welcome to the baldie stories blog.

Maybe you're bald, maybe not, maybe you care, likely not; stories here, some funny, some not.

"Baldie Stories 1" now available for purchase - visit amazon Kindle today! click here; Baldie Stories 1
Stories used for publication of Baldie Stories 1 have been removed from this blog.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010


     Fat and round and pale from lack of sun, he was a giant pink meatball rolling through the yard. They pulled the wall down and used a two-by-ten to pry him out of the bathroom. You couldn't see his legs, just the pink feet sticking out of the ball of him. His fingers stuck out from the folds in his flesh, latched on to the stuff, a sign of fright as he rolled over and over. Only the top of his head protruded from his neck, a thin tuft of hair on top to tell you it was a head, not a blemish or another fold, like a cork, a flesh button. His eyes were buried on the inside of the outside of him.
     As a child he had been skinny, too skinny. At school they poked fun at him; the way his socks lay like suicides at his ankles, how his giant head of hair most likely weighed more than the rest of him - they'd tackle him to count his bones. That was another life, before he lost his hair and began eating.
     Now he was rolling, blindly, dangerously close to the road.
     A quick thinker, a bystander, jockeyed his pick-up like a bronco buster into position at just the right time, and with a loud "Thud!" gave the meatball a quarter-panel assist into the hole they'd dug for him.
     Like a cue ball in the corner pocket.
     Dry soil kicked up into a swirl and when it settled you could barely tell there'd been a hole to begin with.
That tuft of hair gave a little shift, followed by some low hum, maybe a muffled sigh, and that was the end of it.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

sculpture head

This story will be available in "Baldie Stories 1", through Kindle.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

