Rivers and Streams.

Perhaps we don't all appreciate the rivers as much as we should. When I was coming up I didn't have a lot of connections to them. Sure, I was near enough to the Delaware to realize its importance, but in an immediate sense the only river I was aware of was the one that flowed down the street at the bottom of my hill. It happened so rarely that I was always mesmerized when a flood cascaded waters down the surrounding hills and on to Sumner Avenue. I felt sometimes that I might be compelled to grab an inner-tube and float right down to the Little Lehigh. There was something about the idea of being borne along in the stream that fascinated me. I wasn't scared, but I did have a healthy respect.

When I got a bit older my Dad planned a white water trip for the family. I don't remember where we went, but I think it was in the Poconos and I believe the river-guide company was called Scotty's Tours. Somehow industry had discovered a way to harness that river and create some fairly exciting rapids. We opted for tubes instead of rafts, and that seemed like the proper decision in retrospect. I remember that at one point there was a white wolf traversing the riverbank and keeping an eye on me. He seemed to follow me for miles, but being just a kid I'm sure I lacked the kind of accurate perspective that could delimit the actual physical space covered. Then upon exiting the water, I got assaulted by a stinging insect. It didn't ruin my day or the memory of it.

It was a long time before I had a similarly intense experience on a river, and when it happened it was on the Lower Yough. I was about to get married and my friends wanted to do something unconventional for me. At first there was some animated discussion about whether we should take a structured trip or simply go down by ourselves. Fortunately we rallied to the former. Our six-man boat went down immediately before Dimple Rock, and we were swept underneath. My helmet scraped along its bottom, leaving scuff marks on the yellow plastic. I was the first to emerge, and thus was unable to grab the tow line that was thrown parallel to the spot I surfaced. I took a deep breath and went down the next 100 yards on my back.

Eventually I reached the gateway to the next set of rapids, where a little man in a kayak told me to swim to the bank ("as if" I "had a pair"). It was a bit jarring to be shocked out of my reverie with those words. But I responded well enough that he asked me to grab our raft as it made its way to me. I muscled it to the side and lit a necessary cigarette. My mates were shuckin' and jivin' on dry land as I smoked. When they reached my spot I thought we'd be able to decompress a bit, but an unexpected occurrence arose. It turns out that the raft behind us had also capsized, and one of its inhabitants was unconscious in the water. Kayak-guy was in a panic and needed our help. We jumped in and piloted our hapless vessel directly to the middle of the deluge and plucked our target right out of the water.

We went from zero to hero in the space of about ten minutes. Safely back among the weeds, we were thanked profusely for our timely efficiency and performance. Likely we saved that particular flotilla a bucketload of liability dollars. They invited us to their clubhouse- a micro brewpub ostensibly owned by the operators of our earlier tour. I would make return visits to that drinking hole over the years, but I stayed out of the Lower Yough for awhile. We got banged up on the rock chutes instead. While I'm not anxious to have a repeat performance of that last adventure, I'm certain to seek out rivers throughout my life. There are many more tales I could tell, but they are downstream and for now I'll leave you here in the tall weeds.

My Time With the Feds.

Approximately nine years ago I found myself unhappy with my current career path, and without a definite plan for the future. I intended to go back to school for a professional certificate in the fall, but didn't really know what to do to keep myself busy until then. Throughout the preceding years I had worked in a number of marginally interesting jobs for small compensation, and I wanted to shake things up a bit. I went down to the employment center in Larryville (near the doughboy statue) and met with one of its staff. I grabbed a quick bite to eat at the hot dog shop across the way before I went in. Unfortunately I caught a touch of food poisoning which began to hit me as I was talking with the job counselor.

Still I was able to keep it together enough to entertain several possibilities. It just so happened that the 2000 US Census was in its enumeration phase. There was a representative of the Pittsburgh office administering entry tests to see who might be qualified to work for "Old Glory". I've always been a proficient test-taker, and I did well despite the violent pangs in my stomach. I was offered a low-level temporary position downtown. Every day I walked from home at 47th and Hatfield to the high rise that is now the Westin Convention Center. I did a variety of office-type jobs, and always volunteered to get out in the field for some variety. Tracking down addresses that had forwarded no response to the mailed surveys could sometimes be challenging.

One day several Garfield teens tried to jack my car while I was idling in front of their rowhomes, trying to find a specific house. I was taken aback as they tried to enter through both doors of my beat-up GEO metro. The situation was so absurd that all I could think to do was to flash the closest one my federal employment badge (featuring a big ol' American flag) and smirk at them. That calmed them down, and they hastily retreated to a porch. I asked after them as I finally delivered a follow-up survey several houses down. They had become remarkably docile and polite. And it made for a pretty fun story back at the office. My supervisors especially paid close attention and decided that I should sit for a management test.

My training in psychology prepared me well for the exam. I was told that I got the highest score in the entire region. All it amounted to for me was that I knew what they were looking for. I answered the questions to fit their profile. But the project was so far underway that they couldn't offer me a high position. Still, what they gave me was a vast improvement over enumeration and data entry. I was made the crew leader for all of Lawrenceville. That meant that it would be left solely up to me to take the population count of the area. I had 23 employees working for me, and I was responsible for training and managing them. I reached my personal quota of 100% of the inhabitants accounted for. It turns out that the area was growing!

The best thing about that job was that I could set my own hours and work wherever I wanted to. For awhile I just had people drop off their completed surveys at my house. Then I decided I needed to have a more professional presence, and so I talked one of the local businesses into letting me set up on their second floor. I ran the count from Nooner's bar, which was located on Penn Avenue near Main Street. It was technically in Bloomfield. It's ironic that years later I would be spending a lot of time in my former "office"*. New owners purchased the place and transformed it into a hip destination called the Brillobox. Eventually the Census was concluded and I moved on. But I'm glad to have had the chance to help build the numbers for my favorite city neighborhood. It's been good to me ever since.


* Which I've recently learned was actually the "woman's floor" of the bar.

When I Was No More Than a Child.

Perhaps I'm a wee bit obsessive-compulsive. Or maybe it's more proper to say that at least one of my multiple personalities is. I think that is one of the great joys of keeping the parts of myself ambivalently integrated. I can indulge the little idiosyncrasies that are aching to find their expression. If I repress them, they are going to show their faces anyway. So I might as well allow them conscious revelation, so to speak. That way I don't get anxious about their appearance. They don't blindside me. But I'm getting off on a tangent, and I know that I have something specific to talk about today. For those of you looking for a point, I want to assure you that there is one. Just be patient, and happy that I enjoy a bit of symmetry in my structure.

Not too long ago, my good friend R. and I were hanging out and talking in a nonlinear fashion and he made an interesting offhand(?) comment pertaining to whatever the momentary subject was and it resonated in waves like the proverbial butterfly wings. He said that there really wasn't much difference between a training in art and one in psychology. I found that particularly insightful and specifically relevant to my life. When I was an undergraduate in college, I ended up being a psychology major around the time I was starting junior year. I had one of those epiphanies that seen to quite commonly occur in youth. I realized that I didn't know what the fuck I was going to do upon graduation.

