Finding Blue Bob

--What do you mean you lost it? Erich's father yelled, pounding a low-hanging duct in their cellar, near the table where the two of them worked on the remote controlled plane.

Erich's voice wavered for he was already crying. The tears started just as he began explaining the story to the old man, after he had gone down to the basement to check on the plane. Erich's dad found the thin felt blanket they used to cover it, but no plane underneath. The old man's voice then thundered up the cold air return into Erich's room on the top floor.

--I, Erich sniffed, I was up at Edgewater flying it on the beach, but I had to pee, so I left it on a picnic table just outside the bathroom and when I came out it was gone.

He was crying a lot now. His throat hurt. He felt pathetic because he was.

--So someone stole it? Erich's dad said.

--Yeah. I don't know. I guess.

--You guess? said Erich's dad.

He picked up a bottle of Tri-Flow lube and slung it against the cinder block wall of the basement. He pounded his fist on the table.

-- All that work, he continued. What a waste. What a fucking waste.

The old man kept lifting up the blanket, as if it were a magic trick and the plane would appear below it if he tried the right number of times.

-- I'm sorry Dad, Erich said.

--Just stop. Shut it. I should have never let you take it up there. You're just not ready yet, plain and simple.

Erich hung his head, because he knew his dad was right.

--I'll make it up to you somehow.

--Too late. It's over. You really messed this one up.

Erich sobbed. They said nothing for a long time. It was getting dark.

-- You want to make this up to me Erich? his dad said. Then get Blue Bob back.

His dad's voice was eerily calm and it startled Erich so he cried even harder. The sobbing became uncontrollable.

--That's all it takes. Get the plane back. And we'll be okay. It'll be okay then. But you have to get it back for me.

Then he walked past Erich and up the stairs and slammed the door. Erich walked over to the garage and opened it. He hopped on his bike and rode north to the lake. About halfway, he realized he forgot to shut the garage door, which always pissed off his dad. One time he did that and someone stole all his dad's tools. But Erich kept moving forward.

Earlier that day, Erich did not want to watch the Ohio State game on TV so he pouted and by the second half his father had allowed him to take the plane up to the lake to fly it. The air was unseasonably welcoming for mid-November, and Erich wished for nothing more than to take his dad's plane, Blue Bob, a scale model Spitfire, and fly it around the beach beside Lake Erie.

There were not that many people at the beach that day so Erich was able to fly the plane for a while, even daring to take it out over the water, which he was never allowed to do with his old man. He loved banking it inland, so he could see the circular logo of the RAF on the wings. But then he had to take a leak, so he skillfully landed the plane, retrieved it, and walked over to the public restroom. He sat the plane and remote on a picnic table and did not really think too much of it, taking note of the sparse beach population at the time. Two minutes later, Erich walked out and Blue Bob was gone. He ran directly home and up into his room, counting the seconds until his old man found out.

Now, the day was waning and here he was, riding his BMX bike up to the lake again - hoping, just hoping, it would turn out okay. The odds of that happening were slim. Erich reached the end of W. 65, where a serpentine path led underneath the Shoreway and down to Edgewater Park. He heard the wheeze of a single propeller model plane. Looking across at the Shoreway, he saw a bright blue RC plane with RAF markings spiral up in the air, bank wildly back and forth, then disappear from sight behind some trees near the beach.

Erich pedaled as fast as he could down the sidewalk to the beach, nearly hitting a professional dog walker head on. The lady yelled over a dozen barking dogs for Erich to wake up. He then cut off a motorcyclist that was exiting the Shoreway. That guy gave Erich the middle finger. Erich again caught sight of the Spitfire near the shoreline. The thing was dangerously close to the deck and if he saw it wreck his life would be over. The old man would never forgive him.

The beach was deserted save for two guys in very baggy pants and black hooded sweatshirts. Both had the hoods up. One of the sweatshirts had a skull and cross bones; the other was all flames. Their backs were to Erich as he approached. The guy on the right had the remote, holding it with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other.

--Hey! Erich yelled.

They took no notice so Erich continued.

--Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!

The one without the remote turned around. He had a scrappy goatee and two black eyes. One of his eyes was dark red where there should be white.

--The fuck you want nephew? he said, then spit.

--Where'd you get that plane? Erich said.

