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Jumping Jiminy Cats
One Of The Five
First its too hot for October then its about right but relatively speaking colder than shit which makes no sense comparing weather to fecal matter. Then its windy hear the chimes do they sound any different than they did in Dallas. Once you had a cat then you didn't then you did then you didn't then you did now you do its over there looking on. A single chime implies some wind the barking dog I thought was dead. I heard a car go by there must be people its hard to tell when there are so few of them. Yeah there are crickets and mooing cows. I can remember this doing this years ago and here I am doing it again. There are only about five different ways to go about it.
First its too hot for October then its about right but relatively speaking colder than shit which makes no sense comparing weather to fecal matter. Then its windy hear the chimes do they sound any different than they did in Dallas. Once you had a cat then you didn't then you did then you didn't then you did now you do its over there looking on. A single chime implies some wind the barking dog I thought was dead. I heard a car go by there must be people its hard to tell when there are so few of them. Yeah there are crickets and mooing cows. I can remember this doing this years ago and here I am doing it again. There are only about five different ways to go about it.
Which One Next
North Front Street in Harrisburg does not suffer from its lack of snaking alongside the Susquehanna River. It runs straight and true with nary a pothole to dodge.
The caretaker was taking a break from the task of avoiding duty and although arguably benefited by the absence of his kitten, who on the previous trip had heaved up wet, soggy kibble into his lap, still felt the missing of some key ingredient to happiness. Was he suffering from more of the same wanderlust that as a toddler had him unlocking gates and crawling across six lane thoroughfares, as unlikely a hitchhiker as any passing motorist had ever seen? Was it congenital, this need to move away from the familiar? Should he surmise that his mother and father had felt the same needs, even as they carried out the functions of his upbringing? Perhaps there was some comfort in this notion.
The river to his right was wide but low and hard to imagine as a raging force that could on occasion rise up 12 to 15 feet and flood the lower lying finely built homes of historic Harrisburg.
The caretaker passed by all the neatly maintained stone and brick buildings and up a ramp onto I-83. After merging into traffic he exited immediately, onto 13th Street, took a right on Sycamore and drove until it dead ended into a parking lot for a driver training school. At the first available turnoff he pulled into what looked like another giant parking lot, and, in front of two people being taught proper driving skills, made an illegal U-turn and traversed back out the way he came.
Driving in this higher elevated part of town above the network of train tracks which cuts Harrisburg in two, the caretaker noticed the people in cars alongside him represented an ethnic diversity which he lately had been missing. And there was, like in another highly flood prone town in which he had once lived, a blending of poverty and wealth, one very near the other and each unpredictable in its breadth.
In a commercial district of fast food restaurants and used car lots and rent-to-own businesses, he turned corners where rising up before him were grandly designed structures from the last century, apparently abandoned.
The caretaker was in search of an historical perspective as represented by architecture. He had once subscribed wholly to the notion of the here and now, but was lately feeling limited by this concept. He wanted some of the then in his here and now. Trying to piece together some meaning from all the ideas floating around in his head he said out loud, Yesterday's now is today's past. Tomorrow's yesterday is now. There is no time like the present.
Not to be bridled by his disdain for the Harley's chain of fast food restaurants, he stopped into one so he could use the restroom and while there ordered a cheeseburger, which, when unwrapped, appeared every bit as appetizing as the wads of phlegm in the cigarette clogged urinal. He ate some of it anyway, until gagging on a bitter and rubbery pickle he decided his use of the restroom did not warrant this punishment by cheeseburger.
He had heard about a three story Victorian with an unattached three car garage on sale for $12,000, but he wasn't sure where it was and he hoped to just run into it by accident. The seller was motivated, which was more than he could say for himself. He imagined meeting the seller and saying, nice to meet you, I understand you are motivated, I am restless. But instead of finding the three story Victorian he kept driving by the same set of ramshackle row houses and began to feel intimidated by the casual glaring from teenage boys on porches.
