Originally published last year on my myspace blog, so you probably didn't read it yet.
Observations made at the Lloyd Center Mall, 12/16/06
Current mood: savage
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping
Some observations from the Lloyd Center Mall:
1. It is okay to take your kids into the bathroom with you. However, I did not know that that rule has been expanded to include taking your children into the stall while you sit down for an extended dump session, as exhibited by the guy in the last stall of the bathrooms by the Mail Box and his daughter in the rather cute pink, fuzzy jumper sitting on the tile floor of said bathroom stall. I did not know that you could do this. The rearing of children seems a lot less complicated and a lot more convenient.
2. I did not know that plus-sized women were so fond of the colors red, black and purple. Nor did I know that they wore so much trashy lingerie. Is this a new development in plus-sized fashions? Do full-figured ladies give it up more or is this the new leisure wear for the house-bound?
3. There were no women (of any size) in the plus-size store.
4. You can buy a set of Metallica shot glasses and a "crunk" goblet at the same store. You can also get a pimp stick with a die-cast metal dragon's head on the handle at that store. Would you like a Slipknot or Guns 'n' Roses Christmas ornament for your tree? Do people who have Christmas trees want Slipknot Christmas ornaments? Do people who want Slipknot Christmas ornaments bother to have Christmas trees? Maybe I'm stereotyping here.
5. There are three pages of new Mac Dre images that they can put on a t-shirt, hat or Converse All-Star for you at the t-shirt kiosk. Almost as many as Tupac has.
This is merely an observation. If you have anything to add to this brief anthropological excercise, feel free.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I, Car-mo
I'm sure that everyone is dying to hear about my life as a driver. It's sad, really, seeing all of you ride around town on bikes, while stuck in a car. Of course, riding in the style and comfort of a Ford Aerostar has its merits. The van is kinda like my bike, it's old and dirty, but it gets the job done. It has a CD player, though, and NPR, so at least there's that. You have to turn it on by grounding the wire to the battery. Charm? Style? Call it what you will, but I got car sounds.
On the bright side, I have the newest, fanciest Nextel in town. Yours is not as fancy as mine. It just isn't.
Some driving favorites:
McCoy Tyner "Expansions." Start your day off with this CD and you'll be okay. This guy was Coltrane's piano player in his prime. "I got two sealed copies of Expansions/ I'm Like Tom Wu, with yachts and mansions."
Funkadelic "Maggot Brain." The title track is the greatest/saddest guitar jam EVER. I don't have enough room to really get into how many ways this record kicks your ass. "I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, but I was not offended. For I knew that I had to rise above it all--or drown in my own shit." Words to live by in traffic.
Ornette Coleman "Science Fiction." Out there "free jazz" from the master. The entire session comes on this re-issue. More melodic and cool than, say, Miles' wild '70s stuff that tries too hard. Ornette was getting weirder than shit, but still wore a suit. Y'know? This is the musical conversation that jazzbos speak of. Beats talk radio any (and every)day.
ZZ Top "Tres Hombres." There was life before "Eliminator," you know. It was a good life, too, as this record will attest. "Waitin' For The Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago" is as good as it gets for the end of the day. If you time it right, the tightly syncopated groove helps you crawl through traffic on the freeway or downtown. If you do it right, you'll get on the bridge right when the restrained swagger of "Waitin' For the Bus" exhales and the heartbeat rhythm section pumps out "Jesus Just Left Chicago" to take you home. Once again, I could go on...
The Dirtbombs "Dangerous Magical Noise." Scratchy, raw garage soul from Motown (the city, not the label). Mick Collins and company played a crucial role in a hot job to Hillsboro yesterday. I'm new, so if someone's going to have to get stuck on the freeway, it might as well be me. I didn't give a shit, I had the Dirtbombs.
The minutemen "What Makes A Man Start Fires?" This one may give way to "Double Nickels On The Dime," but doesn't it always? Like "Science Fiction," it's like a musical conversation, but with a lyrical conversation over it. This is just my favorite shit ever. It never goes out of style because it was never in style. Maybe Mike Watt got lots of his ideas from all the time he spent driving his van on all of those tours?
If I seem smarter, then that is why.
