Evening, Monday January 24, 2000
Yikes! I’m being overrun by web spiders!
Friday Gulliver, Northern Light’s web spider indexed the whole of Jeffrey’s part
of the site. Apparently Gulliver can read frames pages too. I’ll have to check in a
couple of days to see how it turned out. Scooter from AltaVista and Slurp from Yahoo,
Snap, HotBot and MSN, and Googlebot from Google, and Fastcrawler from Norway have all
visited extensively this weekend.
I haven’t seen anything updated yet, but it can take up to two weeks before the
results of a crawl show up on the search sites. It’s weird how they all hit at once.
And that’s the only excitement around here. The weekend was spent cleaning and doing
laundry. The problem with having so many clothes, towels, sheets and things is that I
don’t HAVE to do laundry that often. There’s always something on the shelf, or a
hanger or in a drawer. So, when does it comes time, there’s a mountain of laundry.
And we have one machine for the four apartments, and I always seem to pick the same time
as someone else.
I hadn’t been down to the basement at all since the flood. It’s clean! Who knows
how many people had moved out and left shit down there? If it weren’t for the low
ceiling, now you could hold a dance down there.
Friday night I was so bored I even turned on the television. I forgot what it was I
watched. After an hour I shut it off and went to bed. Tossed, turned, tossed some more. I
got to sleep around 5:00.
Camy, who runs the writers’ workshop I’m taking, told us that beyond our
assignments, we can bring in anything we’ve ever written for critique or just to
share with the class. The piece below started as a couple of filler paragraphs in
today’s entry. I could see possibilities so I spliced it out to another file and put
in an hour of editing and rewrites.
I know it needs some more work, but I know only some of the things it needs. For instance,
word and phrase order in couple of spots. It meanders, but that’s my style. Although
I like the observation, the second paragraph could be cut completely. But I limited myself
to an hour, and this is where it stands:
Of Pringles’ and Pigeons
Saturday afternoon I went shopping at Midtown. Although I’d gotten
everything on my list Friday, there were some things I’d forgotten to put on the
list. It was sunny and a bit warmer than it’s been, so I went to the pharmacy and the
IGA and browsed the used books at the antique store.
They must have a hundred Bibles in that shop. The other big item seems to be old medical
books. There were a few dozen of those too. Either the owner has to stock up because
there’s a huge trade in those items, or he’s stuck with them because no one
really wants them at all, but they come with the collections he buys. I’ll have to
ask someday.
Back out on Main Street waiting for my bus, there was a bit of diversion. It’s a good
place to find diversions since all the bus routes converge at Midtown. You can see some
truly weird stuff at Main and Clinton, because the truly weird can all get there.
Saturday, it wasn’t weird that caught my eye. It was a woman who seemed at worst, a
bit eccentric.
Standing in the bus shelter was a little old black woman. She couldn’t have been more
than five feet tall, was old as Methuselah, a bit on the plump side, pleasant face, and
her hair was tied in a bun. She wore a dark gray wool coat that would have been
knee-length on anyone else, but it reached to her ankles. She had a huge handbag of the
sort that old ladies who rely on the bus tend to carry. Completing the ensemble, she wore
a burgundy and navy scarf and dangly earrings that matched a big old gold pin on her coat.
The scarf is what originally attracted my attention. I have one that’s nearly
identical.
Anyway, she looked like she was full of interesting stories, someone who would be nice to
talk with on a porch swing on a summer’s afternoon, with lemonade. Were it not
January with the temperature in the teens. And that she had a swarm of pigeons at her
feet.
Chain-smoking Pall Malls, every now and again she’d reach into her handbag and pull
out a can of Pringles’. She’d carefully remove the top, extract one chip, reseal
and return the can to her handbag. Holding her Pall Mall in her mouth, she’d crumple
the chip between her hands, then drop the pieces to the pigeons at her feet, or fling them
to the sparrows outside the bus shelter.
After a while, she’d repeat the ritual. Puff, reach, open, extract, close, put away,
crumble, drop or fling. Occasionally an errant pigeon would peck at her boots and
she’d shoo them all away. The next chip invariably went to the sparrows. Then
forgiven, the pigeons would get the one after that. Once, two chips stuck together. No
problem. One went to the birds, the other she ate herself. As she ate her chip I could
tell she’d left her teeth at home because the whole lower part of her face
disappeared as she gummed it.
Time went by, then several buses came all at once. Mine brought up the rear of the
procession. As we pulled away and passed the bus shelter, I saw it was now empty, except
for the woman and the pigeons. I was left wondering, when I’m old as Methuselah and
there’s no one to listen to my stories, will I spend sunny winter afternoons, teeth
left at home in glass, stretching my time by metering out my can of Pringle’s and
feeding the birds? |
I’ll let you know how the critique goes. And your
critique is welcome too.
