Tag Archives: Women

Little Richie


Little Richie walks into the living room, smelling the air floating along the lower end of the furniture, looking for Buddy at the other. He spots Buddy and runs as gracefully as possible toward the green sofa, the same green sofa most visitors relax upon. Richie falls forward, sliding just enough for the friction his chin is feeling to get warm. He turns his head to signal to Buddy that he’s alright. Youth.

“Well, Buddy, I just don’t know? You ask me if I love her, and I say Yes, definitely. She should know that. I take her things on her birthday, don’t I? I never forget that day.  Got it written in a book so I don’t forget.”

Buddy walks over to take a sip of cool water before returning to his spot on the couch. He has a little trouble adjusting and making himself comfortable. “I mean it takes more than that, Richie. It’s not about what you think she wants, as I have said many, many times, it’s what she wants to begin with. Ya see? If you don’t take the time to see what she wants, then you are not listening but making decisions based on what you want. That’s true consideration, my friend. It’s really not that complicated, Richie. So when did the clouds arrive in town?”


“When did the trouble begin, Rich?”

“Oh, the other night, we were discussing what we each expected out of this relationship.”

“NO! That’s the worst kinda of conversation to have, Richie. It  becomes a list of things that you are responsible for; now these things have to be done, and done really well. You put yourself in a corner with not way out. Oh, no! Did she have a list of things that she expected from you? Did she read them aloud? Did she nod her head to you after reading each one? At the end, did she smile and say ‘your turn?’  And, let me guess, you didn’t know what to say, right? You were so confused that you forgot where you were; you forgot your name; you forgot what her name was; you forgot where you left your keys, right? And, you forgot you were a brozio, right?  And do you want to know why? Because you’re not a Bro no mo! When you lose your voice, you lose your cojones!”

“Uh…right. How did you know, Bud? Were you there? I didn’t see you? ”

“At your  place, no. But, I’ve been there–the situation.”

“So, what do I do, Bud, I’m so confused?”

“Let me think.” After a few minutes…”Okay, here’s what you do.”

…to be continued


She just hangs up


Buddy and Gary sit, quietly sipping on some new exotic coffee drink recommended to them by the barista, a young twenty-something, who goes by the name Four, as in the number.
Gary scratches his hind leg with his left paw, rapidly. Buddy watches him with a slight glance of the eyes.

“So right in the middle of the brief conversation, everything goes silent. ‘Hello. Hello,’ I say. Then, Buddy, I receive a text message from Gwen. Sometimes, it’s four or five texts in a row–140 characters, you know. It usually starts with an apology for not talking on the phone. She says it’s the cell phone, cancer thing. But she’s stopped using that one. Then she will send a picture of herself eating something like dessert, in a strange standing pose. Does this seem odd to you? I mean, face to face would be great, but I would even settle for a few minutes talking on the phone; two cans with string; anything. I really don’t think it’s so much to ask.”

“Nah, not too much. Maybe she has commubia.”

“Is that when a person can only communicate with a cell phone or pictures, but is fear-struck when real, face to face verbal communication takes place?”

“Yes it is, Gary; and, most of the communication is done by texting on the phone, not by talking on the phone. I’ve read that many have developed severe cases of commubia and, as of yet, they have found no simple remedy other than complete separation from the communication device. They even hold weekend clinics which set out to cure this modern, social malady. Success varies, depending on the individual, experts say. Is she young and restless? Is she one of the bruzias who spends constant hours on her device texting? Okay, Gary, does she have ADD?”

“Does she have ADD? Yes, but she has the other ADD. You know, it’s the close cousin to not being able to focus and concentrate. She has ADD+, where she doesn’t receive enough attention. Now that’s true Attention Deficit Disorder. But that doesn’t explain her inability to hold a conversation other than in text messages.

“If we only had a way to communicate with others without texting or speaking to them face to face, Buddy, that would be amazing!”

“We do, it’s called writing letters; and we gave that up decades ago, along with lobotomies, Corvairs, and panel wagons. Okay, let me explain something to you.”

to be continued…


Holly.cheerleader“Okay, this is just about enough for me, Buddy. I can’t take it. I’m getting very annoyed with Howard.”
“Hold on, Holly. Can I have a little of my bagel before you start in on the issues? I love bagels and cream cheese; and when you put some marmalade on it, forget about it. Oh, and this coffee is the best French Dream. It’s good to be alive! Would you like some?”