He was shaking and too quick for this sort of exchange.

--It's my dad's, Erich followed up, not waiting for a response.

The other one turned around. He had a tattoo on his neck that said: Stefff?

--I bought this off some dude up on 65th. He said it was his granddaughter's and she needed to sell it for money for school clothes. I ain't never had no plane before so I bought this one.

--Yo, this your dad's plane? said the guy with the red eye.

--Yeah, Erich said, he really likes it. I said I'd get it back for him. Then everything'd be okay. Can I have it?

The sound of propeller filled the air and Blue Bob buzzed just above the three of them. Erich ducked but the other two did not.

--Shit, the tattooed man said, this thing's dangerous. I better be more careful.

He laughed.

--Man, give me that, said Red Eye.

He reached across at the remote and for a moment the two were drawn in a tug of war. Erich watched breathless as the plane piloted toward a hillside.

--Hands off cousin, said Tattoo.

He pressed his cigarette into Red's hand. This ended the feud. Tattoo corrected the trajectory and swung the plane 180 degrees so it was pointed for the lake.

--This kid wants the plane? Red said.

--I don't know man, Tattoo said. I can't just take a loss on this. I paid good money for it. How much you got kid?

Erich fished out his wallet. The Velcro crunched as he pulled it open. He had thirteen dollars, all in ones.

--That ain't gonna cut it man, Tattoo said. I gotta break even on this deal.

--How much did you pay for it? Erich asked.

Tattoo looked at Red.

--75, Tattoo said.

--You mean 85, Red said.

Erich did not have this money and there was no way he could get this money on his own.

--I don't have that much, he said. But I could ask my dad for it. He, he might pay it if I said it was for the plane.

--Ain't no dad coming down here, Tattoo said. You probably go up the hill and call the police. I ain't dealing with no pigs and no dad. You get me nephew?

--It's getting late, Red said. Let's get outta here.

--How the fuck I land this shit? Tattoo said.

Blue Bob passed over top of them. It sounded ill, sputtering and coughing. Erich knew it to be running out of gas.

--That thing sounds like shit, Red said. You got ripped off cousin.

Blue Bob crossed over the shoreline and continued over the water. It bobbed and dipped, propeller unable to keep a steady rhythm.

--Little man, you really want this thing? Tattoo asked.

--Yes! Yes! Erich said.

He felt himself beginning to cry again.

--Trade me your bike and the money, Tattoo said.

Erich's bike was a birthday gift from his dad and pretty much brand new. But he thought the loss of the bike would be offset by the gain of Blue Bob. He agreed.

--Cousin, Red said, I think you losing on this deal. No way that bike is worth 85. Probably not half that.

--Shit, you right, Tattoo said. Little man, you just have to owe me. Next time I see you. Otherwise, we kick the shit out of you.

--And your fucking old man, Red said, shoving Erich off the bike.

Red climbed on.

--Yeah man, this thing feels cheap as shit, he said.

--Here, Tattoo said. Fuck off.

He tossed the remote control in the sand and climbed on the bike's rear pegs, holding onto Red's shoulders. The two rode off, spraying sand up over Erich.

Erich rolled over and grabbed the remote, hoping Blue Bob had enough fuel to make it back to land. It was way far off. Erich jammed the rudder joystick left, but the plane did not respond. He slammed his wrist on the side and sand poured out through vents in the bottom. He tried again. No response. Erich ran toward the water, trying ineffectively to reroute the plane. It kept going into the distance, sputtering, dropping.

Erich hit the water flailing. He was not a strong swimmer and the waves, septic in nature, flowed over top of him. He drank in a mouthful and it tasted of locker room smells. Colder than November air. He reached and kicked past drift wood and non-organic flotsam, beyond where his feet touched. Blue Bob wobbled inches above sea level, gliding incrementally into oblivion.

NaBeGroMo Update

There is some definite progress this week vs. last week. Though I think it may be premature to call this a 'beard.'

Art

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Galleria Series: Nov. 9-12

This day, I ride around the Galleria on my bike, trying to track down a bike rack. I am too late for the food court, as it usually closes around 4:30, but I have prepped by picking up Jimmy John's from the Euclid Ave. shop. I complete a lap of the building, but find no bike racks, which is odd, for it is a retail site in a city adjoined by a large office tower. How could there be no bike racks?