Saturday night around midnight I’d had enough of sitting around here. So after I put
a load of clothes in the dryer, I walked over to the Forum. I don’t know what’s
happened to their crowd. It seems that the only time the place is reasonably full is when
it’s the Rams Club bar night. And I try to avoid that. It’s a little too weird.
When I arrived, the bar area was filled with people in small groups. I didn’t see
anyone I recognized, but of course even at night, my eyes have to adjust to how dark it is
in there. I got a drink and wandered over to the pool table where six guys trading-off
playing doubles.
Someone dashed out the door alone as if on his way to a fire. I caught only a glimpse of
the back of his head and a flash of jacket. I had a very strong recognition reaction. The
impression was that it was Jim.
It may have been, it may not have been. In fact, it probably wasn’t. But I thought
about it at the time. This is all speculation based on the assumption that it was him. I
would hope that he’d have spoken to me. Perhaps, since I’d scanned the bar and
gone over to the pool table he thought I was snubbing him. Not seeing someone, and seeing
them yet failing to acknowledge are two different things. Or perhaps it was he avoiding
me. He still visits the site occasionally, so someday maybe I’ll find out.
The pool game broke up and for a while there were no new players. While the winner stood
around awaiting new contenders I wandered back to the bar. I still didn’t see anyone
I know or anyone who was obviously not in one group or another. I walked around to the
other side hoping I’d missed seeing someone I knew. And at least it would let me be
seen.
Way on the other side of the bar, I ran into Ron. We have a unique history. Years and
years ago there was a guy I dated for a bit. Turns out, he was cheating on his lover with
me. His lover was Ron. We got over it and Ron and I talk in those rare occasions when we
bump into each other. I don’t know what happened to his ex-lover. Long ago I decided
not to ask.
We made small talk for a while and lamented the shortage of available husband material.
Ron’s got a few years on me, ten or fifteen if he’s remarkably well preserved.
He complained, “There was one guy who was interested in me. He’s 32, but 32 is
too young. I’ve always been into older guys. The problem is they’re all dying
off.” It seems strange to hear that. Usually you hear younger guys complaining about
us old farts hitting on them.
Apparently in an effort to boost lagging sales, the Forum now plays
soft-core porn on two sets in opposite corners of the bar area. Ron and I spent the rest
of the night dissing the films.
“Look at all that sand.”
“And you wonder why no one’s fucking in this film?”
I got tanked. On three Dewar’s and waters. Not especially strong ones either. They
were honest drinks, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not regular enough to warrant
really stiff ones. (Drinks! I’m talking about drinks here!) And thank heavens for
that. Three regular cocktails and I found myself weaving down the sidewalk home. I was
home for almost an hour before going to bed and the room still spun around.
It’s a question of pride, and I’m not sure how I feel. I’m either delighted
or horrified that I drink so little and so infrequently that three normal drinks hit me
like that. On the other hand, I think back either fondly or with shame to when I was
working in the bars and that was just enough to get me warmed up.
And you wonder why I’m so mixed up about more important issues in my life…
Afternoon, Wednesday January 26, 2000
I was dozing lightly on the couch this afternoon when I was awakened by
the sound of someone crying outside my door. Not big heavy sobs, not the sniffing kind
either, but somewhere in between.
When I heard that someone trying my doorknob, I swung my feet to the floor, found my
glasses and investigated. It was Jeffrey. He was leaning against the wall across from my
door, his thick hands covering his face.
It wasn’t the fact that he was crying outside my door that shocked me, nor was it
that he had no coat or hat. What shocked me was that he’d cut his hair. Whoever had
cut it did a marvelous job too. Despite his face being all red, scrunched up and pouty,
with tears running down his cheeks, he looked fantastic.
He’s been talking about getting his hair cut for a while now, but it always seemed to
be indeterminate, in the same way he might have said, “I’m thinking about buying
an oceanfront condo, get away from it all, do a bit of beachcombing, maybe work on my
tan.” You just kinda reply, “Uh huh,” and nod your head.
I moved across the hall to take him in my arms, but he shook his shoulders and waved me
away. Backing off, I offered, “Here, come inside”
“No, I can’t,” he sobbed.
I pushed the doorstop under the door and sat down cross-legged in the doorway. He slid
down the wall joining me on the floor, knees up to his chest, feet meeting mine. I waited
patiently and quietly for him to begin.
The door slammed downstairs, I woke with a start, still on the couch. It had been a dream.
I should have known because the shirt he was wearing is hanging in the closet.
I wish I’d found out what he’d come to say. There are so many ifs and maybes
that it’s foolish to speculate.
After midnight…
This evening I worked on my assignment for the writer’s workshop
tomorrow night. When I was given the color red as my assigned
topic, I knew immediately what I’d write about. During the week I made a mental list
of the bullet points I wanted to hit and roughly mapped it out in my head. It wasn’t
until tonight that the words came out my fingers, 1,047 of them in 24 paragraphs.
