To Build A Connection
In Charlottesville good health and ravenous hunger waged war and I like a spectator miles away at Bull Run waited patiently for a winner so I could get back to pretending I have not a care in the world. Good health fought admirably but lost and at the drive thru window waiting for KFC chicken strips my unhappy cat shit in her carrier. There was little doubt that this would happen before our destination was reached. The man up above slid open his window and I rolled down mine and the animal aromas--of those butchered and fried and those simply car sick--mixed. Would you like some sauce with this? he wanted to know and not ever before having had the chicken strips at KFC I was uncertain how to answer. He did not know that I wasn't a regular customer so he answered "all of them" when I asked what kind do you have. This was like being at a hardware store before the recession dealing with an experienced clerk playing hard to get and making you sweat for not knowing what sized basin wrench you wanted. And my mind went blank as I stared stupidly off to his left but finally I chanced humiliation and blurted out--sweet and sour? He nodded and I was good to go.
I had some good luck yesterday with a plumbing project here in Fence Post. There are some things that aren't that hard to do but which still require a certain confidence and level of experience and I was lacking in both with regard to sweating copper pipe. But I made a few practice sweats and then I just barged right in and after more than one trip to the woeful and inadequately supplied big box hardware store I've got some new plumbing under the sink and a new faucet to replace the one that was, I am sure, over thirty years old. As is my custom after modest successes I rested on my laurels, and today did nothing.
Rereading Call of the Wild for the first time in 35 years though is quite pleasant and poetic and brutal. Even the predictable parts are rendered so finely I find myself caught up in the suspense, though truly there should be no suspense, on account of I know what is going to happen. I suspect the ending, which I can vividly remember from childhood, is going to, if not make me full out weep (not to say I'm ruling out full out weeping) at least instill in me a sweet and sublime melancholia. Although one I am sure to recover from rapidly so as to move on to more productive endeavors.
I am reading on the Kindle given to me by Mr. BC. For 5 bucks each I acquired a good many collected works, including pretty much everything by Jack London. So that five bucks buys his generally accepted five really good novels, about twenty more novels, of which at least one, The Abysmal Brute, is not terrible, and hundreds of short stories. The 5 dollar collections also include an author's biography that, while not comprehensive, is a good place to start if you are curious about the author's life. So that's what I was doing when I decided to stop reading, and write this. Reading biographical material on Jack London. I didn't get anywhere near the parts about his unattractive political views or the plagiarism charges or the questions about his racial intolerance. I only made it middle way through the first page where it suggests his place of birth may have been near Third and Brannan Streets in San Francisco. And I have connection to that area, which I have referred to before, but which I only now realized, and it is at Second and Folsom in San Francisco. Only not really at Second and Folsom but near there. So that it is possible that London's boyhood home and the place where I camped on my 21st birthday are actually the same place. Which is to say that it may be that Jack London's birthplace is now under the on ramp to the Bay Bridge. And one of his more famous short stories is To Build a Fire. I built a fire under the Bay Bridge.
So I had a moment there where I felt connected. Which is the goal.
...more recent posts
Once More, About The Bombs
Mr. BC as a boy was much concerned about us getting caught every time we made a bomb and blew something up on that cul-de-sac in Texas. The explosions were always louder than we had anticipated and who else was there to blame on that street whenever the window glass shook? Everyone else it seemed had grown out of their bomb making phase.
BC enjoyed the time spent unwrapping hundreds of Black Cat firecrackers and the smell of it and the way the silvery-grey powder stained our fingertips. And I think he liked the danger of it and the sharing of anecdotes about other kids who had blown off a finger or two. We, with all of our fingers, were able to feel accomplished. Part of the elite group of child bomb makers.
But with fondness and no measure of condescension I enjoy looking back 40 years to those very specific seconds in history, those moments after the cast-iron water meter lid in front of the Praeger house shot six feet straight up, and then landed with a clunk on the asphalt, when we were both running like hell back to the safety of his "Texas Room" and he with a voice pitched higher by fear, would shriek, really, quite frantically, "oh crap my dad's gonna kill me, my dad's gonna kill me, my dad's gonna kill me." But neither his dad, nor his mom for that matter, clearly very patient people, ever did kill us, or in any way let on that they disapproved of our science experiments.
