From Each According To His Amperage
On Saturday I jumped two helpless guys on Ridge as people sat in their cars and watched. The traffic backed up to the corner of Stanton. What could they do, honk at me?
I had been jumped (not successfully) a couple of weeks previous over on Norfolk, across from the school. Before walking away, looking down at my dejected mug the guy had said, don't worry about it, it happens to all of us. As if that was going to make me feel better. I was beat, going nowhere, dead on the street. I never even got in a punch.
So jumping the guys on Ridge seemed like the thing to do. You know, payback. They were not deserving of their situation but things happen for a reason. And in the end not a one of the spectators even honked. Because they could tell I meant business. Like I would be out jumping people if they didn't deserve it. The two guys were helpless. Isn't that reason enough to jump someone?
The gods looked down and smiled on me for jumping the helpless, and after one more pass around a group of blocks that had for all previous passes given up nothing, the rarest thing happened--two spaces opened on Suffolk, one viewable from the other, offering the full range of parking possibility as they were, separated by Rivington, one on the left and one on the right. I backed parallel fashion into the one on the left while the two men I had jumped, now less than helpless, and empowered by a minor Marxist moment, revved their engine on Ridge.
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Comparing Mattresses
I drive a route these days from NYC to Virginia and then down to North Carolina, along the eastern edge of that mountain range that runs from upstate New York to Georgia. On I-78 to I-81 to I-66 to 512 to 211 and then from 211 to 231 to 29 to 86 to 49 and back again, stopping in Virginia long enough each way to do a couple of chores at Mt. Pleasant and let my erector spinae rejuvenate from the horror of that cheap mattress on the floor of my N. Carolina house, a mattress so crappy that even the long time renters, who by all appearances loved their junk, eschewed its removal to their new digs.
Bernadette travels with me on some of these trips and while not a complainer by nature she did find justifiable reason to cry out near the end of our most recent one week stay at the NC rental house from hell, oh God I will be glad to sleep on a real mattress. I was in too much pain myself to have much sympathy for her but once on the road back north I did, after musing over proper wording and convincing myself that concession is not weakness, admit, you know, you are right about that mattress.
Arriving back at Mt. Pleasant we picked up Bill Macy, whom we had kidnapped out of NYC and along with a bag of groceries and a six foot extending duster mop, dropped in Virginia, placing him in charge of caretaker duties while we were in NC. We took him to dinner and mentioned hardly at all his 40th birthday spent alone on the hill, with only an overweight kitty and a few suicidal deer to break up the monotony of his solitary confinement.
Before dinner, while driving up through Nelson County, VA. under a dimly lit gray/blue sky, I was feeling while looking beyond the occasional back and forth movement of wiper blades, that winter is perhaps the loveliest time of the year to be driving through these forested mountains. With the leaves fallen are exposed vistas not seen the rest of the year and the relentless green is replaced with shades and shadows more subtle and seductive. And there is a sense of relief from the claustrophobic intensity of life lived in a maze. There is at least the insinuation, by being able to see so much farther in all directions, that the road you are on is not the only one there is, or to my thinking, perhaps even better, that you don't need to be on a road at all.
Before Nelson County, on the edge of Lynchburg, we passed a coffee hut, on the other side of the road, and it promised a product voted best coffee, without reference to who did the voting or how big a region they were claiming. By the time we were able to make the U-turn behind a long line of cars, the little coffee hut had its own line, so while I admit I was a little bit frantic and crazy sounding while ranting to Bernadette, I can't believe we have just made this effort for a latte, at the same time I was hopeful, due to the traffic in front of us, that this might really be some good product. But it wasn't. And a few miles later, while tapping the plastic top on her latte, when Bernadette mused, you know what the problem here is? I was so overwhelmed by the possible responses in existence that I made her pause and give me time to think of a good one and then I asked her to take it from the top, but her brain moves so fast she was already onto politics or something and she repeated something of that vein, and I said, no, no, the other thing, about what the problem is, and so she lobbed me one, and repeated do you know what the problem is? And I said, that I listen to you? I should have choked up on the bat more, I think I could have really hit this one out of the park but instead it was a long fly ball that bounced off the foul pole, back into the field of play, and was caught by the right fielder. About 20 miles up the road, on the edged of Lovington, we stopped at a hippie bookshop and bought a double shot of espresso to add to the lattes but they were still not so good and we drove on, arriving in Charlottesville for rush hour, which we drove through without much aggravation, because we both knew we were nearing the home stretch, and a home with a much better mattress.
I drive a route these days from NYC to Virginia and then down to North Carolina, along the eastern edge of that mountain range that runs from upstate New York to Georgia. On I-78 to I-81 to I-66 to 512 to 211 and then from 211 to 231 to 29 to 86 to 49 and back again, stopping in Virginia long enough each way to do a couple of chores at Mt. Pleasant and let my erector spinae rejuvenate from the horror of that cheap mattress on the floor of my N. Carolina house, a mattress so crappy that even the long time renters, who by all appearances loved their junk, eschewed its removal to their new digs.
