The Vodka Story
Poor, poor Mr. BC. In moments of astounding bad judgment he will on occasion give to me the overflow of liquid gifts that come his way during the holiday season. Once it was a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. I did not know of the Blue at the time, only that it was not Red or Black, but remember thinking how uniquely delicious and smooth it was, everyday, until it was gone. It was, in retrospect, almost touching how sincere BC was when months later he asked me did I save him any. I looked at him like he was crazy, which, I don't know, I think he may be. Not daunted by such bad judgment he then handed over to me numerous bottles of a fine Hetman's vodka, hand delivered from the Ukraine. All I can tell you is that I saved each and every one for as long as is humanly possible. There was later another group of vodkas entrusted to me, and, exercising my own terrible judgment, I gave the best of these, a Beluga brand, to a local man who was having a spot of trouble, and needed some cheering up. I had one, or two, sips of it though; if only BC could say the same.
Then, last year, really, I don't know, he must go into a deep cave of denial about this decision making ineptitude from which he suffers, this trusting of me with cherished liquids, for he gave to me another batch of liquor, left over from a Christmas party. It was mostly of the higher quality but generic grade, but there was again, an interesting vodka or two. Honestly though, I can't even remember what they were. There was however a quirky-shaped bottle that for whatever reason I stashed in a cupboard up at the bighouse, thinking anything this stupid looking must be stupid vodka. I have at this point, as you can imagine, developed such a sensitive palate for vodka that I won't drink it except on those occasions where I find it acceptable, or more likely, necessary, to dilute it with a dash of vermouth and an olive or two. The exception I would make to this rule of dilution is to of course at least consider drinking straight any vodka received from Mr. BC.
Well, I can only tell you this--I get sometimes lonely and bored out here. And thirsty. Bernadette is only able to visit every so often, which is good, until she leaves, and then it is bad, bad like being held down by a syringe-weilding god in a dark alley littered with lost souls and then getting injected with pure loneliness. But I only mention that as a distraction because I was neither bored nor lonely when I decided the other day to grab that funny shaped bottle and give it a new home in my freezer. It's flat on one side so it does lie nicely in the cold storage. It is a brand called Kauffman's and is distilled 14 times, whatever that means. Anyway, it's not very good. For one thing, unless you inhale with the snorting force of a Hoover, there is no smell to it whatsoever. I mean nothing, unless you count that faint hint of a single flower growing on a far away hill as something. And the taste, jeez, what can I tell you--it has none, except maybe a touch of the petal of that aforementioned flower, one strand of its root, and a single fine speck of the loamy soil from which it grows. It is almost like it doesn't even exist because frankly drinking ice cold spring water burns the throat and stomach more than this Kauffman's does.
I don't know why you would bother with this one. But, if you feel it is in your best interest to taste this vodka, I will with every fiber of my pretty much non-existent self-control, restrain myself for one month, Mr. BC, from drinking every last drop of this latest clear liquid. After that though, I will only be able to tell you a story about it.
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Conrad On Foot
It was frightfully windy last night. The wind bent the trees and rattled the windows. It blew clouds so quick across the moon that the on and off lighting of it was like a signal, but one I could not understand a word of.
The electricity flickered on and off a number of times, which is not an unusual thing in these parts. It finally went off for good right when Bernadette was putting a slice of salmon filet in the oven. Bernadette did not say--do you think it will come back on? We just started lighting candles and turning on battery operated devices. I made a fire in the cast iron fireplace but it didn't take right off so Bernadette blew on it. It got going pretty good after awhile.
We sat down and played cards. Bernadette is a card player from way back but she hasn't had much experience with Gin so I eased her into it. I am not all that adept at card games but do know most of the rules of Gin. She would say things like--uh oh, I'm screwed, and then the very next draw would lay down her cards and say, Gin. And she would have Gin. I would, not very calmly, perhaps even ranting, explain to her that you cannot one minute say, uh oh, I'm screwed, and then immediately after that win the game. That not only was it incorrect to do so but exasperating. And that she might have to forfeit the game if she did it again. I don't mind losing though, much in the same way I don't mind getting wet when taking a shower. Or squinting when the sun is in my eyes. Or coughing when a bug flies down my throat.
