(*Random Observations From A Cranky Old Man)
(Sure Sign That The End Is Nigh: When you have to sit down to put your pants on, life as you know it is nearly over. I’m not there yet, but the thought occurred to me that this would be much easier than my current standing-balanced-on-one-foot method. Sitting means you could put your pants on both legs at the same time, then your boots, and only have to stand up once to zip up and buckle. This would be more efficient than standing up and sitting down as required while pantsing and bootsing. Look, we Americans are the most productive people on Earth, and it is innovation in seemingly small areas like this that pays off on the bottom line. But sitting while getting dressed is something an old person would do.
I am trying to figure out which would be sexier to a woman who was observing my dressing ritual while she laid in bed, sheets pulled up to her chin in a belated attempt at modesty: standing and hopping around on one leg like a fluteless Ian Anderson, or sitting in a dressing chair with trousers puddled around my calves, redolent with the aura of dotard surrender.
These are the thoughts that occupy my waking moments of consciousness.
Why It Sucks To Be Black Sometimes: I was sitting and waiting at a local takeout food joint one evening after dropping 50 bucks on a fried chicken dinner (Yeah, keep your jokes to yourself.), while texting the rest of the family with my ETA. A Skokie police officer entered and walked right up to me. “Hey what’s up?” he asked me rather loudly. I looked up from my phone and said: “Just waiting for my order to come up.” Just then someone from behind the counter shouted out: “No-it’s that guy back there!” The cop wheeled away in the direction indicated, and said loudly “Hey-they asked you to leave a while ago! Why are you still here?”
Nothing like being the instant suspect...
The Bubble Boy: I went to a drugstore one night last week with Hannah and wandered the aisles while she picked up, uh...”girl stuff.” I saw a giant bag of bubble gum in the candy aisle and thought ”What the hell...” so I bought it. Then I saw a massive jug of Mr. Bubble bubble bath on sale for $2.99. I hadn’t used that stuff since I was about six. So I bought that too. The next night, I popped a couple of pieces of gum, filled the tub with barely-tolerable hot water, added some Mr. Bubble, and soaked away the evening in steamy chewy splendor.
Look, my credit’s good, I get my teeth cleaned every six months, and I hold doors open for people. So yeah- I got my bubbles on. Any questions?
Turn It Down Just A Hair: I love music. I love LOUD music. My favorite bands are Living Colour (going to see them April 11th!!) The Grip Weeds, the Andersen Council, Procol Harum, Apples In Stereo-I could go on. After years of editing film and video, and hanging out at the old Mabuhay Gardens in S.F. listening to the Dead Kennedys and Flipper, it’s amazing that I can still hear anything. The other day I was listening to an “urban” album when I thought I heard a buzzing sound coming from one of the loudspeakers.
I pried the grille off and here is what I found:
Both woofers were like this.
I guess I need some new speakers.
And no, I will not turn it down.
Why Why Why Why Why?
While spending a night in a Holiday Inn in lovely Clinton, Iowa, we came across this wall lamp in our 3rd floor penthouse suite.
A lamp is a lamp, what? But then I noticed this:
Why was this necessary? What was the decision-making process behind screwing a lamp to the wall, then blanking off access to AC power so you couldn’t use the lamp? I mulled this over. I suspect this was done after some form of outrageous behavior involving the lamp had taken place in the room. Possibly alcohol or drugs were involved.
You know I’m right.
Life Is Simple for Some, for Me, Not So Much:
My old Ray-Ban “Python” sunglasses are worn out. I’ve had them for ten years, and the coating on the lenses is wearing off. So I purchased a pair of “Wayfarers” online Feb. 9th from an “official Ray-Ban vendor.” I waited and waited-no sunglasses. Finally, I tracked the package with the shipper. The point of origin was Shanghai, China. Shanghai? For real? Isn’t there a loose pair of “Wayfarers” somewhere in the f**king western hemisphere?
