******* All American Frank *******

I was obsessed with Karaoke for a few weeks, because the poetry group hung out at a Karaoke bar after readings. Finally everyone told me to shut up about it!
I Sang Karaoke
I sang karaoke at the bar
and karaoke on the way home
and karaoke in the shower and at work
and at the hospital to heal the patients and karaoke in your fish tank
and aquarium and the ocean
I sang karaoke to whales and they sang it back at me
I sang karaoke at Harvard
got a Nobel prize for karaokial achievement
I washed dishes by singing karaoke at them
Was an American Idol on tv
satellite radio
at the olympics
with my barista
was singing karaoke in the trunk of my Uber driver’s car
climbing Mount Washington
in submarines airplanes and zoos
on the moon with no atmosphere, gravity
depth or balance
karaoke in your bathtub and you were shocked
in your toaster dishwasher microwave refrigerator
into your mouth
at every party for you
and even as you pushed me from the moving train
smiling beautifully, for the good of the world
I sang karaoke for you!

One of my dad’s favorite jokes: “A visitor to the Vatican watched the Pope bless a line of people. But the Pope stopped only once, to whisper in the ear of a shabbily-dressed man, who was obviously down on his luck. The visitor asked the gent what wisdom the Pope had whispered, but the man wouldn’t say. He offered him 100 dollars, for his shabby coat and hat, and the man agreed. The next day, in line, wearing the shabby hat and coat, the visitor waited for the Pope. The Pope leaned down, and whispered, ‘I told you before. Get the heck out of here. And don’t ever come back!'”

I’ve worked a few third-shift jobs, and on the night shift it’s easy to lose sense of the real world. An occasional second-shift can restore the medium-slacker vibe, but a long third-shift run can put you in a big chill. At the hospital, I ran medical records back and forth to the ER, up and down the hallways and tunnels of that old building, learning many shortcuts from hip, late night, co-workers over caffeine-dream chats roving the buzzing, fluorescent nocturnal world. During the downtime, they made us file.. but we never filed enough to make them happy, so we’d get a strict speech, from a disappointed secretary, over piles of files, but they overloaded on purpose, so.. It was a midnight to 8 shift, but for me a 12:08am to 8:10am shift, rolling in a few minutes late, then killing a few minutes in the AM, bantering with real-world folks, watching secretaries sashay by, smiles, tilted coffee mugs through leather bags, or big sunglasses and stern looks after weekend romantic getaways with suave doctors and pharmaceutical sales kings. Apparently, no one told me about the extremely strict hospital “on time” rule, so at my yearly evaluation, at 8:30am sharp on a Tuesday, my day-boss looked downhearted, saying we had a problem. She held a long printout documenting my latenesses, no surprise to me, but announced the extreme actions: 1 tardiness = warning, 2 tardinesses = a notice, and 3 = discipline and/or firing. She seemed really shocked about my custom schedule, especially the number of, which was either impressive, or horrifying, coming in at 157! She rambled a bit then, thinking aloud, about how the normal procedure of her “finding this out” was getting ratted out by co-workers, so, on the plus side, I must be liked. Further good news for me was that it would look even worse for her, so we would lie, using some bureaucratic ruse, to protect her position and good manager rating. We’d claim we postponed this meeting for three months, due to a “personal matter” she’d make up later. I’d come in on-time from now on, and get a good review then. I agreed, and she smiled, hopeful we could pull off this scheme. She was a nice person, so I felt a little bad about having harshed her mellow in that high stress world, but as I was walking to car I thought, 157 censures, man, I worked a lot of days, or nights, last year!

Historically, noble knights were our “do-gooders,” the counterbalance to unfair policies of the King. So, if there were a damsel in distress, or a loyal countryman set on by thieves, rest easy, a trusted knight would soon arrive, with justice, revenge or rescue.. In modern America, this mythical tradition is carried on by “overgrown boy scouts” in the style of Jim Comey (or Neil Gosuch), who find untold ways to recite an oath of honor.. and if there’s doubt, they “gosh golly” and “gee whiz” past even the most hardened guards, and into the castle. Meanwhile, along the King’s Highway, we make our deals, but do still keep an ear out, for those hoofsteps, of some noble knight..

On a bright and sunny Friday morning, the easy-listening TV channel here is playing “Rainy Days and Mondays.” Gotcha, Big Pharma payola..

Trumpalumpa: ix-nay on the Ussia-Ray -Comey secret notes
PS.. And ush-hay on the eak-lays! (:

It’s important to always find the sweet spot, in anything you do. My first job in RI was as a dapper waiter on Federal Hill. I wore a tuxedo, ran hard, had lots of laughs.. and quickly learned the state I was in! The customers were amazing and generous, mostly, but one night a snobby couple ran me for two hours, not satisfied nor short of condescending remarks. I knew to let this slide off, that being polite and courteous was the best move. So, as I poured a final coffee and set the check down, I thanked them as if they were magnificent customers, and on the forty-seven dollar tab, they departed, leaving two sad dollars. I did, however, notice they’d neglected to total the check, leaving the tip area empty. So now the sweet spot, after being nice, was to add a gracious 10 dollar tip, then total it up. Another waiter might have balked and taken the hit.. or added too much on the check, say 15 or 20 bucks, but that wasn’t the sweet spot. Ten looked pretty good all around.. and going forward. The pretty cashier smiled, rang up 57 with swift, nonchalant strokes and handed me a crisp 10. Off I went to the kitchen, to jaw with the chef, who also happened to be a darned good drummer! (:

It’s all about taking risks, I told myself, as I placed the winter hats, scarves and gloves in the bottom dresser drawer…

To paraphrase the famous John Lennon quote, “Good songs are what happens to you when you’re busy writing bad songs..” (:

Our apartment-building got “acquired” by a law firm, so we didn’t know what to expect. One day a youngish, clean-cut lawyer came by and introduced himself with a strong handshake, tilted head and half smile. He quickly turned on his boat shoes and set off to his golf club. A week later, I heard my upstairs neighbor, a lanky college student, freaking out down in the basement. They’d installed pay-laundry machines to replace the free laundry ones. And my student buddy had jammed the mechanism, accidentally using a nickel in one slot, and was trying to force it, now using a hammer to try to get it in, or out. But mostly he was just hitting the dang thing! I was too late to salvage any semblance of “his innocent mistake.” He suggested busting it open completely, but instead I proposed we check out an old washing machine in the back of the basement. We carried it over, hooked it up and, in a moment of magic, free laundry was restored. We moved the pay one near the stairs, perhaps a friendly hint that the pay ones should go, and free ones come back.. We still paid quarters, for the dryer, until one day I noticed the quarter-box was loose, and it pulled right out. I found I could remove quarters from it, re-insert them, and recycle them right back into the box. I’d then shove the box in, so it looked normal. I denied that this whole thing was starting to look bad. About a week later, I heard another freakout down in the basement. This time it was the landlord. I peeked out the window and saw his BMW in the driveway. I stood very still, and didn’t answer the door, as he stormed up and down the stairs knocking and pounding, breathing heavily. After he left, I paced, in a panic, then popped a cold beer to chill. The next Monday, a large, working class, blue collar guy came by and hooked up the Fort Knox of new, shiny, impenetrable, pay laundry machines, like two soldiers, standing stout and defiant! After a little tug on the immovable, tight pay boxes, a gliding hand along the smooth chassis mounts and an eye on the glint of bevelled edges I knew my low-rent wiles should be used to acquire more quarters, admire these sleek crafts of commerce, kick back a bit, and let capitalism take this round..