I eventually chain my bike to a bronze railing on some stairs leading to the rotunda. The bike cascades down 4 steps. I enter through the food court and the mall is already uncomfortably dark. In reality, I am in there beyond operating hours, but the door is open so I go inside.

I notice that the Cleveland Bar Association is having some sort of mixer in their office. I do not belong there. Taking my place at a table on the upper level, I unwrap my submarine, dial Charles Parsons. We discuss getting together Friday for the Kent State Folk Festival and living our lives like we are 22 again. He asks if I have paid off my Flaming Gyro debt. Not yet.

To my right, a couple of guys in one piece coveralls stare into a small art gallery. They are possibly in HVAC or pest control or escalator repair -- it is hard to say. But they stare for a long time at one painting -- a 4' x 6' canvas of fanciful humans with a great splotch of red in the middle.

-- I guess, one of them says, that most of these stores are for people that work in the office.

-- Yeah, says the other, too much bread for me.

But they continue to stand there, and eventually walk inside the space for it is very small and not staffed. I don't believe it even has a name. I continue to munch on my sub, glancing over from time to time to see the men gesturing wildly at the great red painting with the gold frame. They demonstrate lines of articulation.

I check back and they are gone. Time to leave I guess. I descend into the rotunda food court, now pitch black, and walk outside into the chilly November air, back toward my bike on the stairs.

Dario

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Galleria Series: Nov. 9 - 12

I buy a gyro from Flaming Gyros and attempt to pay with my debit card. The large man behind the counter says that if I pay with cash, he's willing to give me the gyro combo for $5 instead of $6. He mumbles something about the card not going into his account until Monday. I fish in my wallet, knowing I only have $4. I tell him this. He does not say yes or no, but goes about making my meal. He comes from the kitchen with a nice looking sandwich. I give him all my money but he asks for fifty cents, something to get a little closer to the $5. I don't have it. I just don't. Then I tell him I can pay him the other $2 next week. He does not say yes or no but gives me the food and a small drink.

From my usual table in the upper middle of the Galleria, I look down on Dario Fashion Group. Yet another day where not one soul will even give the place a glance, I think. Today, though, an old man in a trench coat and large plastic rim glasses walks along the outside perimeter of Dario. He cases the suits hanging side-by-side-by-side in the display window. He ponders for a long time in front of the sign advertising a ridiculous sale on fine suits. He walks to the entrance and stares inside for a while longer, then decides to keep going, it seems. He walks past the door.

I deflate a little, disappointed that he did not take the leap. Then, inexplicably, the old man turns around and walks into the store. I am shocked. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I expect to see the man come out any second, but no one else comes in or out.

This signifies a golden opportunity for me, as I have wanted to browse Dario for some time, but have always been off put that no one is ever in there. Today, though, I could walk in and overwhelm the clerk with business.

-- Two in one day, he would say, must be Black freaking Friday.

But the gyro has left me feeling greasy and nebulous. Beard month has me looking haggard, listless, like a derelict. This is not the day to shop for suits.

More time passes and I realize it is time for me to return to work, so I toss my pop in the trash can, take a quick look at the Lakefront Hullet Plan and mosey out of there, gyro shifting back and forth inside me.

Arcade Tour

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Galleria Series: Nov. 9 - 12.

After yesterday's post, I decided today to partake in an 'Arcade Tour' of Cleveland. I walked to Superior and into the Euclid Arcade, then crossed over to the Colonial Marketplace. At that point in the day, most shops had locked up. Hunger rang within me, and as all the food vendors had closed or were emitting disinfectant smells, I decided to try another place for food.

I ended up walking down E. 6 and over to Au Bon Pain in the Fifth Third Center. The place was virtually deserted at 4:25 pm. One cashier stood post, talking to a man with a coffee. Occasionally, a cook would appear from the kitchen. He said he'd be right with me.

I ordered a chicken sandwich, asked the guy how his day was going. He seemed preoccupied with a cart that held several dozen containers of dressing.

-- I'm just trying to get out of here, man, he said. 6:30 and I am out that door.

He slapped both hands, clad in rubber gloves, then pointed to the outside. I noticed that he had a tattoo the upperside of his wrist that read: Shelly.

