- jimlouis 3-31-2007 10:45 pm [link]
...more recent posts
Crash Goes The Breaking Glass
Was I excited about getting a colorful new Rappahannock county tag for the Jeep windshield? You bet I was. With the Badgers long knocked out the NCAA tournament, what else did I have to be excited about? Naw really, I was over the Badger thing. Only to have the Longhorns knocked out, then the Aggies. I'm going to root for the Hoyas this evening, which clearly, may not be to their advantage. Go Tarheels.
I scraped off last year's tag, a woefully sad looking misprint of a county sticker, and applied the cheerful multi-colored 07 logo, carefully lining it up just so with the complimentary-colored inspection sticker to its left. If I would just wash the Jeep, still slimed over with white filmy road gunk from the recent but not that recent 8 hour drive through highway hell froze over, I would have a vehicle envied by many. Especially that great majority driving around with bland state required stickers.
I was on my way to the dump. As you may or may not know, as spring approaches and the temperatures rise, you cannot use your garage as a refrigerated way station for storing garbage for weeks at a time. You have to get rid of that garbage, take it on down the road. Which is a bummer sometimes but look on the bright side regarding the spring thaw. Those paint brushes you forgot to clean in early winter, left in buckets of water which froze solid for two months? You can now clean those up and get some use from them.
So, like a soccer mom with a Jeep full of smelly kids, off I went to the dump, proudly displaying my new sticker, which is also required for legal dumping. I have been corrected for improper dumping protocol on more than one occasion. I am not a rebel. I try not to defy authority. I do not like to make mistakes and then have them pointed out to me like I'm some mis-fitted, ill-bred, smelly offspring of a negligent soccer mom. That there is what I call a little metaphor inversion. Given the choice between being a soccer mom or a smelly bag of trash, I choose not to choose. I can be both.
That guy at the dump is just doing his job. I am not faulting him for that. Still, he makes me nervous. You think I don't go to the dump as often as I should because I'm lazy? Ok, fair enough. But also the reason I don't go is because I'm intimidated. What else can I do wrong at the dump that I haven't yet done wrong? If that guy is on duty he's going to find something. Here's an example of what goes through my mind. Besides the trash, I am loading up recyclables--a few beer, wine and liquor bottles, about forty or fifty pounds worth, all neatly sorted by color, and I'm worried is this guy gonna think I'm a booze hound. I work through that by describing myself to myself, and the situation, in such a way that I come out not looking like a complete drunken loser. Sounds good to me, and I am feeling strong and confident and full of hope. The stack of newspapers has amongst it several plastic wrapped sections from the Sunday papers. Should plastic really go into the big rail car dedicated to newsprint? Should I unwrap these sections? Is the guy going to see me throwing this questionable contraband into the rail car? My armpits itch and I get flush in the face just thinking about it.
I don't want you think I spend all day thinking about this stuff, no, no, no, just part of it. I'm at the dump now, slinging the little thirteen gallon white with red drawstring trash bags into the sectioned off pits like I'm some kind of jazzy big city garbage man with style coming out my ears instead of what I actually have which is just those little bristly hairs, and I am doing nothing wrong, but still feel like I'm being watched. And this is because I am being watched. The guy is over there in his booth with the tinted windows, but he can't touch me because I'm golden. I am the master of trash hauling protocol, except for that plastic around some of the newsprint, and, did I remember to take off the caps from my liquor bottles? I think I did. I think I did take the caps, and that one cork, from my liquor bottles.
Oh shit, here he comes. He's making an inspection run. I feel myself straightening my posture, sticking out my chest, sucking in the gut. Sir, yes sir. He can't touch me, I already told you this, I'm golden. I move over to the bottle dumpsters and risk herniating a disc by lifting the large plastic totes of bottles over my head and dumping them, crash, crash goes the breaking glass.
On the way home the stench of spilt beer residue in the bottom of the totes makes me think of spring.
Was I excited about getting a colorful new Rappahannock county tag for the Jeep windshield? You bet I was. With the Badgers long knocked out the NCAA tournament, what else did I have to be excited about? Naw really, I was over the Badger thing. Only to have the Longhorns knocked out, then the Aggies. I'm going to root for the Hoyas this evening, which clearly, may not be to their advantage. Go Tarheels.