You see, when I left my hometown and my family I came as far away as I dared... all the way across this great commonwealth. My parents had told me that I could attend any in-state school with public funding, and when I looked at the map... the University of Pittsburgh really stood out. So we planned a visit- my first to this fine city. It was one of those gray days that seems to shadow the region's reputation... especially among those that have never been here. I can't say I was particularly trained in the art of observance at the time, and this deficit marked my experience. I decided that I would never come to a place like that for college. It was industrial and Gothic, and I had no idea what that meant.

Months later I failed to get into the main campus of Penn State University. At the time I didn't realize it, but this was incredibly fortuitous. Because Pitt was the rival of that Sunday Blue Law school. I was westbound and running with the sun. In retrospect I mark that as one of the very first substantial crossroads of my life I ever arrived at. And I've been thankful for the path I chose. For a few years I couldn't shake the stink of the East, but one summer I discovered the magic of the 'Burgh, and merged into its rivers. Getting back to the main thread, I'm grateful that I didn't have a fuckin' clue that fateful junior year at Pitt. Because I added up all my credits to see what I would major in (I had been promised a four-year sponsorship), and Psychology won out.

I suppose that I could look back at that time and believe that my spirit and/or intuition was guiding me. When I was completing my fourth year (yes, I finished my B.S. right on time), I knew I had nowhere clear to go. And I stayed and entered graduate school for psychology in education (that was the only seemingly functional masters degree offered for my chosen content). It was there that I really began thinking about individual personalities. For quite some time I matched them with the characters I knew... always externalizing those templates. It's only now (over a decade later) that I'm beginning to truly understand that they were always part of my self. It's a refreshing awakening.

What Color is Your Parachute?

Unlike many late thirty-somethings that might be ashamed to admit it, I'll proudly admit that I played Dungeons and Dragons as a kid. I liked it. It was fun. Sometimes I get tempted to ask my friend who still plays if they are short a player. The only reason I don't is because I have a lot on my plate. Otherwise I would. I mean it. I would like to say that I was a nerd when I started playing, but the sad truth is that I was too self-conscious to qualify for that category. However, my brother made the grade. He was older by sixteen months, and had a group of like-minded friends who he played with often. When I got old enough (around 10 or 11) they let me join in. I was a temperamental little-shit, and I'm surprised in retrospect that I was tolerated by them.

Well, those type of parties ended when I revealed my true alignment. One day we were playing at my brother's friend-DY's house. I was having a good time from what I remember, and I really enjoyed looking at DY's exotic fish tanks (I guess technically they were probably his father's tanks). They really had an incredible collection. Sure, they had quite a few fresh water aquariums. That's easy enough. Not much work required with them. But there were some bad-assed salt water tanks too, and those require dutiful maintenance. And I think that anyone who puts that kind of effort into their passion appreciate when someone else expresses a likewise interest. DY knew I was impressed.

I don't know exactly how it came up through the course of the day, but I think DY wanted to leave an additional impression on me. So he suggested that we take a break and go out and play in the backyard. He had this idea that he'd like us to kick a flaming tennis ball through the grass. He went out to the garage and showed us how we could douse the thing with gasoline and then he lit it on up. For awhile it was just a bit of mischievous (but harmless) fun. But I guess I needed more edge, because the final time it was directed at me I intentionally booted the thing into the 11-foot-hedge that bordered the back of the yard. You'd be surprised how fast that flame grew. As we watched, the tip of the flames started to lick the telephone wires.

Naturally DY was in a state of panic. He was actually fairly "with it" for a 13 or 14-year-old kid. As much as he hated to do it, he knew what had to be done. Perhaps there was a hose somewhere that could have been hooked up to an outside faucet, but there was also a corresponding sense of imminence as those bushes burned. DY showed what can only be described as an awful logic, and he ran into the house and came out with an aquarium. I never found out whether it was fresh water or not. He dumped it, fish and all, at the base of the flame. Unfortunately he knew that wouldn't be sufficient and he ended up making several return trips. I knew it must have been painful because he was crying in motion.

What did I do during this time? I only found out later from DY, during one of the very last times he ever spoke to me. Apparently I stood and stared in mesmerized stillness, watching the fire lick up the flora (and the fauna as well, after a bit). This in itself could have probably been easily explained. However, what I did next (I guess) was over the top. I started laughing... rather maniacally. What was funny about that scene? In retrospect I have no idea. Later, when DY let me know what he thought of me, I guess I must have been pretty sad. I was effectively excommunicated from hanging out with my brother's friends from then on. At that point I guess they realize that art and life are inseparable. Just like the characters I played, I was (and perhaps still am) 'chaotic neutral'.

Who Doesn't Love Shopping?!

I went to the mall yesterday- "The Mills" to be exact. M. wanted to pick up a few things that she couldn't get around town, and I figured I'd give her a ride out that way. She still doesn't relish driving on route 28, and I can understand why. We found the "right" entrance after driving more than 1/2 way around the megacomplex. This one-stop consumer architecture is arguably the least lovely design template that I've ever experienced. It's phenomenally bleak, and whenever I find myself going (and it's NEVER on my initiative), I always feel like I'm visiting an alien planet. I had an hour and forty minutes to spend once we got there, and for the first ten it was interesting from a sociological standpoint. Then I started sweating as if I was in a Baptist church.

There is so much wrong about the entire phenomenon that it's difficult to find the proper place to start a list. The name of this particular mall is insultingly ironic. Nothing you can buy at any of the stores was made in the region. As far as I know there were never any mills where this monstrosity is located. There's no industry involved. It's Henry Miller's Air Conditioned Nightmare run amok sixty years after the publication of that literary travelogue. No matter how the planners try to structure the experience, it can never have anything to do with community. At "The Mills" they break down the retail into "neighborhoods", as if the polished floors were modeled after the city itself. But they even fuck that up- the numbers didn't seem to me to go in order... or perhaps I had already started hallucinated by the time I began to pay attention.

All I really wanted was a belt. My pants have all developed an inconvenient propensity to fall off my hips when I walk, which is problematic in most of my routine circumstances. After 45 minutes I found somewhere to make the purchase. Then I just walked around the uni-level square that I guess is meant to evoke an attitude of stupor-induced impulsive desire. I made a point to find the stores that best represent the state of our society. My pick is Flag World, where you can buy several different versions of "Old Glory". It's a bit shocking that it's still in business seven-and-a-half years after 9-11. I don't know if they are intentionally manufactured to attain material obsolescence every year or two, but it would seem that anyone in the market for a flag has already made the plunge.

I decided I wanted to indulge in nostalgia, and searched for an Orange Julius. Instead I settled for a "fruit smoothie" that had very little in it other than sugar and dairy substitute. I suppose that's not much different from my original target, but it wasn't very Juli-icious. I should have just bought Starbucks. As if to underscore my essential feeling of dislocation, I couldn't even find a drug store to buy cigarettes. I'm usually prepared, but I didn't anticipate going to the mall this afternoon. I thought I might stop at the fancy smoke shop to buy some Gauloises, but the lady at the counter (who spoke with a European accent, for fuck's sake) didn't even know what I was talking about. And I wasn't going to pay $6.50 for Camels.