I nodded in commiseration, though I knew it to be no earlier than 4:30. I thought, am I the last person to order for tonight? Do you always start your closing work at 4 pm, when the place closes at 6?

I paid for my sandwich and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. The clerk tried to upsell me on a cookie and a drink. I politely declined.

With last night's post still on my mind, I walked up E. 9th to the Galleria and took the escalator to the second floor. For the last month, the down escalator at the E. 9th entrance has been busted. The guts of the movable stair are exposed like a war casualty in a film.

The spot I always sit at is located near the center of the mall and looks up at the Erieview Tower and down onto an open space. On this day, a book seller had set up a series of tables with sash that read: Reading is Fun. I also looked down upon a suit maker named Dario -- a shop in which I have never seen a customer. The same sign accosts me: 1 suit: $99 ; additional suits: $1. Behind me was the Friends of the Cleveland Hullets display space. An older couple walked past me. They seemed to recall when there was legitimate business in the retail space. They noticed the Hullets store and decided to take a look inside. It was the first time I have seen anyone in the hullets store beside me.

I attempted to write in my comp book, but I could not find a pen. So I read a little of the latest A Public Space. By the time I needed to head back to work, the sky had mostly gone dark and the Galleria took on a dimness that astounds me each time I see it.

The Galleria

Oftentimes, I take my lunch at the Galleria at Erieview, on W. 9th and St. Clair in downtown Cleveland. As I work second shift, my lunch often falls around 4 or 5 pm, and I can catch the tail end of food court shops before they close. My personal favorite is the Greek place, Flaming Gyros. I might be reaching here, but Flaming has the best gyros and the best lunch deal in town: 1 gyro; fries; pop - $6.

The cheap lunch is one benefit. The other is the serenity of a near dead mall. After researching a tad, I found that the Galleria had it's heyday in the late '80's (it was built in 1987) and early '90's, when it actually functioned as a shopping destination for suburbanites. The multiple, offset glass barrel vaults add a level of class to the place, as well as a reference to the system of arcades that connect Superior to Prospect.

The Galleria has definitely seen better days. On a weekday at 5 pm the place is virtually deserted. The only sound is the constant hum of HVAC and the occasional cough from a person at the other end of the mall. At this time, most shops are closed, closing, or never actually close -- the Galleria has lots of gallery spaces, the gates of which never seem to come down. My personal favorite is the Friends of the Cleveland Huletts. The organization has a small corner shop on the upper level that displays pictures of various huletts and their idea to move the huletts to the lake shore near the Rock Hall. I recommend checking out their scale model of the plan. The Huletts' friends have excellent model craft.

A smattering of offices have taken residence in the section of the mall closer to the Erieview Tower. Walking past, I havae considered entering into one of the design offices -- particularly StudioTh!nk -- but decided against it, for it may be awkward. I find the occupation of former retail space with office space quite interesting. I am trying to get my friends at POST to lease a storefront in the Galleria and for use as a makeshift office. A vacant food stand with red and black checkered tiles would be great for their needs.

More than anything, I appreciate the Galleria because it provides a quiet respite from the city outside. I understand that quietness and desolation is at a premium in Cleveland. But as far as a place to go downtown, to consider Cleveland's more recent history, and to explore one of its forgotten nooks, come to the Galleria.

VIDEO: Cleveland 3.1

The following video was initially presented at last February's Pecha Kucha Night Cleveland, held at the House of Blues. Thed Ferringer and I (acting as fictitious urban design consortium FABNEO) collaborated to produce this satirical solution for all of Cleveland's problems.

Thed and I have not gotten together to present this since the initial Pecha Kucha Night. This is the first time that the content has been replicated in a complete format. To the best of my knowledge, a full recording from P-K Night does not exist. My lady friend Alex did capture a significant chunk of the P-K presentation, which may be added to YouTube at some point in the near future. Though the version below provides a great example of the Cleveland 3.1 plan, it maybe lacks the immediacy, desperation and hilarity of P-K night.

If anyone out there has a full recording from that night, please reach out to me or Thed.

Thanks and enjoy.