I scraped off last year's tag, a woefully sad looking misprint of a county sticker, and applied the cheerful multi-colored 07 logo, carefully lining it up just so with the complimentary-colored inspection sticker to its left. If I would just wash the Jeep, still slimed over with white filmy road gunk from the recent but not that recent 8 hour drive through highway hell froze over, I would have a vehicle envied by many. Especially that great majority driving around with bland state required stickers.
I was on my way to the dump. As you may or may not know, as spring approaches and the temperatures rise, you cannot use your garage as a refrigerated way station for storing garbage for weeks at a time. You have to get rid of that garbage, take it on down the road. Which is a bummer sometimes but look on the bright side regarding the spring thaw. Those paint brushes you forgot to clean in early winter, left in buckets of water which froze solid for two months? You can now clean those up and get some use from them.
So, like a soccer mom with a Jeep full of smelly kids, off I went to the dump, proudly displaying my new sticker, which is also required for legal dumping. I have been corrected for improper dumping protocol on more than one occasion. I am not a rebel. I try not to defy authority. I do not like to make mistakes and then have them pointed out to me like I'm some mis-fitted, ill-bred, smelly offspring of a negligent soccer mom. That there is what I call a little metaphor inversion. Given the choice between being a soccer mom or a smelly bag of trash, I choose not to choose. I can be both.
That guy at the dump is just doing his job. I am not faulting him for that. Still, he makes me nervous. You think I don't go to the dump as often as I should because I'm lazy? Ok, fair enough. But also the reason I don't go is because I'm intimidated. What else can I do wrong at the dump that I haven't yet done wrong? If that guy is on duty he's going to find something. Here's an example of what goes through my mind. Besides the trash, I am loading up recyclables--a few beer, wine and liquor bottles, about forty or fifty pounds worth, all neatly sorted by color, and I'm worried is this guy gonna think I'm a booze hound. I work through that by describing myself to myself, and the situation, in such a way that I come out not looking like a complete drunken loser. Sounds good to me, and I am feeling strong and confident and full of hope. The stack of newspapers has amongst it several plastic wrapped sections from the Sunday papers. Should plastic really go into the big rail car dedicated to newsprint? Should I unwrap these sections? Is the guy going to see me throwing this questionable contraband into the rail car? My armpits itch and I get flush in the face just thinking about it.
I don't want you think I spend all day thinking about this stuff, no, no, no, just part of it. I'm at the dump now, slinging the little thirteen gallon white with red drawstring trash bags into the sectioned off pits like I'm some kind of jazzy big city garbage man with style coming out my ears instead of what I actually have which is just those little bristly hairs, and I am doing nothing wrong, but still feel like I'm being watched. And this is because I am being watched. The guy is over there in his booth with the tinted windows, but he can't touch me because I'm golden. I am the master of trash hauling protocol, except for that plastic around some of the newsprint, and, did I remember to take off the caps from my liquor bottles? I think I did. I think I did take the caps, and that one cork, from my liquor bottles.
Oh shit, here he comes. He's making an inspection run. I feel myself straightening my posture, sticking out my chest, sucking in the gut. Sir, yes sir. He can't touch me, I already told you this, I'm golden. I move over to the bottle dumpsters and risk herniating a disc by lifting the large plastic totes of bottles over my head and dumping them, crash, crash goes the breaking glass.
On the way home the stench of spilt beer residue in the bottom of the totes makes me think of spring.
The Reticent Caretaker
In this rural area in which I reside are slackers (ask me how I know this?), and farmers and ranchers and artists of various stripe and retired newsmen and politicians, a magazine publisher, members of the working class, visiting statesmen and presidents, and felons (and by mentioning felons here I intend no conjunctional reference to statesmen and presidents) and there are tourists who come to hike the Shenandoah trails or eat at the one famous restaurant. In the fall they spend hours stuck in traffic to come out here and look at leaves.
