C.A. Haddad's Blog, page 11

The Wanker

 

How did I come to write THE WANKER.  The truth of the matter is that I never really know how I come to write anything.  I’m not compulsive about writing.  I only write if something comes to me.  Like most of my heroes, Estes Eucher came to me fully formed.  Here was a man, in his fifties, who lost his job and in no way could find another.  So instead he tries to find himself.  Through poetry.  Bad poetry.

I will admit to laughing my way through this book.  I loved the interplay between Estes and his perhaps psychopathic friend Jeff Knellings.  They were such fun to be with.  Plus, it was nice to see how Estes developed as a person outside the corporate world, of which his wife was still a part.  And, boy, did she have troubles of her own to deal with, aside from now financially supporting the family, with one child in college and the other getting ready to go to college.

Let’s face it. This is not an unfamiliar story in American life, where people in their fifties are relegated to the trash heap by corporate America at the time when they need to be productive financially, with house payments and college educations for their children.  Perhaps, looking back, this situation was my inspiration for Estes Eucher.  Especially now in current conditions, we know what losing a pay check feels like, how draining it can be.

But THE WANKER  is not a downer.  It’s a place to be happy.  And what made me happiest about writing it was the poetry.  Who doesn’t love a bad poem?  I relish them, especially if I’m writing them.  Here’s one of my favorites:

Fat Thighs

Why do people despise
Fat thighs?
They are sturdy pillars of the Colossus
Holding up the body brilliant

Blow wind, the thunder roars
The Colossus stands erect
Nature cannot say nay to
Fat thighs

What are they good for
You plebeians ask
With your gluten-free diets
And your shapers and toners

Make love with fat thighs
They wrap around you with delight
No razor sharp bones to distract you
Surround yourself with pillows of ecstasy

Alone, deserted, fearing death from starvation?
Whip out your Girl Scout knife and
Plunge into those fat thighs of yours
You are your own salvation.

Okay, this poetic attempt isn’t as bad as some of them, like Grace writing about dirty blinds.  But you get the idea.  For Estes’s poetry group, a thought comes into their heads, they write about it, water main breaks, rock throwing, friendship, love, it’s all there in THE WANKER.  I hope you’ll read it and relish it as much as I relished writing it. sion?  No, sorry, I don’t watch it during the day.  It’s a time waster.  Unlike solitaire.  Music?  If I had music playing, how could I hear the music of the sphere, i.e., my birds?  Sigh.  I guess it’s just one of those days.

Reflections on “Out of It.”

I will confess to sometimes being extremely lackadaisical.  There are moments when I just like to look out the window at my birds, as I call them.  And then there’s—solitaire.  Is there anything more fascinating than solitaire?  Television?  No, sorry, I don’t watch it during the day.  It’s a time waster.  Unlike solitaire.  Music?  If I had music playing, how could I hear the music of the sphere, i.e., my birds?  Sigh.  I guess it’s just one of those days.

Reflections on the poem “Spectacular Titacular”

I don’t understand why, at every awards show, some women try to appear as nude as possible—without being arrested for gross indecency.  Has modesty gone out of fashion?  With the demise of the most popular girlie magazines is this the only way to get noticed?

What’s wrong with a little bit of modesty, showing a lot of class instead of a lot of ass? Honestly, you’re beautiful women. You don’t need to be vulgar to get noticed.

Speaking of vulgarity, while I’m at it, what’s with the hip thrusts, the grinds, the twerking?  Can we not save that for the bedroom or up against a wall, or even the kitchen table, if that’s your preference?  I really don’t need to see your behind in action.

And, while we’re at it, good god, men, why are you grabbing your crotch?  Are you afraid your penis has gone missing in the few minutes you’ve been on stage?  Wouldn’t it make more sense to grab your penis when you pee, instead of spraying your essence all over the bathroom floor?

Okay, I’m done for the nonce.

Canasta

Why I like playing canasta:  I’m basically not a game player.  But I remember my mother’s disappointment when she returned from the senior center, despairing that they didn’t have a fourth for canasta.  As she grew older, it was the highlight of her week.  So when our library offered canasta lessons, I thought, well, maybe there’s something to it.  The first group of people I learned with never got together to play after lessons stopped.  But one day in the library I saw a friend, who was taking the class for a second time.  I waved to him, then texted him later and said, if they were getting a game together, I’d love to join.

I cannot tell you how much my canasta buddies have meant to me.  I’ve heard horror stories about groups that are nasty and ostracizing, so much so that they force members out.  But our group defines loving kindness.  We are always there for each other, whether it’s driving someone who needs a ride,  picking up medicine for someone who’s sick, cheering someone on when they’re facing a crisis, holding birthday and holiday parties.  My Mondays at canasta are my mental health days.  And they are sacrosanct.

Oh, the game.  It’s topsy-turvy fun, where you can be up one hand and way down the next.  I love to win.  I love the wild card canastas, the sevens, the aces.  Don’t ask me about getting a Splash because I really don’t understand splashes.  And I’m math-deficient.  But everyone knows that and waits while I try to count to 125.  Not many people are as understanding as my canasta friends.  I wish everyone the great joy I find in their companionship.