The toy store was kind of cool. I'll admit that. I found a box of oil crayons for about $5. There was also a men's clothing store that had a tempting purple velvet smoking jacket at a huge markdown, but I resisted my urge to buy indiscriminately. I can only hope I don't have dreams about it that force me to come back later on this week. Still the vast majority of product at The Mills is stuff that I can't ever imagine wanting. Maybe I'll start making bank and shop at the Amish furniture store (inconveniently closed on Sundays). Or perhaps I'll get brain damage in an accident and lose my aesthetic sense, and start coveting some Thomas Kinkade paintings. Who knows? I could even develop a taste for plastic fruit smoothies. I might even feel more American.

A Visit to the Hospital.

As much of southwestern Pennsylvania is breathing a sigh of relief after being bypassed by the worst winter storm of the year, I am hoping that a different force of nature will soon depart from my family's life. Yet again Baby E. is sick, and this time he has landed in Children's Hospital for an extended (if indeterminate) stay. Yesterday morning I tried to decipher the meaning of a familiar but misplaced buzzing sound coming from the stand alongside my bed. It took me a bit to figure out that it was my cell phone on "manner mode". I quickly discovered the reason for its intrusion- M. was trying to get a hold of me, and calling repeatedly. When I finally answered I learned that she was at the hospital ER with E.

I don't know about you, but I'm not entirely rational first thing in the morning. It's always taken me awhile to reconcile to the fact that it's time to re-enter my waking life. M. was irritated that I hadn't picked up her call the first few times she had called, and I interpreted her tone as panicked. I don't quite remember what she had to say, but I knew that my son was in trouble and that I was needed somehow to assist. And I honed in on the phrase "104 degree temperature" that apparently described E.'s current condition. He had been ill for a few days previously, but had demonstrated a marked improvement through Saturday, so this was entirely unexpected. I wasn't remotely prepared for it.

When I was a freshman in college, I once ran a temperature that exceeded 104 degrees Fahrenheit. It was shortly after my first kiss, and seemed a poetic introduction to the worldly ways of adult passions. I was laid up pretty helplessly, and unable (or unwilling) to seek proper medical attention. When it finally felt like my fever broke, I made my way to the university hospital for a check-up. I had been unable to eat for six days, and couldn't even keep water down for half of that period. I was surprised to learn that I was at 104 degrees. My parents were called, and they were told to leave their house immediately in the middle of the night. They drove 300 miles to Pittsburgh. Apparently it was touch-and-go for some time.

In retrospect I suppose I suffered some sort of damage due to that fever. Strange shifts in my brain became evident. My ability to understand complex mathematical concepts seemed to degrade rather abruptly, but my verbal skills improved markedly in a manner that might be described as "odd". The aftermath of the affliction had major effects on my life. I didn't return to school until the next year. For about a month after my sickness I looked like a concentration camp victim. I had lost 25 pounds in a week. I had to piss more frequently. It was a strange time, and I'm sure it left an impression on my parents as well. I can only imagine the concern they had for my well-being. I stayed with my grandparents for a week after they picked me up.

Now I have had a glimpse of what it's like to worry about the health of my child. When I got to the hospital (after gathering the things that M. needed for an overnight stay), I lost my composure for the second time in the space of a couple of hours. When I finally located E.'s room, and walked through the door, I saw my son- he appeared clammy and had tubes running to multiple parts of his body. He was sitting in M.'s lap, and he looked up at me with a weak smile and extended a hand wrapped in gauze to hold an IV in place. As I crouched down to greet him my eyes teared up and I was struck speechless. There aren't sufficient words to describe how I felt at that moment.

Farewell to Vito.

If you were expecting a "things to do in Pittsburgh" post, I'm sad to say that you are going to be disappointed. There isn't much going on this weekend in the Pittsburgh arts community. I suppose that's for the best too, because I wanted to take the time to write about something that is bound to come out sounding overly sentimental. So if you aren't in the mood for melodrama, you should probably just move on now. Because last night we had to put down my favorite cat, and I'm none too happy about it. I understand that no one can really understand what Vito meant to me, and I expect that the typical reaction will be "Oh, that's too bad", and stop right there. I think that's entirely justified, and I'd probably react the same way if we were talking about someone else's pet.

But my reality is that I've lost one of my best friends. I know that sounds utterly ridiculous to anyone that hasn't formed a close bond with an animal, and it would have sounded a bit silly to me before Vito showed up on our back porch in Lawrenceville about eight (or so) years ago. He was as skinny as a rail, and desperate to gain entry to our house. From the look of him, I guessed he wasn't even a full-grown adult yet. Whenever I would get home (we didn't have a key to the front door), he'd be waiting for me, loudly protesting my intentions to leave him outside. If I sat down on the ratty couch, he'd jump up on my lap and bump heads with me. Every time I entered the house he would try to beat the closing of the screen door. I caught him in it a few times.

At the time we already had a cat (Altaires) that we believed preferred his isolation, and we had no intentions of taking in another roommate. But somehow Altaires seemed quite chummy with the interloper. They'd actually hang out together whenever we let A. out. They ganged up against a female bully in the neighborhood. One day M. was in what served as her changing room on the second floor and she heard a mewing beyond the closed window. There was that pesky cat, pretending that he couldn't come down from the porch roof, which he no doubt had little trouble scaling. M. fell for it and let him in, and chased him around for awhile trying to expel him. She was unsuccessful, and he stayed for good.

It didn't take long for Vito (we named him as if he was a hired henchman for Altaires... he was briefly called "psycho-kitty") to wend his way into all of our hearts. Even visitors who disliked cats tended to like Vito. M. was initially dead set against having him stay, but eventually she too fell in love with him. Although he still had his front claws, he was gentle on people and furniture. He was social with humans his entire life. We took him to the vet, and learned that he had about five kinds of parasites in his system. Apparently he had been close to death. And we learned that he was already about 7 or 8 years old. He was certainly old enough to express to us that he was thankful that we took him in permanently. He never seemed to forget what we had done for him.

I'm not exactly sure how long we had Vito. It was about 8-9 years I guess. During that time he was an unfailing companion, quick to take his position on a pillow between M. and I on our bed while we slept. Often he'd perch above me over my head as I read on the couch and lick my hair or lightly nip at my skull. He never lost the habit of head-butting me when he wanted to demonstrate his affection. He was also extremely vocal, always letting me know that he was there, waiting for attention. Over the last twelve months we could tell he was in advanced age, but for the most part he maintained his essential character. At the end he lost a lot of weight and his kidneys failed.

He was obviously in pain, and tried to get outside to find a place to die. M. took him to the Animal Rescue so he could pass quickly, painlessly, and with dignity. I'll miss him and remember him with love forever.

The Absurdity of a Late Lunch.

Wednesday was the first time I ever ate cheese fries and chili dogs in an examination room at a gynecologist's office. Is that hard to believe? Maybe so, but it happened. Before you start wondering, I'll explain right off the bat that there wasn't any particular emergency. I could have stayed at home with E. (daycare was closed), but M. didn't want to drive on the icy roads, such as they were. So we all got bundled up for a cross-town jaunt to a hospital complex I had never even noticed. I can't say I was specifically enthused about going, yet it did make a certain kind of sense to have me behind the wheel. The main problem was my hunger, as I had chosen not to eat before we left. I had taken an early walk instead.

