NOMENCLATURE

Tornado, part 2

2011-11-10T18:28:00.001-05:00

We went inside and Alex made us a late night snack. I caught the end of Nightline. A local weather ticker flashed on top of the screen, announcing a severe thunderstorm warning for Cuyahoga and the surrounding counties. All told it was about a 25-mile radius around Cleveland -- a wide swath for storm activity. Rain rattled against the side of our house. Alex and I went out on our front porch to watch the weather as we often do. What began as a steady soak quickly accelerated into a violent downpour. Wind shook the trees on our tree lawn. I realized that the umbrella was up on our back deck. I ran through the house and out back to close it. Rain stung my neck and back as I shut the cranked closed the umbrella. A blinding burst of lightning signaled that it was time to go back in. As I reached for the back door a powerful gust nearly lifted me off the ground. I wrenched open the screen door. It tore from my grasp and slammed against the side of our house. I stammered inside and forced shut the back door. I caught a glimpse of Alex standing in the kitchen wide-eyed. All was noise, like the passing of a locomotive right over top of us. The lights flickered and went off. A tremendous crash sounded outside of the back door. I looked through the blind to see a limb from our centuries-old backyard maple, Broccoli, had snapped and dropped right where I had been standing on the deck. The view through the blind was that of leaves and wetness. Another loud crash, this time in the driveway.

“Should we get in the basement?” Alex yelled.

“Yes!”

We ran through the darkness into the basement, smashing heads together when we got there. The freight train had passed. We stood there for a few seconds before I ran up to landing to check the driveway through our side door. Again the view was consumed by leaves and branches and rain. Our cars were mere feet away but we could not see them through the debris.

“Did Broccoli fall?” Alex asked, terrified.

“I think so.”

I pictured the 100-foot tall tree smashed through the top of our house. Defying the storm, I sprinted upstairs. The second floor seemed okay so I went up to the attic. Shining my flashlight back in the eaves, I could see no pieces of Broccoli poking through. Imaging the thing falling at that moment, I doubled back down the stairs. I went into the living room and looked out the front window. Branches and leaves were strewn through the streets, filled with water gushing down. Alex called me to the kitchen window so we could look out over the driveway. We could see the tree limb had torn the gutter off of our neighbor Torry’s house and did some damage to a railing on her back porch.

Alex and I ran next door to check on Torry to make sure she was okay. We were relieved to see her answer the door, though she was quite shocked to see the damage to her house and her car. Now that we were outside, we could see that Alex’s car, a 2010 Chevy Cobalt was totally smashed. Several heavy limbs landed on the roof and hood, breaking all the windows and allowing the rain to leak in. Broccoli was still standing, though the wind had sheared off some of the limbs and caused damage. I tried to call 911 but it came back with a busy signal. I was not sure what 911 could do for us with our cars smashed by a fallen tree, but I needed to report the emergency somewhere. Alex broke down and cried while I stayed on hold with First Energy to report downed lines. Torry comforted her. I was lost in my own chaotic world. It did not help that we were still a little buzzed from the bourbon earlier. After sitting on hold for about an hour, I was able to reach someone at the power company to report the downed lines. By this time, the rain had let up significantly, but there were still eerie bursts of lighting that painted the landscape purple. In the distance, we could see smoke coming out of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, up on Detroit. Silhouetted intermittently by the lighting, fire fighters climbed up onto the roof.

Despite warnings from our neighbors two doors down, Alex and I risked live wires and traversed the short distance back to our house. The next day, we knew, would be to survey the damage and report it to our insurance company. We planned to awake at first light the next morning and take some pictures. Eventually we fell asleep, uneasily dreaming about the rest of Broccoli coming down on top of us.

Bachelor Party

2011-11-04T23:30:00.000-05:00

In Winston-Salem, NC for a wedding tomorrow. Much of today spent on the road from sunny Cleve. Then with family for the rest. Not much time left for blogging. Will revisit tomorrow, folks.

Something to chew on: Bachelor party ideas (2 of my best friends are getting married next year).

Walking tour of strip clubs in the Flats of Cleveland
Bourbon Tour in Kentucky
Shiloh
Colonial Williamsburg
Gettysburg
Camping in the Smokies
Hiking the Appalachian Trail
Celebration, FL

Tornado

2011-11-03T21:43:00.001-05:00

Alex and I sat at the edge of Edgewater Hill, looking out over our Great Lake, watching a storm roll in. Tendrils of lightning knifed across the sky, behind clouds and clouds of the advancing front. We had been drinking bourbon on our front porch with our friend Kate. She came over in the night to pick vegetables from our community garden. She had pulled her car into the garden, which is against the rules. We yelled at her from our porch, clutching our snifters.

“You can’t park there!”

Engine still running, Kate came across the street to our house. She explained that she would use the headlights to pick out the best tomatillos with which to make salsa. We said that we were drinking Seven Roses Single Barrel and suggested Kate have a glass. Later, the three of us sat with our snifters and watched Kate’s car, still idling precariously between the sidewalk and entrance to the garden. Kate admitted to us that she had purchased a life insurance policy from our friend Charlie, who had given up on teaching English to sell life insurance. Alex and I, too, had purchased a life insurance policy from Charles. He was my best man, how could I say no? I recalled signing the papers that very morning, over a Mr. Nomad skillet from Nick’s Diner in Ohio City. Paid for by Charlie himself. Shortly thereafter, biking to work, I nearly collided with a jitney trying to make a quick left. Luckily I escaped unscathed but I could not help yelling “JESUS CHRIST” into the guy’s car as we passed. I almost made Alex a wealthy woman.

Low rumbles of thunder portended an oncoming splash. I ran in and grabbed a flashlight. Kate, Alex and I went across the street to pick produce from streetlight, flashlight and headlight. The occasional strobe of lightning made things interesting. The flashlight I grabbed proved ineffective for it required constant shaking to keep it powered -- a kinetic motion flashlight. I had stolen it from an old roommate, for I would never buy such a contraption. After much shaking of the light, we gathered a sufficient amount of produce. Kate thanked us for our help and she left, reversing her car back onto the street and leaving Alex and I in the darkness. We decided to take a walk down the street, towards the lake.

The wind began to pick up and the lightning behind the clouds and clouds put on a great show. I could not get Alex to look though, for she kept trying to take a picture with her phone. We strolled back to our house, bourbon working its way out of our system. We had no idea what was in store.

To be continued...

On blogging

2011-11-02T22:25:00.004-05:00

My first attempt at blogging in over a year did not go as smoothly as I would have liked. After finishing up my piece on getting back to blogging, I in turn spent an hour trying to format the post to conform to other older posts. It seems that since May of 2010, blogging technology has changed. Now blogger has a spiffier, modern dashboard with tracking (so long, sitemeter) and a simpler FCK Editor for posting content. Gone however, is my standard font, Lucida Grande. Plus I ran into a lot of trouble pasting in text from Word or Google docs into the post editor. Despite the template asserting that all text should be white, the post I put up last night appeared in black -- very hard to read against a dark gray background. Subsequent attempts at posting the same content wrecked the template even further. After about two dozen attempts, I got the post formatted appropriately a little after midnight. It used to be so easy.

I am considering updating NOMENCLATURE’s template to something newer, to facilitate posting. I always liked the old custom template, but seems as though Google has moved beyond this format, and is not offering much support for the old dashboard or Lucida Grande. This makes me sad, but at the same time, I realize that I have spent the last two to three years trying to drop anchor against the on-raging current of progress. My involvement in social media is pretty much non-existent. Though I possess a Twitter and Facebook profile, I rarely make even a ripple on those networks. My favorite social media outlet, blogging, is now an antiquated platform suited for folks stuck in 2006. Am I stuck in 2006?

As technology advances, I find myself becoming a warped, frustrated old man, clutching my clamshell cellular phone, snapping measly 1.4 MP pics and being able to send them absolutely nowhere, tapping out T9 text messages to folks who are expecting FaceTime(TM). As I sit with five people at dinner and look around to find each one separately on their smart phones, I make a snide comment about not embracing the newest form of communication. I do not post my location; I do not network; I am not the mayor of any place. I wear this like a badge of honor. Am I a retro snob? When will clamshell cell phones be considered retro? Is listening to the Counting Crows August and Everything After on a CD Walkman retro? Are minidiscs back in yet?

I used to be into new stuff, up to day on consumer electronics. In college, I wrote articles for the Daily Kent Stater about how I wanted an iPod for Christmas. I am not proud of that article. It had no staying power. People called me out on it after I wrote it, as they should have. I got the iPod Classic for Christmas that year, but back then it was just called the iPod. It was not yet retro. People would say, “At least you got your iPod,” or “Hey, the article worked, you got an iPod.” This embarrassed me.

Back then, a friend of mine, J.B. Dean, approached me about another article I had written, this one about a Megabus trip to Chicago (“Chicago on a Dollar”... look it up). He took me to task for name dropping the iPod in the article. On the sidebar, there was a photo of me made to look as if it was taken with a Polaroid. Scrawled on the border of the photo, in a script font as if I had written it: “Listening to Jets to Brazil’s Perfecting Lonliness on my iPod.” J.B. did not like the mention of iPod. Rightfully so, for it did not add to article. It was merely a product plug. I shrugged off the critique by saying that my editor was responsible for the artwork. But it sparked a conversation about materialism, about how much that little $300 hard drive that plays music meant to me. How much it means to all of us. J.B. asked if I planned to buy each iteration of the iPod as it emerged all down the line until the bitter end. Shortsightedly, I said that I intended to have enough money to afford the new ones when they came out. He laughed and shook his head, for I had reaffirmed his assertion that society at large feeds into the cyclical machine spitting out new peripherals.

Ironically, that iPod was stolen months later from a coffee shop in Kent, while I was out of work and flat broke. Being a recent college grad then, a new one would not be in the cards for quite a while. Once I found that elusive well paying job as a corporate news release editor, one of my first major purchases was of a new iPod. It looked roughly the same but had more bells and whistles, a slimmer profile and much more memory. I still have the thing to this day but do not listen to it much anymore. I have not upgraded to the iPod touch or the iPhone. “My phone still works,” I say to my wife when she asks if will buy an iPhone. I hold out my scuffed and tarnished cell phone as if it is a battle scar, an unsightly thing but something I am stubbornly proud of. One day the phone will cease to be practical. It will either break or the wireless company will stop supporting it. At what point do I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop?

This is why I have decided to update NOMENCLATURE’s template. Google is phasing out support for this model. If this blog breaks, I am out of luck. I need to be more proactive and engaged towards technological progress. Will I rush out tomorrow for a smartphone? Not likely, but I will think about it some more.

Stay tuned for a new to this blog, coming in the next couple of days.

Oh hi, blog

2011-11-01T23:04:00.001-05:00

Oh hi, blog. I didn’t know you were still up here, on the World Wide Web. I see not much has changed with you since I left. I believe it. Me? No, I’m not living in Ohio City anymore. Yeah, I moved on up to the Detroit Shoreway, City of Cleveland. Now I am a married man and a proud homeowner. Have I kept writing, away from blogger, perhaps on some newfangled platform? Alas, no; not really. I have not been writing much of anything. Last November, I pulled away from blog month in favor of National Novel Writing Month. While my output overall was much higher than during the blog months of years past, I felt the quality to be lacking. To be honest, I have not even read the book I wrote almost a year ago. My good friend and writing companion Charles Parsons pushed for me to join up with him for another novel month this year, but I’ve opted to revisit you, blog, once more. As I explained to him, I felt that the quality of work I put on here is on average much better than the novel I wrote last year. Plus I like the instant gratification. Maybe as this month goes on I will ‘debut’ some juicy excerpts from the novel, The Path Between Mom’s and Dad’s.

I know it sounds ridiculous, rekindling a blog that has sat dormant for almost two years.

“Isn’t blogging dead?” Ted said to me a while ago, though at the time we were not discussing you, blog, but a theoretical blog I would write that would serve as a way for the company that I work for to make money and for me to receive restaurant gift certificates in return. Alas, my corporate blog, MultiVieux, which planned to analyze the fad of flash mobs for marketing purposes, never came to fruition. Probably for the best. Along those lines, blog, do you think another good blogging idea would be to examine different advertisements on NHL hockey boards? Do you prefer the traditional, static banners, or the new digital ones? I’m a traditionalist myself; I find something and I stick with it. So old fashioned banners for me. My all time favorite hockey board advertisement? Foodland banner, Civic Arena, Pittsburgh Penguins, 1990-1991. Stanley Cup year. But I digress here.

My wife and special lady friend Alexandra started a vegetarian cooking blog over the summer, Cooking Through Moosewood. This meant that we ate a lot of meals stuffed with random vegetables. Despite a modest following, Alex lost interest in the blog and floated the idea of deleting it entirely. I told her not to do it. For even if she never planned on updating it again, the blog could still stand up over time as a monument to an unfinished masterpiece. Maybe she would get the urge, as I have here, to begin posting again. But then I would have to eat more vegetarian dishes. Don’t get me wrong, I like vegetables, but sometimes a pork chop is good now and again.

So, blog, you may be wondering what the plan is for this month. Me too. I would like for the two of us to catch up. It can’t be done in one post. It might not even be possible over this whole month. But I’d like to think we can help each other out. I need to get back to writing and you need new content. It is pretty much win/win. I can do my best to put up a framework, a plan, a plot, a map, for the next month. If I am getting back to blogging, I might as well start with a bulleted list:

Post apocalyptic Cleveland stories. I have at least three that need to be fleshed out. This would be a great place to put them. And yes, I am still obsessed with postmodern dystopia.
Permaculture. Did I mention that my wife and I started a community garden? It’s a step in the right direction, but I would like to use this space as a sounding board for larger ideas.
DIY Computer Repair. The wireless card on my laptop is not working very well. I’m going to try to fix it this month. It could be a problem.
Homeownership. I own a house now. There are some stories there – particularly a nasty run-in with a tornado last August. Stay tuned for local news footage.
Marriage. There may be some references to married life, or even to the wedding itself, since it has been that long, blog. I’m afraid, though, that any story about marriage will devolve into anecdotes about our cats.
Cats. Our cats. Sarge and Dakota. They suck. But we love them.
Cleveland. Our home. The backdrop for this whole thing.

Well blog, it’s been real so far. We’ve come a long way since 2005. It’s almost hard to believe. I’m not ready to give up and I’m glad you’ve stayed with me. I am looking forward to another solid NaBloPoMo.

Let’s do this.

Spare Change

2010-05-02T21:56:00.000-05:00

Last night: I parked my car in the lot next to my apartment building. My car has been broken in there already, windows smashed out, CDs stolen, belongings rifled. Along with my roommate's car. And my fiance's car. Market Square is a hot area for theft and vandalism lately, now that warm weather has moved in. A few weeks ago, the side of my building was tagged brusquely by 'ALOT,' a local graffiti artist or artists. The piece appeared to take all of 25 seconds. Surveying the neighborhood later, I found several other instances of ALOT on electrical control boxes, utility poles, and, unfortunately, on the neighboring Hansa Import Haus.

As I stepped out of my car, three teenaged boys walked past, carrying a couple pies from Pizza Hut over on W. 25th. I heard the jangle of spare change cast upon the sidewalk. The youths continued down Lorain. I watched as one of them withdrew more change from his pocket and chucked it at the feet of one of his companions. The jittering of change continued intermittantly, slowly fading as the trio proceeded westward. Looking down, I saw the group had thrown pennies and pennies alone, no nickels or dimes stood out in the amber streetlight. Curious that kids would be throwing money away, though I assumed it said more about the devaluation of currency more than anything. It did seem like an awfully lot of pennies though.

This afternoon: My fiance and I had just returned from the grocery store and were standing in the Dust Bowl, a trash-ridden brownfield next to my apartment. Alexandra spotted an empty jar sitting atop a pile of broken cement block. I went over and retrieved it. Taped on the outside of the jar were a couple of missing children bulletins. Two young girls, missing since late 2009, from the neighborhood, the community. I could have been a fund for the families, set beside a cash register on a local business. Naturally it was empty.

This evening I put the two occurrences together and imagined the three kids with the pizza having swiped it from a counter of the Pizza Hut or a convenient store nearby. Maybe they sifted out the silver change, maybe there were only pennies. Granted, this is merely speculation at this point, but the pieces dovetail nicely. I haven't checked to see if the change was still there, outside my apartment. On the way to the grocery store, a man waved hello then asked me for money. I should have pointed him in the direction of those kids.

A Cormac McCarthy Conversation

2010-01-26T00:16:00.001-05:00

I walked back from the break room with a copy of The Crossing tucked under one arm. Dave from the LatAm department stepped out of the newsroom and we crossed.

Youre reading The Crossing, he said.

I turned back.

Yeah.

You read All the Pretty Horses.

Yeah.

Youre going to read Cities of the Plain.

Yeah.

Dave nodded.

Nice.

Good talk.

Arch

2009-12-03T17:24:00.003-05:00

EDITOR'S NOTE: I came across this old document while poking around the hard drive of my computer. I wrote this in late 2004, as an exercise for an intro to creative writing course in which I was enrolled. At this time in my life, I was still adjusting to life outside of the architecture program and attempting to digest some of those frustrations. One could describe this flash fiction as 'angsty.'

They sat across from each other at the campus coffee shop.