My first day of training was spent in a tiny car with a guy whose first question to me was "Do you mind if I smoke?"
The second thing that he said to me was "If you get tired of Jimmy Buffett, let me know."
We then drove around for the next five-and-a-half hours like this. At 1:30 in the afternoon, he put on the radio. "Afternoon Zoo"-type shit. The cloud of smoke lasted all day.
Day two was similar, except we listened to Korn and Marilyn Manson. And I drove a little.
Day three I was on my own, in the dirty white van. It was alright until the end, when I got lost in Jantzen Beach and ended up going back to the 'Couv on accident. before locating a houseboat off of Marine Drive. Much heartache and soul-searching. Got the radio to work, but no CDs. Channel surfed for a lot of the day.
Things heard on the radio:
"We can't hear your costume."
"Let's do some giggles."
On the bright side, I have the newest, fanciest Nextel in town. Yours is not as fancy as mine. It just isn't.
Some driving favorites:
McCoy Tyner "Expansions." Start your day off with this CD and you'll be okay. This guy was Coltrane's piano player in his prime. "I got two sealed copies of Expansions/ I'm Like Tom Wu, with yachts and mansions."
Funkadelic "Maggot Brain." The title track is the greatest/saddest guitar jam EVER. I don't have enough room to really get into how many ways this record kicks your ass. "I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, but I was not offended. For I knew that I had to rise above it all--or drown in my own shit." Words to live by in traffic.
Ornette Coleman "Science Fiction." Out there "free jazz" from the master. The entire session comes on this re-issue. More melodic and cool than, say, Miles' wild '70s stuff that tries too hard. Ornette was getting weirder than shit, but still wore a suit. Y'know? This is the musical conversation that jazzbos speak of. Beats talk radio any (and every)day.
ZZ Top "Tres Hombres." There was life before "Eliminator," you know. It was a good life, too, as this record will attest. "Waitin' For The Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago" is as good as it gets for the end of the day. If you time it right, the tightly syncopated groove helps you crawl through traffic on the freeway or downtown. If you do it right, you'll get on the bridge right when the restrained swagger of "Waitin' For the Bus" exhales and the heartbeat rhythm section pumps out "Jesus Just Left Chicago" to take you home. Once again, I could go on...
The Dirtbombs "Dangerous Magical Noise." Scratchy, raw garage soul from Motown (the city, not the label). Mick Collins and company played a crucial role in a hot job to Hillsboro yesterday. I'm new, so if someone's going to have to get stuck on the freeway, it might as well be me. I didn't give a shit, I had the Dirtbombs.
The minutemen "What Makes A Man Start Fires?" This one may give way to "Double Nickels On The Dime," but doesn't it always? Like "Science Fiction," it's like a musical conversation, but with a lyrical conversation over it. This is just my favorite shit ever. It never goes out of style because it was never in style. Maybe Mike Watt got lots of his ideas from all the time he spent driving his van on all of those tours?
If I seem smarter, then that is why.
My first day of training was spent in a tiny car with a guy whose first question to me was "Do you mind if I smoke?"
The second thing that he said to me was "If you get tired of Jimmy Buffett, let me know."
We then drove around for the next five-and-a-half hours like this. At 1:30 in the afternoon, he put on the radio. "Afternoon Zoo"-type shit. The cloud of smoke lasted all day.
Day two was similar, except we listened to Korn and Marilyn Manson. And I drove a little.
Day three I was on my own, in the dirty white van. It was alright until the end, when I got lost in Jantzen Beach and ended up going back to the 'Couv on accident. before locating a houseboat off of Marine Drive. Much heartache and soul-searching. Got the radio to work, but no CDs. Channel surfed for a lot of the day.
Things heard on the radio:
"We can't hear your costume."
"Let's do some giggles."
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Some Observations from the Country Music Awards
Is it just me, or does that dude from Brooks and Dunn look like Annette Benning with a goatee?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Jorrorfest '07: The Freakmaker
Just in time for Halloween I found myself on a horror movie kick, which I have cleverly dubbed Jefe's Jorrorfest (I just now thought of that). Not surprisingly, I feel the need to talk about it. Which is why it is perfect for this or any other blog--you don't care and I assume that you do.