After we made it to the destination and found parking in the indoor garage, and checked in with the receptionist, I sat down and realized that I needed something to eat. The doctors were at lunch and we anticipated that it might be awhile before M. was in for her appointment. It was easily apparent that I was going to be cranky until I had something in my stomach. I got the go-ahead from M., and I didn't waste any time getting underway. I stepped outside onto Federal Street and looked for an eatery. I passed a fried fish-and-chips place, and decided quickly against stopping with the foresight that it would have been an alimentary disaster. The last thing I needed was to be sick for a couple more days.

Next I was tempted by a delectable image on an advertisement in the window of the Pizza Hut. Who knew that they now offered macaroni-and-cheese with REAL bacon? Unfortunately, after a quick surveillance, I realized that there was nowhere to sit while waiting for an order. Plus I had no idea what the hell else I could get to go along with the the mac-and-cheese. I don't like that chain pizza. My quandary deepened as I ran out of options on the "institutional" side of the street. I'd have to venture across Federal St. to the ramshackle independent "eateries" on the degraded side. Even getting over there was a bit of a hassle, with the rain and the sleet and the ice. I hit the opposite curb and skirted an open pit in the sidewalk.

There were four joints lined up in a row, as if the crumbling strip they inhabited meant to serve as a desperate bulwark against the corporate onslaught of homogenized "progress". And I felt a tiny bit guilty about my skepticism as I passed each in turn. These were the hauntings of the "Old North Side", their habitués presenting vague possibilities of danger in their poverty and "otherness". But surely employees at the hospital frequented these places as well? They looked dirty and unkempt under the gloom of the Pittsburgh winter. My appetite dictated that I make a quick choice and throw the weight of a potentially foolhardy confidence behind the search. As you already know, I chose a hot dog shop.

Ironically there were two businesses in that cluster that served hot dogs as the main attraction. My decision was based upon the way that the words "Steve's New York Style Hot Dogs" were painted on the window. They had a cleanly rendered traditional script that I found inviting. The cook was a young man of few words, and he was assisted by an older woman that spoke on the phone in alternating languages. The two worked methodically, and the food was simply prepared. How bad could it be? After what seemed like ten minutes, I grabbed my bagged lunch and went back to join M. in the waiting room. I had just set the messy conglomeration of junk on my lap when the nurse called us in. I managed to avoid spilling stuff everywhere.

A World of Our Own Devising.

Today I woke up in a strange state fueled by staying up past my bedtime last night. For some reason my left thumb felt jammed, as if it was jutting askew somehow while I slept. No doubt my mood was enhanced by whatever remnants of a sinus infection that remained with me. And then too, the dream I actually remember having was filled with tension, and my heart was racing for a good hour after I woke. I'm not in the habit of recalling the activities of my subconscious, especially those that originate in its most unfettered condition. Yet the images and the scenario rolling through overnight lingered like the afterimage of a flash bulb smack dab at the front of my brain.

In that dream I encountered a home invasion by some large creep that seemed familiar but was still wholly unrecognizable. He meant to kill me and I knew it. Different versions of the situation played themselves out one after another. Perhaps there was a large, sharp knife involved. I can say for a fact that I had the impression that this man was singularly demented. And each time it seemed I was rid of him, I had the feeling that he would be back. Of course, the dream state is a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy. If someone were to make one pause in the middle of the narrative, it would be no problem making an easy prediction of what would happen once back in the REM state.

Somewhere in the recesses of my youth, someone told me that if you die in your dream, then you risk doing the same in your daily life. I suspect it may have been Wes Craven who got that canard to stick. Obviously- if that were true, there would be legions of people dying nightly in their sleep for no good apparent reason. Maybe I was suspicious of this Old Wives' tale for awhile, but eventually I resolved to test the theory. I must have figured a cliche would be the safest way to find out for sure. I took a header off of some high place and fell and fell, and then made myself hit the solid surface at the bottom of whatever descent I had chosen. All it did was end the dream. I don't know if I woke up right away.

So I've experienced death on both sides in my shadow existence. Yes, I've made it a point to kill someone in a dream as well. That's probably the most appropriate and effective way to exorcise psychic demons. I recommend that you try it one day. Just prepare yourself ahead of time to compartmentalize. Whatever reverberations that emanate from that kind of violence will manifest themselves very differently in waking hours. There's no need for excessive stress or guilt. You didn't do anything wrong, because you make your own laws while you are alone with your dreams. And if you decide later on that you acted hastily or in a presumptuous manner, you can always bring your victim back.

Ultimately it's a matter of perspective. People don't realize the extent of control that they actually have. Remember that you have the prerogative to define backwards. History is always a retrospective, and there is no compelling reason to constrain yourself with narrow definitions. There's no way to get around the fact that we don't get to construct all of our own rules in our consensual reality. However, that doesn't mean that you have to let anyone else dictate your experiences during that one third (or so) of your life when you are asleep. The monsters will inevitably visit you... they may take any disturbing form you are able to imagine, but remember that they are of your own creation.

Fun-and-games at the Grocery Store.

M. has decided that it's a big help for me to accompany her and Baby E. when they go to the grocery store. It just so happened that this past Saturday's weather forecast seemed to suggest treacherous road conditions, and cabin fever looked to be a distinct possibility. Ordinarily I would have no interest in going to the local strip mall during a weekend afternoon, but I knew that it made sense in our circumscribed world. We bundled up the tyke and set off, me driving at about half the speed I would normally attain due to passengers and ice. Naturally there was a hint of slip on the road and people were already driving like idiots. I don't get drivers who think panic makes them more adept behind the wheel.

When we got to the store I realized that everyone had anticipated the types of difficulties that we had. Perhaps the weather forecast is sponsored by Giant Eagle (I really don't know). There were a lot of folks in the aisles that seemed as oblivious as they probably had been on the streets outside. I'll be forthcoming and admit that whatever attitude I had when I walked through the sliding automatic doors was accentuated by the fact that I had only slept about four hours. I quickly made an executive decision to follow M. around blindly and not try to make any tough decisions. Through hindsight I have determined that this was wise. I would have been completely dazed and over-stimulated otherwise.

My main objective was to find a way to make the trip fun for E. and I. The first thing I focused on was his vocalizations. For some reason, he was especially happy I was along. He kept beaming up at me from his metal bench at the front of the cart. I guess he wanted to let me know about his good mood, as he was shouting out some funny stuff of his own devise. So I thought it was only right to return the favor at an enhanced volume. Perhaps it annoyed some particularly stressed patrons. If so i wasn't aware of it, and I wouldn't have cared regardless. In my condition I felt like E. was speaking my language, and I wanted to make sure there was a dialogue. I know that he appreciated it because we both got progressively louder.

Then I realized that certain customers were actually paying attention to us. Of course I had to start clowning around. In an exaggeratedly solicitous voice I kept asking E. what kind of dog food he wanted. I explained to him that the nuances of flavored mixes, and that he might prefer something with fish in it. Again I knew that he was entertained because he was laughing maniacally by that point. Meanwhile we started getting some strange stares from people. I pointedly asked him if we were all out of Robitussin, and if he had finished the last of it, as I had been too blitzed the night before to remember. The exchange was especially amusing because he had a prominent bruise on his head from daycare that was easy to notice.