“So, how’ve you been?” she asked, just hoping to break the akward silence that pervaded their dreary walk to the place.

“Fine,” he said. He gripped the coffee a bit tighter, hoping its mysterious charge would take hold of him and propel him into some type of conversational mode. At least provide anything but more fodder for rest, collapse; anything to wash away the sour taste of defeat and exhaustion.

“I haven’t seen you in, like, two weeks, something has to be new or interesting or anything.”

He shrugged. If only he could tell her all the things: the long studio hours, the fact that his weeks of work were all for naught, the fact that his thoughts were diluted by rapidly fading visions of her, that his life was in a vise that was presently gaining torque from at least a dozen different sources, he and she included. No, nothing new. It’s all the same old shit, it’s just deeper now than before. That doesn’t constitute novelty, does it? At least not the kind of novelty worth discussing with one’s girlfriend.

But that’s upon a completely different mode of thought, now isn’t it?

She presented her all-too-familiar annoyed/indifferent look and proceeded to glance out the window at the drizzly November atmosphere.

What time is it, he pondered intently. The sky is too gray to make a firm estimate, it could be dusk or one in the afternoon. It really doesn’t matter anymore, does it? His watch had slowed to a stop a few days ago, perpetuating a universe where time has no meaning. Only cold, cold logic exists in this place, he considered, allowing a grin and a snicker by accident.

“What’s so funny?” Nothing ever did seem to get by her.

He took another drag of the bitter brew, amazed at how numb even strong coffee now made him. It had taken on a retroactive effect, slowing him down to almost no movement at all. How close can one actually get to absolute zero without actually freezing atomic movement? His mind was now working in a strange new dimension, a bi product of the dimensia brought on by emotional imbalance brought on by lack of sleep brought on by inner turmoil brought on by emotional imbalance. The thing was all a hideous freight train galloping headlong down a valley of calamity, shit.

How deep is the valley?

How close is absolute zero?

He set down his cup of coffee, finally reaching some concept of validity. “I think I’m getting an ulcer. Appropriate, huh?”

“That’s what you were laughing about? Are you serious?” No smiles, her indifference shifting toward annoyance and eventually, disgust.

“Probably not, but it would just be another foreseen dilemma in my life at this point.” It was a poor conversation point and he knew it, definitely not one to be addressed at this juncture in the interface. He really wasn’t that callous, just too belligerently tired to afford not to be.

NaBeGroMo Update

2009-11-27T23:55:00.001-05:00

Eh, I suppose it could be worse. We're nearing the end here. Is this a beard? Or scruff? Earlier this week it was described as 'peach fuzz.' Disappointing to think I may never grow a full beard. The plan for Dec. 1 however: mustache day. That I can handle.

Dome Piece

2009-11-26T23:55:00.000-05:00

Last night, I read a great story by Chris Balchelder -- "Eighth Wonder" -- featured in McSweeney's 32. The story is set in Houston, in the year 2024, following a series of storms that have left the city flooded and thousands of its residents shacked up in the Astrodome. "Eighth Wonder" struck so many chords for me: apocalypse, abandonment, re-appropriation, urbanism, domes.

The rule of three, as it were, has me writing about domes. First, my All You Can Eat proposal was mentioned on Peter Margittai Architects, LLC Facebook page. Second, I read the aforementioned Balchelder story about the Astrodome. Third, I learned that the Pontiac Silverdome was sold to a property manger for dirt cheap.

Apparently, Preservation Pittsburgh is working to retain the Mellon Arena in Pittsburgh. My plan came up as an example of adaptive reuse, even though the building program is identical. The only difference is the dome would be in Cleveland instead of Pittsburgh. Cleveland needs more dome, I say. Pop City presents differing views on adaptive re-use vs. demolition/redevelopment. The plan for transforming the structure into a versatile park space is intriguing, but it seems unlikely that the arena will remain past the completion of the Penguins' new facility, the Consol Energy Center. My Midtown Igloo proposal was created for selfish reasons, in that some of my best childhood memories took place in the Civic Arena -- from seeing the place ignite after Lemieux scored a goal, to Jagr winning playoff games in overtime, to buying tickets on the cheap during the down years.

Beyond the nostalgia, I believe it is necessary to attempt something higher than simply razing and starting from scratch. Looking at situations like Houston's Astrodome (abandoned, adjacent to the new Minute Maid (Enron) Field) and Detroit's Pontiac Silverdome (abandoned, blighted), one was once presented with grand utopian vision, civic pride, innovation. Now those sites convey decay.

I learned that the Silverdome structure and 127 acres of surrounding real estate were recently sold by the City of Pontiac at a no-reserve auction for $583,000. The arena was constructed at a cost of $55 million (approximately $220 million, adjusted 2009). As the sale was very recent, it remains to be seen whether the new owner, Canadian Andreas Apostolopoulos, will seek to demolish the Silverdome. It has been speculated that the new owner plans to use the building to house a major league soccer team.

At the end of the domed stadium lifecycle -- and this draws back to "Eighth Wonder" -- is to exist as a civic disaster recovery venue. Looking at Hurricane Katrina's effect on low income populations, forcing thousands of refugees to the Superdome and eventually the Astrodome as 'points of last refuge,' one can argue that tearing down such structures is unwise. The emergency contingency plan could serve as an additional program for adaptive reuse.

Revise these obsolete monuments to civic pride. Create a public space that can also function as a mini-city, should the need arise.

Related Links:
Reuse the Igloo Facebook group
OregonLive.com, on Silverdome sale

Holiday Season Preview

2009-11-25T23:55:00.001-05:00

I am currently caught in a vortex of potential HDTV purchase. Black Friday looms and I have to consider which set -- if any -- would be best for me. Alex and I went to Best Buy, and I was on the verge of pulling the trigger, but second-guessed and left with nothing. This will require some long-hard thinking tonight and tomorrow.

There is also the looming purchase of a firearm. Charlie and I have been talking about it for years now. I have been obsessed since reading The Road. And the potential for a zombie uprising is also very persuasive.

A text message conversation today between Charlie and I:

Charles: When are we buying guns?

Ryan: I don't know but we should have them for the xmas ale party

Charles: Hell yes. Do you think we should go through with the concealed carry classes? I do. It would be super badass.

Ryan: Oh yeah! I want to deliver justice whenever the fuck i want.

And there you have it. Holiday season 2K9: HDTV, gun, Christmas Ale. Hells yeah.

Night Snow in the Cultural Gardens

2009-11-24T23:55:00.001-05:00

The machine maneuvered the road nimbly, despite the snow that had accumulated four or six inches deep, falling steadily since the late afternoon. The car was new to Leo -- he had made much more money at work this year than last and decided to treat himself to German engineering. He opted for a model that was slightly smarter and nicer than his tastes, and he felt the need to impress the vehicle by performing tasks out of the ordinary. Like tonight: staying late at work simply to navigate the snow-covered roads after the sun had gone down.

Leo sped along the Shoreway, rapidly approaching the wake of a mammoth city snowplow. He passed the towering smokestacks that powered Cleveland. Off in the distance, he swore he saw a bright plume of fire between the branches of many many snow-logged trees. Snow lightning sparked with kinetic purple bursts. The spraying salt rattled against the front grill of his car, threatened to compromise the clear coat. Leo signaled left and pressed harder on the accelerator. He swung the car out into the passing lane. The thing held steady and pushed past the plow with nominal effort. Flakes clung to the windshield and wipers with increasing rapidity. The spiraling amber light atop the plow filled the inside of his car.

Soon, the truck was far in his rearview so Leo shifted back to the right lane and awaited his exit. Through the motor and the high velocity winds, Leo thought he heard an aggressive horn from a diesel truck. From behind all he saw was the puny flicker of the plow light, way back. He signaled right with the intent to exit.

As Leo predicted, MLK Blvd. sat neglected, snow-covered, empty, much like the depraved neighborhoods that surrounded it. The road, essentially a trench connecting the Shoreway to University Circle and Cleveland Heights, twisted through the Cultural Gardens. On his left and right sat foreign monuments -- Armenia, Azerbaijan, Serbia -- and their flags, obscured despite spotlights by the white-out.

Leo could push his vehicle into the 30s before the traction control light would flash. A pair of serpentine lines would illuminate lime green on the dashboard. At 40, they shifted to yellow and the handling became loose toward the rear. The manual stated that the indicator would turn red to signal loss of control. It had not yet turned red for Leo.

He passed below St. Clair Ave pushing 40, sliding into a shallow turn, letting off the gas enough for the tires to catch and whip him through. In his rearview, he caught sight of two headlights dropping down onto MLK behind him. A rotating orange light signaled that this was another snow plow. Despite being a long distance behind him, the headlights reflected from the mirror into his eyes. Leo held a hand up to his face, nearly skidding into the curb. The mirror automatically corrected itself and with an internal mechanism dimmed the light. Briefly, Leo thought about how intelligent this vehicle was, how it made the decisions for him. He pushed harder in attempt to pull away from the plow.

Passing below a jagged stone bridge, he hit a patch of black ice and slid into the opposite lane of traffic, bounding off the far curb with wheels cut in the opposite direction. The left side of the car lifted off the ground and make a sickening scraping sound along the curb, then came back down in the road with a muffled thud. The traction control light was not on.

"Where were you on that one?" Leo asked, shaken.

The car idled.

Fortunately no one had been coming the other way, Leo thought. Then he remembered the plow truck. He turned around and peered through the bridge as if were a shark's mouth. He saw the thing stopped a few dozen feet back, headlights on, siren flashing. Leo wondered why the driver hadn't come over to see if he was alright. Why was it just sitting there?

For some time, Leo waited, hoping the truck would move past him and clear a path so that he wouldn't wipe out again. The snow continued to fall. The thermometer on his heads up display read -17 degrees. After a while, maybe 15 minutes, his back windshield was covered. Leo switched on the rear defroster. The plow had not moved. Leo saw that he was running low on gas, which was disconcerting because he'd had nearly a half tank upon leaving the office earlier. Maybe, he thought, snow driving consumed more. Either way, he very well couldn't sit there all night, waiting for the damn plow to go.

Leo released the parking brake and swung the car back into the correct lane, proceeding at a more gingerly pace than before. He noticed that the steering was not as responsive and assumed that a wheel had been knocked out of alignment when he struck the curb. He punched the steering wheel, annoyed that he would have to take the thing to maintenance so soon after buying it.

Halogen light pierced into his eyes, this time from the sideview mirrors. The plow gained on him rapidly. Leo pressed down on the accelerator, but the car kept pulling to the left and the traction light fluctuated between green and yellow. The plow kept moving up on him. Leo thought that maybe it was an illusion generated from the magnifying effect of the mirror. He attempted to resume a safer speed. The traction light disappeared.

With a tremendous jolt and clamor, Leo lurched forward. The plow had rammed him. The snow fell away from his back window and Leo's cockpit burned with high beams. The car began fishtailing wildly. Leo corrected and accelerated, still blind from the intense light. But he was fighting the road surface here and his vehicle was fishtailing without help from the truck. The traction control flashed red. An exclamation point framed by a triangle appeared on the heads up display. The plow slammed him again. All things were white and yellow and bright.

To his right, Leo caught sight of a side street and swung the car off MLK. The plow caught the back corner of his car and directed it, sliding, into a telephone pole on a small island. The plow continued on, never slowing, crackling salt in concentric circles, like birdseed littered before a park bench in summer.

Leo hugged the airbag, smelled a combination of ozone, compressed air, radiator fluid and gasoline. In the front of the car, he heard a sort of sizzling, and all around him, clicking sounds. Not necessarily sore, but extremely shaken up, Leo reached for the door and opened it, stepped outside. His leather shoes disappeared into the snow drift, as did his pants up to the knee. He shut the door and trudged over to inspect the damage. As he expected, it was hard to tell where the telephone pole ended and his car began. The thing was lodged deep into the front end. Around back, his bumper was dented and cracked from the plow striking it. Though he didn't know much about it, he knew his car was totaled.

He went to grab his phone out of the console, reached for the door handle. It wouldn't budge. Somehow, the car had locked when he stepped out. He recalled some sort of safety mechanism that would lock the doors if the engine was off and the car was left untended beyond a certain amount of time. Leo thought he had not been out of the car for very long, but then again, the thing may have malfunctioned due to the trauma. Either way, he thought, I'm stuck out here.

He flipped out the lapels on his overcoat and hugged his arms around himself. His adrenaline flow had ebbed and he felt despair setting in. He heard nothing of the plow -- only the high pitch of wind between bare branches. And footsteps. Rapid footsteps. Approaching. A growl.

Leo caught sight of several hunched, four-legged figures descending from the wooded slope to his right. Their eyes flashed yellow in the street lights, the color of his traction control warning beacon. The dogs' eyes flashed of wild. First there were four, then two more, then two more, all as black as the night. They staggered their numbers, split in two groups and approached the car, heads low, ears back. Leo remained cautious, did not panic, not right away. He ineffectively tried to open a back door to his car. The lead dog caught sight of this move, bared its teeth, raised the mangy hair on its back. If the thing barked, Leo would have worried less, but it did not. The silent dogs were the ones to worry about. These dogs did not make a sound.

The lead dog, 4 feet tall and pitch black, approached the telephone pole. It lifted its leg and urinated, then jumped on the hood. Teeth bared, it let loose a growl. The dogs behind it broke into a dead run at Leo. He fled around the back of his car, cutting left across a small bridge spanning a creek. The dogs pursued. Once across the bridge, he drew them into a long field leading up a hill out of the Cultural Gardens and into a neighborhood. The snow had drifted here and was very deep. Leo was having trouble making progress, but glancing over his shoulder, he could see the dogs were likewise, but they were still gaining. Near the summit, he slipped and scrambled to regain traction. He found his stride but the delay proved costly, for one of the dogs had clamped on to the back of his coat. It writhed its head wildly. Tearing the buttons off, Leo allowed the coat to slip over his shoulders and he kept running. Looking back, he saw two of the dogs wrestling over the coat, but the other six were still in pursuit.

Clearing the treeline, he entered into Glenville. Straight ahead, a burning house lit the sky. Its heat radiated and the light shone like a halo around the snow. Leo jumped down into the street, ran closer to the blaze. He turned. The dogs, panting, had stopped at the treeline. The fire must have startled them. Slowly they faded from the light, vaporizing like the steam from their snouts into the atmosphere.

Wearing only his work shirt and pants, Leo approached the warmth. A man stood in the sidewalk staring up at the inferno. The house used to be one of those Cleveland doubles, with a porch and balcony in the front and about six bedrooms, all wood construction. Everything went up. The man had a large wool blanket draped over his shoulders. Leo came to stand next to this man with face covered in soot. The man, never casting a sideways glance to meet Leo's, nodded. He swung the blanket over Leo's shoulders as well and the two drew closer together for warmth.

Leo scanned the distance for a hint of the Fire Department, a red siren, but all he could see were sporadic orange lights -- snow plows.

The roof buckled and collapsed, sending timbers inward toward the center of the building. Red hot embers launched upwards into the sky, collided head-on with stark white snow falling down.

DeBiase Motor Co.

2009-11-23T23:55:00.004-05:00

Back in High School -- and Mike Sokol can back me up here -- I started an ironic car company called DBMC (DeBiase Motor Company). It was not much of a company beyond me talking about it to Mike. I managed to spec out a few cars while on study hall at the library. The spec sheets were drawn on lined comp paper and usually featured a poorly drawn profile of the car. DBMC did little more than poke fun at other cars out there.

Example: DBMC Bunyon - a gigantic SUV that requires JATO rockets to get it going, as well as a six-mile long driveway. On the dashboard GPS monitor, 'PURGE' will flash when the correct mixture of jet fuel has been reached. That way, the driver knows to sit back while the vehicle accelerates to several hundred miles per hour. Eventually the Bunyon settles to a normal highway speeds, where it maintains fuel mileage of 4 gallons : 1 mile.

I had another concept car named the Fission that ran on uranium and/or plutonium (I never did well in Chemistry). The car was extremely fuel efficient, in that it could drive about a million miles without replacing the radioactive core, but it was terrible in head-on collisions. Two Fissions, moving at speeds of 25 mph, colliding head-on, could level 20 city blocks. Rear end collisions fared slightly better, with 5-10 blocks damage.

I guess I am not the first one to have stumbled upon this nuclear car idea. Ford had it in the late fifties. Their atomic car, the Nucleon, never got beyond a concept, but it was intended to get a measly 5,000 miles before refueling. Ahem, the Fission fares, much much better in that department. I came across the Nucleon while paging through a coffee table book of mine: Automobile Year 1958-1959. This got me thinking about the Fission -- kind of a postmodern Nucleon, if you will.

The Nucleon:

Here is a preliminary sketch I dug up from the deBiase archives:

And a more recent rendering, inspired by my run in with Auto Year '59:

I imagine this car doing immensely well in sales in the mountainous region between Pakistan and Afghanistan. For some reason those Pakistanis/Afghans can't get enough of the Fission. Always buying them up in pairs though. We just can't seem to ship them fast enough. Word is Iran is still attempting production on it's own Fission-like vehicle, much to our chagrin at DBMC.

At DBMC, we intend to control all markets, from the Midwest to the Middle East.