baldie brawl

     I’m not six foot four, two hundred and sixty pounds of pure muscle. I’m not a tank or a truck or even a sedan. If you took a look at me maybe you’d say I was a tricycle or a scooter. I’m not saying I’m a roller skate - I’m slightly built. I’ve got a European cut. Let’s just say I’m not a very imposing guy when I pull up to a barstool.
     So how come every crazy-eyed dimwit out there wants to pick a fight with me?
     It’s not that I mind getting thrown around a bar now and then. I can take a beating without crying for mommy. I’ve even gotten a couple of punches in over the years; it’s just that I’m not interested in doing the bar room shuffle these days. I don’t pick fights. I’m a nice guy and I don’t, as my Uncle Louie says, “…give nobody no trouble!”
     But still they come at me.
     When I walk into a bar with my wife there’s always a bruiser or two with his knuckles on alert. It’s got to be my head, I’ve got a small head - it’s noticeable. When you don’t have hair and the head is rather small it’s out there for everyone to see. When a Neanderthal sees my head walking into a bar it looks to him like a big button that he’s got to push. He’s got to, even if he doesn’t want to.
     That’s animal instinct.
     They walk right up and step on my foot. They’ll try and make a comment. It doesn’t matter what they say. It doesn’t matter what I say. The first words out of my mouth are fighting words to them. Then it’s button-pushing time.
     My only advantage is that I know what’s coming. They don’t know that I know that they’re about to kick my ass. So I grab a bottle or a stool or an ashtray and strike first. It’s effective. Then, once they check the damage, they say something like, “Hey, what the hell’s your problem?” and the fight is on.
     Last month we had a real doozy of a fight. Local bars in Brooklyn are good for big four-on-one brawls.
     My wife and I and a few other friends went to visit a bartender we know at his new place in Brooklyn. It’s a dumpy joint but it had a bar and the drinks were cheap. We pull up some barstools and four young guys down on the end, local kids, get the scent of the small head right off the bat. I sized them up. Two of them are huge and one is the same size as me and the last looks like he fell out of a test tube early. All together, they didn’t look like they’d know how to tie a shoelace.
     Of course it’s test tube boy who’s going to put the rub on me while the others watch, back him up. That’s how it works with morons - the gimp is always the boss.
     I ordered a beer quickly and got the bottle ready in my fist.
     Before I even got to crack him in the head the gimp said, “Hey, what’s the matter, you don’t like our music?”
     I looked at my friend. He held up his cell phone and I gave him the nod. That means dial 911, we’re going to need an ambulance. He dialed.
     “Look,” I said politely, “We just walked in. Can’t you give me just a few minutes to warm up?”
     “Yeah?” he replied, truly to stupid for words, “Well you know what?”
     “No, what?” I asked, plainly.
     “Your girl here is a dog.” He snorted, scratched his head and added, “My friend says she looks like a whore! How’s that?”
     “That’s swell,” I replied with restrain. I figured we had a couple of minutes of this kind of thing before the ambulance showed. If I said something to piss him off his friends would have made a taco out of me on the spot.
     “Yeah?” he smirked, turning to his friends to make sure they weren’t lost.
     “…And?” I asked.
     “And you, you little shit! You’re a little shit!” His voice pulled way up at the end of the word, he strained the muscles in his neck to say it. He was up on tippy-toes.
     “You’re a stupid, cheap, ugly, little shit and your girlfriend is ugly - and your friends are a bunch of wimps!”
     “Ok...” I said. The time had come. I had the bottle in swing position and the comforting sound of sirens came to me from off in the distance.
     “Don’t hurt my feelings,” I said, leaning in on the gimp.
     He looked me up and down. His friends got up and stood behind him.
     “Oh yeah!” he shouted, searching, “You’re girl is a whore… You - you stupid shit! – You stupid bald shit!”
     “BALD shit?”
     That caught me by surprise. “BALD?”
     I raised the bottle. The ambulance came screeching up to the door.
     I leapt off the stool.
     It took about five minutes for them to get me off him. Meanwhile the big guys made a pretzel out of me from above, but I wouldn’t let go of the little guy. The cops were there, the ambulance was waiting and my friends had moved outside for safety. When they finally pulled me out of the bar it was on a stretcher. I could have tried to walk but why fight the pain? When you’re beat you’re beat.
     The cops were trying to figure out whom to cuff. The local boys weren’t being razzed to hard. They seemed to think that I was the troublemaker. That was apparent as they loaded me into the ambulance.
     My wife tried to climb in but the cops stopped her.
     “Are you ok?” she asked, a little disgusted.
     “How’s the little guy?” I said, with a broken smile. “I think I made him swallow that bottle.”
     “You’re going to have to stop this you know.”
     “Me? Me?” I said, stunned at the accusation.
     “You can’t keep getting in fights because some jerk says something to you.”
     “Did you hear what he said? You heard what he said! Let me up!”
     “If you try to get up they’re going to cuff you.”
     “I heard the little guy call that big cop Uncle Frank,” she said with a nod to the cop car.
     “That’s not good, is it?”
“But he called me bald...”
“Yeah, and he called me a whore…” She said, inspecting the fingernails on her left hand.
“I know,” I replied, “but calling me bald..?”
She turned her attention to the other hand and remained silent.
“I’m not bald, am I? Not completely bald …Right?”
They slipped me into the ambulance. Two cops climbed in with me. They didn’t look pleased. One of them had his handcuffs out.

Friday, March 12, 2010

spam reply

     My name is Rolando Le Roar, your personal vacation planner. I am writing this email in response to your recent on-line inquiry regarding our cruise packages here at Circus Cruise Lines. Please contact me directly with any questions you may have regarding our package plans. If you are not interested in our packages, please send an email in response, to the above address or write directly to....