Mr. BC as a boy was much concerned about us getting caught every time we made a bomb and blew something up on that cul-de-sac in Texas. The explosions were always louder than we had anticipated and who else was there to blame on that street whenever the window glass shook? Everyone else it seemed had grown out of their bomb making phase.
BC enjoyed the time spent unwrapping hundreds of Black Cat firecrackers and the smell of it and the way the silvery-grey powder stained our fingertips. And I think he liked the danger of it and the sharing of anecdotes about other kids who had blown off a finger or two. We, with all of our fingers, were able to feel accomplished. Part of the elite group of child bomb makers.
But with fondness and no measure of condescension I enjoy looking back 40 years to those very specific seconds in history, those moments after the cast-iron water meter lid in front of the Praeger house shot six feet straight up, and then landed with a clunk on the asphalt, when we were both running like hell back to the safety of his "Texas Room" and he with a voice pitched higher by fear, would shriek, really, quite frantically, "oh crap my dad's gonna kill me, my dad's gonna kill me, my dad's gonna kill me." But neither his dad, nor his mom for that matter, clearly very patient people, ever did kill us, or in any way let on that they disapproved of our science experiments.
How Long Does It Take?
There was up to seven inches of snow here in north central North Carolina not barely a week ago and just now out checking pork ribs on the grill I spied several mosquitoes hovering over my right arm. And getting rid of dead cats with a buzzard, or turkey vulture if you prefer, is not all it's cracked up to be. Thematically this is about small but irritating bloodsucking insects, frozen precipitation, and much maligned and misunderstood scavenger species. Thematically this is about snow, scavengers, and vampirism. Or surfing without a wave, falling through cracks, and climatological effects on animals at rest. Thematically this is about searching for theme, flying with entrails, and cold white blankets. Spring and Winter, rapid transitions, slow decay and a force of will. There is little more to say but much to be done. There are sixty to choose from but just this one.
There was up to seven inches of snow here in north central North Carolina not barely a week ago and just now out checking pork ribs on the grill I spied several mosquitoes hovering over my right arm. And getting rid of dead cats with a buzzard, or turkey vulture if you prefer, is not all it's cracked up to be. Thematically this is about small but irritating bloodsucking insects, frozen precipitation, and much maligned and misunderstood scavenger species. Thematically this is about snow, scavengers, and vampirism. Or surfing without a wave, falling through cracks, and climatological effects on animals at rest. Thematically this is about searching for theme, flying with entrails, and cold white blankets. Spring and Winter, rapid transitions, slow decay and a force of will. There is little more to say but much to be done. There are sixty to choose from but just this one.
How Shiny Is Too Shiny?
I'm just going to stay low and do nothing and watch the squirrels who can't fly fall slowly and drop dead. I can't tell if those boys out there shooting in my woods are boys I gave hunting rights to or if they is just some boys I don't know, with guns. I have to weigh what it is I really care about and much as I look I can't seem to find a single squirrel on that scale. I don't even know who it is I would be paying lip service to if I said something good about squirrels, or acted in some way sensitive to their immediate plight, which right this minute is them coming to terms with small gauge shotguns. From the sound of it though the squirrels are giving the boys a run for their money.
I thought I was just going to spruce up the sorry ass looking wood floors here in the Fence Post house but instead ended up renting a drum sander and sanding them all the way down to bare wood. And staining them and sealing them and now they are done and look nice.
Bernadette came down for a few days and worked with me but now she's gone. We stopped for barbecue between Hillsboro and Chapel Hill, yesterday on the way to the airport. It was delicious. The waitresses were kind of all business bossy though, in a way that did not seem at all affected. No one called me "hon" I guess is what I'm saying. I'm not saying they weren't friendly enough or that they weren't good at their jobs, because they were fine at it. It's just, well, no one called me hon. We had ribs, and flounder, and hush puppies, and cole slaw, and fried okra, and sweet potato pie.