VIDEO: How to Survive a Car Wreck

2009-11-22T18:18:00.006-05:00

The following video was presented at Pecha Kucha Night Cleveland on Sept. 25, 2009, as part of The Bridge Project. Turnout was pretty astounding for the event, as the CLE P-K organizers estimate that about 300 people stood witness.

This is actually a condensed version of a story that was published in Picayune, the literary journal of New Mexico Highlands University. For a while, the full story lived on this site, but I have taken it down to encourage people to pick up Picayune.

Editor's note

2009-11-21T12:21:00.003-05:00

I realize I have fallen behind on my posting this week. I took a business trip to Albuquerque (no wrong turns, fortunately) and ended up working some long days. I spent a lot of time traveling and without regular access to the Internet, nor any energy to get something up here.

I do have some posts lined up and I will try to back-log them over the course of the weekend. So, check back often, friends.

NaBeGroMo Update

2009-11-20T23:55:00.000-05:00

As far as beards go, it's not a very good one. It is very patchy, and I am still puzzled by a patch on the left side of my cheek that will not grow facial hair. I think it is because I took severe acne medicine in high school because I was a pizza face. The Accutane treatment, I think, messed up my facial hair follicle growth. . .maybe. But at least I don't have too many pimples these days.

Anyways, I checked up on the side effects and didn't really find too much about facial hair, at least with men (women actually grow facial hair when on the stuff). But the side effects list is crazy long. Read it here. I can't believe I took this stuff for like a year. Nasty.

Business Trip

2009-11-16T23:55:00.001-05:00

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Travel Series Nov. 16 - 19

Pt. 1

Business. I was there on business. In New Jersey on a business trip. The Harborside Financial Center, to be exact. The night before, I had flown into Newark and taken a cab into Jersey city, which cost about $50. The cabbie did not accept credit card, so I paid in cash, though I had only brought about $60. This did a good job of wiping me out, though I would eventually expense the whole trip of course. It made me extremely nervous that I might not have enough money for a cab ride back to the airport. And I did not want to have to withdraw cash from a non-Ohio ATM.

But at least I had made it to Jersey City, and I checked into the Candlewood Suites there, learning, as I stepped into the room, that it was an extended-stay hotel. I was only there for one night of business sleeping. Of course I did not commence the resting immediately, though I probably should have. I drank down a glass of water for I was very thirsty.

I phoned my old friend Amy and attempted a rendezvous somewhere on the Lower East Side, a convenient mid-point between my Jersey and her Brooklyn. So I took the PATH train over, around the hulking core of the World Trade Center -- a great divot within the earth. I spied a welder spewing sparks down into the abyss. The train arrived at the WTC stop -- end of the line -- so I ventured up to street level to connect with an NYC metro train. I should have paid more attention to my surroundings, for the drunken return trip later, but due to the construction, I wandered along with everyone else through a corral-like system of plywood walls to a Manhattan metro station in the Financial District.

I took a blue train to a green train and then got off on E. 14th St. I met Amy at the Beauty Bar and we had some drinks there, then went over to the Crocodile Lounge, which gives a free personal pan pizza with every beer you buy. This transaction is executed via raffle tickets. You buy a beer; you get a ticket; you go to the back and give the ticket to a guy at a pizza oven; he holds up a coffee tin labeled 'TIPS'; you ignore that gesture; later, he gives you a pizza. Amy managed to hide her ticket and we got an extra pizza because of that little sleight of hand. At one point she disappeared around a corner and came back with 2 slices of cheesecake.

--It's someone's birthday over there, she said. This is Carnegie Deli cheesecake. It's phenomenal -- like $10 a slice phenomenal.

I'm not much of a cheesecake fan, but it was pretty much the best that I've ever had.

Nearing one a.m., I decided I should head back to N.J. So we parted ways. I think I got on a grey train going East. Then I got on a blue train going South. But the stops did not match up. A recording said something about not going down to WTC after hours. I estimated the next comparable stop, as the line veered off toward Brooklyn. But the map was hard to decipher, for it was horizontal above a door, but I knew we were moving vertically. This confused me to no end. Plus, the little dots marking transit stops -- they are not to scale, as I found.

Not exactly sure where I was, I stepped up to street level. Despite being lost, I was glad I got off because I had to take a leak real bad. So I found a dark alley and did my business through a chainlink fence. Much relieved, I focused more on my place in the world, and how to use that to get me to the PATH train. None of the street signs rung any bells (McDonald? Feltcher?), so I wandered -- more or less aimlessly -- through the Financial District, as so many investors had over the course of this recession. Difference: I was literally lost in the financial district.

So I dialed Amy again, hoping that she could zero in on my coordinates and get me to the PATH station. She answered almost immediately, which proved very promising. I told her the intersection at which I stood. I saw not one person in either direction, as if I were back in Cleveland. Except that New York has 50 ba-jillion people or something. That made me scared. Amy quickly logged into her computer and told me to walk straight. I trusted her, even though I failed to mention which direction I was facing. 200 paces later, I came to an intersection and Amy, my Eagle Eye, guided me right. And so it went: me calling out intersections; Amy saying right, left, straight.

Suddenly my phone blared in my ear, alerting that its power had run low. A single solitary bar flashed red in the far corner of a battery frame in the far corner of my screen. I needed to pick up the pace, for I remained as lost as ever. I began jogging. My breathing became strained. My voice wavery. Amy asked if I was running. I told her that I was, in fact. But I was out of shape and had to slow down, eventually reaching a pace that was perfectly between walking and running -- power lunging.

Eagle Eye said that I was almost home free, having walked nearly two miles with her on the line. Straight ahead, said Eagle Eye, you will see a sign that says PATH. Was she looking at me through a series of realtime cameras? Or was it Google Street View? Either way, within steps I saw PATH: NJ Transit and a rightward-directing arrow. It was stapled rather inconspicuously to a plywood wall. I had reached my destination and thanked Amy profusely. I was out of breath, but had plenty of time to catch it, in that I waited about a half hour for the next PATH train to come. And I had to take another leak.

As I stood there, I considered the implications of 9/11. Had it never happened, I would have had a much easier time finding the PATH station, in that searching the sky for two enormous twin refrigerators is much easier than trying to find a gigantic pockmark.

I made it back to the hotel around two in the morning and slept rather restlessly til seven.

IMAGE: MIDTOWN IGLOO

2009-11-15T23:55:00.000-05:00

The following is my submission for POST's All You Can Eat exhibition, held Oct. 30 - 31 at the Sculpture Center in East Cleveland. The idea was to utilize vacant land in the City of Cleveland in some (any) way, to presumably make this a better city. Thus, I proposed moving a piece of Pittsburgh to Midtown -- the MIDTOWN IGLOO.

ABSTRACT:

This proposal suggests relocating three failing, Southern-based NHL teams to Cleveland. The franchises with the lowest attendance, and most dire financial straits -- Phoenix Coyotes, Florida Panthers, and Atlanta Thrashers -- will contract into one team, the Cleveland Barons. These teams have had limited playoff experience, and as such, would have the least impact on their respective fanbases should they relocate.

The second aspect of this proposal sees the site of a new arena to fall at the intersection of E. 55 and Euclid. Located along the new Health Line public transit system, the area of Midtown is easily accessible via public transit and Interstate and heretofore underutilized. The proposed location stretches north from E. 55 and Euclid to E 55 and Chester, and East to E. 61. The real estate is currently vacant and abated, save some service business located at the Northwest corner of the site.

As the City of Cleveland cannot realistically afford construction costs of a totally new arena, an existing one, soon to be discarded, can be acquired and repurposed for the Barons. The Mellon Arena (fka Civic Arena) in Pittsburgh is slated for demolition following completion of the Penguins' new arena. An architecturally unique structure, with a stainless steel retractable dome, the Mellon Arena has seen 42 years worth of NHL games and three Stanley Cup Championships. Aesthetically, the interior lacks certain amenities of its contemporaries and is extremely industrial, with exposed utility systems and narrow concrete concourses. It is a perfect fit for Cleveland.

The arena has been repurposed in the past, having initially served as a venue for the Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera. The retractable dome makes it an appealing venue for concerts, or potentially for open air hockey games in the winter time. A professional hockey team and arena could greatly benefit Midtown, as much of the new development on the Euclid Corridor in that area has yet to be occupied. The possibility exists for a variety of bars, restaurants, retail and surface parking. Easy links via the Health Line to University Circle and downtown, along with Cleveland State and Case Western make it all the more appealing of a location.

The NHL would also benefit in that it is adding a market that has the potential to grow the game. Instant rivalries would be established with Columbus, Pittsburgh, Detroit and Buffalo.

A new arena could be the anchor tenant to shore up Midtown development.

Finding Blue Bob

2009-11-14T23:55:00.001-05:00

--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

2009-11-13T23:55:00.000-05:00

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

Art

2009-11-12T23:55:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-11T23:55:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-10T23:55:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-09T23:55:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-08T22:28:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-07T23:55:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-06T23:55:00.001-05:00

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

In a Nutshell

2009-11-05T23:55:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-04T23:55:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-03T23:55:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-02T23:55:00.011-05:00

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

2009-11-01T21:47:00.005-05:00

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.

Under the Bridge - Sept. 25

2009-09-23T22:52:00.008-05:00

On Friday, September 25, I will be presenting a spoken word piece for Pecha Kucha Night Cleveland, as part of The Bridge Project.

I will be reading a creative non-fiction piece, "How to Survive a Car Wreck," which appeared in the most recent issue of Picayune, the literary journal of New Mexico Highlands University.

The idea behind Pecha Kucha is a short winded presentation, executed via PowerPoint, aided by graphic slides -- 20, to be precise -- that last 20 seconds each. Presenters are limited to 6 minutes and 40 seconds of content.

So I've spliced a condensed version of the narrative with images from the actual event of being in a car wreck in downtown Cleveland.

Please come out if you are in the neighborhood of the Detroit-Superior Bridge this Friday. Pecha Kucha begins at 8:20, but the Bridge Project festivities are open from 4 p.m. to midnight.

Here is a sneak peak at my presentation:

It’s one of the perils of traveling with urban design students. Always looking at the buildings and the urban fabric and such and such. The ‘Big’ City pulled the car inside, like a rusty, post-industrial tractor beam.
‘I’da took the Shoreway to MLK. Way faster. Safer too.’

Come see me read.

NaBloPoMo - A month in review

2008-11-30T23:36:00.004-05:00

Dear friends:

This post effectively wraps this year's National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). This time last year, I was pretty burned out and the best I could manage was a half-assed post about my beard looking terrible. This year, I'd like to think there is more to show than just a patchy quasi-beard. Early on, I set the goal of getting a significant amount of new short fiction out there. This was decided after a source very close to NOMENCLATURE advised that short fiction is where the money is, in terms of creative writing.

This month has provided:

Syx
Androidgyny: Act III
Theft
Excerpt from Paint
Thanksgiving Day
Graffiti
And the hybrid fiction/creative non-fiction piece: Labor Day Weekend

The bread and butter of NOMENCLATURE was and always will be creative non-fiction and plenty came your way this month:

Assorted essays:

Though I am pretty exhausted after this month, it did feel really good to get back into writing again. I hope to post more frequently now -- though surely not at the rate of one post a day. I hope you all visit or revisit some of the work I've placed on here. Criticism is always welcome so please, let me know what is working and not working.

Thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this. In particular -- Alex, Charles, Kate, Ted, Mike Sokol. Thanks to all readers!

Have a great December, all!

Best,

--dB

PS: For the record, my beard, as of 11/30 (You were right about the cat, Kate):

Graffiti

2008-11-29T23:59:00.005-05:00

Rocque spent most of the train ride paging through his late brother’s black book, marveling at the intricacy and attention to detail paid to his pieces. Tek had been a master planner, keeping notes on the traffic patterns below railroad trestles and along interstate sound barriers. Page after page, Tek mastered his tag, sharp and angled, the ‘E’ swallowing whole the ‘K.’

“I want people to know the ‘e’ is long, like ‘easy,’” Tek had told his younger brother and the rest of the crew as he etched it onto a cement wall. The crew held their meetings below an old concrete bridge on the Red Line. Theya would dump the contents of their backpacks and sift through the mess of cans – spray paint, beer, malt liquor – while smoking black & milds. Someone would pack tree into a blunt and pass it around til they could not discern themselves from the tags they threw up on the walls.

Rocque recognized some of the pieces as his brothers’ while passing them on the Red Line. There remained little differentiation between Tek’s sketches and the paintings themselves. He expanded his concepts with masterful precision. Rocque himself had trouble duplicating what little sketches he could create. His lame left arm, shriveled and weak, could do little more hold the aerosol cans against his body while he worked a surface. Oftentimes, they would fall from his grasp and clatter noisily along the pavement. Rocque would then get scared and run away, leaving his piece and his cans unfinished. He had never completed a coherent work of graffiti.

He could however tag with aplomb, speedily, efficiently, for it required only one hand and his left pincer hand could handle the circular lid to his mop. He rode the red line at off peak hours and as a result, most cars bore his dense tag – a boulder-like jumble – for, as Rocque told his brother before his passing, he wanted them to know that his name was “ ‘Rocque,’ as in ‘Rock.’”

He exited the train at the University Circle station, surveyed for the last time the section of the black book with the map of where Tek had hid his racked paint cans. Tek, always airing on the side of caution, hid the cans he had recently lifted from hardware stores. This had a duel purpose of concealing his crime and placing the materials in a close proximity to where he planned to begin his next piece.

Rocque had worked all last summer as an art teacher for little kids at the Portland-Outhwaite Recreation Center down on East 5-5. On afternoons, parents would drop off their kids, or the kids would walk over on their own and Rocque would show them arts and crafts. He enjoyed this, for he knew that these kids didn’t have anything, and didn’t really have anyone to look up to, as he had, with his brother.

He had done this job the last couple summers, but this year he noticed less supplies for his department. Less beads, less paint, less paper, less pens. Any time he tried to ask someone at the Muny building to help him out, he ran into a secretary, saying stuff about “The Economy.” Rocque didn’t understand much about the economy, but he knew when he was getting the short end.

About three weeks before the end of summer and the end of his contact, the City laid off Rocque. They said that though he did a good job with the community arts position, budget cuts required them to pare back certain programs. As such, his position had been eliminated, and though they were grateful for his commitment to the task, they would not be asking him back the next year, nor were they able to provide a severance package, as his employment was seasonal.

Just up Cedar Hill, Rocque came across a grouping of hedges and pine trees illuminated beneath the halo of streetlamp. He waded into the mass of branches and stepped beyond the arc of light, bent below the lowest canopy of hanging pine. Inside the tent of tree branches, he kicked around until his foot struck something hard and metallic. Rocque felt a plastic bag filled with heavy cylinders. He knew this to be his brother’s stash. He tore open the bag, which had taken on some water, and pulled out five few cans, stuffing them into his backpack. He left six or eight behind, retied the bag and set it against the trunk.

Upon crawling back out of the hedges, Rocque was illuminated by a spotlight. A UC patrol car was passing by on the street. Rocque righted himself and nodded toward the car, the light too bright in his eyes to make out the cop inside.
Nash Bridges, Rocque thought, I ain’t doing nothing.

The light went dead and the 5-0 rolled on down the road. Rocque continued up Cedar Hill as his brother had countless times in the past. Until the one night someone took his life. Tek had taken on a job at a sandwich shop up in Cleveland Heights. The job market down in their neighborhood was not so hot, so Tek was forced to take work somewhere up the Red Line. The neighborhood was clean and nice but too stuffy. Nobody responded well to the big burners Tek threw up around town. The last piece he started – just around the bend on Cedar – was to signify his defining work, an autobiography consuming a large portion of a brick wall alongside the road.

Tek had begun the project but never saw it through to completion. Rocque learned that his brother was killed by a drunk driver near the piece. Tek may very well have been working on it as he was run down. Rocque has his suspicions. With little on his plate, Rocque took over in his brother’s footsteps, attempting to validate his life with more graffiti. But Rocque could not spray nearly so well as his older brother and most of his pieces miss the flare displayed in Tek’s work.

Rocque’s talent never lay in original composition, for he was much more of an emulator – a realist. He focused more on pencil drawing than airbrush, not only because it was easier to manipulate with one serviceable hand, but because it was more tactile. He felt the ability to add more layers and to a pencil drawing. But Tek’s art affected more people for it was viewable by more people. Rocque supposed that was the trade-off: quicker, less detailed work for higher visibility. But in the end, their art made little difference in the lives of the two brothers.

Rocque came to bend in the road where Tek had begun his piece. Now viewing it in full scale, Rocque was able to gauge the scope of the project. He thumbed through his brother’s notebook. Tek had begun approximately a quarter of the piece as conceptualized in the sketchpad. Rocque wondered how he would be able to reach some of the higher places on the walls. The stones jutted out to act as footholds, but he could not see himself bracing against the wall and working the can of Krylo. He though of acquiring a ladder, though he was unsure how, and securing it in the bush for when it was needed. Still this task proved daunting already. Rocque had expended much energy just reaching University Circle and then finding the cans. The thought of bringing a ladder on the train seemed too much.

