Walking on Beaches at Night with Men.

J and T had dinner on the pier. J remembered that it was not in her best interest to order capellini pomodoro, so she ordered the clam-chowder-sour-dough bowl and vowed that if she had to share the oyster crackers, she would. T had the rib eye, creamed spinach and, when offered the basket of warm rolls, refused. The conversation ranged from the discovery that Einstein was right ­– relativity is real – to the proper way to fold a fitted bed sheet – Martha Stewart’s version is difficult for a dyslexic to get past step one.

After the Lava cake and some mighty espresso, the two ventured down to the sand. The moon was a slice short of full; seagulls were foraging for the buried remnants of PBandJ sandwiches on organic wheat bread and Dorito specks. J and T stepped over abandoned buckets then moved closer to the moveable line between dry and wet.

J stepped on a plastic rake, causing her to lose her balance [all those Pilates classes didn’t help at all] and fall on the knee-from-hell. Then, as if it had been waiting for her, a wave aimed its foamy fingers at her and struck with such force that her glasses sprang off her head.

T tried to help, but not if his Gucci 1953 horsebit crocodile loafers would be baptized by a primal sea. He waited until the water drew back, grasped J’s hand and lifted her out of the sand.

“My glasses. Can you see them?”

T was at a loss. Had she been wearing glasses? He hadn’t noticed.

J vowed that never again would she walk on the beach in the moonlight, after dinner, with a man on the first date.

She would consider lunch.

Photo: Myra Alex

What’s Your IGK?

Other people have bucket lists. I have an IGK.

I Gotta Know.

I have no desire to parachute into Machu Picchu, race gondolas, dig for jade in upper Mongolia, visit Fort Knox, or kiss Paul McCartney.

On the McCarney note, I did something better: kissed a sting ray in Grand Cayman. Legend says that nothing bad can happen to me for seven years because I sticky lipped the ray. Rayette, as it was a female. I doubt that would have happened I’d smooched McCartney. I’ll never know. No worries.

Which brings me to what I do want to know. Why planes don’t fly backward. How a thermos knows to keep soup hot, not cold. Why internal combustion can’t work with water instead of ooze from Cretaceous dinosaur and fern landfills.

Why wallpaper? If a goldfish is by itself in a bowl, does it get lonely? If you dig deep enough in the desert, will you find water?

I have many more on my list. I forgot where I put it, though.

What’s Your IGK?

We’ve Been Framed

When did words get redefined?

Class warfare.

When did this cease to be associated with Junior HIgh? And become associated with the rich vs the poor? Speaking of that, look at the placement of the words. If it were poor vs rich, would that bring to mind pitchforks, tiki torches and barricades?

However, to keep it rich vs poor is preferable. At least that lets us know who the bullies are.

Job Creators.

This is sneaky. The push to replace the words ‘wealthy’ and ‘rich’ with ‘job creators’ is an exercise in the power of propaganda. It serves a dual purpose, too. Evangelicals can place a subliminal emphasis on ‘creators’ and most assuredly capitalize the ‘c’ making it an official link to that Guy, the Creator!

This is so chilling that I think it’s time to revive Tevye’s conversation with his Creator in Fiddler On The Roof: “If I Were A Rich Man.”

Let’s play with it, with apologies to Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock

“Dear Bush, you made many, many poor people.

I realize, of course, that it’s no shame to be poor.

But it’s no great honor either!

So, what would have been so terrible if I could pay the rent?”

If I were a job creator,

Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum.

All day long I’d biddy biddy bum.

If I were a job creator.

I wouldn’t have to work hard.

Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.

If I were my baddy baddy job,

Idle-diddle-daidle-daidle creator.

I’d buy that big fat House with Representatives by the dozen,

Right in the middle of the beltway.

A fine domed roof with real regressive brains below.

There would be one long loophole just going up,

And one even longer coming down,

And a gigantic earmark going nowhere, just for dough.

I’d fill my yard with chicks and turkeys and geese and ducks

To keep the Tea Party near.

(Insert)Squawking just as noisily as they can. (End Insert)

With each loud “cheep” “swaqwk” “honk” “quack”

Would land like a trumpet on the ear,

As if to say “Here lives the job creator.”

If I were a job creator,

Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum.

All day long I’d biddy biddy bum.

If I were a job creator.

I wouldn’t have to work hard.

Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.

If I were my baddy baddy job,

Idle-diddle-daidle-daidle creator.

I’d see my wives and mistresses, looking so fine

With proper botox’d chins.

Shopping to their hearts’ delight.

I see them, noses in the air and strutting like peacocks.

Oy, what a happy moods they’re in.

Screaming at undocumented workers, day and night.

The vulture capitalists in town would come to call on me!

They would ask me to advise them,

Like a Solomon or Goldman Saks.

“If you please, Mr. Creator…”

“Pardon me, Mr. Creator….”

Posing problems that would cross a banker’s eyes!

And it won’t make one bit of difference if I answer right or wrong.

When you’re a job creator, they think you really know!

If I were a job creator, I’d have the time that I lack

To play on the golf course all day.

My club would be the Capitol mall.

I’d cook the books with the lawyered men, several hours every day.

That would be the sweetest thing of all.

If I were a job creator,

Yubby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dibby dum.

All day long I’d biddy biddy bum.

If I were a job creator.

I wouldn’t have to work hard.

Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.

If I were my baddy baddy job,

Idle-diddle-daidle-daidle creator.

Aesop who wrote the Ass in the Lion’s Skin,

You decreed Fine clothes may disguise,

But silly words disclose the fools.

By the time they realize they’ve been wrong

That I’ve been stealing from them all along.

They’ll come knocking at my door

But alas, I’ve taken my job creations offshore

Conservative, libertarian and the lot

I’d rather see the people rot.

If I were a job creator. I’m glad I’m not.