As I stood behind a teenage girl counting her change several times in front of a very patient, almost encouraging cashier, one of the waitresses noticed Bernadette's red patent leather clogs and called the other waitress over, who admitted to having the shiny blue ones. The first waitress asked didn't Bernadette mind the shininess but the other waitress, the one with a pair of shiny blue ones at home, said that shiny was good. Bernadette just played it safe and said how comfortable they were, especially considering that they did not bend whatsoever. In the parking lot afterwards, we giggled because we thought it was funny that the one waitress was curious about the shininess of her shoes but did not have a single opinion about the bright orange and black camouflage jacket Bernadette was wearing.
I'm not really doing a damn thing today. If I do anything it might be bringing in the shop vac and sticking the flexible hose into the floor vent and fishing around for that rutabaga Bernadette dropped down there night before last. I am remembering how she fashioned her hands to describe the size of it when she explained that she had dropped a rutabaga (about so big) into the heating duct. Later, after she dropped a couple more things down there, we put a piece of wood over the opening. But I'll tell you one thing--the mashed and buttered rutabagas were good as all get out.
I'm just going to stay low and do nothing and watch the squirrels who can't fly fall slowly and drop dead. I can't tell if those boys out there shooting in my woods are boys I gave hunting rights to or if they is just some boys I don't know, with guns. I have to weigh what it is I really care about and much as I look I can't seem to find a single squirrel on that scale. I don't even know who it is I would be paying lip service to if I said something good about squirrels, or acted in some way sensitive to their immediate plight, which right this minute is them coming to terms with small gauge shotguns. From the sound of it though the squirrels are giving the boys a run for their money.
I thought I was just going to spruce up the sorry ass looking wood floors here in the Fence Post house but instead ended up renting a drum sander and sanding them all the way down to bare wood. And staining them and sealing them and now they are done and look nice.
Bernadette came down for a few days and worked with me but now she's gone. We stopped for barbecue between Hillsboro and Chapel Hill, yesterday on the way to the airport. It was delicious. The waitresses were kind of all business bossy though, in a way that did not seem at all affected. No one called me "hon" I guess is what I'm saying. I'm not saying they weren't friendly enough or that they weren't good at their jobs, because they were fine at it. It's just, well, no one called me hon. We had ribs, and flounder, and hush puppies, and cole slaw, and fried okra, and sweet potato pie.
As I stood behind a teenage girl counting her change several times in front of a very patient, almost encouraging cashier, one of the waitresses noticed Bernadette's red patent leather clogs and called the other waitress over, who admitted to having the shiny blue ones. The first waitress asked didn't Bernadette mind the shininess but the other waitress, the one with a pair of shiny blue ones at home, said that shiny was good. Bernadette just played it safe and said how comfortable they were, especially considering that they did not bend whatsoever. In the parking lot afterwards, we giggled because we thought it was funny that the one waitress was curious about the shininess of her shoes but did not have a single opinion about the bright orange and black camouflage jacket Bernadette was wearing.
I'm not really doing a damn thing today. If I do anything it might be bringing in the shop vac and sticking the flexible hose into the floor vent and fishing around for that rutabaga Bernadette dropped down there night before last. I am remembering how she fashioned her hands to describe the size of it when she explained that she had dropped a rutabaga (about so big) into the heating duct. Later, after she dropped a couple more things down there, we put a piece of wood over the opening. But I'll tell you one thing--the mashed and buttered rutabagas were good as all get out.
This One Isn't
Werner Herzog so loved his little Dieter he made two films about him, one starring Dieter and the other starring Christian Bale as Dieter.
I have seen the former and was watching the latter when a rare thing happened. There was a knock at the door to my kitchen. I could narrow down the knocker's identity to one of very few people.
If I were in NY I would factor in the 67,000 people within my square mile and then deduct the 66,950 people it very likely could not be and then further deduct those that got buzzed in from the street without me being aware of it and then further those that might knock, which frankly would narrow it down to a similar number as to those that might knock in Rappahannock County, Virginia, with its 22 people per square mile, or Person County, North Carolina, with its 91 people per square mile, each of these places having doors that open, if not exactly into a kitchen, pretty darn close to it.