The electricity never did come back on so we had cold steak sandwiches.
Earlier in the day we had eaten at an area restaurant about six miles from here. It was moderately satisfying. It was okay. A few blocks away is an antique barn and before eating we had stopped there for a few minutes and looked at antiques. On the road leading to the parking lot we had passed a man wearing a light jacket and carrying a plastic bag, walking in the grass alongside the road. After eating we drove the six miles back to the house and passed the same man about four blocks from our driveway, and when he turned, in this context of seeing him so close to his own driveway, I realized it was the 79 year old Conrad Jones, who has had his truck taken away from him by his concerned children because of the rapidly progressing dementia. Yet he still figures out ways to sneak off and get around, even if it requires 12 miles of hiking on a nearly freezing day.
Conrad's people go back about three hundred years in these parts so it is understatement to say that he is well known and I can only guess that I am not the only one who passed him by unaware that he was Conrad Jones on foot walking twelve miles to get something that would fit into a small plastic bag.
It was frightfully windy last night. The wind bent the trees and rattled the windows. It blew clouds so quick across the moon that the on and off lighting of it was like a signal, but one I could not understand a word of.
The electricity flickered on and off a number of times, which is not an unusual thing in these parts. It finally went off for good right when Bernadette was putting a slice of salmon filet in the oven. Bernadette did not say--do you think it will come back on? We just started lighting candles and turning on battery operated devices. I made a fire in the cast iron fireplace but it didn't take right off so Bernadette blew on it. It got going pretty good after awhile.
We sat down and played cards. Bernadette is a card player from way back but she hasn't had much experience with Gin so I eased her into it. I am not all that adept at card games but do know most of the rules of Gin. She would say things like--uh oh, I'm screwed, and then the very next draw would lay down her cards and say, Gin. And she would have Gin. I would, not very calmly, perhaps even ranting, explain to her that you cannot one minute say, uh oh, I'm screwed, and then immediately after that win the game. That not only was it incorrect to do so but exasperating. And that she might have to forfeit the game if she did it again. I don't mind losing though, much in the same way I don't mind getting wet when taking a shower. Or squinting when the sun is in my eyes. Or coughing when a bug flies down my throat.
The electricity never did come back on so we had cold steak sandwiches.
Earlier in the day we had eaten at an area restaurant about six miles from here. It was moderately satisfying. It was okay. A few blocks away is an antique barn and before eating we had stopped there for a few minutes and looked at antiques. On the road leading to the parking lot we had passed a man wearing a light jacket and carrying a plastic bag, walking in the grass alongside the road. After eating we drove the six miles back to the house and passed the same man about four blocks from our driveway, and when he turned, in this context of seeing him so close to his own driveway, I realized it was the 79 year old Conrad Jones, who has had his truck taken away from him by his concerned children because of the rapidly progressing dementia. Yet he still figures out ways to sneak off and get around, even if it requires 12 miles of hiking on a nearly freezing day.
Conrad's people go back about three hundred years in these parts so it is understatement to say that he is well known and I can only guess that I am not the only one who passed him by unaware that he was Conrad Jones on foot walking twelve miles to get something that would fit into a small plastic bag.
Books And Brakes
The rain is out there on the other side of that window pane mainly in Spain. V caught her first mouse last night. I don't know what she did with it. I don't see it anywhere this morning. I must say it is one of the more repellent aspects of the well fed house cat how long they can go about the torturing of mice. I am by lack of intervention, complicit. I don't know if printing up Save the Mouse bumper stickers would do any good but it is an idea that runs through my mind.