Having scandalized the joint already, I decided to mimic stealing stuff off the shelves, hoping E. would take my cue. I even took off his mittens to facilitate the learning process. He was all kicked back with a gangster lean, hand dangling innocuously over the side. We went through the cookie aisle several times. E.'s got the kind of face that makes others love him almost immediately, so our developing scam is especially effective. I just have to figure out how to identify my favorite products for him, and he needs to learn how to hide the more valuable items where no one will look. I figure that we have plenty of time to work on the act. He'll get more wily as he continues to grow into his cuteness. He does indeed make the supermarket fun.

These are the People in My Neighborhood...

It's been about five years since I first moved into my neighborhood, and I am still having difficulties fully engaging it. My (mostly) daily walks have helped a bit, but sometimes they make me feel more alienated than when I first started taking them. I guess I had certain preconceptions about how the place would (or might) develop, and these ideas look more and more naïve with my growing familiarity. Occasionally I'll catch a glimpse of what appears to be a young urbane couple, but for the most part it's mostly peopled with the type that I don't want to spend any of my free time around. This is a real shame because otherwise it has an awful lot to offer as a community.

We chose to move to our area because of the school system... or more precisely because we wanted to avoid sending any of our future kids to the public facilities that reigned in our favorite neighborhood. There's no way we would have moved out of the city proper otherwise. The most desirable sections of the 'burgh are expensive (obviously), and even in those parts the charter and magnet schools seem more desirable than the standard options. So we found the most gritty section of one of the best public school districts in Western PA. M. knew a lot more about it than I did, because her family had once lived there. She knew what we were getting ourselves into, and felt comfortable with it.

I'm moved to reconsider all of this due to an experience I had on my rounds the other night. A friend who lives in the next neighborhood over is looking to rent a space for a studio/collective project. She asked if I could look around and find a suitable place. I really had no idea how to start that search. I figured I could stroll about and look for signs in windows, etc. There are a host of properties that seem enticing, and they also seem to be empty. However there aren't many indications of who owns them, or how I can get in touch with whoever is responsible for managing them. I decided that I would have to ask around to see if anyone had any useful leads.

Unfortunately I don't have current phone numbers for the few folks who might be able to help. So I'm left to strike out blindly and figure out what bystanders might be able to provide assistance. On a whim, I stepped into a bar I had never been in before to get some local expertise. As soon as I entered, I knew I wouldn't get what I was looking for. There were about five guys and a torn-up looking woman at the bar, and everybody swiveled around on their stools to look at me directly. The closest dude started interrogating me before I could even let anyone know why I had interrupted their Monday night "revelries". I can't accurately reconstruct our short conversation, but I will say that he turned out to be the type with no love for the arts.

By the end of our exchange he started making primate gestures in an attempt to assert his alpha male status. To me he was just a fat slab of hick with an unrealistic image of his own potency and a loud mouth, yet that didn't keep him from shaking a bit as he pretended to prepare for a fight. His buddies were much more amiable and tried to calm him. That probably wasn't even necessary, as he was coming off like a melodramatic tweenie preparing for his role in West Side Story. If he truly wanted to fight he would have simply attacked without the show pony antics. Still I had no desire to escalate the situation, so I thanked everybody and walked out. It was absolutely the right move, but I was pissed off enough to imagine coming back with my aluminum bat to remove one virulent stain from my neighborhood.

Deal Me In?

Once again I have a friend trying to talk me into playing poker. So far I have managed to side-step the trendy phase of its resurgence, despite several folks making every effort to let me know what I am missing out on. For some reason people think that I would enjoy taking up the game. They know that I have an interest in psychology, and emphasize the importance of that facet of poker. I expect that these would-be enablers have only the best intentions at heart. Certainly they aren't just trying to recruit fresh meat for the table, right? It's merely an opportunity for me to exercise a specific part of my personality, and a localized region of my brain. Somehow I would be ensured of fun and amusement.

For every compelling reason I am given for participating, I can almost instantly generate a handful of objections. The most generalized excuse I have for foregoing engagement is philosophically-based. When I was a boy, I learned quickly that gambling was a black hole. A couple of my buddies conspired with me to start a football betting pool in middle school. We decided that we could capitalize on our classmates' prurient tendencies, and make a buck or two for soda and comics. The first week we had a lot of participants. It seemed odd that one of our accomplices had so much foresight into what would happen on the gridiron. It was even stranger that one of us came out on top seven days later. What prognostication skills my small social circle had!

You see, we had figured out that the best role to play was the "house". Unfortunately we got greedy too quickly, because if we had more moderation we would have probably been taken care of for months. Anyway, I made a decision after the others started to suspect a fix- I wasn't going to be the sucker. This naturally jigsawed with another objection I had to another honored American past-time... playing cards. As the youngest member of my family I didn't have a chance of success when the deck came out. It was frustrating that the only way I could do well was when someone started patronizing me. I spent a lot of time sitting out, and rolling Yahtzee by myself. It's not like I didn't understand the odds.

As I got older it was easy to avoid gambling because neither my friends nor I ever had any money to throw around. It wasn't an option. Any discretionary income went to beer and cigarettes. The high stake gambles had more to do with whoever you were trying to get into bed. Still I occasionally felt the pull to go to the track. There was something about the horses that tempted me. Perhaps it was something sociological... I was captivated by the milieu. And I felt like I could come out even by simply betting the minimum to show. I could suck up the atmosphere without getting caught in the loop. And for years, there was no pressure to involve myself in any other games of chance.

Now we have high stakes poker on television. You have to make it a point to remain untouched by the craze. If you decide not to get in on it, you risk giving something up socially. I understand that. My grandfather always warned me that a day would come when I would regret not learning how to play cards. I thought he was daft, but he was really quite prescient. Maybe I'll succumb to the gentle urgings of my pals. But I'd be starting at a distinct advantage, and at the mercy of the early adopters. That's something I'd have a hard time dealing with for awhile. There's an ugly side of me that finds losing completely unacceptable under any conditions. Who wants to encourage that?

Making the Rounds.

Today was a particularly beautiful day to walk around the neighborhood. I haven't written much about my (relatively) new habit of strolling around every day, but it's certainly been a substantial addition to my routine. I take virtually the same route daily, and it takes about 45 minutes to complete it. Basically it traces the periphery of town, encompassing a stretch along Main Street and a jaunt along the highest elevation available. I pass a mix of fairly dense housing, and go through the industrial and business districts. It actually presents a fair amount of variety. There are even a few abandoned lots to provide a sense of desolation. I like traversing these spots, and getting alone inside my head.

In some sense I feel like I'm taking the pulse of the place as I make my rounds. It's generally quiet and I notice a distinct lack of walkers. Obviously that varies according to the time of year and day that I set out. There's a nice little playground a few blocks down my street that often has activity when it's warm out. They've even built an upside-down fountain for kids to frolic under and get wet. I make a point not to look too closely at the kids as I pass by, because I don't want to come across as "the creep". Still it's nice to see children with their parents swinging or crawling on the monkey bars. I've often wondered how much time I'll spend there with Baby E. as he gets older.

Down the line I veer off through an alley, connect to the main thoroughfare, and watch the cars speed into town as they approach the first stoplight. I cross the lot of the beer distributor and turn up through one of the two main manufacturing areas. There is rarely anyone about at that end. Tucked along the nondescript buildings are two houses at the bottom of the hill, below the highway. It strikes me that it would be kind of cozy to inhabit one of those domiciles, with good friends living next door. There's very little in the way of passersby, and virtually no traffic. You'd never be bothered, and could do whatever you wanted with the privacy. Up the road is the boy scout camp that cuts into a ravine intersecting the hill. But I don't proceed that way.