It was hard for the caretaker to get a handle on just what motivated Harrisburg to keep on chugging. It was the state capital but beyond that he was uncertain about what made it tick. For almost 60 years it has been experiencing a negative population growth. There was an irony not lost on the caretaker that one of Harrisburg's more lively downtown restaurants was called The Quarter, as in French Quarter. The caretaker had left New Orleans a couple of years before the water had its way there. He was currently residing in a small Virginia town that appeared on track to preserve its tranquility by forcing out everyone but the richest of the rich. It was beginning to appear as if the caretaker was attracted to troubled communities, but as so many of them existed, it was hard to choose which one next.
North Front Street in Harrisburg does not suffer from its lack of snaking alongside the Susquehanna River. It runs straight and true with nary a pothole to dodge.
The caretaker was taking a break from the task of avoiding duty and although arguably benefited by the absence of his kitten, who on the previous trip had heaved up wet, soggy kibble into his lap, still felt the missing of some key ingredient to happiness. Was he suffering from more of the same wanderlust that as a toddler had him unlocking gates and crawling across six lane thoroughfares, as unlikely a hitchhiker as any passing motorist had ever seen? Was it congenital, this need to move away from the familiar? Should he surmise that his mother and father had felt the same needs, even as they carried out the functions of his upbringing? Perhaps there was some comfort in this notion.
The river to his right was wide but low and hard to imagine as a raging force that could on occasion rise up 12 to 15 feet and flood the lower lying finely built homes of historic Harrisburg.
The caretaker passed by all the neatly maintained stone and brick buildings and up a ramp onto I-83. After merging into traffic he exited immediately, onto 13th Street, took a right on Sycamore and drove until it dead ended into a parking lot for a driver training school. At the first available turnoff he pulled into what looked like another giant parking lot, and, in front of two people being taught proper driving skills, made an illegal U-turn and traversed back out the way he came.
Driving in this higher elevated part of town above the network of train tracks which cuts Harrisburg in two, the caretaker noticed the people in cars alongside him represented an ethnic diversity which he lately had been missing. And there was, like in another highly flood prone town in which he had once lived, a blending of poverty and wealth, one very near the other and each unpredictable in its breadth.
In a commercial district of fast food restaurants and used car lots and rent-to-own businesses, he turned corners where rising up before him were grandly designed structures from the last century, apparently abandoned.
The caretaker was in search of an historical perspective as represented by architecture. He had once subscribed wholly to the notion of the here and now, but was lately feeling limited by this concept. He wanted some of the then in his here and now. Trying to piece together some meaning from all the ideas floating around in his head he said out loud, Yesterday's now is today's past. Tomorrow's yesterday is now. There is no time like the present.
Not to be bridled by his disdain for the Harley's chain of fast food restaurants, he stopped into one so he could use the restroom and while there ordered a cheeseburger, which, when unwrapped, appeared every bit as appetizing as the wads of phlegm in the cigarette clogged urinal. He ate some of it anyway, until gagging on a bitter and rubbery pickle he decided his use of the restroom did not warrant this punishment by cheeseburger.
He had heard about a three story Victorian with an unattached three car garage on sale for $12,000, but he wasn't sure where it was and he hoped to just run into it by accident. The seller was motivated, which was more than he could say for himself. He imagined meeting the seller and saying, nice to meet you, I understand you are motivated, I am restless. But instead of finding the three story Victorian he kept driving by the same set of ramshackle row houses and began to feel intimidated by the casual glaring from teenage boys on porches.
It was hard for the caretaker to get a handle on just what motivated Harrisburg to keep on chugging. It was the state capital but beyond that he was uncertain about what made it tick. For almost 60 years it has been experiencing a negative population growth. There was an irony not lost on the caretaker that one of Harrisburg's more lively downtown restaurants was called The Quarter, as in French Quarter. The caretaker had left New Orleans a couple of years before the water had its way there. He was currently residing in a small Virginia town that appeared on track to preserve its tranquility by forcing out everyone but the richest of the rich. It was beginning to appear as if the caretaker was attracted to troubled communities, but as so many of them existed, it was hard to choose which one next.