I have taken to reading downloaded novels on this computer. It is something I have wanted to do for some time but found the format unpleasant until discovering that Google has actual photo-scanned copies of real books, which you can download in PDF format. Sometimes you can see the finger of a person from Stanford or Harvard or Michigan or the NY Library copied on the page. And the occasional check mark or underlined word of some past student. You are limited to older works whose copyright protection has expired but that hardly seems a disadvantage when you realize that that limit includes Twain, Dreiser, Maugham, Shaw, Turgenev, Chekhov, London, Jefferson, Franklin, Adams, Lincoln, Boswell, Epictetus, Spinoza, and Thoreau and Emerson and Blake and a good many others. I have finished Maugham's , The Moon and Sixpence, an accounting of Gauguin as played by Charles Strickland, and Maupassant's, Bel-Ami, an engaging tale of love and deceit and acquisition, and am now riding the rails with Jack London in his novel, The Road. I am looking ahead to Treasure Island, or perhaps Tom Sawyer.
I can see the light coming on now this early morning and so really must initiate a motion towards engaging myself in the real world. I should take the Jeep to that mechanic in Sperryville and get my windshield replaced and brakes redone. But before that I should go 16 miles to Front Royal for groceries and then back here to the Post Office and the bank up on 211. I don't have to get dressed because I fell asleep last night fully clothed.
The rain is out there on the other side of that window pane mainly in Spain. V caught her first mouse last night. I don't know what she did with it. I don't see it anywhere this morning. I must say it is one of the more repellent aspects of the well fed house cat how long they can go about the torturing of mice. I am by lack of intervention, complicit. I don't know if printing up Save the Mouse bumper stickers would do any good but it is an idea that runs through my mind.
I have taken to reading downloaded novels on this computer. It is something I have wanted to do for some time but found the format unpleasant until discovering that Google has actual photo-scanned copies of real books, which you can download in PDF format. Sometimes you can see the finger of a person from Stanford or Harvard or Michigan or the NY Library copied on the page. And the occasional check mark or underlined word of some past student. You are limited to older works whose copyright protection has expired but that hardly seems a disadvantage when you realize that that limit includes Twain, Dreiser, Maugham, Shaw, Turgenev, Chekhov, London, Jefferson, Franklin, Adams, Lincoln, Boswell, Epictetus, Spinoza, and Thoreau and Emerson and Blake and a good many others. I have finished Maugham's , The Moon and Sixpence, an accounting of Gauguin as played by Charles Strickland, and Maupassant's, Bel-Ami, an engaging tale of love and deceit and acquisition, and am now riding the rails with Jack London in his novel, The Road. I am looking ahead to Treasure Island, or perhaps Tom Sawyer.
I can see the light coming on now this early morning and so really must initiate a motion towards engaging myself in the real world. I should take the Jeep to that mechanic in Sperryville and get my windshield replaced and brakes redone. But before that I should go 16 miles to Front Royal for groceries and then back here to the Post Office and the bank up on 211. I don't have to get dressed because I fell asleep last night fully clothed.
Not In Rochester
I'll tell you one thing. It's colder than a frozen possum's butt out there. Wouldn't be so bad without the 30 mph northern gusts. I'm raking leaves in a windstorm. I come in and, frankly, the cat looks a little too happy so I put her out. The sun was shining for awhile and I thought I would work on my tan while me and the cat rake leaves in a windstorm. But it's clouded up now and little snowflakes are falling even though it's forty degrees. Me and the cat we sit back and think about how fortunate we are. The cat says, I am happy not to be in Rochester.
The sun is shining over there on Mt. Marshall but not over here in the little forest behind my house. The leaves are wet and plentiful. No, I'm not raking up the pine needles. I wish I had me a little dead leaf eating goat. Yeah, I hear you, be careful what you wish for. Especially if you are not going to punctate any better than that. I brought the cat in but I had to put her back out for biting me. I'm disappointed in you I yelled after her as she ran through the hole in the breezeway screen. She favors my right arm. I have 19 puncture marks and six beautiful scratches.