Ohio City House Fire

Last night I was riding down Franklin, on my way back from the Happy Dog, I approached a haze in the distance near W. 30 and the field at which we sometimes play kickball. Entering the cloud, I was inundated with the reek of woodsmoke. This triggered instantly the notion of fire. I turned down W. 32 to see about 10 firetrucks lined up along the entire length of the street.

I rode down to a hydrant with fire hose attached, living the dream, spraying streams of water down the street gutters. I stepped off my bike and crossed to the other side of the road and onto park space adjacent to the burning house.

A man in sweatpants and a white undershirt came to stand at my side. He said that it was a boarding house, and one of the tenants had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, and there you had it. I simply nodded.

As a matter of coincidence, I had my digital camera and immediately took photos of the blaze, despite my better judgment. Then came memories of my old man and I, late into a night of my youth, on a street with a house burning down, opting to stay in and not rubberneck -- a term I heard for the first time then, in reference to those that glean inspiration and reality from tragedy.

I was tipsy, my judgment markedly skewed and I did not feel much guilt at my decision to record the event. Shortly thereafter, I witnessed several others snapping images or capturing video on cell phone cameras or more sophisticated equipment.

Scanning the crowd that had gathered, I began to posit those that have been a tenant in the house. A man in a football jersey, pajama pants and no shoes shifts uneasily back and forth. Bides his time between the sidewalk and a cab of a Cleveland pump truck.

I noticed my friend Dan with a few other guys on bikes. I drew alongside him, stated something about how crazy the whole thing was. He said that a friend of his had called earlier, told him to call the fire department as a house was definitely on fire. Dan's friend then rode down the street and roused the residents of W. 32. He was a hero.

* * *

The next day, I learned that two people perished in the fire.

UPDATE - 11/08/09 - 10:47 PM: Four people have perished in the fire. (Thanks to Thed for the update.)

Rest In Peace.

Multimedia:

NaBeGroMo Update

Nothing more than stubble at this point. But I think big things await this beard.

In a Nutshell

Tonight I rescued a stolen bike that belongs to my friend Abe.

Thed and I saw some kid riding it up Detroit as we were leaving the Happy Dog.

Unmistakable: sky blue Schwinn Madison with a dowel rod for handlebar.

And the helmet -- Abe's helmet: stark black with no decals -- hanging from those handlebars.

We followed, down to 65th and then a right.

The kid stopping at a house.

Side door opens and the bike begins to disappear.

A confrontation, brief, not particularly heated.

A walk then an exchange.

The bike is returned.

Thed and I walk back with three bikes.

Now I own Abe's bike.

In a nutshell.


---------story to follow---------

Quarters

They day they find 11 dead bodies in a house near Kinsman, I take my lunch during the evening rush and go towards CVS to buy my mum a birthday card. Crossing over St. Clair with no Walk sign, a few pedestrians and myself make our way South down East Ninth Street. I pass alongside the ING building, where an old woman in a puffed up white jacket begs people for money.

--Does anyone got a quarter? she yells while slamming fist into palm.

She accosts the walkers in front of me, and I try to sidestep her pleas behind a column of the ING Building. Very spry for an old lady, she notices my maneuver and catches me as I emerge from the other side.

--Can you spare a quarter or let me use your cell phone? she expells, both arms extended and fingers wrenched.

I just shake my head, continue onward, hands-in-pockets.

--I just need one quarter!

Nearing CVS, a man sits on the sidewalk with his back against the building. His legs are splayed nearly into the street. He clutches a styrofoam cup, shaking change and bottlecaps. This method is far less obtrusive and easier to ignore.

The woman in front of me also enters into CVS. She does not make any attempt to hold open the door for this is not a city of people.

I make my way to the card section and pick out a rather standard card for my mum. On the cover, a turquoise cake sits below a bow. Above, text in Garamond: A Wonderful Birthday for a Wonderful Mother. Enjoy Your Day.

Standing near the front counter, I wait for maybe thirty seconds for the clerk to acknowledge my presence. To my right, a customer examines wristwatches for $9.99. The clerk is glued to a 3.5" portable television hooked to an obnoxious antenna. The County Coroner says during a press conference that the identities of the victims will need to be determined using DNA evidence. A flyover shot shows a bunch of people milling around a backyard riddled with holes -- graves.