In the spirit of the event, I have instructed The Captain (pictured, at right) to peer menacingly into my window, like he's doing right now--only with a greater sense of foreboding, through October 31.
I won't get into the first two films that I've watched during Jefe's Jorrorfest, except to say that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a brilliant, disturbing and sometimes hilarious horror masterpiece, and that Halloween somehow seems like a cliché nowadays, if only because it has inspired so many others. I could go on at great length about each, but I've got another lesser known "classic" to discuss.
For the third installment of the Jorrorfest I decided to take a chance on 1974's The Freakmaker (a.k.a. The Mutations, and later, Dr. of Evil). My initial attraction to The Freakmaker was the 1970s B-movie kitsch factor. When I discovered that director Jack Cardiff was inspired by Tod Browning's 1932 classic, Freaks, and cast real sideshow “freaks” as the films sideshow freaks, I was sold.
Oddly enough, I unwittingly chose to view back-to-back Donald Pleasance films! This might be a stretch, but the man is like the Vincent Price of the 1970s. The intensity of Dr. Sam Loomis in Halloween, the cold, calculating evil of Professor Nolter set the bar for character actors of the genre. Much like Price, he adds credibility where there should be none.
About the movie itself. Don't let the first half of the movie fool you. It sucks--bad. It is a whirlwind of polyester plaid leisure suits, mock turtlenecks and dialogue that is as snappy as cheese-flavored wood. I turned it off and was about to send it back. Luckily I decided to give it another shot and found found it strangely endearing.
Basically what you have are two plots that are unnaturally fused together like half-plant half-man experiments of the evil Dr. Nolter (Pleasance), whose plan is to make a plant-human hybrid. As it is with plants and humans, and the two parts of this movie, both are fine by themselves.
The trouble starts when Dr. Nolter, who teaches at an esteemed English university, enlists the help of the grotesque giant Mr. Lynch (Tom Baker), the feared leader of a traveling circus sideshow on the outskirts of town. Lynch nabs unwitting college students who are coincidentally enrolled in one of the professor’s classes. The absent-minded professor then fails to recognize them, even as they lie naked (obligatory gratuitous breasts) on an operating table in his secret laboratory.
Mr. Lynch and the rest of the freaks are members of a traveling circus sideshow that is kind of a freak-owned co-op (ring a bell?) that acts as both a holding cell for Dr. Nolter’s unwitting victims and as a clearing house for his horribly failed experiments.
From there it just gets weird, not so much because of brilliant plot twists, although the story’s gaping holes will keep you guessing. Of interest is the seemingly candid acting of sideshow people, who give you the only characters in The Freakmaker who elicit any sympathy. The rest of the characters are pretty much douches. Aside from that, it’s all rabbit-eating plants, re-animating laser beams, pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo, cannibalistic human Venus flytraps, freak-on-prostitute action (they use the “L” word), and deadly, knife-throwing-freak-and-vicious-dog-on-freak revenge killing. German sexpot Hedi (Julie Ege) sums The Freakmaker with horrifying accuracy as she cries out “Ziss is like a bad trip or zomesing!”
A bad trip indeed.
In the spirit of the event, I have instructed The Captain (pictured, at right) to peer menacingly into my window, like he's doing right now--only with a greater sense of foreboding, through October 31.
I won't get into the first two films that I've watched during Jefe's Jorrorfest, except to say that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a brilliant, disturbing and sometimes hilarious horror masterpiece, and that Halloween somehow seems like a cliché nowadays, if only because it has inspired so many others. I could go on at great length about each, but I've got another lesser known "classic" to discuss.
For the third installment of the Jorrorfest I decided to take a chance on 1974's The Freakmaker (a.k.a. The Mutations, and later, Dr. of Evil). My initial attraction to The Freakmaker was the 1970s B-movie kitsch factor. When I discovered that director Jack Cardiff was inspired by Tod Browning's 1932 classic, Freaks, and cast real sideshow “freaks” as the films sideshow freaks, I was sold.
Oddly enough, I unwittingly chose to view back-to-back Donald Pleasance films! This might be a stretch, but the man is like the Vincent Price of the 1970s. The intensity of Dr. Sam Loomis in Halloween, the cold, calculating evil of Professor Nolter set the bar for character actors of the genre. Much like Price, he adds credibility where there should be none.