Rocque decided that he would consider all the logistics later. Although the idea of giving it all up and going had entered his mind, he opted to stay and work on what little he could that night. A larger portion of what Tek had completed still needed filled – most of the work was still frames. This part of the piece depicted the group members of Tek’s crew, CONTROL, in their hideout underneath the railroad bridge on the red line. Six figures huddled around a can throwing flame casting their shadows against the walls. None of the shadows had been filled so Rocque decided to work on that for the time being. He could get a feel for the surface and for the paint against it. He pulled out of the bag a can of black Krylo and shook it in his good hand. He slapped a painter’s mask over his mouth.

The road at this hour was lightly trafficked though he tried to keep an eye out for headlights. The air filled with aerosol as he applied the spray to the wall, careful to keep the color within the space Tek had previously outlined. The can was cool and controlled in his hand and felt very comfortable to him.

A voice behind called him an asshole. Rocque turned around and a pretty boy in a white Benz had rolled up on the street. Rocque cursed himself for not noticing but this man had driven down the road with no headlights, probably drunk. Now he was stopped just next to Rocque. The man had spiked his hair up into a shark boy look and it appeared that his collared shirt was shiny for it reflected in the streetlight. Rocque did not say a word.

“People like you are the reason this city looks like shit,” the man yelled.

Rocque did not say a word. He dropped the can of Krylo and it rolled down the hill. He placed both hands in his pockets.

The man went on to say that he was sick of people like Rocque shitting on his city and he meant to do something about it. Rocque could not be sure, but he thought he smelled liquor on the man’s breath.

The man in the shiny shirt stepped out of his car and into the road. He was on the heavy side, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, though with a beer gut and not all that tall. Imposing only in his obnoxiousness, the action was quick and it caught Rocque off guard.

Not a moment later, the car began to move down the hill, sans driver. It appeared as though the man forgot to put on the brake, for he yelled “Shit!” and ran after it down the hill. The car did not make it far, as it ran up against a telephone pole near the bend in the road. The man jogged, listing back and forth, after his scraped up car and Rocque could tell that he was drunk. Suddenly he became the man the killed Tek at this very spot. More than likely he was returning from the club at the top of the hill, drunk off Scotch or champagne or whatever the rich people drink.

The man climbed into the car and threw it in reverse, scraping the side again. The front bumper tore off and littered onto the road. This made the man angry, for he accelerated very quickly with the car still in reverse and tore up the hill. At that moment, another car with no headlights careened down the hill. It smashed into the rear of the car moving in reverse. Pieces of broken glass sprayed all around Rocque but managed to miss him. He still stood with his hands in his pockets. Both cars sat sideways across the road. One’s horn would not stop sounding its monotone blast. He could not make out a figure in the white Benz, for the inside was engulfed in airbag. For a few moments, the event suspended itself in time and place, the only signal of life being the drone of horn.

Then Rocque was sprinting down the hill, attempting to outrun the sirens in the distance. He rounded the bend in Cedar Hill, came past the tree with the stash and kept on toward the Transit Station, glowing fluorescent sanctity through the night.

* * *

Rocque took on a job at the same sandwich shop that had employed Tek and most nights found himself walking past the unfinished burner on the wall on Cedar Hill. He had not been able to bring himself back to it. Shattered glass still bespeckles the sidewalk around the accident. Each day, Rocque passes a rusty can of black Krylo rolled into a pile of leaves.

Today, however, is different. He recently racked some new cans from a hardware store on Quincy with plans to get back to work on his brother’s memorial. Over time, he has honed his craft beneath bridges on the Red Line and is much more confident in his spray art than he has ever been. And he has some ideas for the memorial that deviate from his brother’s plan. But he is sure Tek will understand.

Rocque steps off the Red Line train onto the platform in University Circle. He wears his work uniform – black polo, black khakis, black visor. He steps into the stairwell leading onto the street. At the bottom, a man waits. His neck is in a brace and his clothes appear disheveled. He holds a baseball bat in his right hand and appears to brace all his weight against it. Rocque recognizes him as the man in the Benz.

But Rocque is unafraid, for among other things he gleaned from his brother following his death, Rocque carries a revolver. His brother’s gun, cradled carefully in his jacket pocket, hammer clicked back, safety off. Just a tool, Tek used to say, to scare or to maim, depending on the circumstance. Rocque was not sure what this one was to be, but he was ready for either.

Bullshit Friday Post

2008-11-28T23:09:00.003-05:00

NaBeGroMo Update - Week Four

Status: Scholarly; fluffy; dignified; grey -- a success!

And no, I am not holding a cat up to my face.

That's ridiculous.

Thanksgiving Day

2008-11-27T23:59:00.003-05:00

It is Thanksgiving Day and you are excited to have been let off work an hour early. On the train ride home, you contact an old high school friend, Amy, via cell phone. Bask in stories of young drunks transformed to old drunks over the last six years. Compared to most kids of your graduating class, you are doing pretty well for yourself. This coupled with your early exit from work -- this never happens -- sets you in a very good mood.

Also on the plate for later today is a trip to the Outer Rings to spend the rest of the evening with your girlfriend's family. You do not own a car, but have reserved a vehicle through a car share program. Leaving the train station, still on the phone, you are accosted by a man dressed in construction gear. He still wears his white helmet and has a neon vest over top of a Carhartt coverall. You are just about at the top of a set of concrete steps out of the train station when he yells 'Hey' from behind. It is not a call of desperation, and does not carry much weight, though there is an undercurrent of shame that makes you stop and listen to the man. You tell Amy to hold on a second.

First off, the man thanks you for actually stopping to listen to him. Most people in your neighborhood, the man says, looked at him like he was Osama Bin Laden and ran away from him. More than likely, you realize, this is because he was going to ask them for money, of which you are sure he is to ask you. Still, you'd like to think yourself better than most of the tight-asses in your uppity neighborhood, which provides additional incentive to hear the man's story. He begins by saying that he is a construction worker, helping to build the Euclid Corridor. This immediately finds a soft spot in your soul, for this man is helping to create the thing that will save Cleveland. Today, he says, he is on-site, laying down a large metal plate in the road that this city uses to fix all its problems. He accidentally backs his truck over a lip on one of said plates and pops his tire and bends his rim.

He deviates for a second, says that he lives on Coventry Road, which is not all that far from where you live. It is not all that close either, but enough to make you think of him as a neighbor; a brother from another mother on this Earth on Thanksgiving Day. Now, the man goes on to say, if you would be so kind as to give him 12 dollars or so to have the rim hammered out at a service station, his faith in mankind would be restored.

Suddenly the fate of mankind rests upon your shoulders as you consider all the good Samaritans throughout history. Apart from Jesus Christ, Mother Theresa, Ralph Nader, and your grandmother, you cannot think of anyone else. To restore this man's faith would place you in a class of human beings with few peers.

The man's story has taken a few minutes to tell. He is obviously tired. 'Now how can you make me say this whole thing to another person all over again?' he asks.

'I'm sorry man,' you say, stuttering. 'I seriously don't have any money on me, not even any change.' To prove your point, you remove your wallet and open it. True to your word, it is full of library cards, bus tickets, a bank card, but no cash. The man slumps his shoulders -- not the answer he wanted to hear. 'Look, if there was an ATM around here, I'd do it,' you say. There are none in the immediate vicinity and you know this.

'Hey man, there's a National City down the hill, we can walk over and you can help me out. I'll go with you.' He is very hopeful now and his face has brightened.

A number of things go through your mind. Due to a scheduling conflict between your shift at work and when you reserved the car, you have a good two hours before you are allowed to drive it, despite the fact that it is probably parked in a lot just near the station. The thought of walking all the way up Cedar Hill to your apartment and then all the way back down an hour later to pick up the car is not particularly appetizing. This man needs help, he is friendly enough, it is Thanksgiving and you feel benevolent. You tell Amy you will call her back.

'Are you about to give money to a homeless guy?' Amy asks, for she has seen you give money to homeless people before.

'No.' you say, for this man is not homeless. He is building Cleveland and just needs a little help. You hang up. 'All right, let's go,' you say to the man.

'All right,' he says, happy that you are helping him.

On the way down to the bank, you realize that it is much farther than you originally thought. But the man asks what you do and you tell him: Editorial; press releases; distributing financial news that does not make much sense to you. He asks how you feel about the economy. You say it's a big problem, and not something that is easily fixed without looking at the whole nature of how this country does business. A bailout was not the answer. The man agrees, says that we are already paying them once, why should we pay them again with our taxes? You believe in an equal distribution of wealth; you do not necessarily believe in capitalism; you are maybe a socialist. But you do not say this to the man. He needs help, not a lecture.

The man directs you onto a grassy median between opposite directions of traffic. He says that he'd have been a millionaire if he hadn't played football. You are confused, for usually it is the other way around. You ask him how this could be. As it were, he played high school football instead of pursuing his art. When he was in first grade, he won grand prize in an art contest and has been passionate about it since. But it appears as though he never received a big break to propel him into the art world. Now he is nearly 50 years old.

You ask if he has ever done graffiti. He says no, for he prefers realism, not cartoons, and works mostly in pencil. One time, he says, that he made a cartoon of Mickey Mouse for his friend's daughter on her birthday. That is the only time he draws cartoons -- on kids' birthdays. The little girl really liked it, he said.

You pull a small notepad out of your bag, hand it to the man and fumble around for a pen. You do not have one. The man reaches into his coverall and produces a permanent marker. You hand him the notepad, and tell him to draw something for you. This is to be the exchange. Your money for his art. The man tries to shirk the task, saying that he hasn't drawn in years, and that he never works with magic marker. You tell him to make due. Surely he can draw something. He says he can't. You press him. He begins gesturing and accidentally drops your book on the sidewalk. He immediately bends down to pick it up.

Now you two are in a parking lot behind an elementary school. The bank lies just beyond the stretch of asphalt. The man says that he will have to get your contact information to pay you back. His girlfriend, he says, is in microbiology and she will be able to hook you up in the future. You think to ask if the man has weed but you reconsider. You do not plan on supplying contact info.

As you approach the ATM, you again remind the man to work on a quick drawing in your notepad.

'Okay,' he says, 'I'm gonna sit down right here.' He sits on a concrete support at the bottom of a light post.

'You draw me something,' you say.

National City is not your bank and the ATM charges you a 3 dollar fee. The lowest denomination you can withdraw out is 20 dollars but you knew this coming in. This is the amount you take. You go back down and give the money to the man, ask if he can cover your surcharge. He cannot.

You ask to see what he has for you. The man says that he really does not like drawing with permanent marker but he shows you. It is an eye, just one, with his signature underneath: Chris. The eye is not very big, but it is a good eye and you are impressed at it, for you could not draw an eye so well. Yours would look like a cartoon. Again, the man asks for your contact info so his microbiologist girlfriend can pay you back. You say that it's not necessary and to not worry about it. Instead, if sees you again and you need help, he should return the favor; or return the favor should he come across someone else that needs help.

'That's how it's supposed to work,' Chris says.

'Yeah, pay it forward,' you say.

Chris thanks you a lot for the money. He shakes your hand and shakes your hand and shakes your hand, says that he hopes he sees you again sometime. You say likewise. The two of you shake hands again. Then he walks off toward Euclid. You turn and walk back toward the train station and the parking lot where hopefully the car you are borrowing is waiting. You have effectively killed an hour.

Later, you embark for the Outer Rings and your girlfriend's family, with no intention of ever telling anyone this story.

My Old Man, He Still Got It

2008-11-26T23:18:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, my old man show me how
he still got it. Man need a faucet, broken part,
calls the faucet maker, a man of the people,
my old man, say that he need a part
get me that part for free, he say, what
can you do? My wife, he say to the man
on the phone, don't want this faucet.
She tell me to get a new one, and now it's
broken. How can I tell my wife that I'm about
to spend money to fix a faucet
she don't even want? So what
can you do? he ask. So the man put my
old man on hold, the man talk to his
superior and gets the okay, with
a condition: my old man, he pay
the shipping. Do you have
a problem with that? the man
ask of my old man. Why would I?
my old man say back. My old man tell
the man that he would consider a faucet
a faucet a faucet one he would buy even
if he didn't get parts for free because of
his wife which was a lie. His wife is not
a lie but the faucet is a faucet is a lie.

And we talk more these days, and I ask
him for advice more these days for I am
in a crisis of customer service and I am
in my job like he is in his job and sometimes
I just need to hear from my old man that
I am okay in all of that and that he is okay
with that and with me and I am okay with
him for the sake of advice and being the man
on the phone with my old man rather than
being just the man on the phone.

A Post About Flatulence

2008-11-25T23:25:00.001-05:00

Last September, I embarked on a Midwest Tour, if you will, via the Megabus. From Cleveland, I bussed to Chicago, met up with old college friend Bigler, then immediately transferred to the next bus to Minneapolis. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I pulled out of the driveway on the way to the bus stop in Cleveland, for I had to move my bowels. Problem is, when I am in transit -- or really any place away from home or work (it's easier to go when I'm getting paid) -- I cannot force myself to go. I lock up. Something about the transient nature of travelling.

And this was to be a trip of crashing on couches, not one of posh (or even ratty) hotel rooms with which I could garner a sense of place. My window for relief expired as I wandered around Tower City in downtown Cleveland, only to find the public restrooms gated and locked. I could not bring myself to go on the bus, though there was continual pressure in my nether regions throughout the night.

Upon arrival to Union Station in Chicago, early in the morning, I made an attempt in an Amtrak restroom. No such luck. The cellophane sheathing around their toilet seats felt unfamiliar and I was thus unable to relax. I metBigler shortly thereafter and informed him of my dilemma. He advised trying again but I could not bring myself to it for I knew the end result: nothing.

So we went to Minneapolis, met up with another college friend Erin, and again I could not find relief. Somehow I knew, pulling out of my driveway late Tuesday night, that this would be an ongoing problem the whole trip. I deliberately attempted to set my innards in motion by drinking lots of coffee and smoking cigarettes and eating lots of Asian food but nothing in Mpls did the trick. All the while I felt a constant weight building down below, like pressure pumping into an innertube.

By Friday evening we were back in Chicago -- Bigler's home -- and trying to track down a place to eat with Bigler's girlfriend, Ashley. We eventually settled upon a place and I ordered a falafel sandwich with lots of veggies. Still nothing. We went to a bar, I had a few draught beers. The next morning, for breakfast, we went to a diner and I had a rather large omelet with broccoli in it and several mugs of coffee. I think you know where this is going.

Afterwards, we went to the McSweeny's store, 826CHI, and goofed around in there. I began to feel a not-so-good sensation mounting, like indigestion. Though this was like indigestion on growth hormones. I hoped amongst hopes that I could make it back toBigler's apartment. We were just about to leave, but just for shits (no pun intended), I decide to look at a book low on the shelf. As I crouched down, an extremely pungent fart escaped. It was silent; deadly. I immediately locatedBigler and Ashley, safely out of harm's way -- for now. I tried to act casual and slowly close the book and replace it on the shelf. ButBigler and Ashley had moved next to me and they knew something was wrong. How could they not? Think of the combination: falafel -draught beer-eggs-broccoli-coffee. They commented on the stench and moved far away. Ashley looked particularly disgusted. We left hastily, for there were others in there and it was only a matter of time before they caught it.

I apologized a lot on the way back. Ashley said that if there was such a thing as glasses that could make stink visible, I would have been a solid puff of green, indiscernible from the flatulence I produced. Anytime you would go back to 826CHI, there would be a dark green smudge on the floor near where it had happened. A child, learning to read, would innocently open the book I had been browsing and vow to never look at another written word ever again.

Bigler went on to say that I put McSweeney's out of business for health code violations -- a dangerous amount of methane gas. One flick of a match would have sent the place up in flames.McSweeney's never recovers from the bad PR and eventually goes out of business. I effectively murder one of my most cherished publications.

Suffice it to say, the whole thing was embarrassing. But the wheels were sent in motion for an exodus of the evil that had accrued within me the last five days. Upon arriving atBigler's apartment, I set up shop on his commode -- inside a bathroom of his private residence, which provided me some comfort. The act took close to a half hour and by the end of it I was tired. But it had triggered an imbalance and my digestive track was not quite right the rest of the trip. I could not hold in anything, quite terribly. It became the exact opposite of my previous problem, culminating in a rather nasty episode involving a bar bathroom in Lincoln Square during a German Fest. But that is another story altogether.

I took the overnight Megabus back to Cleveland and upon my arrival, everything settled back into place, for I was home, and my bowels knew it. They are very perceptive like that.

Skaters

2008-11-24T23:32:00.000-05:00

As I came to learn over the years, one of the positives (or negatives, I suppose) of being an only child in a divorced family is the ability to disappear into the void between Mom's House and Dad's House. I am in the eighth grade and recently discovered a route through the woods by my Mom's House that leads to my Dad's house. It is a Friday, around 4 p.m., I am 14 years old with nothing to do. The season is May. My mom's house is full of boxes, for she is getting married to her boyfriend Jeff, and we are leaving, leaving in a week or so. As most of my belongings are packed into boxes awaiting the van, I decide to hop on my mountain bike and ride via the trail to my dad's house.

I do not call my friends over there to let them know; I do not tell my dad; I certainly do not tell my mom. I did not plan to be gone long, certainly not past dark, and more than likely my mom would be working late or out with Jeff. I lock my beagle Sam in the basement and set out. I always feel bad about leaving Sam behind, but she is spirited, especially when let loose in the woods, and I would lose her easily.