I climb the steepest section of my walk and check out the cottages that push right up against the street. There is also a large warehouse where I believe they keep horses. Often I see the carriage parked along the curb. Then I come back down into the flats and continue along the row-houses. As I progress westward, the housing values drop and structures look increasingly beaten and worn. It's along this stretch that I generally see people hanging out. I may nod now and again, but I usually keep to myself. The residents are hard and often look much older than their years. Sometimes I keep my eyes down. I found twenty bucks once that way. More frequently I see empty cigarette packs and empty plastic bottles.

When I hit the drive-through bank with its accompanying lot, I double back toward my house. I saunter along the brick sidewalk and check out the shops. I look in the window of the karate school, and peep the drunks at their various barstools. Most of the businesses along Main are useless for my needs. One sells cleaning services, another displays windows and doors, and a third is a drop-off for an online auction site. As I get closer to home I pass a couple good restaurants, the pizza shop, and my mechanic. As I return to my street, I cross to the south side so as not to walk directly in front of the funeral home (superstition). When I reach my front porch, I take a seat on a plastic chair and light a smoke, just a bit weary from mild exertion.

What the Hell Was That?

We had a looming crisis this past week in our household. To be honest with you, I wasn't even going to post about it because of the stigma involved. But because we got lucky, I feel free to write about it now. A few nights ago, M. woke me up at about 3:00AM. I was naturally dazed, and couldn't figure out why I should have been roused from a deep sleep at that ungodly hour on a school night (which illuminates my pervasive lack of grace, as M. has been interrupted multiple times nightly for the past year by Baby E.). It turned out that M. had been feeding the kid, and she looked up to spot what she believed to be a roach on the wall. She made an effort to crush it, but she believed that it got away. She wanted me to search the wicker laundry basket that was below the scene of the attempted murder.

I couldn't find the carcass... not that I especially wanted to. I've had my experiences with these nasty bugs. My dorm complex in college was rife with them. One day I heard a high-pitched screaming coming from the bathroom area, and I rushed over to see one of the freshman football players, clad only in a towel and just out of the shower. He was pointing in horror to what was then one of the biggest insects I had ever seen in my life. With its antennae, it was about six inches long and several inches wide. The backup quarterback was there too, and he was hocking big thick loogies, and launching them on to the back of the monster. It was truly a surreal site. To see these big dudes quivering like schoolgirls was entertaining, but this thing really was horrific.

Years later I went to Tampa, FL and came across "palmetto bugs" that hopped around an outdoor shower. So yeah... I don't like cockroaches. In my heart of hearts all I could hope for was that this pest in the baby's room was an isolated incident. M. was more proactive however, and made an appointment with an exterminator for the next day. I was leery, as I always suspect companies that agree to come to your house for free no-obligation inspections. I speculated that some guy would show up and drag roach eggs into our place on the bottom of his shoes. If we weren't already infested, we would be soon. Still M. couldn't be budged. She was not willing to risk a full-scale invasion.

When the man with the poison juice showed up, he guessed that what M. had seen was a stowaway from one of the large cardboard boxes that E.'s diapers regularly arrive in. He was actually reticent to spray with a nursing mother and child under the age of one. He left with a promise to come back and look at the bug, should we ever find its maimed body. And today M. found the thing. She identified it as the original perp through the extensive damage she had exacted on it. Wonder of wonders, the exterminator was true to his word and agreed to come back to have a look-see at the remains. We waited for him to show up and give us a verdict on the shell of a creature that was now preserved in a plastic sandwich bag.

Our joy was not to be contained when he gave us his conclusion- it wasn't a cockroach after all, but rather a brown marmorated "stink bug". Apparently these creatures often seek shelter indoors once temperatures begin to fall. Fortunately they do not reproduce as quickly as the species they resemble. We were told that we didn't have a problem. They don't come in bunches. Ours was a lone visitor. Before the man left, I asked him what health hazards cockroaches present. He said that an allergen associated with them can cause asthma, emphysema other lung ailments (especially in children) and that the federal government is actually paying exterminators to go into low-income developments and do preventative spraying. We dodged a bullet.

Pedialyte and Baby Einstein.

Today I had the task of watching Baby E. here at home. He's got some type of stomach virus, and it's making his stool look like gruel. He also had a couple of puking bouts over the last couple of days. Fortunately he doesn't have any kind of fever to speak of, and that makes us feel better about his overall well being. Whatever he has doesn't seem to be making him that miserable. He's got plenty of smiles for us, and he's playing the same way he usually does. But our daycare doesn't want a kid there who has puked within the last 24 hours, or has any version of nasty diarrhea. M. called off yesterday to watch him, and she's going through her allotted sick days quicker than normal. She used her entire store after E. was born.

I've got plenty of days saved up, so it actually makes a lot of sense for me to take the duty. The problem is that I don't know what the hell I'm doing most of the time. Sure it sounds easy in theory... babies eat, poop, and sleep. However they have a particular manner of doing each of these things, and you only really learn about them through repeat experience. E. is also too young (or too stubborn) to have much of a fixed schedule. So far today I've had to simply guess when it's time to eat, nap, or get his diaper changed (that last activity is made a bit clearer from the stench emanating from E.'s nether regions). I have to rely on my resources of observation and persuasion to get by.

What complicates the issue is that E. is out of his routine, and thrown off by whatever discomfort his ailment is giving him. I knew I was in for it late last night when M. decided to take him to Children's Hospital. He had only wet his diaper once, and that's an indicator of dehydration. You certainly couldn't tell that anything was wrong with him from his behavior. He seemed pretty happy. But the doctor that M. talked to said that you can't risk it. She schlepped him out way past his bedtime for check-up, and wouldn't you know it... the professionals decided not to give him fluids via I.V. They recommended that we give him Pedialyte (for those of you who are unfamiliar, it's like Gatorade for tykes).

Anyway, when I woke up with the kid this morning, I was given strict instructions to try hard to get him to drink this nostrum. Apparently though, little E. has strict temperature requirements for his drinks. He doesn't like them cold. If you open a single-serving bottle of Pedialyte, you are supposed to refrigerate the remains. If he won't drink it when you break the seal, it's got to be preserved, and then heated to room temperature the next time you give it to him. Luckily M. was able to rush home during lunch hour to problem solve. She was exhausted of breast milk, so she had to be creative. She mixed some Pedialyte with rice cereal and fed him with a spoon. I would have NEVER thought to do that. But that's why she's the Mommy.

I'm grateful that I have at least developed the skills to keep him distracted. More accurately, I'm glad that there are people whose jobs revolve around making stuff like plastic toys and Baby Einstein DVDs. What did hapless fathers do before these technologies were invented? I guess they simply went to work and let the stay-at-home mothers take care of it. That's not an option for many parents nowadays. It's a serious issue. You'd think that some enterprising entrepreneur would start sickroom day cares for kids that can't attend their regular facilities. I guess there are too many concerns with public health for that to work. I envy folks who have extended families that can take up the slack. Still I guess I should just be thankful that I have a job that allows me to take off for these situation.