     Dear Rolando,
     Funny, that's about the hundredth e-mail I've received from you.
     To tell you the truth, I don't recall making any inquiry into Circus Cruise Lines, however, now that you mention it, I do have a question; do have any theme cruises for balding men?
     Do you?
     Do you have cruise packages for balding men and their families?
     I'd pay to see that.
     If you don't I can suggest a few theme opportunities, a couple of real laughers, cause there's nothing funnier than a room full of half-balding men, drunk off their keesters, wondering when their wives will finally get tired of all that sheen and squinting, not to mention the whining and complaining, and that brings us to the follies - a couple of barrels of tar and feathers, a few young guys with rock-star hair to get the ladies sharpened up - and the kids, some schnauzers, duct-tape, I'm not suggesting...
     I have ideas! We should get together, you and I - where you based? I can come and visit, I got time, a little time, between parole meetings, I'd love to stop by and discuss the whole thing - how's your hair by the way? I got some good stuff my dear old dad sold me before he went missing.
     I really don't remember sending any inquiries; I may try to Google you, maybe look you up, track you down, I'm a late night kind of guy, spend a lot of hours blinking in the mirror, listening to my wife snore - Yeah, I think I'll look you up, just to touch back on all the kind emails you've been sending me lately!
see you soon,
your friend,
Creepy Keester

Thursday, March 11, 2010


     "Oh," I said, swaying to the left, "thought you were a gnome, I mean, you looked like a gnome when this tin can lurched - when the lights flashed."
     Funny, right? She was way too tall to be a gnome, and all that long black hair, like a hundred tiny funeral processions hanging down her back - all the way to her boots, Ooooh! Scary black boots! Scary mascara! I could see it all in the reflection of the subway car window each time the lights dimmed and brightened; she was staring at herself, liking what she saw, too much, way too much, and then I said,
     "You got what tattooed on your knuckles?"
     And she said;
     "It was supposed to say ALOHA!, a small kindness to myself, I am not kind enough to myself, so it was supposed to..." and she trailed off, shook a finger at her black lipsticked mouth.
     "But it went wrong..." Then clucking like a duck she said, "And now when you read it backwards it says 'A-hole!'"
     The not-gnome said into the dark spot in the window, "Why do you ask?"
     "Well, it's that hair, you see."
     "It grows," she said, "every time I smile, usually when I lie, usually at your expense."
     "Huh? My expense? Did you say my expense?"
     "Sorry," she smiled, "I mis-spoke."
     We'll," I said as the subway car swung into West 4, "sorry for thinking you were a gnome."
     "Oh, it's nothing," she smiled again, her hair visibly lengthened. And before I could ask another question the car shook, small fluorescent cracks and chrome lightning shone in the darkness and she was transformed once again into the gnome.
     Just then another man, balding, lean and nervous, stepped up to the gnome and said, "Pardon me, didn't I know you once?"
     And the not-gnome appeared again with a flash and said, "You must be mistaken."
     In the dim light of the subway car I could see her long black hair suddenly grow just a bit, a tiny bit longer.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


     In early dynastic Egypt it was the custom for people to shave off all their body hair: Men, women, children – everyone. Naked shave, head to toe. Think about it, it’s the desert - so damned hot!
     I like the idea. No hair for anyone.
     The Egyptians knew how to run an empire. And I know what you’re thinking: “Wait a minute, what about Cleopatra? And the rest of them with long hair running down to their waists, and what about those guys with long, pointy beards?” I tell you this - Wigs and stick-on beards.
     You think I’m making it up? Do your own research, see who’s right.
     It’s pretty kinky too, if you want to know the truth.
     The barbers had all the luck: They’d fill a room with men and women, get them in their birthday suits and lather them, top to bottom, with shaving cream. There’s something you don’t get on cable!
     And they didn’t wear much either. Some flimsy, diaphanous cloth wrapped around the body once and that was that. It makes you wonder how they got anything done. Who’s got time to build a pyramid when everyone’s running around shaved and naked?
     It sounds good.
     Of course they did some human sacrificing, buried a few people alive, chopped up the dead and hid their body parts all over the place. Little things that might make you clench your teeth a bit, but hell, there’s a price to pay for paradise, right?
     Sure, prayed to dog-gods - serpents, bugs, grass, whatever - suits me fine. If you told me I wouldn’t have to worry about my balding head – that I’d get to run around naked, shaved, a tropical Eden - even-steven with everyone else, I’d pray to a cockroach.
     I would.
     When I tell my friends they get worried. They think I’d sell my soul for a good time. I tell them God would forgive me. I’m going out to buy a cordless razor, we’ll see who knows what.