Bernadette travels with me on some of these trips and while not a complainer by nature she did find justifiable reason to cry out near the end of our most recent one week stay at the NC rental house from hell, oh God I will be glad to sleep on a real mattress. I was in too much pain myself to have much sympathy for her but once on the road back north I did, after musing over proper wording and convincing myself that concession is not weakness, admit, you know, you are right about that mattress.
Arriving back at Mt. Pleasant we picked up Bill Macy, whom we had kidnapped out of NYC and along with a bag of groceries and a six foot extending duster mop, dropped in Virginia, placing him in charge of caretaker duties while we were in NC. We took him to dinner and mentioned hardly at all his 40th birthday spent alone on the hill, with only an overweight kitty and a few suicidal deer to break up the monotony of his solitary confinement.
Before dinner, while driving up through Nelson County, VA. under a dimly lit gray/blue sky, I was feeling while looking beyond the occasional back and forth movement of wiper blades, that winter is perhaps the loveliest time of the year to be driving through these forested mountains. With the leaves fallen are exposed vistas not seen the rest of the year and the relentless green is replaced with shades and shadows more subtle and seductive. And there is a sense of relief from the claustrophobic intensity of life lived in a maze. There is at least the insinuation, by being able to see so much farther in all directions, that the road you are on is not the only one there is, or to my thinking, perhaps even better, that you don't need to be on a road at all.
Before Nelson County, on the edge of Lynchburg, we passed a coffee hut, on the other side of the road, and it promised a product voted best coffee, without reference to who did the voting or how big a region they were claiming. By the time we were able to make the U-turn behind a long line of cars, the little coffee hut had its own line, so while I admit I was a little bit frantic and crazy sounding while ranting to Bernadette, I can't believe we have just made this effort for a latte, at the same time I was hopeful, due to the traffic in front of us, that this might really be some good product. But it wasn't. And a few miles later, while tapping the plastic top on her latte, when Bernadette mused, you know what the problem here is? I was so overwhelmed by the possible responses in existence that I made her pause and give me time to think of a good one and then I asked her to take it from the top, but her brain moves so fast she was already onto politics or something and she repeated something of that vein, and I said, no, no, the other thing, about what the problem is, and so she lobbed me one, and repeated do you know what the problem is? And I said, that I listen to you? I should have choked up on the bat more, I think I could have really hit this one out of the park but instead it was a long fly ball that bounced off the foul pole, back into the field of play, and was caught by the right fielder. About 20 miles up the road, on the edged of Lovington, we stopped at a hippie bookshop and bought a double shot of espresso to add to the lattes but they were still not so good and we drove on, arriving in Charlottesville for rush hour, which we drove through without much aggravation, because we both knew we were nearing the home stretch, and a home with a much better mattress.
Leaf Dealer
I am--after the repair to about 50 square feet of sub floor--finally getting around to the actual laying of the vinyl for the kitchen in the Fence Post, N. Carolina rental property. Bernadette is here with me asking if she can help with final prep and I have just gotten off the phone with the woman from the flooring place, who informed me that the Congoleum is in and that my voicemail doesn't work.
But first I have to go outside and rake those leaf piles--over the one acre I have deemed to be a leaf-free zone--onto a large tarp and drag that tarp however many times to the garden behind the house. Then I can set them on fire, which is my favorite part, except for it reminding me of setting a small part of the woods on fire 14 years ago.
I was yesterday out there with a leaf blower for a few hours before good neighbor Johnny Woodman, taking pity, came over and said--You wanna borrow my Billy Goat? Let it be said now that although up to that moment I had no knowledge of this brand I did know what he was talking about. I have noticed this year that all serious leaf gatherers have a device that rolls along your wide open areas and shoots air from a chute at ground level, with most impressive velocity.
I told Johnny I sure would like to borrow it and he before departing neatly dressed for a church event, left it in his front yard along with a can filled with that morning's offerings from his hens. He had told me that those back pack leaf blowers like I had been using were good for blowing out flower beds but that was about all. After using his Billy Goat for a few minutes I was very much in agreement with his assessment.
This morning I made the coffee because it has been determined that I am good at it, and Bernadette scrambled up those fresh eggs. I washed the eggs first after reminding her that they came out of a chicken butt. She mentioned the other likely area they came from and as it turns out we were both right, they came from the cloaca, which is a dual purpose orifice. In a separate pan she fried up some pig jowel bacon and we had a proper breakfast. Now I am going outside to deal with those leaves.
I am--after the repair to about 50 square feet of sub floor--finally getting around to the actual laying of the vinyl for the kitchen in the Fence Post, N. Carolina rental property. Bernadette is here with me asking if she can help with final prep and I have just gotten off the phone with the woman from the flooring place, who informed me that the Congoleum is in and that my voicemail doesn't work.
But first I have to go outside and rake those leaf piles--over the one acre I have deemed to be a leaf-free zone--onto a large tarp and drag that tarp however many times to the garden behind the house. Then I can set them on fire, which is my favorite part, except for it reminding me of setting a small part of the woods on fire 14 years ago.