About the movie itself. Don't let the first half of the movie fool you. It sucks--bad. It is a whirlwind of polyester plaid leisure suits, mock turtlenecks and dialogue that is as snappy as cheese-flavored wood. I turned it off and was about to send it back. Luckily I decided to give it another shot and found found it strangely endearing.
Basically what you have are two plots that are unnaturally fused together like half-plant half-man experiments of the evil Dr. Nolter (Pleasance), whose plan is to make a plant-human hybrid. As it is with plants and humans, and the two parts of this movie, both are fine by themselves.
The trouble starts when Dr. Nolter, who teaches at an esteemed English university, enlists the help of the grotesque giant Mr. Lynch (Tom Baker), the feared leader of a traveling circus sideshow on the outskirts of town. Lynch nabs unwitting college students who are coincidentally enrolled in one of the professor’s classes. The absent-minded professor then fails to recognize them, even as they lie naked (obligatory gratuitous breasts) on an operating table in his secret laboratory.
Mr. Lynch and the rest of the freaks are members of a traveling circus sideshow that is kind of a freak-owned co-op (ring a bell?) that acts as both a holding cell for Dr. Nolter’s unwitting victims and as a clearing house for his horribly failed experiments.
From there it just gets weird, not so much because of brilliant plot twists, although the story’s gaping holes will keep you guessing. Of interest is the seemingly candid acting of sideshow people, who give you the only characters in The Freakmaker who elicit any sympathy. The rest of the characters are pretty much douches. Aside from that, it’s all rabbit-eating plants, re-animating laser beams, pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo, cannibalistic human Venus flytraps, freak-on-prostitute action (they use the “L” word), and deadly, knife-throwing-freak-and-vicious-dog-on-freak revenge killing. German sexpot Hedi (Julie Ege) sums The Freakmaker with horrifying accuracy as she cries out “Ziss is like a bad trip or zomesing!”
A bad trip indeed.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Eight Ball Continues To Crush Souls
It wasn’t enough for the Eight Ball to throw a tantrum last Thursday, making life hell for tenants, messengers and (most of all) security as every elevator in the joint seized. No, the business end of Pioneer Place Mall needed a thorough scrub--on the same day as a well known corporate tax deadline. This was no spit-shine, mind you, so the water fell and fell.
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"
So, in effect, at 8am it was raining on the sidewalk--and only on the sidewalk--at 888 SW Fifth Street, as I struggled with a full and almost unliftable Manhattan Portage messenger bag (yes, it's the big one, asshole). (Dude, let me tell you--my bag was FULL. Not like “hey, dispatch, I can’t move until I hand off some of these packages.” No, my friend, it was heavy like “Joel, drive the car up here because I can’t lift my bag off of the ground” heavy. Even Beefa would cringe. That being said, that's how you make the cash, fuckers. It was like carrying a pot of fucking GOLD. When you see Jefe rocking those sparkly false fronts, you'll know why.) Needless to say, if I would have tried to get that thing on my back, vertebrae would have been crushed, and this was no time for work-related sacrifice.
The deluge went on throughout the day. Metaphors aside, I have never had a rain cloud hover over my head, a la Charlie Brown. But this was even more frustrating. Chuck eventually accepts the permanence of his proverbial dark cloud only once. Each time I left the Triple Eight, the weight was lifted and I prayed that this would be the last time that I would have to darken the Eight Ball’s door. Yet each time that I rolled up the sidewalk, each time fate dragged me back up Taylor, the tainted water rained down on me, taunting me, taking another piece of my soul.
Eventually, the calls stopped coming and I could relax, knowing that I was done with the construction-scarred intersection of SW Fifth and Taylor.
Suddenly, a voice came over the radio, "Jefe, can you do the mail?"
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Eight Ball Had Had Enough
I was finally at peace with the dreadfully time-consuming and demeaning task of travelling through the bowels of the Eight Ball to Bullivant Houser. It helped that yesterday I delivered lunches to the actually front desk of "the Bull," and felt like I'd bested the system at 888 SW Fifth once, so after gaining clearance in the lobby, I strolled back to the loading dock through the "servant's entrance" and into the sweet odor of the giganto-dumpster adjacent to the freight elevator.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."