The trip is much faster on bike than walking. When I had discovered the trail last Fall, I had walked it through Winter, but now that the weather had turned, I went via bike. This lesson I would take with me the rest of my life: biking is faster than walking and more convenient and proud than asking someone for a ride. The trip takes around 15 minutes, and that includes a stint where I walk my bike up a steep rocky hill on the trail. This is just slightly longer than driving over. Once out of the woods, I bike through my dad's neighborhood in East McKeesport. Most of friends live on this side of the woods, so this is where I would come to be social. Apart from my neighbor Brooke, I don't really have too many friends at my mom's house, even though that is where I live. Brooke does not come around much anymore, as she has fallen in with the smokers clique and I am still a nerd. All is well though, for I enjoy the solidude of my mom's house, nested atop a dead end hill, next to woods and a church and not much else. A few times though, Brooke came over and we would smoke cigarettes in my garage. I would consider asking her to make out, but would never. Mainly, I think, becasue I feel guilty for not being attracted to her because she is overweight and not nearly so smart as I am. All told, I am looking for sexual experience.

I turn onto my dad's street, Wilmerding Ave, and see my good friend Jason Mamrose -- a skater, but an all right guy -- with two of his skater friends. I recognize them as Justin Pitilsky and Scott Harness. These guys are not very friendly towards me on a day to day basis. I think about turning around to go back but Jason waves me down. He is wearing his new K2 skates. He installed a grind rail -- stolen from God knows where, my dad would say -- in his mom's front yard. Jason's dad lives in Monroeville which is very far away. Certainly not walkable or bikeable and inconvenient even by car.

Jason attempts a grind but slips off and lands in the grass.

"You suck dick," Justin says. He is not wearing skates, nor Scott.

"Fuck you," Jason says. "I don't see you trying it." Jason is good at skating. Better, I would surmise, than Justin and Scott.

"I don't have my fucking skates on, genius," Justin says.

"Yeah, that's cause your mom hid them from you," Scott says and spits.

"She's a bitch," Justin says. "She is always hiding my shit."

Jason says to me, "What's up, Ryan?"

I tilt my head up, give him a silent What's up. I am standing behind them, on the street, and have been for the duration of the conversation, but Justin and Scott just now notice me. They both smile as if they are playing a joke on me.

Scott says to Jason, "You know this kid?"

"Ryan DeBiase," Justin says, screwing up his voice to sound like a computer. He is impersonating me, but I do not sound like a computer. I don't think so.

"Yeah, we're cool," Jason says, dismissive. He is a year behind Justin, Scott, and I, though the same age. Jason and I share no classes and don't interact much at school. He is unaware of my low social standing, though I had alluded to it at times early in our friendship. I cannot skate, which is why I ride this mountain bike. At this point in history, mountain bikes are not in vogue.

"We're cool," Scott says, inflecting his voice low, like a Dunce. He turns to me, "Why don't you go do some homework, fag."

I feel my stomach sink. I shrug, consider going back, or making up some lie as to why I came over and going to my dad's house to watch TV. Or maybe going up the street to Gerry's to play GoldenEye on Nintendo. This is a strong option.

"Is Gerry home?" I say to Jason.

"Nah," Jason says, "he's on some boy scout trip with his dad."

"Boy scouts," I say, "what the fuck? That's gay."

"Gay?" Scott says, "Did you just call Gerry gay?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Are you two gay together? Do you have anal sex?" Scott asks.

I do not understand the concept of anal sex, but follow along, "I only do that with your mom."

Justin and Jason errupt in laughter. Scott mutters, "Fuck you." Then he looks at me defiant, and reaches at my chest. He clamps onto my right nipple and tweaks. Pain knifes through me but I keep a straight face. Some time ago, I decided I would make my stand by being impervious to the titty twister. Scott releases, attempts a differnt position with the same result. Frustrated, he eventually gives up.

"Are you the Terminator?" Justin asks me.

"What?" I say and shrug.

Scott goes over and attempts the same move on Jason, who squirms out of the way, laughing. Scott turns back to me, "You're fucked up."

After this, I do not say much to Justin and Scott and they do not say much to me. They attempt to pass each other out by pressing hard on their chests while one stands against a wall. It does not work, for no one passes out. Bored, they decide to walk up the street to track down Kasey Gustey, up on Congress. I do not really desire to travel with these kids, for they are not my kind of people. I attempt to locate that elusive excuse that will separate me from them. I search, but it does not come. For some reason, I am focused on my grandmother, as if she hinges on my staying or going. Any excuse I consider starts and ends with her, and that -- that is just not suitable for these skater kids. I would be laughed off the block. Not that this bothers me, per se, but I had made valuable inroads with the your mom comment and the purple nurple defense. I did not wish to throw that away. I put up a brief fight with Jason about it, but he persists in encouraging me to come along. I do.

We reach Kasey Gustey's house but he is not home, his mom tells us. She keeps the door cracked slightly, and does not invite us in. I remember Mrs. Gustey from the cub scouts, which I was in with Kasey about six years ago, but do not acknowlege her. It would be inappropriate given the company. Instead, I wait behind all of them and try not to make eye contact. With one plan overturned, we instead head for the East McKeesport playground -- the Park, as it's called. My stomach again takes a turn. The Park was not a place for people like me. That is where the skaters hung out and the last thing I wanted was to hang out with more skaters. As we are walking, I hang in the rear, attempt to confer in Jason that I wish to leave. He asks what else I would be doing, other than going to the Park? I begin to say something about my grandmother but stop. I tell him nothing, I would be doing nothing.

On the way, we pass a bar on Fifth Avenue. The door is open and Justin calls someone at the bar a fag. The guy at the bar says that he'll fucking kill us kids. Justin and Scott both stop while Jason and I try to walk on. There is a bit of a standoff, the guy inside comments on our age, how we can't go it, but he does not come out. Justin and Scott, laughing, move on. I think I hear the guy in the bar say: "Fucking kids."

In short order, we are at the Park and there are a few other kids there, some older than me; some younger than me. None are in my grade, which is a relief. Justin and Scott start smoking. They each have a pack of cigarettes. Scott gives one Jason. Jason tells him to give one to me. Scott looks at me confused. Asks if I smoke. I told him I quit. I told him I used to smoke in the seventh grade with Brooke Coolie. This is true, to a point, though I never smoked with regularity even then. The group of skaters shares a laugh at my expense, as if my name-dropping of Brooke suddenly affords me some cred. We continue to smoke. A young girl, most likely in sixth grade, wearing baggy JNCO jeans and a red tank top glances me from head to toe. I am wearing a grey Steelers T-shirt and a pair of Levi's jean shorts.

"Who is that?" she says with a disgusted look on her face. She is smoking also.

"One of Jason's friends," Scott says.

"What's your name?" the girl asks.

I tell her.

"Who do you hang out with?" she asks.

I search through my group of friends, mostly nerds from the orchestra, and cannot really think of one she might know. I take a stab. "Tim Mitchell," I say.

"Who the fuck is that?" she asks incredulously. "I don't know who that is."

Scott and Justin laugh. Tim is a peripheral player, at best, on the stage of junior high. My gambit failed. She asks for another name. I provide Jim Dunston, another of my orchestra friends, with whom I go way back.

"Who the fuck are these people?" she says, waving her cigarette through the air.

I admit that we are in the orchestra together, though I do not say I play the viola. I tell her I play bass. She rolls her eyes, unimpressed.

Jason notices a cop drive past and tells us to put our smokes out of sight. I drop mine to my side but do not toss it. Just as the cop is almost past, Justin takes out his pack of Newports and waves it in the air. He gives the cop the finger. The brake lights come on and my heart stops. Everyone shuts up. Then the lights go out and the car keeps rolling slowly out of sight. A few more cars drive past and I become afraid that someone will recognize me, smoking with a bunch of skaters at the Park. For some time I do not say anything. There is some debate over whether it is illegal for a minor to smoke or if it is just illegal to sell a minor cigarettes. No one seems to know the answer.

Scott asks why I am keeping so quiet. I shrug. He says that I am just standing there with my hands in my jeans, playing pocket pool. To confirm, a make a squirting sound with my mouth, mimicking what I think come must sound like on its way out. I am lightheaded and nauseous from the cigarette and I again consider going home. But it is a long walk to my dad's house and I still cannot think of an excuse. The guys talk about leaving anyway, making our way over to Broadway and trying to track down Kasey again.

After crossing over 5th Avenue, the guys lead me into a narrow alley which cuts over to Broadway. Tucked back in the alley is squat two story apartment building. We stop beneath a wooden balcony. Justin tells us to hold up. He goes up a flight of wooden stairs. Scott gives Jason and I cigarettes. We begin smoking again. Jason asks what is going on. Scott tells him that Justin is going to Ziggy's house to buy some weed. I do not know who Ziggy is. Upstairs, I hear pounding against a screen door. This goes on for several minutes. I finish my cigarette and flick it onto a patch of grass. The alley continues in front of us and we can see a brief swatch of Broadway, all cobblestone and divots. Scott gives me another smoke.

I hear a door open upstairs, and a woman's voice yell, "What is wrong with you? Would you shut up?"

Justin mutters, "I'm looking for Ziggy. Is he home?"

"How the hell should I know?" the woman says. "I ain't his ma, why don't you all go buy drugs somewhere else."

"Fuck you bitch," Justin says as he plods down the wooden steps.

"Yeah, suck my dick you fat bitch," Scott says.

A head, pockmarked and full of curlers, lurches over the railing. "You little shits better get out of here. This ain't no smoker's den."

"It's a free country," Justin says. He lights one up, balls up his empty pack and throws it on the stairs.

"You better pick that up," the woman says. When Justin ignores her, she spits at him. It misses, but splashes near his foot. In retaliation, he flicks his cigarette at her, though it arcs low, striking a board over Jason's head and raining embers on top of him.

"Hey Justin!" he says, clawing at his neck, "What the fuck?"

Through the swath of Broadway, a police car rolls up, slams on the brakes. Two cops get out and walk toward us. Everything is panic. Scott and Jason take off through the alley, back toward 5th. I follow. Scott ducks into a pizza shop on 5th, but I continue to follow Jason around a corner and onto a narrow sidewalk between buildings. We come out in the rear of the Post Office. Jason waves me over to the loading dock, tucked away behind a brick wall. We climb onto the thing. It seems that the plan may work, though I wish there is a dumpster we could crawl into. Something with a lid. Instead, we sit atop a concrete platform and wait. No more than three seconds later, the officer jogs around the corner and sees us easily. He stops and motions for us to come down. We do that, caught as if it is a game of Hide and Go Seek.

"What the hell are you kids doing?" he asked. "Never run from the cops."

"Sorry," I say and shrug.

"Yeah," Jason says.

"Come on," the officer says, "Let's go back to the car."

The three of us march back across 5th Ave. The officer's partner is at the end of the alley by the apartment. The one that caught us says to him, "These two were trying to hide in a loading dock." His partner laughs.

We walk through the alley to the polic car. All the while I am considering the consequences: who I will call (my dad? my Pap? definitely not my mom), how much bail may be, how I will explain this arrest. One of the officers opens the back door and we climb inside. He shuts the door. The two of them converse outside. Justin is already inside. We are pretty well squished together, he, Jason and I. I am in the middle.

"What happened?" Jason asks him.

"Don't ever run from the cops," Justin says. He turns to me and says, "Dude, I'm sorry. This is the first time this has happened to us, I swear."

"It's fine," I say. Honestly, I am not so much mad at him or Jason or even at Scott for getting away. I don't feel much of anything. It is very hot in the car and all the windows are up and we are all very sweaty. A few minutes later, the door opens and the officers let us out. They say they are not going to charge us for anything, as we weren't doing anything wrong. They just say to leave the upstairs woman alone. They also say that they were just coming over to talk to us and not to arrest us. In running away, we were implicating ourselves and we should never do that, guilty or no. So nothing ends up happening apart from one officer taking down our names and addresses. I am sure to provide the one to my mom's house, as I will be out of there in a couple weeks. One of the officers asks how we know each other. Justin tells him that we go to school together but goes out of his way to says that I have never hung out with them before. The cop does not particularly seem to care and they leave us to walk down Broadway.

A few moments later, someone says, "Oh my God, that was fucking crazy!"

We all erupt of giddy thrills, dancing along thae sidewalk because we had gotten away with something, even though we really hadn't. Justin again apologizes to me and says he feels real bad about ruining my impression of them. I tell them it's really not a big deal, as I am moving very shortly, and am a man untethered.

Scott catches up to us and we lash out at him for abandoning us. He has trouble believing that we were in the back of a police car. He also apologizes to me. Along with Justin, he says that they will not give me a hard time anymore, nor join in if others talk shit on me. Once again, I say, "It's cool."

For some time after, we loaf around Broadway and Jason, Scott, and Justin attempt to pass each other out. This time it is more effective, for Scott falls flat on his face. When he stands back up a tuft of grass is stuck to his shoulder. Jason's eyes roll back in his head and he slides down the brick wall, flailing his arms over his head. Justin lists sideways into a bush. I refuse these shenanigans.

Then it is very late in the evening and the streetlights have come on. Jason leaves with Scott to grab a skate tool from Scott's house. Justin and I head back toward my dad's house, talking the whole way as if we were friends to begin with and not from crisis. We get back to Jason's mom's house -- directly next door to my dad's house -- and sit on his grind rail, bullshitting all the while, constantly reiterating the episode with the police. Jason and Scott come back and Jason goes into his house to drop off the tool he is borrowing from Scott. Once he is inside we hear screaming. It is Jason's mom, going nuts on him for not telling her where he was. He leans out his front door and says he is sorry but he can't hang out anymore tonight.

Justin, Scott and I laugh a little bit. It is completely dark by now and I worry if I'll have to ride back through the trail in the dark. Justin tells me to walk my bike through the trail. Then my dad's girlfriend Carol pulls up in her white Camero. She gets out, still in her Chili's server outfit. I tell Justin and Scott that I'm going to try to get a ride home from Carol and tell them I'll see them around. We will never hang out ever again.

Carol agrees quite cheerily to give me a ride home, though I am worried that I'll have to leave my bike behind. But she says there is room in the hatch of her car. I wheel it onto the street and she lowers the backseat. The bike slides in easily. I am home by 9:30, before my mom. I am with my dog Sam, among the boxes of my old toys and junk, when she asks me what I did that day. The previous 6 hours disappear into a void, for she can never know.

Potluck - 2008

2008-11-23T20:13:00.001-05:00

Dang. I missed a day. Sorry about that. Around 10:30 last night I realized I had not put up a blog. At that point I was into my fourth or fifth Christmas Ale. Much of Saturday was spent preparing and then throwing our annual Potluck Party. This year's theme was Gluttony v. Recession - 2008. Ted brought Hot Sauce Williams. KateSpace brought wonderful rum cake (a much better choice, I might add, than my suggestion of a chocolate volcano). Austin brought schnitzel; Jake -- a homemade pecan pie; Aaron and Jeremy both brought store bought cakes that no one really touched in the face of so much delicious homemade stuff. I made lasagna (a first, for me) and three-layer bean dip (my Potluck standard) and my roommate Sam made delicious vegetarian chili (spicy!), a potato-cheddar casserole, and monkey bread.

It was in the making of said monkey bread that Potluck Fluke #1 occurred. I was working on dressing our dishwasher up to make it look like a drink serving station. Sam was in the process of tearing apart biscuit dough for the monkey bread. I noticed that one of our rocks glasses was dirty so I went over to the sink to rinse it out. Sam remarked that biscuit dough smells like balls. To confirm, she made me take a whiff, which I did and agreed with her. Therein biscuit dough existed a certain sweaty crotch-like odor. Sam went on to say that herrecognition of ball smell did not make her perverse. Everyone know what balls smell like, after all.

I attempted to shake the excess water out of the rocks glass, as I had just ran some water through it. I made a hard downward motion with the glass in my hand. It slipped from my grasp and crashed against the edge of the counter, raining shards all over the floor and my crotch. I yelled for Sam to help -- My balls, my balls. Sam made no remarks of my balls smelling of balls.

Much much later in the evening, I was deep into drunkenness, and someone made an off-color remark of Ralph Nader. Still slightly irritated about the election, I tore off into belligerence, screaming the Mr. Nader should not be the butt of jokes, as he is to thank for seat belts and airbags. Most everyone in the living room got up to leave. KateSpace, at that moment on her way out, left without saying good-bye. Someone compared me to Larry David of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Immediately thereafter I felt shame, not necessarily in my intended message but in its delivery. Whiskey and Christmas Ale and civic apathy fueled my rage.

I apologized profusely as everyone left, and one of my friends said he wished he had voted for Nader. Speaking to my friends since Nov. 4, I have heard the argument a few times that if he or she would have known of the Obama landslide, he or she would have voted Nader. The logic is, ironically, if I'd have known my vote for Obama wouldn't have mattered, I would've voted for Nader. It sounds familiar, but the roles are reversed, right? What bothers me the most is that Nader needed votes more than Obama, who won the states of Ohio, Virginia, North Carolina -- historically very Republican-leaning states. While this is notable and extremely impressive of Mr. Obama, it is my belief that swing votes -- on the fence in regards to Obama v. third party -- would have better served Mr. Nader's campaign, which, admittedly held no chance of winning, but could have secured much-needed campaign funding by reaching the 5% plateau. This simply did not happen. I am not familiar with the final poll numbers, but it does not appear Nader cracked 1%. It was extremely disappointing and increasingly frustrating as I talk to more people who said they would have voted Nader had the known the outcome to begin with. Instead they lumped more support into a landslide already out of control.