3/4/13 Update: I did some snooping around on the internet and discovered that the site where I purchased my “Wayfarers,” the “RayBan Sun Store,” is notorious for sending out fakes or just not delivering merchandise at all. I called my credit card company, disputed the purchase, and got my payment, which, no lie, had been converted into Malaysian ringgits, credited back to my account. Sure enough (irony is so predictable), the next day the “Wayfarers” arrived. I used a 6-point checklist from eHow.com to determine whether they were fake or real. Fake!!. I have to take them to an authorized RayBan retailer and get them to also determine that these are fake. I will do so tomorrow.
3/5/13 Update: According to the young woman at Sunglasses Hut, they’re fakes! I did buy some genuine “Wayfarers” directly from RayBan, so all is as it should be, and if I say so myself, I look like James Dean if he was black, bald, didn’t smoke, and he was 61.
Overheard Cell Phone Conversation At My Gym:
“Hello...hello Len? It’s John. Yeah. I’m at the gym. I’m fin’to work out.”
(Pause)
“Yeah. I’m at the gym. I’m fin’to work out.”
“I said I’m at the gym. I’m fin’ to work out....the gym, yeah. I’m fin’to work out”
(Pause)
(Laughter)
I don’t know how the conversation ended, because at this point my limited attention span expired. But this conversation was still going on in this vein as I exited the locker room.
BTW, “fin’to’” is mushmouth for “fixin’ to” which means “getting ready to.” Had to clear that up...
Walking Home In A Dream:
I haven’t physically been to Pittsburgh in about three years. But I find I often travel there at night. I wander through a dreamscape of fiery steel mills beside the river. I climb improbably wide cobblestone streets lined by dense greenery, past silent, empty-eyed row houses, illuminated by the light of a setting sun. Sometimes I find myself in the basement of the house where I grew up, looking through cupboards filled with dusty crystal punchbowls, and metal boxes full of cutlery and tools. The hell if I know what I’m looking for, but I keep looking.
Last night, I walked home from middle school.
I went to Sterrett School, located in the Point Breeze neighborhood. When the weather was good, I’d walk home, in order to save the fifteen cent bus fare, which I could then spend on penny candy to eat while I watched the 3 Stooges on TV. It was always a good walk in the autumn-not too hot, the lawns in the parks littered with shiny buckeyes. I would pass by the firehouse at Lang and Penn Ave., through Westinghouse Park, across a pedestrian bridge over some railroad tracks, past a looming Westinghouse plant, which was across the street from Westinghouse Pool. This pool had a sign that read:
”We don’t swim in your toilet, please don’t pee in our pool.”
At the bottom of a hill was a Carnegie library where my mother took me to a puppet show when I was...? I do remember the puppet show, sitting on her lap. I used to take out books about sports cars and airplanes from that library.
It was a pretty good time in my life, middle school. Yes, there was the whole Cuban Missile Crisis, and then Kennedy was assassinated. But skirts were very short and I liked looking at the girls. There was this new band from England called the Beatles. I learned about the world from magazines: “Time,” “Life,” “Road & Track” and “Mad” were my favorites. There were beatniks in East Liberty and Shadyside. I wanted to be an aircraft mechanic and drive a Triumph TR-4A. Every night I listened to Chuck Brinkman’s “Hitline” on KQV, on a tiny transistor radio secreted under my pillow. My brother John was off in Vietnam.
When I woke up this morning, I wondered when was the last time I walked out the door at Sterrett School, the last time I crossed Penn Ave. on Lang, the last time I crossed over that bridge, past the plant and the pool, the last time I was in that library. Did I know it was going to be the last time I would ever walk by those places? What do they look like now? And what about people? When you say “Later!” to some waiter, or a passing acquaintance on the train, how do you know it’s not the last time you’re ever going to see that person? What happens to them?You never know. I look at people today and wonder will I ever see them again?
These are the thoughts that occupy my waking moments of consciousness.
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