I still haven’t decided on where I’ll put the writing I’m doing for the
class and how I’ll link it in. I have a couple of thoughts but nothing I’m
completely happy with.
Evening, Thursday January 27, 2000
I enjoyed tonight’s writer’s workshop more than I expected
such a thing could be enjoyed. Three things seem to contribute. First is the instructor,
Camy. She’s got a way of discussing a topic that just sucks you in. Her critique
comes from the point of view of nurturing. Yet, her comments are direct and specific.
Second, are my classmates. We’re all looking for the same things out of the course
and are interested in the same type or writing, memoir. The group is small, we’re
focused and we had some wonderfully lively discussion of each other’s work tonight.
It’s the sort of thing that could easily disintegrate into a mutual admiration
society, or worse, catfights. Everyone jumped into the critiques with genuine enthusiasm,
sharing what we liked about each others' work and specific suggestions that could help out
with the rough spots.
Third, although everyone has their own style and approach to the topics, and varying
levels of experience in writing, my classmates are all decent writers. I didn’t get
the impression that anyone felt intimidated by anyone else, or felt superior for that
matter.
Several readers last week wanted me to tell how “the blue guy” fared with this
week’s assignment. The fates smiled upon him this week giving him a new grandson and
conveniently supplying a topic for blue. He wrote a wonderful account of his
grandson’s birth.
“The yellow lady”, our other retiree, wrote of the connection between our
eye’s perception of yellow and how “Just the thought of this lifts my
spirits.” Our outdoorsman/engineer wove a story of bears around his orange campfire.
“The green gal” wrote of the comfort that all the green things in her life bring
to her. The gal who couldn’t make it in from the ‘burbs last week was given
purple as her color. She wrote of her grandfather’s injuries from being wounded in
action in WWII, his recovery in the field hospital and hospital ship and the Purple Heart
he received.
I was blessed last night by turning out what’s probably my best writing. I’ve
incorporated the suggestions from tonight’s critique and posted it here until I create a permanent section for
all the pieces from the workshop. Naturally, your commentary is welcome. Drop me a note at
.
Our assignment for next week is: Choose a fragrance, smell or odor and tell of the
memories it evokes.
Given the way we were bouncing ideas off each other after class, I expect to hear some
pretty interesting stories next week.
Evening, Superbowl Sunday, 2000
“So,” Jeffrey asked, “ya wanna bet on the game?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Well, I like the Titans”
“Good, cause the Rams have that Pope thing goin’.”
“Pope thing?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I saw somewhere this week that whenever the Pope visits
a US city, their team wins the Superbowl or the World Series or whatever. He visited St.
Louis this year, so I’m goin’ with the Pope.”
“You’re not right!”, he laughed. “Hell, you’re not even
Catholic!”
“Yeah, but the man’s got a decent track record. I’m going with that. And
you’re a Catholic betting against the Pope? With your track record? That’s
dangerous.”
“Hey, you’re the one who named me Danger-Boy. So how much you wanna bet?”
“A buck.”
“A buck?” he roared.
“I never bet more than I can afford to lose. Even with the Pope on my side. And loser
goes to confession.” We shook on a buck and confession. “And plan on it taking a
whole day,” I added.
Okay. So I admit it. I’m not a football fan. I’m not a even pro sports fan.
Hell, I can see all the crackheads I want on Monroe Ave. Who needs sports?
So as a non-sports fan with ADD, I need more than the game for entertainment. Needling
Jeffrey sufficed for a while, “See? It’s that Pope thing.”
And on the missed field goals, he'd needle me, “So where’s that Pope thing
now?”
“C'mon. He’s the Pope, not God, or even a Saint. Do I have to explain
everything?”
Then the commercials started. Now THAT’S entertainment.
Top Five Superbowl Commercials
“Munchkins” – FedEx, (Hey, I’m a Friend of Dorothy!)
“Cat Herding” – EDS
“The Dog is Supposed to Cry” – Budweiser
“We Just Wasted 2 Million Dollars” – eTrade.com
“Bad Cheetah” – Mountain Dew
Runners Up
“Money Coming Out the Wazoo” – eTrade.com
“Bohemian Rhapsody” – Mountain Dew
“Luxury Truck” – Volvo
And what was all that stuff with Regis? He’s everywhere!
Excepting of course for the Pope thing working out, (Let's hear it for The Holy Father!),
what was my favorite part of the Superbowl? Well, the halftime show! Naturally!
Wasn’t it so Cirque du Soleil? And the surround sound was fanTAStic!
His highness for some reason prefers the tinny built-in speakers on the TV. Although he
initially whined, when I killed the sound on the TV, kicked it over to the stereo and
turned up the volume to “shake the floor”, even he admitted it added an extra
dimension to the show.
Okay, and I’ll admit that the 4th quarter, particularly the last several minutes, was
kinda exciting. |