1% is laughable, I realize. Of course I realize this. But at the same time, is it necessary to continue to poke fun at the man who has affected so much positive change for this country? Maybe I am overly sensitive, as I had a lot invested into his campaign and I do regret ranting on as I did. In a way, though, I do not regret it. My fit was cathartic, albeit alcohol-inspired. I released a lot of pent up emotion. That part of it felt good.

Once more and finally, I apologize to those I offended/possibly woke up.

2008-11-22T23:59:00.001-05:00

2 drunk 2 post

Bullshit Friday Post

2008-11-21T23:46:00.006-05:00

NaBeGroMo Update - Week Three

Status: Zero growth in last 10 days. Disappointing.

Memories of last year's NaBeGroMo:

-- Those were the days.

----------------------------------

ALSO:

Potluck party at my place tomorrow night.

If you're reading this, you're invited.

KateSpace promised me a chocolate volcano.

No Mike Sokol this year. Turns out he's in Houston. Bummer.

-0-

On Perspectively Buying a Car

2008-11-20T23:02:00.003-05:00

Presently, I am at Junior's Coin Laundry and Tanning on Mayfield Road near Coventry. As I was transferring my dirty clothes into a quadruple load washer, I couldn't help but overhear a couple of guys behind me. Both of them, most likely Case Western students, were paging through those free Auto Mart catalogs one finds in the entryway of grocery stores. The kid in the white Under Armour top remarked of how he is going to buy a "nice" car.

His buddy made sure that this hypothetical car would arrive after he graduates and lands a job (probably in engineering).

White Under Armour confirmed this, said that once he gets himself started out (60K a year?), he's not dropping his money on a fancy TV or furniture or a family. His money is going to a car. He estimated $30 grand on his first car. A bit extravagant for me, but who am I to judge? He went on to say that this "nice" car would more than likely be a luxury model, like a Mercedes or a Volvo.

I have to admit that over the past few weeks, I have strongly considered buying a car. In particular, I am interested in the new Volkswagen Jetta SportWagon TDI. Since my bike was stolen a couple months ago, I have been spending a lot more time on the RTA, which is not a bad thing, mind you, but is taxing after a while. My rationale lies in the belief that I've earned a nice car (example: new clean diesel car) in not really driving the past two years.

It is interesting the duality in the theft of my car in '07 causing me to bike more, while the theft of my bike has me considering buying a car. Now, I still plan on buying a new bike -- in particular the Surly Long Haul Trucker, but I'm thinking that a vehicle could also suit me well. Especially the classy VW Jetta SportWagon TDI.

I asked some advice of my father, who really enjoyed the opportunity to sound off on his new car buying experiences. The two of us are apples of the same tree, and are likewise spendthrifts -- not necessarily misers, but not wont to throw our money (what little of it) around. We are financial scrutinizers, first and foremost, and not prone to action unless cornered or having made an informed decision after a long process of deliberation.

This morning, I had breakfast with Alex and she offered to take me to some dealerships this weekend. I could not help but feel that I was somehow selling out, that I was violating some set of ideals to which I had subscribed myself. When people ask me (and they tend to ask a lot) why I choose not to have a vehicle, I offer a three-part answer:

My last car never, ever worked right, then was stolen, which cost more money to bail of the impound than it was actually worth. With that in mind, I'm looking to save money. Honestly, with my last car, life was harder with it than without. (see: Shelia-5)
I wish to live green.
A car is not necessary in my day-to-day life, as I can take public transit to work and live in a neighborhood that has amenities such as the grocery within walking distance.

At this stage in my life, though, a vehicle is a luxury I can probably afford. Whether or not the vehicle I select is the VW Jetta TDI remains to be seen (40+ mpg is tempting, though). My old man suggested a Kia, as that would be more affordable than VW and offer comparable gas mileage. He also suggested for me to take my time, which was the highlight of our 40 minute conversation. Why would I rush into buying a car? Three out of the last four years, I have been vehicle-less, and a few more months without will not kill me.

So right now, I play a waiting game, as I come to terms with ending a very definitive stage of my live: those years when I did not have a car.

Excerpt from Short Story in Progress: Paint

2008-11-19T11:47:00.005-05:00

Talking to Amy opened the floodgates. Now my heart’s on my sleeve everywhere I go and the hand I was playing close to vest is now face up on the table. It’s not a winning hand, no. Charlie and I had been conjuring metaphors most of the day.

He said he’d painted himself into a corner with the situation.

I asked him his intentions with the girl.

He cocked his head to one side, the left, and said, “I think I’m going to tell her soon.”

“Have you two done it?” I asked.

“No, I decided early on not to go that route.”

“Understandable. You resolved yourself not to engage in intercourse.”

“To put it simply, I guess.”

“But it’s good, too, because you have an out. You’re not obligated to stick around. You can get out of the room with just some sticky footprints across the floor. That’s easy for her to paint over and you can just buy new shoes.”

“d.B., you on the other hand, have kicked over the can of paint, and are covered in it.”

“I’m pressing my paint-soaked body against the walls and rolling around.”

“Handprints everywhere.”

I looked out the glass doors onto the patio. I managed to frame half of Emily’s face like a daguerreotype through the door. This way I could look at her casually without her noticing as much. One great big blue eye shone through the reflected glare of the pink-orange sky and met mine. I think my right eye met her left eye. Then half a grin crept across half her face. Charlie clasped my shoulder, said he needed out of his pseudo-relationship.

He was worried Alyssa may be thinking Facebook Official about the two of them. That’s why I never listed my Status, ever. If you don’t know where I stood beforehand, there’s no reason you should know now. Plus, I don’t feel the need to proclaim to world when I was sleeping with a chick. Unless, that is, I wanted out, which I did. Like Charlie, he wanted out.

I asked him his intentions again.

His direction became a bit more concrete, bits of his break-up plan began to solidify. He’d do it by the end of the week, maybe sooner. It was Wednesday at this point. I said it’d be a good idea to kill the thing before the idea of a relationship takes root.

“At least you have an out,” Charlie told me, “yours is leaving at the end of the summer.”

He meant she was leaving the country. It was my natural out, my exit strategy.

Nothing about me says I’m a good person. I’m actually quite a monster. I’m an asshole. Don’t talk to me, it’d be better if you didn’t come over here. It’d be better if you never talked to me. You’re still doing it, you’re still talking to me. I can’t believe it, this girl is fucking talking to me. What the fuck is wrong with her? Her breath kind of smells. I’m going to kiss her once we get away from these streetlights. Who meets someone walking back from the bars? But I’ve resolved against intercourse right? I’m going to fuck this girl.

I think she fucked me, or I fucked myself. Honestly, I didn’t mind fucking myself, so long as I was the only person left fucked. This one might have victims. I should have picked up on her Velcro-like clinging ability when we parted ways that first time on the way back from the bars. I’d given a friendly ‘good-bye, see you around wave,’ which she must have taken to mean, ‘Join me, become one with me, and never leave. Ever.” She ran back and deposited her name and number into my phone. I had laughed uncomfortably and made some ethnic joke which she had understood.

Injustice Revisited

2008-11-18T23:57:00.000-05:00

Walking down to the train station yesterday on my way to work, I cut across Cedar, not at a crosswalk. I flagrantly jaywalked. A Cleveland Heights police car was parked on the opposite side of the street, in front of the bank. I held my breath as I made my way to the other side of the street. I did not run, but held a brisk pace for there was a considerable window between the next wave of cars. While passing in front of the police car, a tinge of ice water pumped through my veins.

Just as I stepped onto the curb, the cop car lit up and screamed its sirens. My heart began to beat out of its chest. I thought for sure I had been nailed. The sound came from all around me, entered down through my windpipe and reverberated around my ribcage. The car sped past me down Cedar Hill, running the red light at the top. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, feeling numb as a result of the adrenaline. It took most of my walk down the hill to calm down.

Half way down Cedar Hill, I saw what drew the cop's attention. He had pulled over a woman in Volkswagen SUV, right on the bend in the road. Traffic backed up around them. The officer was in his car writing up a citation. I assumed it was a parking violation.

In[pursuit of]justice

Lack of Post - 11/17

2008-11-17T23:48:00.002-05:00

My apologies for not putting up a substantial post tonight. Sucker that I am (cheers to you, KateSpace), I stayed very late at work tonight and do not have enough time to post something big. I did start and make some significant progress on a creative non-fiction piece about a run-in with the Law in my youth. The story is set in my hometown of North Versailles Township, Pennsylvania (about 10 miles outside Pittsburgh). As is what I often do when writing a story, I wasted some time on Google Maps. Tonight, I wandered around North Versailles. I wanted to check out the old mall I used to go to, Eastland. Back in the sixties, it was full blown mall, with a Gimbels and a Penney's and some other swank vendors.

When the mills left in the seventies, the place lost a lot of business, but still stayed afloat. In the early nineties, they turned Eastland into a Flea Market, which is what I remember most about it. Checking Google Maps tonight, I learned that it had been razed. Upon further investigation, I found that this happened in early 2007 -- near the start of my interest in infiltrating abandoned buildings. I wish I had ventured into the site after everything -- even the Flea Market -- had left in 2005. But I haven't been back to North Versailles in years, nor would I be able to convince someone to go with me to infiltrate an abandoned mall even it was still standing.

Such is life, I suppose.

I found these sites that mention Eastland:

http://www.newyinzer.com/archive/dec06/frame.html

http://www.deadmalls.com/malls/eastland_mall_pa.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eastland_Mall_(North_Versailles,_Pennsylvania)

Not sure why I posted this. I'm tired.

Labor Day Weekend

2008-11-16T23:20:00.002-05:00

Labor Day Weekend is essentially the high water mark of Cleveland events. On the shores of the mighty Cuyahoga is the Taste of Cleveland Festival, an $8 cover followed by a series of vendors serving $8 carnival food. Spanning the Cuyahoga, the Detroit-Superior Bridge opens its disregarded lower level to pedestrians, free to explore the remnants of the city’s subway lines. From a short airstrip bordering Lake Erie, jet fighter planes weave in and out of one another, break the sound barrier and stage phony dogfights, display American superiority. Of the smogasbord of downtown happenings, the Cleveland Air Show best drew our attentions.

We, Burning River Bikes, six cyclists, with jeans cuffed or cut-off, T-shirts from H&M or Thrift or American Apparel or of Irony, and no helmets plotted our course through the green city to the blue lake. Specifically, we sought an abandoned Howard Johnson at the terminus of East 5-5, a pre-cast monolith, frames of busted out windows jutting out like a bellows, the building a relic of an earlier, more Brutalist era. The roof, in particular, equated to a $21 seat, had we been one of the saps who actually paid money to get into the show. We were to infiltrate our seats.

After a morning of coffee and pooping, I set out to rendezvous with Ted and Aaron on Euclid and 5-5. We biked up to the lake, turned down a dirt road and snuck up behind the abandoned HoJo, staring blankly back at us. We cut through a field and stashed our bikes beneath a tree along the fence.

Aaron went over first, using the tree as support. I threw the bags over to him. Then Ted went, slowly and completely without grace, eventually landing, but not before actually sitting on top of the fence. The sharp, twined links jabbed into the skin of his ass. That his pants seat remained intact still amazes me.

--Ow. Ow. Ow, Ted said.

I leapt over efficiently and without incident.

--There’s a Fox 8 guy over there, said Aaron.

--Shit, I said.

The Fox 8 News Station sits directly next to our derelict abode. I caught the last of a direct glare from a prominent local news anchor as he disappeared into his building.

Our spot was no secret, regardless of being identified by the news media. Bad graffiti bespeckled the uppermost reaches and it became apparent that we were not the only Urban kids that hit it up. I retired my malaise in the hopes that Mr. Fox would not bother us if we did not bother him. I also vested a lot of hope in his thinking that we were not responsible, which we were not, for the scribbled swastikas and mentions of ‘white power’ that appeared sporadically on the building’s exterior.

Aaron, Ted and I entered through a voided wall of the lobby. Uprooted trees had been placed in the foyer. Piles upon piles of apples spilled out into the overgrown parking lot. We passed through the lobby, took stock of the detritus: overturned velour couch; pornos; dusty front desk; insulation hanging from the ceiling. In the kitchen, a sign read: Please Excuse Our Dust. We are undergoing a facelift. A cartoon man with a hat and a push broom kicked up all sorts of mess. A section of roof in the food prep area had collapsed, allowing a ray of sunshine to illuminate the many holes in the floor. None of us had remembered a flashlight, but I did have the headlight to my bike and we used its weak beam to navigate the darker regions beyond the freezers, long vacant.

Soon, we looped back to the entryway from whence we had entered. The place appeared brighter than it had earlier. I noted to Aaron how much the eyes adjust to the darkness, as those hallways had seemed pitch black before. We could discern objects in the abyss: a stack of PVC pipe, the few remaining wall studs, electrical wiring dipping like ivy from the ceiling.

We climbed the stairwell, reached the second floor and were greeted by a sparse floor plan, for all that remained were the cages of wooden studs and some plumbing. The windows had been removed or busted out, covered at some point by plywood, which had subsequently been blown out by the wind or pulled down by transients. In the interest of respect, my friends and I tried to affect as little change as possible on an abandoned site, treating it as relic, a ruin, a museum. More appropriately, it was a mausoleum – a casket that contained some general idea of commerce, long deceased and in the late throes of decay.

Through one of the voided portals, we caught sight of a red biplane circling outside. The barnstormer spat smoke as it climbed and fell, stalled, then kicked its tail out, caught the air and zipped past at very low altitudes. Aaron asked that we forgo exploring the other 12 stories and skip to the top. Ted and I agreed. The long climb to the roof was arduous and we passed remnants of bottle rockets and some more poorly executed graffiti. The site may have served for someone else’s July 4th. Near the top, the stairwell began to reek of stale piss and we came across a copious amount of bird droppings. The vacant hotel did seem to acquire a few tenants, which, unfortunately, did not share our respect for the site. As we passed the door for the 13th floor, the stair treads were no longer visible as the dung covered them wholly. I tried to tread lightly as to not kick it up on those following me. Up in the rafters, a lone pigeon, obviously bothered by our presence in his home.

-- I hope this isn’t the work of one pigeon, Aaron said.

-- I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t, I said.

We escaped the Bird Den with harsh interactions with its denizen, though I have to admit that I was a bit surprised that Ted did not slip. We passed out of the stairwell and into the dim rooftop utility room that let outside. Another pigeon, possibly a roommate, fled from behind a huge shit-covered propane tank, passed in front us, then through a door to the roof. We followed, out into the glowing day with not a cloud in the sky, optimal for illegal viewing of an air show. We settled in between the two stair towers, an area of about 150 square feet that provided defilade from the street. About a mile to the northwest, the Red Baron continued his dekeing of an imaginary foe. I walked out to the roof’s edge, stared North at the blue horizon, the lake dotted with dinghies and yachts. This view presented itself as a fleeting luxury, for the freeway pulsed below, and the authorities frequented onramps. Still near the edge, I grabbed an empty 10-gallon bucket to use as a seat and brought it back to our cubby. Ted and Aaron took up residence upon a cement ledge between the stair towers. They said they wished they had buckets. I said they should have grabbed it before I had.

I wished the barnstormer to be done with his shenanigans. That sort of classic aeronautics is entertaining to a point, but he had stayed out too long, and it became quite frustrating to see him buzz the landing strip as if to land, but then pulling up into a steep climb, then corkscrewing into some fancy loopdiloop. I wanted to see supersonic jets. I wanted some muscle.

Some time passed. My rolling took close to 20 minutes. The clatter of the biplane engine had ceased and Ted’s voice took its place. He was on the phone with someone, relating to him or her our coordinates. Then he was done.

--Who was that? I asked.

--That was Jake, said Ted.

Jake was his roommate.

--Him and Austin are meeting us here, Ted continued.

Austin was his other roommate.

--Five bucks, said Aaron, that they get here before Mike Sokol.

Mike Sokol was an old friend of mine. We go way back, as I liked to say. Originally the intent was for Mike and I to ride down together, that he would come to my place in the late morning and we would both meet Aaron and Ted. However, Mike often became lost in World of Warcraft binges on the PC and as a result was very unreliable in circumstances outside of that game. Promising, though, was that I had reached him on the phone before I was about to leave. At 11 a.m., when I last talked to him, he had apparently just woken up but did seem to possess intentions to meet up with us at some point, though not ride down with me directly. Still, that was 3 hours ago, and a very real possibility existed that he hopped on WoW and that was effectively the end of his day. Still, I had faith in Mike, my old friend.

--I’ll take that bet, I told Aaron.

We hadn’t talked for a while and nothing of interest was happening in the air around us. Down on the airstrip, we could make out some sort of jet-car demonstration. We could not really see the car, but the jet plume stood out well. The horizontal torch went straight, then turned, went back the other way.

--I was thinking, I said, that back in the 50s, the government envisioned the atomic bomb as something to use at air shows. Before they knew anything about radioactive half-life and all that, they would demonstrate this bomb at the Cleveland Air Show.