“No. Thank you, though.”

Buddy puts the cream cheese and marmalade on his bagel and slowly sips his dark, French Roast Dream, the hot liquid that helps him see things more clearly, smile a little brighter, especially when reading the paper in the morning; he even talks a little faster after his first sip from his favorite bone-shaped cup.  They have only been in the cafe for about fifteen minutes, exchanging short but polite phrases, as is customary, when Holly begins to explain the details of her issue with Howard.

“Why does he continue to talk about his past, as if it had just happened this morning?  I don’t get it. This was in high school, a time of growth and maturing, fun and laughter, heartache and tears. It seems that Howard only experienced one thing during those four years, and it’s all wrapped up in one Friday night, for about four minutes. Does a football game really mean that much to a guy? I mean, it’s not like it was a professional game or anything.  It was just high school!  He likes talking about his friends in high school, too. Is it just me, or does this seem a little strange that a guy in his twenties would still be living in his high school world? He still sees his friends at least once a week. He calls them his dream team, his entourage. I’ve seen them together, all five of them.  They are still talking about high school sports and joking about people they haven’t seen in years. How long will this go on? Will he be sixty years old when he finally wakes from his high school dream? It’s pathetic!  And, I’m bored.”

“Holly, what do you talk about when you go out? What is the point of topic? Is it about you, your present life, your past, or is it about Howard?”

“Well, I usually just listen to him–and he gives everything in great detail.  Sometimes he adds to the story, just to make it a little longer. The first time, it was twenty-one yards to the end zone where he miraculously caught the game-winning pass. The next time, it was forty-two yards; then, it was seventy yards.  This, of course, was followed by hundreds, no thousands, of cheers, then handshakes, and pats on the back. I don’t get it. How can this story just keep growing and growing? Maybe it’s a guy thing to exaggerate everything–I’m sorry, I mean: color the story differently.”

“Just how many different topics does he talk about when you get together? Is it fewer than five?”

“I would say two: his friends and his four-minute football feat. I think he believes it to be greater than growing up. He seems to want to stay in that moment forever, and never leave that time. His ten year reunion is coming up in three years and he’s already making plans…and with me.  Maybe that’s his issue. Peter Pan? Believe me, there are more important things to talk about in this life.”

“What do you talk about, Holly?”

“Oh, I was a cheerleader.”

Buddy sighs…



She’s Got This Killer Look 2.0


mutt“Okay, I’ll give  you the straight: They do, and they have many, many more looks, my friend.   They have the looks that command you to take out the garbage, stop talking,  quit being so loud, and what you just said was plain stupid–and much, much more.  There is a catalogue of looks, you know; I have a copy. The most common look is a furrowed brow with a slight head tilt to the left, half-squinted eyes pointing in the same direction. That’s the look given to most men. It’s really a harmless look in terms of the Look Hierarchy. This one probably ranks at about a 1.5 on a 10 point scale.”

“Are you kidding me? Why do those looks ranks so low? I mean, they seem pretty powerful to me, Bud.”

“Well, it depends on the offense. Take me, for example. I once dated a woman who saw me looking at another woman, a bruzia; she gave me the most contemptuous look I have ever experienced.  I wasn’t even looking at the other woman as attractive, but as someone I thought I knew from sometime in the past. Now her look at me was different: the head was straight; opened eyes the size of small melons, piercing directly into mine; teeth clinched; jaw muscles flexing with every breath she took; nostrils flaring open large enough for flies to make emergency landings if needed. I could have sworn I saw two small horns raising from under the skin on her sun-baked forehead. She always denied that one, though.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t remember; I passed out in the restaurant: fell out of my chair, tripped a waiter who spilled four dishes on me and people at the next table, I was told. The next thing I knew, I was in the emergency room, hooked up to a heart monitor. When the doctor finally spoke to me, he said ‘looking at another woman, huh? Then you passed out. Then they rushed you in to see a doctor in the emergency wing.  I see this all the time. It’s that look!  And I’ve seen them all.’

So, when I got out, I spoke to Charlie, who indicated to me that a woman’s gazing looks are many, and vary by degree. Each one of them hold some power and the potential for immediate destruction to the recipient of said look. He has had many friends lose it all over that look. He once had a friend who drove his car into oncoming traffic.  His friend tried feverishly but failed to escape the gaze; and he got the look by simply asking the wrong question. Each woman decides, for herself, which look she will give, based on the offense.