The clerk notices me, motions me over to the register. He says a price and I scan a credit card. The machine spits out a receipt. He uses the edge of the counter to tear it and gives it to me. On my way out, a man clearly shoplifting exits behind me, undeterred.

The man with the cup still plies his trade. No luck again from me.

Coming back to the ING building, I search for the Quarters woman, and am relieved to see her not there. A nicely dressed woman leaves the ING building and then Quarters is on top her, having materialized out of thin air. The ING woman is trapped within a web of wrenched fingers and outstretched arms and puffed up jackets.

--Can you just give me a quarter? Just one quarter?

The force of the sound echos between the columns and lifts shreds of newspaper off the ground.

ING woman is despaired, she says that she cannot -- ahem -- cannot help. Though she wishes against wishes that she could. She says that Quarters should go to Prospect because some there surely will help. Surely. She digs around her purse for quarters that aren't there.

I poke around in my pocket and my thumb and forefinger collect one single, solitary quarter. I take it out and approach Quarters and her puffy coat. My hand lightly grazes her elbow, to garner attention. I drop the quarter into the palm of a hand with wretched fingers.

--That's what I'm talking about, says Quarters.

The ING woman says that it is a blessing and she thanks me, she thanks me. She is so damn happy. I wave and continue back to my job in a brown-and-glass midrise to heat up some Ramen before my lunch time expires.

From behind I hear:

--Now I just need another quarter!

Contest Entry

Controlling idea: Tell us what you are most excited about this Black Friday. (250 words or less)

My heavily-insulated back leans against cold precast concrete. I am in competition and in cahoots with the dozens of shivering souls that surround me. Together, we are a force with which to be reckoned. But at the same, we remain a force of good. We sacrifice a day of rest for a frigid, impossibly-early awakening to stretch our legs and stretch our budgets, to try to provide the best holiday for our loved ones. I bond with perfect strangers over hot coffees and Pop Tarts, hoping that I can wrangle my purchases quickly and retreat to the warmth of my bed by mid-morning. I hope that my newfound friends can do the same.

* * *

In keeping with said controlling idea, possible Black Friday Brunchy(TM) at either my place or KateSpace's (Kate'sSpace?). Get in line early folks -- Thed's making pancakes!

I Don't Need That

After tossing back some cafe Americano and some life issues and big old ideas, Charlie and I left Gypsie Beans in pursuit of a smoke shop. We passed the glistening new storefronts and restaurants indicative of a neighborhood on the rise. We also passed a few indicators of a not-so-ebullient and not-so-distant past. While Charlie was looking for smokes (I was helping), we sought a vendor more upscale than CONVENIENT STORE FOOD MART. So we continued down Detroit Avenue, beyond where the redevelopment was most noticeable.

--I think this part of the neighborhood is still looking for development, I said

--We might have to go to Little Italy, Charlie said, removing the last Nat Sherman from the pack.

We passed a Save-A-Lot, then a Family Dollar, where a young boy emerged, shopping bag in hand. He reached inside to remove a new AM/FM walkman. Charlie and I stepped past, and I thought the boy called for us, about 20 steps behind.

--Hey!

--Hey!

The calls were ignored.

The chapel at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel let loose a volley of bell chimes, either recorded or the real deal. I did not believe it was the turn of the hour.

Charlie and I had reached a block of apartment buildings to our left. Beyond the apartments there appeared little in the way of retail, let alone a high rent tobacco shop, though the Golden Arches were appealing. We stopped. Twenty yards away, a middle aged woman in curlers and a housecoat sat on the front stoop of an apartment building. We turned back the other way.

--Excuse me, she said.

We began walking.

--Excuse me, she said.

--Excuse me.

--Excuse me.

Our Lady of Mt. Carmel continued Her cadence.

We approached the child again. He walked toward us holding out the radio, still in the package.

--Hey. Hey you. Can you open this?

I said sure and took the thing off of him. It was encased in a bubble of plastic, fabricated in China or Taiwan, more than likely, and would serve the kid well for about two weeks, when it would either be lost, stolen, or deceased of natural causes. I took out my apartment keys and used one to saw through the container.

The shopping bag that had once contained the boy's purchase fell lazily from his hand and began to waft down the sidewalk. Charlie lurched with his left leg and stepped on the bag before it could float further away.