By their lack of response, it seemed a terrible idea. Which it was.

--Picture this, I said and gestured broadly at the lake, at dusk, right when the sun sets, on the Sunday before Labor Day, they would set off the bomb in the middle of the lake. Right there.

I pointed at Lake Erie. Slightly down and to the left, a bulbous tuft of smoke wafted up from the air strip.

--And boats would be lined up near the shore, as far down as you could see. Kids in innertubes start swimming toward the middle, saying they want to be closer to the heat. And then it would go off and this huge wave would knock everyone over. The kids would be rushed onto the shore and float down Marginal Rd. You could see the mushroom cloud from Sandusky.

I was in the act of imagining more fully when my thigh began vibrating. Actually, it was my phone. I pulled it out. Mike Sokol called. As I went to answer it, the air around us exploded with jet thunder. An F-16 flew past and we leapt from our perch, ran to the edge of the roof.

--Did you see that, yelled Aaron giddily, you could see the flame coming out of the back, it was that close!

--What do you want Mike? I yelled.

--I’m here dude, Mike yelled back.

The jet sound echoed between my phone and his. He was close.

--We just got buzzed! I said.

--I know, I’m right here! Mike said.

--Oh. Ok, I’ll be down.

I hung up and ran through the utility room. At the top of the stairwell, I glanced for good measure down at the fence. Mike Sokol was on the other side, walking his mountain bike toward the tree where ours were chained. I ran down the stairs taking each step rapidly but never skipping one. It took quite a very long time to get to the bottom. In the process, I realized that Mike had won me $5 from Aaron. The F-16 and the run down the stairs had my adrenaline flowing.

I made it to the bottom and ran to the fence. I told Mike to brace himself on the tree and climb over but first throw me the bag. He lobbed his backpack over. I looked up and could see Ted and Aaron poking their heads over the ledge. I pointed to the fence and yelled.

--Mike.

Then.

--You owe me five dollars.

The F-16 flew overhead again. I feared that the hotel might crumble. But it was made of concrete and steel and would stand for probably hundreds of years.

Or not, what did I know?

--That plane is so fucking loud, Mike said.

--I know, I said, we are really fucking close up there. It flew right past us.

--Awesome man, Mike said.

He jumped over the fence.

--You know, I said, that took Ted like ten minutes. It was terrible.

--Ey! Ted yelled down. Jake and Aaron.

He pointed over us, beyond the fence. Through the vines and chain link, I could see two figures stepping off bicycles. I waved at them. Told them to use the tree for everything. Quickly they were over.

--I heard that took Ted ten minutes, Mike said to Jake and Austin.

--It was the worst thing I’ve seen in my life, I confirmed.

I led them straight to the stairwell and we made the long climb back up.

We reached the piss and shit of the pigeon.

--Guys, I said, be careful. There’s a pigeon up here.

--Is he crazy? Jake asked.

--No, he’s just a pigeon, I said.

But the pigeon was not there. The F-16 must have scared him off. We went onto the roof and tried to track down the circling fighter. Aaron pointed to a small dot just below the sun. We shielded our eyes.

--What’s up Mike, Ted said. Longtime no see.

--Yeah, Mike said, I heard it took you ten minutes to get over the fence.

While I had been downstairs, Ted had removed his shirt.

--Jesus Ted, I said, you’re going to give up our position. People from the street will think it’s a ghost. Your nipples are the eyes.

--I need my vitamin D, Ted said.

The fighter had entered into a long horizontal turn around the East Side of the city, to the South of us. Just slightly ahead, a P-51 followed a shallower turn. The two intersected and locked into formation directly above us, turning high overhead and heading back toward the airstrip. Then another jet came, seemingly from nowhere, and shot right past them and us. It was an F-15 and it was moving very fast. First we saw it, then heard the sound and then felt the fury. We turned to look back at the F-15 and were met by three other dudes, none of whom we knew. They had come up the way we had.

--Sup, I said to one who appeared the most accessible. He had on a winter cap and it was 85 degrees out.

He nodded back. Instantly, both groups sized each other up. The six of us were the urban cycling sect – the bike messenger crowd though none of us were actual bike messengers. They were skateboarders, and pretty laid back about running into 6 guys on an abandoned rooftop.

--I see you guys found the best place too, one of them said to me.

--Yeah, I said, have you guys ever been here before?

One of them climbed a ladder onto the top of the stair tower. Another disappeared around the corner of the utility room and out of sight.

--Nah, said the guy in the cap, we skate. Heard that there was a pool here so we came to check it out. Turns out the sides are too steep.

These were some guys that could apparently appreciate an abandoned building. I introduced myself.

--I’m Ryan, I said, shaking his hand.

He introduced himself to me but I don’t remember his name. We turned back to air show, as the F-15 had linked up with the other two planes.

--I think this is called the ‘Old/New’ demonstration, Jake said.

The two fighter jets had flanked the old propeller-driven P-51 and escorted it gingerly around Cleveland airspace. As we were now used to the flash-bang entertainment of the newfangled jets, this display seemed dated and tame. I turned back to check on the skaters and they were gone. Though they were good people, their presence did prove a little unsettling, as we all realized how fundamentally insecure our spot was. Still, the afternoon was young and although we were running out of water, we decided to stay put until the Blue Angels, which were due in the air in about 2 hours.

The space around our building grew quieter, as the jets had gone back to headquarters. Ted had stolen my bucket seat but I didn’t ask for it back because he didn’t have a shirt on. I tend not to draw my attention to guys without shirts. Call it a rule. I sat down in the doorway to the utility room. My five friends and I formed an impromptu circle.

--The Blue Angels are going to be so tight, Aaron said. They’ll be right over top of us.

--Wouldn’t it be funny, I said, if the Blue Angels decided to do a new routine and bomb an abandoned building.

-- The headlines would read, Jake said, Cleveland Air Show a Success! 6 derelicts killed during Blue Angels Demonstration.

--Or 6 hipsters killed, Austin said.

--Local eyesore razed, Ted said.

--We should get the fuck out of here, I said jokingly.

--I don’t know, Aaron said, those skater kids did kind of surprise me. I turned around and was like, hello.

--Yeah, Austin said, at least they were cool though.

--They were just like, whatev, Jake said.

--There’s some shit falling out of a plane, Mike Sokol said.

He had bunched his gym shorts up around his crotch.

--Jesus Mike, I said, you look like a fucking conquistador.

--What? Mike said incredulously.

He hung his arms out.

--Parachute pants, Aaron said.

--Is that what that is? Mike asked.

He pointed east. True to Mike’s word, an Army plane dropped smoking objects attached to parachutes. They spat multicolor smoke – hyper neon, a streaking rainbow through the atmosphere.

--Paratroopers? I asked.

--No, more like paradudes, Jake said.

--Nice.

--I am getting so hungry, Aaron said.

No one had thought to bring food, and most had forgotten water, so our stores were running low.

--We should order a pizza, Ted said.

Mike laughed.

--Make him come all the way up here? That’s hilarious!

--Mike, seriously, I said, fix your shorts.

One of the pigeons performed a flyby of the roof, dipping dangerously close to our heads. I believed that it wanted to go home, but was scared off by us interlopers. It looped back around to the other side of the stair tower.

Just then, from behind me, in the utility room, I heard a girl’s voice.

--Hello? she said.

The tone was confident and vouchsafed that she knew we had been up there and was obviously unafraid. The girl stepped out of the stairway. She wore a scenester haircut, large plastic sunglasses, a tight-fitting purple longsleeve t-shirt and some jeans. She was a stalky girl, with thickness in the waist and thigh area, not necessarily complimented by her jeans. Everything about her was completely unremarkable. Closely behind her trod a meathead-type guy, broad shoulders sheathed by a baby-blue baby-sized striped polo. Popped collar. Backwards fitted baseball cap. He was a dozen or so yards away and the utility room was quite dim, but I could estimate the placement of 3-5 terrible tattoos on his biceps, neck, and/or calves.

Behind them, two scrawny, wan figures emerged from the stairwell. I did not get a good view of them at first, for I quickly turned and stood up from the doorway. I walked straight to Aaron.

--We need to get the fuck out of here, I murmured.

This time I was more serious.

I grabbed my messenger bag off the deck and slung it over one shoulder. The six of us exhibited a stirring motion. By the time the kids had reached the doorway most of us were standing.

Mike flattened out his shorts.

Ted put his shirt back on.

The wiry, nerdy boys had decided to come out first. They were mall punks, most likely from the outer ring suburbs, and shopped at the same mall as everyone else, but had branded themselves, or had been branded by a corporation, I suppose, as outsiders. One wore flannel with a retro-retail punk band Tee underneath, skinny jeans and some bulbous skateboarder shoes, laced but not tied. His buddy sported nearly the same shoes, slightly more worn, with cargo shorts and a baggy T-shirt which read: Poo York. Mall Punk 1 had his hair in a swoop, emo-scenester-style, and multiple piercings in his face, which appeared dumb and genuinely uninterested. Mall Punk 2’s hair was long and curly and parted down the middle. His face, specifically the way the far corners of his eyes curled upward like serif commas, led me to believe he liked breaking shit and setting it on fire.

As they stepped into the light, my sizing-up of the other two proved correct. The guy was a douche and the girl was plain jane for the most part, marginally punk because of the gauged ears, lobes roughly the circumference of shower curtain rings. Douche guy also carried a long metal flashlight. They were, all four of them, teenagers.

--Hi guys, the girl said as if we were some actors on a theme park ride.

I noticed a camera case dangling from her wrist.

--Hey, I said and smiled.

Somehow I felt that I should act as a steward to this building, and should represent politely the subculture of those who respectfully infiltrate abandoned structures.

--So do you break into a lot of buildings? she asked.

--A few. We do it from time to time, I said. I’ve been up here before so I thought it would be a good place to watch the air show.

--That’s cool, she said.

Then she pointed at Aaron and his bright red shirt.

--Yeah, we saw you all the way from the street.

Aaron gave me a look as if he accepted all blame for their presence there.

--Which way did you come in? I asked.

--Through the front, douche said. The gate’s open.

--Right, I said.

The mall punks strayed over to the roof’s edge. Mall punk 1 picked up an old cigarette box and tossed it over the side. He did not watch the descent. Mall punk 2 seized a shingle and lofted it, spinning, off the building. This was all done with an air of utmost ignorance, both in regards to our frigid reaction upon their arrival and that tossing sharp objects off a roof draws a lot of attention.

During the length of occupation, about 3 hours and counting at that point, a great many spectators had gathered in fields and parking lots near the hotel. State police patrolled the area every 10 minutes or so, but focused their attentions on the freeway. We held the belief that they could see us, probably quite easily, but would not fuss about it so long as we were not flagrant in our trespassing. Whereas trespassing of derelict spaces is generally benign, the act of vandalism on said spaces is significantly less respectable. It is just plain obnoxious.

Mall punk 1 climbed the ladder onto the top of the stair tower.

--Wow, he said after hopping onto the roof, it’s like really soft up here. I don’t know about this.

--Don’t jump, said the girl.

I could tell by her voice that the kid jumped off stuff all the time. It was probably his thing.

--Yeah, said Mall Punk 1 from the top, I don’t know about this. I should come down. This is dangerous.

While he was climbing down, Aaron said to me that we needed to get the fuck out of there. I concurred, but felt a tinge of defeat, as we had essentially been run off our spot by a bunch of youngsters. The girl and the other Mall Punk had found a half-full two liter of pop and proceeded to drop it over the other side. Douche tried not to touch anything, lest he smudge his shirt.

Just then, a bright blue jet seemed to appear out of thin air and zip over top of us. The Blue Angels had arrived. Or at least one of them. The others would be along soon enough, I thought. And so, in the throes of evacuation, we opted to stick around momentarily and share the experience of precision aeronautics. We sat on the ledge as we had all day. The presence of weapons of mass destruction did not faze the youngsters. The Mall Punks and the girl disappeared around to the other side of the stair tower.

Douche tried to make conversation.

--Where you guys from? he asked.

No one said anything. Then Ted spoke, as he was closest to the question.

--Cleveland, he said. Pretty much all over, East and West.

The girl came running back from around the corner.

--Ew! she said. [Mall Punk 1] just broke a pigeon egg on his hand.

Mall Punk 2 came next then number 1, holding his hand away from his body. He stood before us as if we were his audience.

--Aw man, this smells so bad, Mall Punk 1 said. This is like the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. It smells like--

He paused, contemplative.

--It smells like a dog’s breath, he said. Here, smell.

He offered his hand to us, we looked around and past him, as two of the Blue Angels were running exercises over the lake. Mall Punk 2 smelled his hand, began wretching. Then he picked up a large rock and chucked it at a pair of pigeons sitting at the far edge of the roof.

--I’m not smelling it, the girl said. That’s gross.

Questions abounded our camp, mainly: How do you break an egg on your hand? The answers are quite simple: You pick it up and squeeze. And: You are an idiot.

--Where are you guys from? I asked the girl.

--Mentor, she said.

As Mentor was one of the outer-ring suburbs, and had a high school of about four thousand kids, it made sense that these kids would be from there. Obviously, they had been the kids that were passed over, those left behind, skipped through the program. Maybe labeled as ‘headstrong’ or ‘different,’ but really part of the same commercial machine. They all shopped at the same mall, it was just a matter of frequenting the retail punk boutique or the retail surfer shop. It was all so commersh.

The four of them stepped behind us, entered into a private counsel. I tried as best I could to focus on the Blue Angels. Four of them had assembled into a tight diamond, while another skimmed along the lake, maybe twenty feet above the surface.

I heard the girl say that one of us would probably take their picture if they asked.

--There’s us, the young punks, she said, and they’re like the old school underground.

Old school underground. I heard her step up behind me. Her camera, in hand, came between Aaron and I.

--Excuse me, she said, would you take our picture in front of the Cleveland skyline?

Aaron agreed to snap the pic, because he was old school underground and because the ten of us, young and old, were obviously kindred spirits in that we were both ‘alternative’ in the face of conformity.

And so the four of them lined up in front of us, slung arms over shoulders and cheesed the biggest smiles they could muster. The Blue Angels performed an amazing stunt but we missed it because these kids needed proof that they had been on this roof. They wanted a little something to give back to the social network. Because unless there isn’t video proof, an event might not have happened. Which is why every single thing needs to be documented. And documented perfectly.

--Look, douche said to his three friends, you guys are like Hot Topic and I’m Hollister.

They laughed. Aaron took the picture. He gave the camera back and the group dispersed. Then the girl came back and tapped Aaron on the shoulder.

--Um, she said, that picture didn’t turn out, can you take another one?

He did. Again they cheesed it. Another amazing feat of aeronautics went unrealized in front of us.

This time, she checked the photo before she went away.

--Looks good, she said. Thanks.

An air raid siren sounded. Aaron just shook his head. The four teenagers spread out on the roof. They stepped away from us to reveal the Angels, flying six wide, directly at us. They buzzed us about 30 feet overhead and our hair brushed back. But something was off. I noticed some ordinance strapped to the wings. They split into two squadrons, arcing in echelon to the north and south. The kids still paid no mind. Mall punk 1 and the girl were yelling down at the FOX 8 staff below.

--Our building’s bigger than your building! they screamed.

Mall punk 2 tried to rip out a scrawny tree that had rooted itself underneath the roof shingles.

Douche casually played with his cell phone.

Aaron and Jake both got my attention. It was time to fucking go. The Blue Angels buzzed us again, even closer and it was the loudest thing in my life. And those were definitely bombs. I gave us maybe 3 minutes to get out of the range of fire. Like clockwork, we filed into the utility room and made toward the stairs. I brought up the rear to make sure all were accounted for.

Douche looked over at me as I was about to step through the doorway. I flashed him a sideways peace sign, said the Burning River Bikes call letters.

--BRB, I said.

He seemed to understand.

--Okay, he said.

Then, to his friends:

--He said they’d be right back.

I was spiraling down the stairs at that point, but I assumed those kids did not care. On the way, I contemplated if I was that dense when I was a teenager. It seemed so long ago and was a tough call. Was this just the fate of the young and the old, to never be able to even remotely comprehend how each other lives day-to-day. The young punks versus the old school underground. I thought of an alternative headline: TRAGEDY AT AIRSHOW: Four gifted Mentor teens perish in demonstration gone wrong.

We reached the bottom as the Angles pulled their next to last fly-over. Then would come the strafing runs. We briskly walked over to the bikes. We made sure not to run, as the panic might alarm the teens above. Mike and I knew about a spot that was easier to get over, as the fence was not attached to the pole. Mike stepped up onto the chain link and braced his weight on the post. This bent the fence over enough for us to essentially step onto it and jump down to the other side. Like a finely tuned machine, we were over and unlocking the bikes.

--Ahoy there mateys! someone yelled. It was Mall punk 2, emerging from a stairwell like a pirate from a crow’s nest. He dropped my bucket down onto the pavement. It busted into tiny chunks of plastic.

The sound of afterburner accrued in the airwaves. It swallowed whole any thoughts that may have been lingering. They strafed the building in two waves. The first wave launched incendiary missiles into the ground floor which set the structure ablaze up through the sixth story. The heat was immense, though at that point, we had reached the dirt road and only felt it upon our backs as we rode away.

