Comments Posted By sher
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What a ridiculous word. What does it really mean? In the land of fashion magazines and moguls and high heels, is that where this takes you? Or. What?
» Posted By sher On 10.17.2017 @ 5:48 pm
Bottom feeders, for sure. You look at this word and you see people in suits walking around a big hotel lobby, you know, the kind with the patterned carpets that are constantly being vacuumed by an underpaid employee who does a great job but only gets noticed if he misses a spot. That kind of place. But that is not who these people are. They are people who pay politicians to serve a purpose none of the rest of us knows about most of the time. They do whatever they have to to get money for things. They represent people with huge amounts of money, because kids who can’t get food or go to school or see their parents very much because their parents work 18 hours a day, well they can’t afford to have a lobbyist lurking around on their behalf. So here’s an idea: Let’s by a lobbyist for homeless people. Raise enough money to pay a lobbyist to do out and try to do some good for someone who needs it and can’t afford it. That’s my book. “How to Buy a Lobbyist.” It’ll be out in Spring of 2018.
» Posted By sher On 10.12.2017 @ 3:52 pm
Did you invite him? I didn’t. Do you know him? I don’t. Is he here with someone we did invite? We should ask around. And by the way, what’s that under his coat?
» Posted By sher On 10.03.2017 @ 3:54 pm
He comes through the door and you recognize him immediately. Not in a good way. Why did But you’re in a strange house and you have no idea where the bathroom is. There’s a large plant in the corner that looks like it can hide you, so you get your ass over there as fast as you can. Too late. He’s seen you. He smiles and hellos everyone, smiles into their eyes and beams at their return gazes, but you know for a fact, because you know him, that he knows exactly where you are standing, what you are wearing and where you’ve gone to hide. You see a woman, squirming in her black dress; she knows where the bathroom is and she’s heading that way. You slip from behind the plant and follow her, having no trouble passing on her left and zipping into the bathroom right before you hear her yell, “Bitch!” You lock the door and take a deep breath. Safe for now. “You haven’t lost your touch,” you hear a voice whisper from behind. Clearly, neither has he. Good-bye, dead girl. Should’ve tossed out the invite right away.
» Posted By sher On 10.03.2017 @ 3:52 pm
My hope for America is fading today as I think about the dozens and dozens of people and families and mothers and sister and aunts and uncles and brothers and fathers and friends that will suffer because an idiot who got guns decided to have a field day with the most basic human rights of all: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I think about the phone calls that were frantically made and fatefully answered and the tears that are flowing with greater force and fierce sorrow than any force of nature could wreak on us. We have brought this on ourselves; we watch violence, play violence, speak violence, rattle our swords at one another, promise to destroy other country’s with a blatant disregard for who is listening and who will want to be the first to fire. That this man murdered people who were enjoying one of God’s greatest gifts, the lifting spiritual power of music, makes it all the more horrific. If there is a hell, I hope he is there. And if we do nothing to stop others like him, we will surely follow him there.
» Posted By sher On 10.02.2017 @ 2:33 pm
i don’t feel like writing about this really, but anyway, for the past few days I’ve pretty much felt like a waitress. I work with a bunch of men who forget this is the 21st century and I’m not here to write down what they say then go do it. But there I sit, taking notes, making decisions, getting the job done; doing things they’d never do, until they find out it’s worth doing, then swoop in to take the credit. Now I could see if I were 24 years old again, thinking that maybe things will bet better and that you don’t usually run into men like this, and the business world has changed and I’m just taking notes (and orders) this one time because I need my career to get going, to start getting somewhere. But I’m not. I’ve been doing this for years, doing well at it for years, and WTF, they still let you do the grunt work if you’ll do it, still take the credit for it, still ignore you if you’re in the room and over 40, still assholes. But at this age, I should’ve figured that out. So who’s the asshole?
» Posted By sher On 09.29.2017 @ 3:22 pm
The thing was, after 45 years of friendship, albeit long-distance and not always friendship but knowledge of one another on a trivial level which I at least worked very hard to turn into something more important which it never was, well after all that time we met for a drink, arranged by him, planned by him, decided by him–you get the idea of what I’m saying here. We met in a cafe in the city that a friend of his had suggested; the friend was from a small town upstate who had left the city a few years before for the suburbs. So here’s what I wanted to say about the suggestion: If you leave New York for five minutes, I can guarantee you that the great place where you had: beer, spaghetti, coffee, a around the world sex with whatever her name is will probably not be there and is so far off trend by this time that it won’t even show up on a search engine. So you’re better off asking someone who actually lives in the city where the best place is. But, like the jerk I always was, the one who WANTED to relate to him no matter what, I kept my anger about this all to myself. Until:
» Posted By sher On 09.25.2017 @ 2:32 pm
She found it in her brother’s room, where she was never supposed to be but where all the good things were. She knew some of his secrets. The books with the naked people playing volley ball on the beach and the things in wrappers that sounded like boots you wore out in the rains and the drawer with the Bible in it, where all the phone numbers were. He had a pitch pipe and a real pipe and he had seeds left for what he was smoking last week. He had combs, all kinds of combs, the ones with the big teeth and the missing teeth. He had cologne with a name that sounded like a boat and a note to someone he was talking to the phone in a whisper the other night–Joy. She talked loud, you could hear her voice all the way across the room jumping right out of the phone. And then she saw it. A small shiny thing full of holes in a little velvet box that looked like a jewelry box. She took it out and blew into it and it made so much more noise than she thought it would it made her jump and it flew out of her hand and hit the radiator, then fell behind it through the cracks into the floor where she couldn’t get it. She tried and tried but finally she had to stop because he would be coming back soon and how mad he would be if he found her here. Then, she waited. And waited. And waited for him to say something.