I live on a somewhat exclusive property amidst all this, as caretaker, and perform various chores, when I am not neglecting them by doing this. The chore I am neglecting now is the removal of the kitchen wallpaper in the caretaker's cottage and repainting of the walls, which, we might assume, is not of terribly high priority to the owners, Mr. and Mrs. BC, who when they visit out here, reside in the bighouse, up the hill, and have no doubt various chores they would be pleased to have me perform up there. Have I run out of chores at the bighouse you wonder? Oh, I daresay not.
I don't get out much or talk a lot, except when Bernadette visits. I was up visiting her in NY last week and then I drove her down here in an ice storm. It was insane. Don't ever do it. You are a moron if you do. To the dozen or more people who skated off the highway into ditches I am sure my advice will seem redundant. This morning Bernadette and I talked about a very important case before the Supreme Court--the right to make 14 foot banners in Alaska that say, Bong Hits 4 Jesus.
On those rare occasions when I do get out I might sometimes fall victim to that motor mouth syndrome that reticent people are known to suffer. Babbling on and on and on to someone as if I were a person who really liked to talk and actually believed myself to be quite good at it.
I had to leave the property recently for a six pack of beer. I could have walked to the store but I drove. I even drive from here to the bighouse on most occasions. I like to drive. Getting in and getting out of the vehicle are my favorite parts, which makes the 300 yard drive to the bighouse a natural choice for me.
At the store the cashier greets me warmly, as is befitting the cashier of a small country convenience store. I do not get greeted warmly at the store up on the highway. I am just another person off the highway. The cashier is talking to two local farmer gentlemen about snake handlers in the Pentecostal church. This snake handling thing is an unfortunate association for the Pentecostals. I used to pretend or actually feel an adversarial relationship with the Pentecostal church in New Orleans, near my home there. They were not, to my knowledge, snake handlers. Over time though I put aside my petty differences with the church and even came to feel a meager kinship with my Pentecostal brothers as I watched them rebuild their church, sometimes running the generators 24 hours a day, after Katrina.
Routinely, there is not the drama or stimulating subject matter going on out here in rural Virginia that I may have experienced in New Orleans. So this chance to talk to the friendly cashier and the two farmers about religion and snakes got my juices flowing and I thought about a way to insert myself into the conversation, experiencing that rush of excitement that often proceeds the onset of motor mouth syndrome. As I worked this out inside my head the cashier said to one of the farmers, somewhat defensively, that the church she had gone to definitely did not handle snakes, and I was happy for my reticence.
In this rural area in which I reside are slackers (ask me how I know this?), and farmers and ranchers and artists of various stripe and retired newsmen and politicians, a magazine publisher, members of the working class, visiting statesmen and presidents, and felons (and by mentioning felons here I intend no conjunctional reference to statesmen and presidents) and there are tourists who come to hike the Shenandoah trails or eat at the one famous restaurant. In the fall they spend hours stuck in traffic to come out here and look at leaves.
I live on a somewhat exclusive property amidst all this, as caretaker, and perform various chores, when I am not neglecting them by doing this. The chore I am neglecting now is the removal of the kitchen wallpaper in the caretaker's cottage and repainting of the walls, which, we might assume, is not of terribly high priority to the owners, Mr. and Mrs. BC, who when they visit out here, reside in the bighouse, up the hill, and have no doubt various chores they would be pleased to have me perform up there. Have I run out of chores at the bighouse you wonder? Oh, I daresay not.
I don't get out much or talk a lot, except when Bernadette visits. I was up visiting her in NY last week and then I drove her down here in an ice storm. It was insane. Don't ever do it. You are a moron if you do. To the dozen or more people who skated off the highway into ditches I am sure my advice will seem redundant. This morning Bernadette and I talked about a very important case before the Supreme Court--the right to make 14 foot banners in Alaska that say, Bong Hits 4 Jesus.
On those rare occasions when I do get out I might sometimes fall victim to that motor mouth syndrome that reticent people are known to suffer. Babbling on and on and on to someone as if I were a person who really liked to talk and actually believed myself to be quite good at it.