--You dropped your bag nephew, Charlie said.

--Huh? the kid said. I don't need that.

I managed to cut a healthy gash through the packaging, and used my hands to separate one half of the shell from the other. Our Lady signaled the fifteenth hour, roughly. Or maybe the sixteenth. Daylight savings had ended just that morning, and it takes the world most of the day to adjust.

--You better pick up that bag, said Charlie.

--But I don't need that, said the child.

In seeing him speak, I noticed that his teeth were stained orange -- a gradient moving from dark to light as the tooth descended from the gum.

--Look, Charlie said, foot still resting on the bag -- you throw this bag into a trash can.

--I don't need it!

The kid, maybe 10 or 11, took a wad of cash from his pocket and quickly ran his fingers across it. All singles amounting to maybe eight dollars. He slipped the dough back into his jeans.

--Trash can! Charlie said.

The kid stared from me to Charlie, then back again. I noticed that he wore glasses. He bent down and picked up the bag, eyes appearing perplexed behind wire frames and lenses.

Through it all, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel continued her song.

Undoubtedly, the youth dropped the bag as soon as we turned our backs. But Charlie had won a small battle. I would not have said anything, had it just been me. I would have pretended to have not noticed the blatant display of laziness. My day would have moved on, and I would have made no effort to address the issue or correct it. But I would have complained about it later, no doubt.

As we made our way back to Gypsie Beans, Charlie and I greeted every piece of flotsam on the sidewalk -- usually near public trash cans -- with I Don't Need That.

Burger King cup: I don't need that.
K-12 RTA bus pass: I don't need that.
Funions bag: I don't need that.
Cash explosion lottery ticket: I don't need that.
Empty pack of Winstons: I don't need that.

About a Blog

or Meta Blog

Friends, it is again that time of year. November, National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo, for brevity's sake), affords 30 days of unrestrained creativity. I look forward to sharing some ideas with you folks.

-- Is this still a blog? you may ask.

-- Why, yes, in fact, it is.

Still.

A blog.

-- Well then, you continue, what have you been up to these last 11 months?

Much pondering and contemplation. Complaining and offering support, often in one breath.

Creatively, I have participated in 2 Pecha Kucha nights (one with frequent collaborator Thed Ferringer; one solo) to resounding success^{[citation needed]} on both occasions.

Just last weekend, I offered a submission for POST's All You Can Eat: A Buffet of Architectural Ideas.

An older story of mine, once featured on this blog, was published in Picayune: the Literary Journal of New Mexico Highlands University.

Through it all, I maintained my subscription to McSweeney's and A Public Space. So much creativity, so little time.

In reality though -- and let me be frank here -- I was far less productive than I would have liked. I'm hoping as always to milk NaBloPoMo to death, and continue with that productivity into December and beyond.

As such, allow me to skip over November and outline some plans for post-NaBloPoMo.

• Charles Parsons and I are collaborators once more:
• Reloading The Postmodern Experience, our old undergrad creative writing radio show. Look out Northeastern Ohio!
• PS. Does anyone have the password to our email account?
  
• A zombie film screenplay set in Lake View Cemetery.
  
• I'm hoping to get on the Editorial staff at POST Architecture Journal.
• Generally become active in more NEO Arts-related events.
  
• Get more into social networking.
• LOOK ME UP ON MYSPACE
• j/k - here's me on Facebook

-- Well that's all well and good, you say, but what of this month? It is the whole reason I am visiting NOMENCLATURE, after all.

I would say that you will just have to stay tuned, friend. I am not at liberty to discuss my trajectory this month. You will just have to unplug the GPS and follow me along.

-- Ugh, you say.

Then:

Okay, you're on.

Feeling bad, I offer a sneak preview of the month:

• "I don't need that"
• Night Snow in the Cultural Gardens
• On Urban Exploration
• Androidgyny: Act IV
• Cleveland 3.1
• The Postmodern Experience: RELOADED
• How To Survive a Car Wreck - Pecha Kucha Presentation
• Several RTA-directed diatribes
• A delicious recipe for saurbraten, courtesy of Grandma deBiase
  
• MIDTOWN IGLOO

And of course National Beard Growing Month, with updates coming every Friday.

For starters:











Thanks friends. See you all tomorrow.