» Posted By sher On 09.19.2017 @ 2:47 pm
No matter what he is, you can hear him; you can smell his crappy cologne and the cigarettes he smokes and the booze he’s been guzzling since this morning, maybe even earlier. You can hear all the things he’s calling her that he says you’re not supposed to ever say; he’s a Catholic, he knows these things. He knows that God watches everything, except him putting his hands where they don’t belong and his cruelty where it hurts the most and all the things he does that push them all away. But he’s never happy with that. Pushing them away is not like pushing them all the way to the same hell he lives in. Nobody wants to go but the only way to survive is go to with him and hope that this trip won’t be as bad as some of the others or maybe he’ll just pass out and you won’t have to go with him at all. Like a snow day, but a soul day when you’re saved by something. Maybe they’ll put him in a straight jacket and shove him into a soundproof room which won’t do any good because even after he’s been dead for 50 years you’ll keep hearing him.
» Posted By sher On 09.12.2017 @ 12:38 pm
I have a dream, not a sleeping one, but a waking one. It comes to me all the time, not every day, but enough days for me to know that it still matters. I imagine myself going down to the mailbox, the kind you see in the country with the flags attached to them; the ones that you pull open to look inside, the ones that open like mouths to spill out all the gossip you do and don’t want to hear. And when I open the mailbox, instead of being full of garbage like flyers and coupons and bills and things you throw away with your eyes long before they hit the dustbin, there’s only one letter lying in there. A written letter from a person. And I don’t even have to reach in and pull it out to know who it’s from. Even from here, peering into the open mouth of the mailbox, I can see his small scratchy printing, the printing that used to life my soul up into the air, into the atmosphere. That printing I used to wait for months and days to see, that made wading all through the garbage worth it; that made me forget how long it had taken him to answer this time. And in this moment of imagining, I take out the letter and give the address with my name written there a good long look, like I always did. Looking to see if the way he wrote my name is any different from let’s say the way he writes the street address or the numbers; searching for any sign of what mood he was in when he wrote it but able to decipher nothing. But this time, I don’t do that. I take the letter in my hand and carry it up the driveway to the house and put it on the desk. Then I fish around in the top drawer for a clean white envelope, and slide his letter, unopened, in there. And carefully, I write his name and address, being sure that he can never decipher what I’m really thinking. I put a stamp on it, and instead of putting it back in the mailbox for the postman to take back, I walk for a mile to a mailbox, open the door and let the envelope slip from my fingers into the pile of other letters and thoughts and things sitting there in that box. Then I turn, and walk away. With tears in my eyes, of course.
» Posted By sher On 09.11.2017 @ 1:57 pm
Odd word. I think of the toilet tank. Filling and refilling it during the hurricane. A simple, easy thing to do compared with so many people who had to rebuild their lives and who still haven’t come back from it. We walked down 55 flights of stairs to safety. We were lucky.
» Posted By sher On 10.02.2013 @ 2:25 pm
What the hell does it mean, anyway? Opposite of laze.
» Posted By sher On 04.02.2012 @ 10:33 am
dark, sad, serious, black,
» Posted By Sher On 07.17.2008 @ 4:38 am
dark, sad, serious, black,
» Posted By Sher On 07.17.2008 @ 4:38 am
the place where things collide or pass each other depending on their trajectory, and if they stop or continue on thier path or not. Also used as a means to cross roads, railway lines, bodies of water. could mean to cross yourself as to invoke god to protect you from evil or evil doings.
» Posted By Sher On 06.30.2009 @ 8:53 am
pit. as in apricot pit or snake pit. Huge difference. one is so small and not dangerous, the other one could kill you. or it could be the pit of your stomach. sometimes when im nervous it hits in the pit of my stomach and that could be worse then a snake pit
» Posted By sher On 08.30.2009 @ 10:29 am
in a field
and they are plants with flowers i once picked a wild flower asking if it was planted and my mom told me that it just grows and i was puzzled. i wonder how they get there other than the wind its amazing to think that everything that isnt planted gets there by wind and air. seeds fly to grow the flower and its amazing
» Posted By sher On 09.11.2008 @ 1:01 pm
yellow and plastic looking, it needed to come down. she looked at it with dismay, and with a sigh, grabbed a lose piece and began to pull. it came off more easily than she thought.
» Posted By Sher On 12.21.2009 @ 8:37 pm
orchid is a flower.
i think its singapore flower.
anyway it isnt inportant..
cos im so cool yay!
» Posted By sher On 10.08.2009 @ 5:51 am
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» Posted By sher On 10.08.2009 @ 5:50 am