I had to leave the property recently for a six pack of beer. I could have walked to the store but I drove. I even drive from here to the bighouse on most occasions. I like to drive. Getting in and getting out of the vehicle are my favorite parts, which makes the 300 yard drive to the bighouse a natural choice for me.
At the store the cashier greets me warmly, as is befitting the cashier of a small country convenience store. I do not get greeted warmly at the store up on the highway. I am just another person off the highway. The cashier is talking to two local farmer gentlemen about snake handlers in the Pentecostal church. This snake handling thing is an unfortunate association for the Pentecostals. I used to pretend or actually feel an adversarial relationship with the Pentecostal church in New Orleans, near my home there. They were not, to my knowledge, snake handlers. Over time though I put aside my petty differences with the church and even came to feel a meager kinship with my Pentecostal brothers as I watched them rebuild their church, sometimes running the generators 24 hours a day, after Katrina.
Routinely, there is not the drama or stimulating subject matter going on out here in rural Virginia that I may have experienced in New Orleans. So this chance to talk to the friendly cashier and the two farmers about religion and snakes got my juices flowing and I thought about a way to insert myself into the conversation, experiencing that rush of excitement that often proceeds the onset of motor mouth syndrome. As I worked this out inside my head the cashier said to one of the farmers, somewhat defensively, that the church she had gone to definitely did not handle snakes, and I was happy for my reticence.
A Man On Rivington
In NYC today a man, in passing, of arguably deranged comportment, offered to me on the sidewalk along Rivington St. a complete history of the Devil. It was a glossy hardback of a size you might associate with one of those books from the Time/Life series and seemed to lack the girth to contain the complete history of any subject, much less that of the Devil. The man was a moving display containing only the one volume and we passed each other before I really had the time to consider the benefit or risk of engaging him. Still, I found myself thinking how nice of this man to sacrifice, even for profit, something that I can only guess was of great value to him. He held the book lovingly, his fingernails packed with black sludge, but for my part I could only give to him a heartfelt, although even to me seemingly insincere, thanks, before moving on to my destination, which was nearby.
In NYC today a man, in passing, of arguably deranged comportment, offered to me on the sidewalk along Rivington St. a complete history of the Devil. It was a glossy hardback of a size you might associate with one of those books from the Time/Life series and seemed to lack the girth to contain the complete history of any subject, much less that of the Devil. The man was a moving display containing only the one volume and we passed each other before I really had the time to consider the benefit or risk of engaging him. Still, I found myself thinking how nice of this man to sacrifice, even for profit, something that I can only guess was of great value to him. He held the book lovingly, his fingernails packed with black sludge, but for my part I could only give to him a heartfelt, although even to me seemingly insincere, thanks, before moving on to my destination, which was nearby.
Caulking In NY
Crush In The Ghetto, Part II
I received another email from New Orleans today.
you remember dolores had a son who died [Stabbed, I think] a long time ago, wimpy? his son, glynn (24) was shot on broad and esplanade at 2pm on saturday. we’re not sure why yet. 6 people shot over the weekend. 3 dead, 3 unknown. the cops have now parked one of their mobile home thingies at the corner by the store. clearly, we need babysitting.
m's come back to xxxx to live; his trailer became overrun with drug dealers. j’s into some urban league GED program that, hopefully, will remain in existence for more than 5 minutes. d’s working as a car salesman at a xxxx place in xxxx. we’re showing the film at Harvard in April, and i’m sending the 3 of them up there to talk after the film.
I received another email from New Orleans today.
you remember dolores had a son who died [Stabbed, I think] a long time ago, wimpy? his son, glynn (24) was shot on broad and esplanade at 2pm on saturday. we’re not sure why yet. 6 people shot over the weekend. 3 dead, 3 unknown. the cops have now parked one of their mobile home thingies at the corner by the store. clearly, we need babysitting.
m's come back to xxxx to live; his trailer became overrun with drug dealers. j’s into some urban league GED program that, hopefully, will remain in existence for more than 5 minutes. d’s working as a car salesman at a xxxx place in xxxx. we’re showing the film at Harvard in April, and i’m sending the 3 of them up there to talk after the film.