The Kitten And The Meat Grinder
I was complaining about a hangnail until I heard about the man with his arm stuck in a meat grinder. This morning I started the day by reading about a Rhode Island man who for two hours had his arm stuck in a meat grinder, up to his shoulder. It was a short article without much information but how much more information do you really need? If I said to you I have my arm stuck in a meat grinder would you ask me where I grew up, are my eyes brown or black, how tall am I? Also, I was struck by the comment that the police spokesman did not know the extent of the man's injuries. The man's arm was stuck in a meat grinder, up to his shoulder. To me, the extent of his injuries would seem rather obvious. I think it was a reporters fault for asking the question and the police spokesman just could not think of any way to respond, so he said he did not know. The man was reportedly coherent and talking throughout the ordeal so another throw away question would be--Is the man a tough sumabitch?
In contrast, I'm getting a kitten today. It has been many years since I've owned a kitten. They did not have pet super stores the last time I owned a kitten. I was in one today. I bought some cat food and a cat water cooler. No, no, I did buy the kitten food. I bought the expensive, scientifically formulated kitten kibble, but only the small bag, in case kitten does not like it. Then I can go back and choose between five or six other brands and as many flavors. The wife of the man who is bringing the kitten and some pizza and beer just before kickoff for the Saints/Indianapolis game told him to tell me some of the things kitten would need, and the short list included a bed. Kitten is not getting a bed. I got him the water cooler instead.
I was complaining about a hangnail until I heard about the man with his arm stuck in a meat grinder. This morning I started the day by reading about a Rhode Island man who for two hours had his arm stuck in a meat grinder, up to his shoulder. It was a short article without much information but how much more information do you really need? If I said to you I have my arm stuck in a meat grinder would you ask me where I grew up, are my eyes brown or black, how tall am I? Also, I was struck by the comment that the police spokesman did not know the extent of the man's injuries. The man's arm was stuck in a meat grinder, up to his shoulder. To me, the extent of his injuries would seem rather obvious. I think it was a reporters fault for asking the question and the police spokesman just could not think of any way to respond, so he said he did not know. The man was reportedly coherent and talking throughout the ordeal so another throw away question would be--Is the man a tough sumabitch?
In contrast, I'm getting a kitten today. It has been many years since I've owned a kitten. They did not have pet super stores the last time I owned a kitten. I was in one today. I bought some cat food and a cat water cooler. No, no, I did buy the kitten food. I bought the expensive, scientifically formulated kitten kibble, but only the small bag, in case kitten does not like it. Then I can go back and choose between five or six other brands and as many flavors. The wife of the man who is bringing the kitten and some pizza and beer just before kickoff for the Saints/Indianapolis game told him to tell me some of the things kitten would need, and the short list included a bed. Kitten is not getting a bed. I got him the water cooler instead.
Shenandoah Brooktrout
Up To Ninety
Drove into DC Wednesday to see the new Hopper exhibit at the National Gallery. The exhibit does not actually start until mid September but I'm not one of those anal retentive types that has to know exactly when and where everything starts. Bernadette knew it was there or was going to be there and that is good enough for me. I checked online and remember glancing at the end date--I thought it most important that we not be late--and I was comforted by seeing something that ended with a 2008. We had plenty of time. We would not be late. In truth, I am a little anal retentive about being on time. Not that that by itself is such a good thing because once I arrive on time I feel no compulsion whatsoever to make good use of that time. If I can find a comfortable chair I might enjoy hours just staring into a corner contemplating all the degrees that add up to 90. And the shading therein.