The preceding was me fleshing out with numbers another short tale, but one that has little to do with numbers of people and also little to do with the suspense suggested by the phrase, "a rare thing happened," or for that matter doors that open into kitchens. It has to do with numbers of squirrels. Not that I mean to determine ahead of time that a tale about squirrels cannot be suspenseful, but to ruin it for you--this one isn't.
I am in North Carolina and it was Johnny Woodman. I could have told you that from beginning but unlike Johnny Woodman,who got right to the point of asking could he come over here (here being across the road from his house) and shoot squirrels, I, haven't really decided how many words I wish to use regarding squirrels, Johnny Woodman, doors leading into kitchens, or rare things and population estimates.
The main thing is, we agreed we did not like possums and would only in the most dire of circumstances eat one. He said he might eat a rat before he ate a possum and I agreed, hesitantly, that I also might prefer rat to possum.
We talked about some squirrel recipes and I thought the one he wasn't sure of, the one that his grandma used to cook, sounded quite tasty and had me wishing he would kill and cook one sooner rather than later. I knew his grandmother. She lived in that house across the road when I was out here last, fifteen years ago. We used to talk. Or she did and I listened. I know some things about her. Nothing unseemly. It is not my intention to lead you on with promises of unseemliness. Its just funny how people say things and some of those things get stuck in your head forever.
Werner Herzog so loved his little Dieter he made two films about him, one starring Dieter and the other starring Christian Bale as Dieter.
I have seen the former and was watching the latter when a rare thing happened. There was a knock at the door to my kitchen. I could narrow down the knocker's identity to one of very few people.
If I were in NY I would factor in the 67,000 people within my square mile and then deduct the 66,950 people it very likely could not be and then further deduct those that got buzzed in from the street without me being aware of it and then further those that might knock, which frankly would narrow it down to a similar number as to those that might knock in Rappahannock County, Virginia, with its 22 people per square mile, or Person County, North Carolina, with its 91 people per square mile, each of these places having doors that open, if not exactly into a kitchen, pretty darn close to it.
The preceding was me fleshing out with numbers another short tale, but one that has little to do with numbers of people and also little to do with the suspense suggested by the phrase, "a rare thing happened," or for that matter doors that open into kitchens. It has to do with numbers of squirrels. Not that I mean to determine ahead of time that a tale about squirrels cannot be suspenseful, but to ruin it for you--this one isn't.
I am in North Carolina and it was Johnny Woodman. I could have told you that from beginning but unlike Johnny Woodman,who got right to the point of asking could he come over here (here being across the road from his house) and shoot squirrels, I, haven't really decided how many words I wish to use regarding squirrels, Johnny Woodman, doors leading into kitchens, or rare things and population estimates.
The main thing is, we agreed we did not like possums and would only in the most dire of circumstances eat one. He said he might eat a rat before he ate a possum and I agreed, hesitantly, that I also might prefer rat to possum.
We talked about some squirrel recipes and I thought the one he wasn't sure of, the one that his grandma used to cook, sounded quite tasty and had me wishing he would kill and cook one sooner rather than later. I knew his grandmother. She lived in that house across the road when I was out here last, fifteen years ago. We used to talk. Or she did and I listened. I know some things about her. Nothing unseemly. It is not my intention to lead you on with promises of unseemliness. Its just funny how people say things and some of those things get stuck in your head forever.
Dear Mr. President
By the end of it Mr. President I was so turned around I wasn't sure I would ever find my way. I was concerned, while driving around and around the beltway watching exit numbers get higher, and then inexplicably lower, that I might be the victim of map sabotage perpetrated by a disgruntled Google employee. "Good one, disgruntled employee", I was almost ready to concede, "there is no exit 176b." As it turns out though Mr. President, just on the other side of hopelessness there often lies small reward (there is an exit 176b). And even if that small reward is just a smear of potted meat on a failure sandwich, how can we not take consolation in that moment where out of darkness (a word describing my mood in traffic) appears light, however dim that light may be?