"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.
One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.
With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.
We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.
Postscript:
As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.
Lo and behold, the thing was there, waiting for me with open doors. Yes, this must be my lucky day. I pressed three and was on my--wait. I pressed the number three button, but the orange light would not stay on. I looked at the control panel on the other side to see if the light was burned out. Nope.
I stepped out and summoned help on the intercom. The voice that suddenly erupted from the speaker spat out a panicked muddle of words, one of which was "malfunction."
"They'll be forced to allow me to through the Bullivant lobby," I thought as I walked back to the lobby and the guard desk. But no, building personnel would be forced to do many things that afternoon, but letting set foot inside the Bullivant lobby would not be one of them.
An alarm buzzed away as people had began collecting in the lobby, staring at the elevator bay as all of the elevator doors stood agape and white-shirted security guards rushed in and out of a heretofore top secret room. It was as though the curtains had been pulled, exposing the Wizard of Oz, only to reveal Hal from 2001, silently, coldly sitting there, refusing to acknowledge its deeds while a bunch of scared kids in their police suits scurried like startled roaches as the alarms from the elevators and the eyes of the grown-ups in their suits turned the whole thing into a scatological nightmare.
One of the guards discreetly mentioned that the freight elevator was working again. Most of the suits standing in the lobby didn't even know that there was a freight elevator in their beloved building. So of I went, back to the dark and putrid bowels of the tower, where the rehabilitated freight elevator awaited. I didn't think that anyone had followed me, but after I tried pressing the call button several times I looked up to see a mob of businesspeople anxiously marching into the loading dock, led by a large-yet-cherubic security guard.
With any luck, the young man's competence would get us safely to our destination. I made sure that I was first to hop into the compartment, the mass of humanity flowing in around me. Yet the episode was yet another in which acting on assumptions cost me dearly. The car began to bounce (yes, bounce) up and down like it was some kind of ride at Disneyland (not a carnival ride, however, so panic did not ensue). The door opened and we all reluctantly got out so that the security man-child and the newly arrived building maintenance guy mentally and physically battled the mighty beast and its throes of seizure, unleashed by the building's revolting cenral nervous system.
We eventually set sail with about 15 people and went straight to Tonkon Torp, passing the third floor mail room and the single envelope that was apparently worth all of this trouble en route to the 16th floor. It was logical, but it sure as hell didn't jibe with my needs. But we were finally making some progress and the whole thing was still quite amusing, so I kept my mouth shut.
As I left the big car, the brave pilot stood alone in the temperamental metal box. Through the cacophony that was blaring out of his radio, he'd heard that the elevators were all now working again. Just the same, I took the stairs on the way down. They let out on Fourth Street, so I walked around the corner to retrieve my bike. As I walked by the loading dock, an older--perhaps semi-retired--security guard smoked a cigarette. The scatological goings-on of the afternoon were not enough to keep him from his break, or ellicit any concern whatsoever. I asked him if what I'd heard was true, that the elevators were, in fact, working again. He just shook his head, laughed and took another drag.
Postscript:
As luck would have it, my next job was a 1000 Broadway back to the Eight Ball. I pulled my stuff and took the advice of the old security guard back at 888, and kicked it at 1000 B'way for long enough to put a dent in the crossword. The "big plan" had me meeting up with D to switch out some packages. I pretended like I was doing him a favor, as I was able to pawn off one drop and two picks at the Eight Ball for two Northeasts. After what seemed like an eternity, he emerged from the purgatory at Fifth and Taylor. His voice quivered like that of a man whose soul was no longer complete as he muttered over the radio, "Please...don't send me back in there."
And we never saw D again.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Hiatus Is Over
I'm back, sort of. I must apologize, as I've been busy and had writer's block for the past few weeks. So rather than bore you with half-assed, sub-standard posts, I just decided to let them rot on the vine, unfit for your consumption. If I knew how to overcome such mental obstacles, then you'd be enjoying an entertaining piece of literary hubris. Sadly, you are not.
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.
Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.
Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:
Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.
Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.
Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:
Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."
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