I called BC from the road and he said he may like to join us so that was a thing I looked forward to while I worried for nothing about finding convenient parking. We found a nice spot right on Constitution Ave. and I called back and got his Blackberry. Speak slowly it instructed me because my voice message was to be miraculously transcribed to written words BC could look at on a screen. I have previous experience with the miracle so I knew it was best not to overtax the technology's capacity. I said, very slowly, Edward Hopper. He would know that we were at the National looking at Hoppers. I called back about thirty minutes later and slowly like a sleepy drunk said, No Hopper. I never did hear from him and wonder even now, two days later, is he roaming that vast cool marbled maze for art loving mice and men, staying to the edges and peeping up every once in a while--I don't see the Hopper, Jim? Bernadette?
Drove into DC Wednesday to see the new Hopper exhibit at the National Gallery. The exhibit does not actually start until mid September but I'm not one of those anal retentive types that has to know exactly when and where everything starts. Bernadette knew it was there or was going to be there and that is good enough for me. I checked online and remember glancing at the end date--I thought it most important that we not be late--and I was comforted by seeing something that ended with a 2008. We had plenty of time. We would not be late. In truth, I am a little anal retentive about being on time. Not that that by itself is such a good thing because once I arrive on time I feel no compulsion whatsoever to make good use of that time. If I can find a comfortable chair I might enjoy hours just staring into a corner contemplating all the degrees that add up to 90. And the shading therein.
I called BC from the road and he said he may like to join us so that was a thing I looked forward to while I worried for nothing about finding convenient parking. We found a nice spot right on Constitution Ave. and I called back and got his Blackberry. Speak slowly it instructed me because my voice message was to be miraculously transcribed to written words BC could look at on a screen. I have previous experience with the miracle so I knew it was best not to overtax the technology's capacity. I said, very slowly, Edward Hopper. He would know that we were at the National looking at Hoppers. I called back about thirty minutes later and slowly like a sleepy drunk said, No Hopper. I never did hear from him and wonder even now, two days later, is he roaming that vast cool marbled maze for art loving mice and men, staying to the edges and peeping up every once in a while--I don't see the Hopper, Jim? Bernadette?
Left My Water Pump In PA
On the off ramp waiting for the light to change a man driving up the on ramp alarmingly gestured that I was leaking antifreeze. I nodded and started to make the left but Bernadette told me the light was still red. I waited for the light to turn green, made the left and then the first right and parked under a big floppy-leafed shade tree in Hellertown, PA. Bernadette and I exited the vehicle and the leaves overhead were like damp green washcloths mopping away from our brows any worry. We would live under the shade tree, abandoning at least temporarily any other plans that threatened to inhibit our new found good fortune.
In short time, recovering from ill-conceived and unrealistic expectations regarding life under shade trees, and inspired in part by the need for slow cooked, heavily rubbed, fat juicy baby-back pork ribs and ice cold bottled beer, I called the Adman and sang to him a song I have been working on--I Left My Water Pump in PA. He lacks the necessary tools to understand my musical genius but offered to come pick us up and also gave me the number of a mechanic in his area who does towing. The shade tree we had contemplated living under was four hours from our starting point and 30 minutes from the Adman's barbecue grill.
Bernadette was meanwhile around the corner at the station formerly known as Esso. Even with a hard-earned, paid for walk-up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan I don't think she has ever considered herself one of the rich until a pimply faced, butt-smoking, teenage employee on break tagged her with the greeting, uh oh, rich person in trouble. She forgave him the crude greeting and extracted as much useful information as the young man was capable of providing. If we could only wait until 10p.m. this very youngster himself might be able to look into our situation.
Bernadette was reporting this to me after I reported to her that the Adman was in transit, that our overnight journey from Virginia solely inspired by our desire for Cuisine du Adman, would not be very much interrupted. To sweeten that pot which had us driving four and a half hours for a meal was the added attendance of Adman's brother, Hector, a good friend and dabbler of real estate who does not live in New York and did not graduate from Lehigh University.