In response to the unprecedented mass of hysterical citizens you have inspired to join you on Jan. 20, an area commuter train service has decided, for one day only, to offer reserved seats in and out of Union Station, which is close to the end of your parade route, and the Capitol building in front of which you will be taking oath. Despite much conversation and planning regarding the many issues of inconvenience (road closures, parking restrictions, and 4 million competitors) surrounding our efforts to be part of your spectacle I, acting as agent for my party, decided to hand deliver my check and order form to the commuter train administrative office. I drove 70 miles to get there, plus an extra 40 driving back and forth on the beltway, before finding my exit. This offer was only available by mail and no calls were being accepted regarding status of orders, so I didn't bother calling about anything, which of course gives you the ending where the woman behind the desk says, '"it wouldn't be fair to the others." After which she told me there was a mailbox outside and that in her opinion (eagerly seconded by the bobbing head of her assistant), I was probably in time to at least be realistically considered as a contender for this last minute lottery for a pretty damn hot ticket. While driving those two and a half hours to hand deliver my order I had played out in my head the scenario of failure, but only briefly. The way it was going to end, I was sure, was with a wink and a nod and me being on the inside track. I suppose I should have seen that unlikely parking space in front of the building and the meter with the word "Fail" as omen.
I am for the time being Mr. President, going to buy into the simple-minded one word of your promise, and Hope that everything is going to be Cool and copacetic and that on a Tuesday not too far away I and 4 million of my closest friends will be able to easily hang with you under sunny skies on an unseasonably warm day.
To end sir, let me say that I know these efforts of mine are miniscule in comparison to what you have endured these last two years and will endure for at least the next four. Congratulations on your victory and may you have good luck dealing with what surely appears to be a messy inheritance.
By the end of it Mr. President I was so turned around I wasn't sure I would ever find my way. I was concerned, while driving around and around the beltway watching exit numbers get higher, and then inexplicably lower, that I might be the victim of map sabotage perpetrated by a disgruntled Google employee. "Good one, disgruntled employee", I was almost ready to concede, "there is no exit 176b." As it turns out though Mr. President, just on the other side of hopelessness there often lies small reward (there is an exit 176b). And even if that small reward is just a smear of potted meat on a failure sandwich, how can we not take consolation in that moment where out of darkness (a word describing my mood in traffic) appears light, however dim that light may be?
In response to the unprecedented mass of hysterical citizens you have inspired to join you on Jan. 20, an area commuter train service has decided, for one day only, to offer reserved seats in and out of Union Station, which is close to the end of your parade route, and the Capitol building in front of which you will be taking oath. Despite much conversation and planning regarding the many issues of inconvenience (road closures, parking restrictions, and 4 million competitors) surrounding our efforts to be part of your spectacle I, acting as agent for my party, decided to hand deliver my check and order form to the commuter train administrative office. I drove 70 miles to get there, plus an extra 40 driving back and forth on the beltway, before finding my exit. This offer was only available by mail and no calls were being accepted regarding status of orders, so I didn't bother calling about anything, which of course gives you the ending where the woman behind the desk says, '"it wouldn't be fair to the others." After which she told me there was a mailbox outside and that in her opinion (eagerly seconded by the bobbing head of her assistant), I was probably in time to at least be realistically considered as a contender for this last minute lottery for a pretty damn hot ticket. While driving those two and a half hours to hand deliver my order I had played out in my head the scenario of failure, but only briefly. The way it was going to end, I was sure, was with a wink and a nod and me being on the inside track. I suppose I should have seen that unlikely parking space in front of the building and the meter with the word "Fail" as omen.
I am for the time being Mr. President, going to buy into the simple-minded one word of your promise, and Hope that everything is going to be Cool and copacetic and that on a Tuesday not too far away I and 4 million of my closest friends will be able to easily hang with you under sunny skies on an unseasonably warm day.
To end sir, let me say that I know these efforts of mine are miniscule in comparison to what you have endured these last two years and will endure for at least the next four. Congratulations on your victory and may you have good luck dealing with what surely appears to be a messy inheritance.
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.
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.