I was yesterday out there with a leaf blower for a few hours before good neighbor Johnny Woodman, taking pity, came over and said--You wanna borrow my Billy Goat? Let it be said now that although up to that moment I had no knowledge of this brand I did know what he was talking about. I have noticed this year that all serious leaf gatherers have a device that rolls along your wide open areas and shoots air from a chute at ground level, with most impressive velocity.
I told Johnny I sure would like to borrow it and he before departing neatly dressed for a church event, left it in his front yard along with a can filled with that morning's offerings from his hens. He had told me that those back pack leaf blowers like I had been using were good for blowing out flower beds but that was about all. After using his Billy Goat for a few minutes I was very much in agreement with his assessment.
This morning I made the coffee because it has been determined that I am good at it, and Bernadette scrambled up those fresh eggs. I washed the eggs first after reminding her that they came out of a chicken butt. She mentioned the other likely area they came from and as it turns out we were both right, they came from the cloaca, which is a dual purpose orifice. In a separate pan she fried up some pig jowel bacon and we had a proper breakfast. Now I am going outside to deal with those leaves.
Still Working On The English
On the corner pressed up against his work with his back to the street the man with a 4 inch brush stroked aluminum paint from left to right across the galvanized security shutters. A constant flow of humanity passed behind him, every other person pushing a baby carriage and every other carriage containing groceries. Some, those without babies or groceries, stopped to talk. One man told him he had paint in his house and that he used gasoline to clean his brushes. A woman told him he should rub the shutters down with grease so the graffiti wouldn't stick to it. Another man ask him for a job. The owner brought him an espresso. When he moved his drop cloths he covered up a wad of spit. A Puerto Rican man said he should have Mexicans doing his painting for him. The man, himself an American, was unclear about why he should do that. A little banger walking by with a group of shorties said he could do a better job and the man said next time you will. Another banger walked by and said, oh that look nice, and the man turned to briefly glance at this other man who he guessed would be the first one to tag the shiny new surface. And everyone wanted him to know his effort would not stop the vandals. He agreed it would not but mostly he didn't care whether it did or didn't. He just wished the taggers would take a little more pride in their work. He didn't paint over tags that showed heart. But Joey, come on Joey, maybe you can't do better but you should try. The man earlier in the week had removed with lacquer thinner Joey from a blue metal door up in the next block. The Puerto Rican man came by again and pointing said you missed a spot. A deluded man rushing along said come on, you the owner, you should let people from the neighborhood do your work. A fellow heading towards Delancey said he would do it for free and the man said, I'm doing it for free, but he was not being sincere. That great majority that didn't address him, moved along the sidewalk speaking in Spanish or Chinese. Two Chinese men did speak to him though, one asking directions by pointing to an address on a piece of paper and the other asking if restaurant open. No open he said to the one man and looking at the paper held by the other man he did a double arcing motion with his silver splattered hand and pointed west, hoping this elderly man would find the nearby Suffolk St. In the future, in the unlikely event anyone ever ask him if he spoke Chinese, he would say, a little.
On the corner pressed up against his work with his back to the street the man with a 4 inch brush stroked aluminum paint from left to right across the galvanized security shutters. A constant flow of humanity passed behind him, every other person pushing a baby carriage and every other carriage containing groceries. Some, those without babies or groceries, stopped to talk. One man told him he had paint in his house and that he used gasoline to clean his brushes. A woman told him he should rub the shutters down with grease so the graffiti wouldn't stick to it. Another man ask him for a job. The owner brought him an espresso. When he moved his drop cloths he covered up a wad of spit. A Puerto Rican man said he should have Mexicans doing his painting for him. The man, himself an American, was unclear about why he should do that. A little banger walking by with a group of shorties said he could do a better job and the man said next time you will. Another banger walked by and said, oh that look nice, and the man turned to briefly glance at this other man who he guessed would be the first one to tag the shiny new surface. And everyone wanted him to know his effort would not stop the vandals. He agreed it would not but mostly he didn't care whether it did or didn't. He just wished the taggers would take a little more pride in their work. He didn't paint over tags that showed heart. But Joey, come on Joey, maybe you can't do better but you should try. The man earlier in the week had removed with lacquer thinner Joey from a blue metal door up in the next block. The Puerto Rican man came by again and pointing said you missed a spot. A deluded man rushing along said come on, you the owner, you should let people from the neighborhood do your work. A fellow heading towards Delancey said he would do it for free and the man said, I'm doing it for free, but he was not being sincere. That great majority that didn't address him, moved along the sidewalk speaking in Spanish or Chinese. Two Chinese men did speak to him though, one asking directions by pointing to an address on a piece of paper and the other asking if restaurant open. No open he said to the one man and looking at the paper held by the other man he did a double arcing motion with his silver splattered hand and pointed west, hoping this elderly man would find the nearby Suffolk St. In the future, in the unlikely event anyone ever ask him if he spoke Chinese, he would say, a little.