OTHER

They’re bargain basement bimbos, checkout chicks: they know me, but I don’t recall their names. “Good morning, sir!” Oh, no – the same old fix! Unrecognizable, these dime-store dames! Guess Karen? Sharon? Best not play those games. Ignore her utterly? I wouldn’t dare. Don’t get me wrong – I’m nobody’s Ving Rhames, George Clooney neither. Pass me on the stair, You’d hardly notice me. I’m barely there! If I played Center for the New York Knicks, or had the chutzpah of a Jesse James, I’d understand it. Big in politics? No. Humble teacher, me. I have no claims to specialness. My somewhat boring aims include (the sort of thing you, too, will share) avoiding small embarrassments and shames, to get through life unbuffeted by care. Why hit with “Hello, Sir”? It isn’t fair! But girls are all extensions, highlights, flicks, and knowing this protects me from the flames! I scrutinize her curls and bangs and licks, and then I say, to cast away all blames, and neutralize the misery that maims, “It’s you!! I’ve always loved the tops you wear! Are those new glasses? I adore those frames!” (It works, if you apply a little flair! And then the clincher.) “Have you changed your hair?”