But, Wilard, it all begins in childhood for a woman, a bruzia. Charlie says that women attend special gazing conventions.  These camps, or killer’s look conventions, are dedicated to manipulating look training.  They go through months of rigorous training as very young children. Then, when they are done, and it becomes intuitive, almost second nature, they are released to the world.  By the time they are three, these skills are codified in their personalities, Charlie says. All women, at some point, realize they have it, but never speak about it to one another.  It’s another example of that unspoken, feminine code.

The downside to all of this is when a woman, a bruzia, recognizes this powerful trait and becomes overly aggressive with it, that killer’s look. It’s like a power hungry executive needing to wield her power. It can get out of control. A loose canon, out of control! I’ve also lost a few friends to oncoming traffic, deliriously running onto car-filled streets, looking to escape this gaze.  It’s that gaze that drives many men to suicide.  When I asked about the friends I’ve lost to traffic, they say an accident, but I know better. The only advice I can give you is to be aware, and be very, very careful.

She’s Got This Killer Look

muttIt’s Tuesday morning, and Charlie is sitting on a bird drop covered, green bench, in Central Park. The pigeons have landed for their morning meal, which sometimes lasts the entire day or until each one has filled its reserve.  It’s a crisp 50 degrees, and it doesn’t appear that the day is going to warm up any more than it has at this point.

“Oh, no, here comes Wilard and his roommate, Rex,” Buddy says to himself. “I loathe these two. Rex always calls me Bubb. Call me Budd, Buddy, Budster, but not Bubb. Where are we, on the farm?”

“Hello, Charlie,” greets Rex, extending his hand as anyone who hasn’t seen a friend in a very long time would.

“Hello, Rex. Sit down. Rest a while.”

“Oh, no. That’s just great!” dismisses Buddy.

Wilard quickly walks over to Buddy and begins his small talk. “Buddy, why are you so quiet? You didn’t say hello, or acknowledge me as I walked up. What’s up?”

Buddy rolls his eyes upward to the sky and says, “Oh, sorry, how are you doing, Wilard?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Willard pants aggressively, tongue dropping out of his mouth, as though he’d been running briskly.  He stops and slowly sits beside Buddy, trying to control his breathing and his shifting body movements. “Where do I begin?”

“How about from the beginning? Why don’t you catch your breath first.  What, did you run all the way over here? If you’re not careful you will die a young death like so many of your breed do. I told Charlie that we should get some air this morning, so he brought me to the park where I could stretch out and enjoy the sun.” Buddy stretches his long torso to a downward dog pose, then back up again.  “That apartment makes me crazy sometimes. So what were you about to say?”

“Well, it’s Whitney, a girl I’ve been seeing for about two months now,she is wearing my patience thin. Maybe it’s me, but I think she’s developed this killer’s look.”

“What do you mean a killer’s look?”

“When she wants me to do something, for instance, she will straighten out her smile, look me directly in the eyes, and she will not blink.  Wherever her eyes move, that is where she wants me to move. Last night, we were watching something on television, I don’t remember what, when she wanted me to move to my right on the sofa. Apparently I failed to move quickly enough, so she gave me the look, followed by quick shove. I asked her what the problem was.  Her response was that she wanted me to move over. She looked at me perplexed, as if I were the confused one.  She could have just asked, right?   The next day, she asked me to go with her to see her brother downtown. So we went. Everything was fine: we were laughing, talking about a customer he had in his store earlier, the eccentric people he meets daily, and life’s little vicissitudes. I felt comfortable enough to ask about his girlfriend; I had no idea they had just split up.  Whitney shot me this look, a death gaze moving up then down. I kept talking. Her brother responded by changing the subject, so I went on talking. Tell me, Buddy, how was I to know that he had just split from her?  Am I required to know everything?

So on our way home, she began by staring at me with a piercing look; this one burnt so hot its razor bead could slice you in half. That look gave me a migraine so intense I thought I was going to die. I’m not kidding, that look made me nauseous and I twitched for hours. Is it just me or does she have some demonic gazing powers? Do all women have this strange series of looks that I’m not aware of?  Are they born this way or do they attend some strategic gaze training camp?

to be continued…