Why We Will Never Just Get Along.

It must suck being old. You might wonder how I can form such a conclusion, and that's understandable. I believe that this must be the case because certain old people are so difficult to be around. My personal plight is to be sandwiched in between elderly neighbors. On our right we have the most bitter and crusty man that I have ever met. Everything out of his mouth turns to shit as soon as it hits the air. It doesn't matter what subject he gets on; he is always hateful and resentful. Meanwhile he's married to what must be one of the longest-suffering women in America. Granted she's no plum herself, but I am compelled to feel sympathy for her lot in life. She's joined to an asshole, and I can only imagine how much that stinks.

Not that she's immune to transforming into a monster at the slightest pretext. I've written about such an episode in another post. But regardless of her lapses in sanity, I'd prefer to deal with her than her cretinous husband. In fact I recently made the mistake of crossing the white line at the front of their handicapped parking space. I was absolutely in the wrong, and ready to admit it when it was pointed out. Instead I had to fire back when the decrepit fool started yelling at me over the shoulder of his wife. Later I made a point of telling the woman that she should come to me alone with any problems she has, and that I'd make sure to resolve them quickly and courteously. I also reinforced my position that I will never deal with her mate.

So on that side of my homestead, all I can do is wait for the glue factory to come and take my neighbor away forever. One of these days he'll be screaming at his poor unfortunate subject/wife, and he'll have a massive coronary and die on the spot. In response the entire block will throw a week-long celebration to honor his absence. Until then I'll simply try to ignore him. I have my hands plenty full with the old lady on our left. At least she makes the occasional effort to be the solid citizen. I know she has great affection for Baby E. Even so, she is doddering and addled, both in her expression and her decisions. She once tried to give E. an old abandoned shoe she had found in the street... just tried to pitch it next to him in his stroller.

Our relationship (such as it is) has actually improved a bit over the years. One time we went on a trip for a week, making sure to provide for someone to come by and check on our cats every other day. When we got back the old dotty hen told us that our cat had been mewing out the window whenever it saw her. Besides wondering why our nosy neighbor was peeking in our windows, we were stumped about her point. Our cat likes people, so what? Then the lady told us that she was tempted to call the ASPCA on us for "neglect". M. absolutely loved that one, and she made sure to dress the old woman down. Apparently M.'s language was strong enough, as things immediately cooled down and a détente was quickly struck.

Now ol' dotty hen has to direct her energies elsewhere. This evening I was amused to see her jawing with a middle-aged man who was visiting his daughter a few doors down. It seemed that he had taken our neighbor's handicapped space, and she was trying to exert some sort of territorial imperative. Even after the man pointed out that he had "disabled person" plates on front and back, she continued to insist that she could call the police. Her reasoning (evidently) was that they were Maryland plates, and somehow not valid in front of her house. But the funniest thing of all was that she didn't need the spot, and would not have parked there even if it was empty. Tomorrow is street cleaning, and she never forgets to remind us several days ahead of time. Her car is across the street and will stay there throughout Monday.

Song of Myself.

What is a birthday? An arbitrary observation of the day when you were born, which recedes in twelve month segments. Now that I am approaching the "middle age" phase of my life, this birthday phenomenon is becoming more complex. How should it be recognized? Is it to be celebrated, as if there were nothing so special as your arrival on Earth? Is that not merely a recognition of one's own vanity? Or is it a simple reminder that you are aging, and that you have expended yet another of your all-too-limited years of life. Naturally when you are younger, you tend to see things according to the former view. But eventually you are almost bound to start thinking about passing time, and your birthdays will tend toward the melancholy.

Of course I do recall the birthdays of my youth, when I waited until late summer to mark another milestone toward adulthood. My family was by no means wealthy, but I could always look forward to receiving gifts. I'll admit that getting that booty was my main focus. I came to expect it as my proper due. I guess it's just a bit ironic that I don't remember any specific presents I ever got on those long ago days. I know the stuff was nice, and that my parents always made sure I was satisfied... yet I still have difficulty dredging up any of the particulars. I know that we did get to choose what kind of cake we wanted. And I know that it was a time to spend with my extended family.

The most memorable birthday I had was when I turned 16, and went to Action Park in Vernon, NJ. That was truly the big-boy destination of my adolescence. There were a lot of attractions at this oddly perilous amusement park that required a driver's permit. It's true that I had fun, but I also got more than I bargained for (as a lot of other fun-seekers did at that place). Still it made for an interesting day in the sun. Other birthdays were spent at the neighborhood pool that we belonged to. We always got to hold parties at this members-only hot spot. The best thing about those events was that they were held at night. There is something special about being able to splash around in the dark. It also didn't hurt that those evening frolics were lightly chaperoned.

Nowadays I usually don't make a big deal about my birthday. It's a bit embarrassing for me to be the focus of attention on a day that I had very little to do with in the first place. I certainly don't remember choosing to emerge into the external world on that particular date. But M. likes to make a big deal of these occasions, and always asks me what kinds of treats I would like on my "special day". This year she brought up the idea of having a party at the house. Because my actual birthday falls on a weekday, she suggested that we have people over on the Saturday before. While it seemed a bit indulgent to invite folks over to celebrate my existence, I decided that it would probably be a lot of fun.

Hey, what the hell, right? Any excuse to have my buddies over for some concentrated relaxation. I guess I don't really care if it comes off as self-importance. This will be the first party we have had here since Baby E. was born. When he's ready for sleep we're planning to move the shindig to 31st Street Pub, where my buddy Slim Cessna is opening up for my other buddies, Local Honey. If you are reading this and feel that you missed your invitation, I'd advise you to pick up your phone when I call. Because I tried not to forget you, and that only means that we got our wires crossed. If you do happen to read this and have some free time this evening, stop on by and we'll do a shot.

The Good Samaritan.

Today I had the opportunity to consider providing assistance to a complete stranger. M., E., and I were walking home from the new cafe in the neighborhood next to ours, when we came across an old woman who appeared to be perturbed. She began talking out loud before we even reached the proximity necessary to distinguish her words. At first I made the flawed assumption that she was addled in some way, and considered ignoring her. But I soon discovered that she wanted specific information about the patterns of public transit. She wanted to know if the bus stopped on the corner that she was standing on. We advised her to walk down to a nearby corner that was demarcated with a "Bus Stop" sign.

As we slowly accompanied her down the street, she began complaining about the public transportation in Pittsburgh. For anyone in town this should come as no surprise. The city has been flirting with bankruptcy for years, and there has been some obvious mismanagement of the Port Authority. Anyway, they've cut routes and the remaining ones don't seem to fit any obvious logic. This woman was bewildered about the fact that she would have to go all the way downtown to catch a transfer, just to get to the neighborhood right over the bridge from ours. She made the point that it is especially difficult to get around with all the road closings that somehow coincide with the 250th anniversary of the city.

Here was a 91-year old woman who just wanted to get to her home... a mere mile or so from where she was stranded. No one could look her in the face and then complain about having to pay taxes for public transit. After we walked her the block or so to the nearest stop, the entire situation began to gnaw at me. We picked up our pace, as I resolved to come back with my car to see if she still needed a ride. Fortunately she must have been picked up shortly after we parted ways. I just missed out on my chance to play the "Good Samaritan". And then naturally I started to think about the etymology of that term. Was it truly appropriate to characterize today's situation under that term?