I'll tell you one thing. It's colder than a frozen possum's butt out there. Wouldn't be so bad without the 30 mph northern gusts. I'm raking leaves in a windstorm. I come in and, frankly, the cat looks a little too happy so I put her out. The sun was shining for awhile and I thought I would work on my tan while me and the cat rake leaves in a windstorm. But it's clouded up now and little snowflakes are falling even though it's forty degrees. Me and the cat we sit back and think about how fortunate we are. The cat says, I am happy not to be in Rochester.
The sun is shining over there on Mt. Marshall but not over here in the little forest behind my house. The leaves are wet and plentiful. No, I'm not raking up the pine needles. I wish I had me a little dead leaf eating goat. Yeah, I hear you, be careful what you wish for. Especially if you are not going to punctate any better than that. I brought the cat in but I had to put her back out for biting me. I'm disappointed in you I yelled after her as she ran through the hole in the breezeway screen. She favors my right arm. I have 19 puncture marks and six beautiful scratches.
A Small Terrarium
She had a ruddy complexion and a grocery cart full of spinach. Other products in her cart were prominently emblazoned with the word, organic. Her clothing was brightly colored and possibly hand woven in the Himalayas. These things I noticed with averted glances. Earlier, in the frozen food section, I had not felt this level of self consciousness while inspecting the carts of my fellow frozen food shoppers. I had made no effort then to cover my frozen pizzas and pot pies and meatloaf with mashed potato dinners and the six pack of frosted cupcakes with the little bit of healthy looking produce in my cart--the bananas, the oranges, the brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes. But now the contents of my cart seemed a travesty compared to this woman's in the checkout to my right.
I've already eaten three of the cupcakes and I sincerely doubt the other three will make it very far into the day. I would only say they were disgusting if I were some kind of cupcake snob but I can at the very least admit they are not that tasty. The good new is, the plastic container they came in will last a lifetime, and would make a nifty see through jewelry box or perhaps a small terrarium.
She had a ruddy complexion and a grocery cart full of spinach. Other products in her cart were prominently emblazoned with the word, organic. Her clothing was brightly colored and possibly hand woven in the Himalayas. These things I noticed with averted glances. Earlier, in the frozen food section, I had not felt this level of self consciousness while inspecting the carts of my fellow frozen food shoppers. I had made no effort then to cover my frozen pizzas and pot pies and meatloaf with mashed potato dinners and the six pack of frosted cupcakes with the little bit of healthy looking produce in my cart--the bananas, the oranges, the brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes. But now the contents of my cart seemed a travesty compared to this woman's in the checkout to my right.
I've already eaten three of the cupcakes and I sincerely doubt the other three will make it very far into the day. I would only say they were disgusting if I were some kind of cupcake snob but I can at the very least admit they are not that tasty. The good new is, the plastic container they came in will last a lifetime, and would make a nifty see through jewelry box or perhaps a small terrarium.
A Voice From There
Yeah-uh, I sound a little funny this morning judging by the first words out of my mouth, which were--don't you go licking your butt and then come biting my arm. I'm not really talking about the subject matter. The previous statement pretty much qualifies as high discourse with me and the cat out here in this Virginia countryside. No, I have got me a minor cold, the trash can full of tissue and the red nose to prove it, moving down into my chest it is and I sound alien. I might not speak out loud again today and tomorrow I expect to be good as new and moving about under the cool fall sunshine performing tasks of arguable importance. The cat has moved over to that chair by the window and is staring very intently at one of my paisley shirts hanging from it. She's growing up fast and is now as big as a baby possum.
Traffic yesterday was easy out of NY which is a good thing because I was feeling puny and don't think I needed much challenge. I've got one of those EZ Passes now, attached to my cracked windshield, between the rear view mirror and the 3 month out of date inspection sticker and I just cruise right on through a toll booth without a care in the world. There were a lot of troopers on the road but I worry not so much about that by keeping to reasonable speeds and exuding by way of erect posture and hands at two and ten, a wholesome goodness.