Leaving the driveway here at Mt. Pleasant Bernadette and I had discussed the many meanings of a vehicle's Check Engine light. I was, for those purposes that had us eating ribs and drinking cold beer with good friends, deciding to interpret the engine light in one of its lesser connotations. A glitch. Or an electronic misinterpretation. Bernadette was with me on this but we both knew, even as we have so little experience with it, that we could be wrong. When a mile later she further considered our potentially dire future as rib-seeking travelers, I became a little testy and suggested that our only two options are turning back, or going forward with as little mention of dire consequences as possible. Based on a life well seasoned with questionable vehicular judgment I have trained myself to never leave home without expectation of breakdown. When I notice my worried knuckles turning white from their fierce grip on the steering wheel, as they anticipate any number of horrific mishaps, I remind myself that it is better to save your energy for the actual handling of a mishap and not to waste time stressing over that which has not yet happened.
While we waited under the shade tree we counted our blessings, talked briefly to a passing policeman, and considered from a distance the rather impressive butt cleavage of a gym short wearing man tooling around in his back yard across the street.
Winding along back roads near the Delaware River Adman said I bet you can taste that cold beer.
On the off ramp waiting for the light to change a man driving up the on ramp alarmingly gestured that I was leaking antifreeze. I nodded and started to make the left but Bernadette told me the light was still red. I waited for the light to turn green, made the left and then the first right and parked under a big floppy-leafed shade tree in Hellertown, PA. Bernadette and I exited the vehicle and the leaves overhead were like damp green washcloths mopping away from our brows any worry. We would live under the shade tree, abandoning at least temporarily any other plans that threatened to inhibit our new found good fortune.
In short time, recovering from ill-conceived and unrealistic expectations regarding life under shade trees, and inspired in part by the need for slow cooked, heavily rubbed, fat juicy baby-back pork ribs and ice cold bottled beer, I called the Adman and sang to him a song I have been working on--I Left My Water Pump in PA. He lacks the necessary tools to understand my musical genius but offered to come pick us up and also gave me the number of a mechanic in his area who does towing. The shade tree we had contemplated living under was four hours from our starting point and 30 minutes from the Adman's barbecue grill.
Bernadette was meanwhile around the corner at the station formerly known as Esso. Even with a hard-earned, paid for walk-up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan I don't think she has ever considered herself one of the rich until a pimply faced, butt-smoking, teenage employee on break tagged her with the greeting, uh oh, rich person in trouble. She forgave him the crude greeting and extracted as much useful information as the young man was capable of providing. If we could only wait until 10p.m. this very youngster himself might be able to look into our situation.
Bernadette was reporting this to me after I reported to her that the Adman was in transit, that our overnight journey from Virginia solely inspired by our desire for Cuisine du Adman, would not be very much interrupted. To sweeten that pot which had us driving four and a half hours for a meal was the added attendance of Adman's brother, Hector, a good friend and dabbler of real estate who does not live in New York and did not graduate from Lehigh University.
Leaving the driveway here at Mt. Pleasant Bernadette and I had discussed the many meanings of a vehicle's Check Engine light. I was, for those purposes that had us eating ribs and drinking cold beer with good friends, deciding to interpret the engine light in one of its lesser connotations. A glitch. Or an electronic misinterpretation. Bernadette was with me on this but we both knew, even as we have so little experience with it, that we could be wrong. When a mile later she further considered our potentially dire future as rib-seeking travelers, I became a little testy and suggested that our only two options are turning back, or going forward with as little mention of dire consequences as possible. Based on a life well seasoned with questionable vehicular judgment I have trained myself to never leave home without expectation of breakdown. When I notice my worried knuckles turning white from their fierce grip on the steering wheel, as they anticipate any number of horrific mishaps, I remind myself that it is better to save your energy for the actual handling of a mishap and not to waste time stressing over that which has not yet happened.
While we waited under the shade tree we counted our blessings, talked briefly to a passing policeman, and considered from a distance the rather impressive butt cleavage of a gym short wearing man tooling around in his back yard across the street.
Winding along back roads near the Delaware River Adman said I bet you can taste that cold beer.
Bethlehem Steel
