Where nothing ever happens.

And nothing changes.

Where we go to escape the crazy flux of life…

I’m still sitting with my fellow coffee house dwellers.

At a respectful distance.

Because who knows? This guy could be a hit man for the sinaloa cartel.

I don’t disparage anyone.

Like Nick Carraway I’m reserving Judgement.

I’m in a holding pattern.