After a few trips with nary a problem the cat has taken to minor car sickness attacks and while driving down Delancey I tried to stay focused on the road instead of her sitting up on top of the passenger seat back. Because she had a two inch long bubbly spit booger hanging from her chin. And then she would act like she had a bug in her ear and it would twitch and then her whole head would whip around and I would flinch in fear of being hit by flying cat spit. Like I said, I was already feeling puny. Puny includes a very light fever, some eye itching, mild body aches, and a hint of nausea. I was hoping to avoid too much contact with the spit. I had a T-shirt in my lap and waited for her to settle down there and when she did I wiped that crap off of her and kept driving on down the road.
Interesting. There was a paragraph here but now it's gone. I went to bed early last night, possibly as early as eight, and had a full night's sleep. I woke up before dawn and looked out the window over my head and thought how strange it was that the moon was setting in the east. As it turned out it was only 10:30 so I turned on the laptop and watched online a few episodes of Twilight Zone and then a couple of episodes of Dexter, a series in its second year about a do-gooder serial killer. A little after 2 I tried sleeping some more and the next time I woke up there were blazing red horizontal stripes across the early morning sky.
I lied about not talking out loud anymore today. I just received a call from Bill Macy in NY inviting me over to watch the Green Bay v. Dallas game tonight. Possibly the best NFL game of the year and it's on some stupid exclusive NFL network, that as far as I know, only Bill Macy of NY subscribes to. If I leave right now I could be there for game time. Then I got another call and it was a New Orleans area code and I get a lot of wrong number calls from Louisiana, which I ignore, but this one I answered, just to hear a voice from there and it was I am judging a black dude and I swear to you, after I said hello, he said, Spit? Yesterday on the Jersey Turnpike I got a call from someone sounding vaguely like Bernadette and just as I was starting to get familiar the woman said she was looking for James Alcindor. But I am not him and I told her so. And all the wrong numbers are sorry for disturbing me.
Yeah-uh, I sound a little funny this morning judging by the first words out of my mouth, which were--don't you go licking your butt and then come biting my arm. I'm not really talking about the subject matter. The previous statement pretty much qualifies as high discourse with me and the cat out here in this Virginia countryside. No, I have got me a minor cold, the trash can full of tissue and the red nose to prove it, moving down into my chest it is and I sound alien. I might not speak out loud again today and tomorrow I expect to be good as new and moving about under the cool fall sunshine performing tasks of arguable importance. The cat has moved over to that chair by the window and is staring very intently at one of my paisley shirts hanging from it. She's growing up fast and is now as big as a baby possum.
Traffic yesterday was easy out of NY which is a good thing because I was feeling puny and don't think I needed much challenge. I've got one of those EZ Passes now, attached to my cracked windshield, between the rear view mirror and the 3 month out of date inspection sticker and I just cruise right on through a toll booth without a care in the world. There were a lot of troopers on the road but I worry not so much about that by keeping to reasonable speeds and exuding by way of erect posture and hands at two and ten, a wholesome goodness.
After a few trips with nary a problem the cat has taken to minor car sickness attacks and while driving down Delancey I tried to stay focused on the road instead of her sitting up on top of the passenger seat back. Because she had a two inch long bubbly spit booger hanging from her chin. And then she would act like she had a bug in her ear and it would twitch and then her whole head would whip around and I would flinch in fear of being hit by flying cat spit. Like I said, I was already feeling puny. Puny includes a very light fever, some eye itching, mild body aches, and a hint of nausea. I was hoping to avoid too much contact with the spit. I had a T-shirt in my lap and waited for her to settle down there and when she did I wiped that crap off of her and kept driving on down the road.
Interesting. There was a paragraph here but now it's gone. I went to bed early last night, possibly as early as eight, and had a full night's sleep. I woke up before dawn and looked out the window over my head and thought how strange it was that the moon was setting in the east. As it turned out it was only 10:30 so I turned on the laptop and watched online a few episodes of Twilight Zone and then a couple of episodes of Dexter, a series in its second year about a do-gooder serial killer. A little after 2 I tried sleeping some more and the next time I woke up there were blazing red horizontal stripes across the early morning sky.