The concept itself originated in the New Testament, in the Gospel of Luke (chapter 10 verses 25–37). Some anonymous lawyer wants to justify his behavior, and interrogates Jesus about the way to heaven. He asks what should be expected of him in order to gain entry to paradise. Jesus speaks of "loving thy neighbor", and this puzzled the lawyer, who asks for additional clarification on that point. The Christ relates the "Parable of the Good Samaritan". Some dude gets the beat down by some highway robbers and lies bleeding on the street. A Priest and a Levite pass by without helping, for their own individual reasons. But then a Samaritan stops by, ministers to the victim with "oil and wine", and then drops him off at an inn with funds for further assistance.

So who is this "Samaritan", and what relevance does his ethnicity have in the exchange? Apparently the Samaritans were the first outsider sect of Judaism. They are basically Jews*, except with the important distinction that they believe that God has already revealed himself at Mount Gerizim. Without going into unnecessary detail, this group became despised by conventional Jews because of this theological discrepancy, and because the group was later perceived to be actively collaborating with the Hellenization of the Holy Land. That's the crux of the story right there- this anonymous Samaritan was blessed even though he wasn't one of the "Chosen People" of the Hebraic faith. The guy stepped up and earned himself a place in the afterlife. I think its a revealing tale, given the self-righteousness by a lot of the modern-day faithful.


* As of November of 2007, there were reportedly 712 Samaritans left, primarily living on Mount Gerizim and in the settlement of Holon, near Tel Aviv. Historically they have not allowed intermarriage, which has caused a disproportionate amount of genetic diseases.

More Self-Referential Blogging Bullshit.

When I first started this blog over two years ago, I resolved to avoid becoming self-referential. There's something about a writer that takes as his/her subject "writing" that suggests an overwhelming self-absorption. How many authors have you read who have written novels about their lives as college professors? There are certainly a lot of them in your local library. While it may be justified as authentic, since the academic life is a home for many scribes, this type of theme has the tendency to become fairly mundane. Granted there are certain folks who have completed memorable fictional accounts of this milieu (a notable example is Richard Russo's Straight Man), and others have built successful careers on it (see David Lodge).

Obviously blogging itself has a narrower tradition, simply because people have only been doing it for about fifteen years. Yet as of December of 2007, the blog search engine Technorati was tracking more than 112 million blogs (a fact which frankly makes me feel a bit better about my ranking on that site). A common complaint I have run into while talking to people about blogs is the perception that the vast majority of them simply constitute opportunities for self-absorption and navel-gazing for the bloggers themselves. That's unfortunate because the range and variety of subject matter to be found within the blog spectrum is enormous. Still I don't want to perpetuate that impression, so I'll try to keep my own inclinations contained.

But the reality is that I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about this phenomenon, and what it means in my personal life. I made that clear with yesterday's post, yet I think I have more to communicate on this subject. Blogging has become a daily activity as much as an abstracted pursuit. It has changed the way people interact with me. For one thing, it provides fodder for conversation for those who read Serendipity regularly. I find that it often cuts through a lot of the small talk that I would normally encounter with these readers. They don't have to ask general questions, such as "So what have you been up to lately?" I've had quite a few discussions that start with a pinpoint observation about something I've written about recently.

It's also interesting how things happen on the periphery... things I'm not even aware of. I often proceed with the assumption that no one I am writing about will read my blog. This has turned out to be naïve. Not long ago I mentioned the title of a local art show, and later discovered that the artist who came up with it read my opinion and took mild offense. Even though I stuck behind my convictions on the matter I couldn't help feeling a bit bad about being critical. I was taken aback by the experience because of my veneer of anonymity, and the realization of just how thin it actually is (especially on a local level). It makes it tough to avoid being a simple cheerleader for the local scene. I don't enjoy hurting people's feelings.

On the other hand, I have been pleasantly surprised by comments and e-mails from those I don't know who have stumbled upon my site. Just this past week I received a gracious note from an author who had read my review about his nationally distributed book. It made me wonder how many other individuals I have mentioned have found my blog via internet searches. At one point last year I was getting regular correspondence of a vaguely threatening nature from the lawyer of someone I had vilified in a post. They weren't talking about legal action, but rather invoking spiritual and more immediate worldly damnation. Believe me that makes continuing this project extremely interesting.

My First Chicken Slaughter.

As if my week wasn't made odd enough by having cremains tossed on me, I decided to commit to another level of surreality on Saturday. I have some friends who've recently returned from living abroad to become organic chicken farmers. They have seen me through my early years as an artist, and asked me if I'd be willing to photograph their first chicken slaughter. After thinking about it for about forty-five seconds, I eagerly accepted their offer. Hell, I eat chicken a lot... I prefer it to any other type of meat, so I might as well witness the ideal way of processing it. Still, after a night out at the bar, I didn't know what to expect early the next morning. But I woke up at 7AM and made my way out of the city to the rural paradise that my friends now inhabit.

I found out right away (to mild disappointment) that they had actually killed 120 fowl the previous Wednesday. That meant that they were already old hands by the time I arrived. Their schedule entailed snuffing 60 more birds by noon. The idea was to have them ready for their customers, who they would be inheriting from the family that was serving as their host and mentor. As far as I'm concerned, their clients have a good thing going. They get extraordinarily fresh meat with no chemicals for $2.50 a pound. As an ordinary consumer, I had no clue how these things got from their eggs on to my plate. I was about to find out. I got a quick tour of the facilities and smoked a last cigarette before show time.

All the equipment necessary for an operation of this scale fits on the bed of a small trailer- about the size you might use to tote a speedboat. There are a series of six stainless steel inverted cones into which you manhandle the future fryers into an upside down position. The heads poke out an opening at the bottom, and you simply grab their heads and slit them off with a sharp boning knife. As you've no doubt heard, they flap around for awhile afterwards, so you've got to hold them in place until they are relatively still. Their blood drips down into a gory trough at the bottom. Then they go into a hot tank of water to get scalded for about 45 seconds. That prepares them for the plucking machine, which looks a lot like a top-loaded washing machine.

After they are sans feathers they look as if they are ready to eat. But you still have to remove their innards, sparing the goodies like the gizzard and liver. This looks like the most time consuming part. It took a crew of four a bit more than two hours to transform all 60 chicken into food. It's a bit amazing when you think about it- these males go from cradle to freezer in only eight weeks. I guess you could feel bad for them after that reflection. They are just entering their prime, and they are abruptly beheaded and turned into an inert marketable product. Yet as a meat eater, I'd be a bit of a hypocrite to spend much time being bothered over the whole thing. After all, they are finger-lickin' good.

It would be interesting to have a look at how agribusiness does their processing. However there is zero chance that they'd let me step into their plants with a camera. You can access horror stories about the industry pretty easily elsewhere. I'm not going to dwell on those sordid details here. The important thing is that I have a deeper awareness than I had before. I honestly didn't know how I'd react to the inherent violence of chicken slaughter. I suppose having a camera in between me and the phenomenon helped me distance myself from any emotions that I may have had otherwise. I'll admit to being a bit glib about it while I was shooting. And although I had a bit of melancholy on my way home from the farm, I'm certainly not going to stop eating drumsticks.