I lied about not talking out loud anymore today. I just received a call from Bill Macy in NY inviting me over to watch the Green Bay v. Dallas game tonight. Possibly the best NFL game of the year and it's on some stupid exclusive NFL network, that as far as I know, only Bill Macy of NY subscribes to. If I leave right now I could be there for game time. Then I got another call and it was a New Orleans area code and I get a lot of wrong number calls from Louisiana, which I ignore, but this one I answered, just to hear a voice from there and it was I am judging a black dude and I swear to you, after I said hello, he said, Spit? Yesterday on the Jersey Turnpike I got a call from someone sounding vaguely like Bernadette and just as I was starting to get familiar the woman said she was looking for James Alcindor. But I am not him and I told her so. And all the wrong numbers are sorry for disturbing me.
Bernadette's Penthouse
This afternoon in NY I was up on the roof of a five story building breathing fresh grey air on a rainy day. Twenty-five years ago the building and many around it were abandoned ghetto shells waiting for adventurous spirits, and were priced to sell. For a song and subsequent creative renovation financing a group of people in their mid twenties made a commitment to a neighborhood that was one of NY's seediest, long before the city itself made strides in assisting those who were looking for affordable places to own in Manhattan by finding ways to encourage the junkies and muggers to go to hell or find God. But this is not a campaign ad for the guy taking credit for that.
From this roof six years ago some of the residents watched the twin towers fall but today that view would be blocked by the big blue building, a nearly sold out condo tower with two units left, notably the penthouse with terrace, for 3.5 million, a sum almost but not quite 100 times what the owners paid for this entire building, before its gut renovation.
The above is mention of setting for the place I rest my head when visiting Bernadette. And today I did rest my head, because Bernadette gave me the day off from this trip's painting project, which was the basement office, now hopefully even more so than it was a clean well lighted space.
I read Mark Twain and floated down the river with Huck and Jim, only once dozing off, but so deeply I am still trying to get back. It seems I am tested way more in my dreams than I am in my waking life and I guess that is some testament to the level of ambition I exercise, or don't, while awake. This man, some facsimile of a former employer kept asking me am I afraid and I kept saying, no, not at all. But how can you trust that what you say in a dream is anything but the opposite of what you mean?
When I figure out what it is I'm afraid of I won't get back to you, I won't bore you with it, not so that you will notice anyhow.
This afternoon in NY I was up on the roof of a five story building breathing fresh grey air on a rainy day. Twenty-five years ago the building and many around it were abandoned ghetto shells waiting for adventurous spirits, and were priced to sell. For a song and subsequent creative renovation financing a group of people in their mid twenties made a commitment to a neighborhood that was one of NY's seediest, long before the city itself made strides in assisting those who were looking for affordable places to own in Manhattan by finding ways to encourage the junkies and muggers to go to hell or find God. But this is not a campaign ad for the guy taking credit for that.
From this roof six years ago some of the residents watched the twin towers fall but today that view would be blocked by the big blue building, a nearly sold out condo tower with two units left, notably the penthouse with terrace, for 3.5 million, a sum almost but not quite 100 times what the owners paid for this entire building, before its gut renovation.
The above is mention of setting for the place I rest my head when visiting Bernadette. And today I did rest my head, because Bernadette gave me the day off from this trip's painting project, which was the basement office, now hopefully even more so than it was a clean well lighted space.
I read Mark Twain and floated down the river with Huck and Jim, only once dozing off, but so deeply I am still trying to get back. It seems I am tested way more in my dreams than I am in my waking life and I guess that is some testament to the level of ambition I exercise, or don't, while awake. This man, some facsimile of a former employer kept asking me am I afraid and I kept saying, no, not at all. But how can you trust that what you say in a dream is anything but the opposite of what you mean?
When I figure out what it is I'm afraid of I won't get back to you, I won't bore you with it, not so that you will notice anyhow.