Riding past on East 5-5, we saw the second wave struck with rockets into the meaty center of the building, spraying liquid hot concrete fragments onto the bystanders below. They loved it and cheered.

--It’s just like Iraq!

I heard someone yip with joy. The hotel teetered, though was not out for the count. Two of the F/A-18s circled back and at exactly the same, they released their five hundred pound bombs onto the roof, which caved in. A tremendous plume curled out and into itself. Flames licked out from behind the smoke. And all the while the cement is cracking and the steel is giving under the heat and the building is falling falling falling and notions of trespassing and vandalism are all moot when confronted with such spontaneous acts of violence.

I wished transiently that I had had a camera to capture this graphic display of American Air Superiority. But of course I didn’t. The six of us, Burning River Bikes, slightly dehydrated, a little singed, and very tired, made our way back to Ohio City, weaving through traffic and generally pissing off motorists. Then we had a Labor Day picnic.

A candid assessment of NOMENCLATURE's NaBloPoMo at halfway

2008-11-15T23:08:00.003-05:00

My friends, we have reached the halfway point of NaBloPoMo. How is everyone feeling so far? Comments the last few days have been a little scant, so I hope everyone is sticking with me. I'd like to take this moment to thank Charles Parsons of Let's Work with Orphans for his support and comments.

I'd also like to throw props out to Kate at KateSpace. She jumped on the NaBloPoMo train a little late, but I think she's in for the long haul here, despite her statement that she is considering abandoning her site altogether. I had considered putting up a bullshit post about how I plan on driving KateSpace out of business, how my blog will thrive in the face of less competition from KateSpace. But really, let's face it, we all need KateSpace and its snarky anecdotes and list-related posts. Kate's blog speaks to everyone, whereas mine just speaks to me. Or is that for me? Either way, the only time this blog thrives is during NaBloPoMo, so lessened competition from other blogs would not really drive me to put out more posts.

In conclusion: KateSpace = good; no KateSpace = not as good.

As far as months go, I feel real good thus far.

Stay tuned for more works of fiction, creative non-fiction, and bullshit.

Best,

-RdB

Bullshit Friday Post

2008-11-14T23:59:00.002-05:00

NaBeGroMo Update - Week Two

Status: Still stubbly, borderline grubby

Stay posted, as this could turn the corner into 'sleazy' anytime soon.

Camera vs. Phone: A conversation overheard

2008-11-13T23:41:00.001-05:00

At the east 55th station, an older white man with a ponytail boarded the train, walked toward the front to pay the fare. As he passed where I was sitting, a man behind me said, "Hey Jared, how you doing?"

The man with ponytail turned and said, "Marcus, all right man, how you living?"

"You know," said the man, Marcus, seated behind me.

Jared went to the front and paid. Then he sat down two seats in front of me. He stood up again, walked back to Marcus. "Hey," he said, "look what I got."

He presented an old, old camera, one with a bellows and long handles on either side. It was sheathed in a large freezer bag. "Wow," Marcus said, "that's nice."

"Yeah," Jared said, "I found it at my granddaddy's house. This was one of the first cameras you could buy, way back in the early 1900s."

"What're you doing with it?"

"They gotta lot of antique shops over on Lorain. I figure I take it there, see what they'll give me for it. Might be able to fetch a pretty penny."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you see, well, you -- you know my boss right?"

"I think so, yes."

"Well he give me this phone." Jared reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and presented an ordinary cell phone. "I been wanting a phone, so he give me this one. Thing is, I need to put minutes on it, he told me, so I need money first."

"So you're selling this camera?"

"Yeah, so I can get this phone working."

"Aw. I don't know about all that. That's a nice camera. Ain't going to find many of those around."

"I know. That's why I'll get good money for it."

"Come on man," Marcus said. He was speaking loudly, almost forceful.

"I ain't getting paid til the fifth, see? I need some money for my phone."

"But, you know, it's just a phone. Everybody got a phone. Nobody got a camera like that."

"But thing is, I need a phone."

"But that's a nice camera, though."

Jared sat back down in his seat. He sat there for a few minutes and kept to himself. The train neared Tower City, my destination. "Okay," Jared said, turning back to face Marcus, "maybe I should think about."

"All I'm saying is, if it was me, I'd keep it."

"But it's just, you know, a memento. I need a phone and I don't get paid til the fifth."

"You lived all this time without a phone. Now that you got one you gonna go out and sell that thing? Might as well wait. The fifth ain't all that far off. What, five days?" It was actually ten days away but I kept out of it. "All I'm saying is, it was me, I'd keep it."

"Maybe I should think about it," Jared said.

They did not speak for the rest of the trip, though both stood up as we reached Tower City. We filed into a line to exit the train. I was between them.

"Look," Jared said, "I need the money."

We had stepped off the train and I was walking in front of them.

"I understand," Marcus said.

"I need a phone a whole lot more than this camera."

"All I'm saying is that's a nice camera. I would hold onto it."

"But I ain't never gonna use this thing. . ."

I moved away from them, toward the escalator, and their conversation slowly blended with the din of the rest of my day.

Bocced Up Mini Episode

2008-11-12T23:55:00.001-05:00

Amy led us through Park Slope in Brooklyn. Alex and I, in a daze, lightly intoxicated, tripped over cracks in the sidewalk. We entered a bar, Union Hall, which was decorated like a den, with books lining the walls and couches and rattan chairs arranged throughout. In the center of the place, two bocce lanes. Some groups of hipsters rolled back and forth. After grabbing a round from the bar, we sat in some chairs on a raised platform above the courts, deliberating whether or not we should play.

A game below us was wrapping, so Amy ventured down to speak with the last team. She came back to Alex and I and said that the team had agreed to provide a ringer to play with Amy. Alex and I were the other team. Amy's teammate, Greg, was a young professional from Queens, who said he and his friends ventured down to Park Slope for a good time.

Alex and I were slow out of the gate. I admitted it takes approximately 75 rolls for me to get into a rhythm. Alex long-armed everything. Mine fell short. And so it went. Amy threw like a pro. She admitted later that her roll was derived from a softball pitch, a sport she played in high school. Every roll for her was spot on -- bee-you-tee-full.

Alex and I spotted them 3, then 5, then we eventually got one and began storming back. At one point, we sat with four balls inside. But Amy rolled last and managed to shoot three out, netting us only one point. That was as close as we came -- 4 to 6. On the next roll, Amy got inside and we had no balls left. Gregg threw his last ball away and we lost 4 to 7. This was the first time Alex and I were made aware the we were only playing to 7.

Afterwards, we looked at the results of a tournament bracket tacked crookedly to the wall. Of the 20 teams entered, 16 were puns on 'bocce' -- names like bocculism and bocculicious and the Super Bocce-o Bros. Nowhere on the list did I see bocced up. If I were ever to sell out and move to Brooklyn, I knew where I would be spending most of my time.

I told Amy that she could come to Cleveland and basically walk onto our team there. Out of the gate, she was already better than our whole team put together. She said she'd think about it. I could not make her an offer she couldn't refuse. We did not play anymore bocce that night. Instead we went to three more bars and I drank 24 or so more beers.

On the way back to our hotel in Queens -- a seemingly 13 hour train ride from Park Slope -- I had to piss so bad I felt like my bladder was about to pop. I considered peeing between the subway cars, but did not, for fear of glancing the third rail and electrocuting myself (I later found out from every single person I know that this is only an urban legend and cannot happen, as proven by Myth Busters). Embarrassed, I told Alex that we needed to get off at the next stop. I spent an agonizing three minutes wandering through the subway station, searching for a restroom that did not exist. Then I went into the street, was about to make water into a planter with a tree in it, but a guard inside the lobby took notice so I moved on, eventually letting loose on a corrugated metal gate over a storefront. I urinated for a solid minute, even forcing it out at times, and never before have I felt such relief.

It was a night of utter deboccery.

Theft

2008-11-11T23:49:00.003-05:00

I walked out of the office after staying late a half hour or so. In the grand scheme of things, this was almost the same as leaving early. I attempted to recite the ten disclosure points in my head, as I was up for a promotion the next day, and I assumed it would be a question my boss would ask during the interview. The sun had gone down and everything had cooled off, enough to make my bike ride home a pleasant one. Early October is the best time to ride. I made my way to the side of the building, where I kept it chained to the rack near all the benches where the smokers sat.

Let's see, I thought, we've got the AP, Reuters, Dow Jones, NY Times, Fitch, Moody's, UPI, Wall St. Journal, Bloomberg, and. . .what else? I could not remember the tenth and final disclosure point for financial media, which was the business I was in.

I sat down on one of the benches, beneath a tree covered in bird shit and proceeded to take off my work shirt and cuff up my pants for the ride home. With helmet-in-hand, I turned to the rack and found it vacant. My bike was not there. I had ridden it two hours prior on my lunch, when I went to Mall C as I usually did and looked out onto the lake for an hour. Now it was gone. I checked to see if any traces had been left behind, but the person or persons had taken everything -- bike, chain, lock, everything. I cursed myself for relying upon the cheap cable lock to secure it. A bike is only as good as the lock you have on it, I thought. I noticed a pair of thin tire tracks that cut through a patch of mulch around a tree; recognized instantly that the tracks were from my bike. Now, I would never be so careless as to ride my expensive tires and wheels through mulch and dirt -- such was not good for the rims. This told me something of the nature ofthieves: they do not care.

Boiling yet deflated, I went back into the building to report the theft to security. I approached the desk, marble and austere and containing a lanky kid with a badge.

"My bike got stolen," I said. The words hurt coming out.

"Oh man!" he said incredulously, "That's the fourth one today! That's crazy."

"Fourth?!" I said. "What the fuck are you guys doing here?"

"After the third we starting keeping an eye on it, but then Murray, he said that they wouldn't come back for another. That'd be too many bikes stolen in one day, so we left it alone."

"Uh huh."

"Wow. Now I wish we hadn't. Murray went home and we forgot about it, I guess. Sorry."

I had no idea who Murray was and how he could have such an adverse affect on my transportation. "So what should I do now?" I asked.

"Here, fill out a report." He reached underneath the desk and pulled out a clipboard and detached a piece of paper from it. He handed it to me. "Write out everything on the back there."

The page was a crossword puzzle, photocopied, with only vertical words completed. I wondered if the entire clipboard contained sheets like this. Leaning against the marble desk, I wrote:

Jon Reeves - Ste. 750 - BizMediaWire - Stolen road bike: all black, no brand, 1985 Calif. bike license, black Forte rims, black Gatorskin tires, black Forte racing saddle, black handle bar tape, Shimano 600 components, toe clips. Possibly late '70s make? Please help --> bike was my life. I don't have a car. :(

I handed it back to security. He looked it over.

"Man, that sucks. How are you getting home?" he asked me.

"I guess I'll take the bus," I said.

"Hey," he said, "you should call the cops. Report it stolen." He gave me the number, then said to himself, "Four in one day -- that's crazy!"

Back outside, I dialed the police, attempted to give them my address, but they said I had to go to the station which was on E. 22 and Payne. Completely out of my way. I would have made the trip, though, if I had a bike. Some cleaning ladies from the hotel next door had seated themselves at one of the benches near the bike rack. I asked if they had seen anyone messing around over there.

They said they had not; had only come out for a five minute smoke break. I explained to them my situation, that my bike was my life. And that someone had taken that from me.

"Aw man that's dirty," one of the women said. The other one just shook her head in disgust.

As I walked toward Terminal Tower to catch a bus, my phone rang. It was my good friend Rex. We rode together. Used to.

"What up Rex?" I said.

"What's the good word, Reeves?"

"Ah, my fucking bike got stolen."

"What? Aw man that's terrible. What're you doing now?"

"I'm about to catch a bus."

"Where at? By the BizWire?"

"Yeah."

"Well, fuck, stay right there and I'll come pick you up. We're gonna find your bike and fucking kill the thug that stole it."

"If you say so."

"Wait right there, I'll be there in five."

Rex hung up. I didn't expect that he'd go through with the search process. Most likely it was a ruse to get me drunk. That did not seem a bad idea. Still, though, the conversation had gotten my blood up a bit, and I began to believe that Rex and I, given proper instigation, could raise some hell.

Some minutes later, Rex swung his station wagon up to the curb. I got in. He then pulled a U-turn and started going East.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"I figure we start at The Fence, on E. 72," Rex said. He had an open beer in his hand. I assumed he was drinking it when I called.

"The Fence, nice," I said. It was one of the seedier venues in one of the seedier areas of town. It rested between a 24-hour kebab house and a currency exchange. A motel in the rear,MoFence , advertised 3-hour 'day traveler' specials. Rex and I had always joked about going there but never really had the gumption. Tonight provided motivation, however.

"I'm thinking in your case," Rex said, "that we need vigilante justice. You can't rely on the police or the courts for this sort of thing. We need to take the law into our own hands. Soon as you see that bike, you yell. We're taking that dude down."

I wondered if Rex had brought a firearm, though I knew he had not. We only had one friend with a gun, Stills, and he wasn't around tonight.

Rex continued: "I figure we go to The Fence, have a few drinks, ask some questions, maybe get a few leads."

"Maybe invite some babies back to MoFence, do some day traveling," I said.

"Fucking sick," Rex said. He tossed his empty beer out the window. "Maybe we'll turn up an underground bicycle theft ring."

"Maybe." This got me thinking about my bike again. I pictured it in the basement of an abandonded house with hundreds of other lifted bikes. Or even worse, at the bottom of the lake, having been ghostridden off a pier. I thought about how I myself had rescued it from a basement two years ago, how I brought it back to life and how well the two of us fit together. More than likely that would be lost forever.

Rex rolled his wagon up in front of The Fence. Usually, this spot was reserved for the high rollers with the shiny rims and the fancy clothes. We were a couple of bike punks. A bunch of thugs smoking blunts outside gave us a long look as we entered past them. Their expressions were mirrored by everyone else in the place but Rex and I acted like it did not bother us. We pushed our way to the bar. Rex yelled our orders over a couple of babies seated at the bar. They both wore black skirts and white satin tops with red suspenders.

"Two Jameson, neat," he said.

The babies both looked at us. They did not seem impressed. No matter, for we weren't there to impress; we were there for answers. Outside, a grand Caddy pulled alongside Rex's jitney. It sat there a very long time. Some folks surrounded his car, looking inside. I elbowed him, gestured out the front door.

"Shit," he said. "I wish Stills was here. He'd know how to handle this."

I wondered what we were doing there to begin with. I thought Rex would know how to handle this, as it was his idea. It appeared that all the hot air had escaped from the balloon and we were dangerously close to plummeting into power lines.

"That your car?" one of the babies asked us.

Rex said, "Yeah."

The other baby said, "That's a bad spot to park, sir."

"How's that?" I asked.

They said in unison, "That's ZiggyBigDee's parking spot."

"And that was just his car go rolling past," said one baby, solo.

The bartender handed us our drinks. They were much larger than the whiskeys we were used to getting at The Fairmount. And a dollar cheaper, each. Rex paid the lady for four, said, "You might as well bring us another round, we won't be here long."

The bartender said something back that was lost in noise. I think it was: "That's a good thing."

Rex and I turned back to the front doors. The men outside were gone, as was the fancy car. Crisis averted, we clinked our glasses and sent stuff down the hatch.

"Where y'all going?" one of the babies asked us.

"Nowhere sugar," Rex said. "No-where."

The babies both gave us an 'Is you for real?' look.

The Jameson burned a good burn on the way down and it possessed me with the desire to run my hand underneath those suspenders. "We're staying right here with you ladies," I said, reaching between them to place my empty glass on the bar. The barkeep arrived with round two. I took them, said to the woman, "Why don't you bring over another round for our friends here?" She scowled, though nodded, and went off to fetch our order.

Several rounds later, they began to warm up to us. I had angled myself into a lean behind the baby on the right. My forearm brushed against her lacy satin top and those suspenders. Rex had pulled up a barstool next to the baby on the left.

"So why y'all pants all cuffed up?" one of them asked Rex.

Rex explained that we rode bikes, and by cuffing our pants, we kept them clean of chain grease. They seemed marginally impressed that we were so into cycling, so I launched into the story of my bike being stolen. Near the end of the story, the part that explained why we had come to The Fence, the bartender arrived with another round of Jameson.

"Here," the baby next to me said, "let me get these." She took some cash out of her purse. "So what'd this bike look like that it was so nice?"

I described it to her as I had described on the report to building security. "It was completely unremarkable, not flashy in the least, and that is what made it so stellar. Just black and clean and simple. It was perfect."

"Why don't we toast to it? Your lost bike," said the baby next to Rex. We did just that and slid more down. Although we had drank many rounds, this was our first official toast and out of it came much camaraderie and giddy good cheer. My baby leaned into me and I slid my hand down to the small of her back and underneath her suspenders. She brought her mouth up to my ear, said breathy, "So what y'all doing for the rest of the night?" I whetted my lips.

I could see that Rex was making similar progress with his baby. Then Rex's baby snapped upright. She pointed out the front window. "Hey," she said, "Ain't that your bike?"

Sure enough, on the far side of the street, a derelict unsteadily pedaled my bike. "Shit," I said, burning, "we gotta go."

Rex and I split out the front doors and ran for his car. Some of the thugs from earlier were out there waiting for us, but we caught them off guard by how fast we were moving. I think they thought we'd be stumbling out after all the whiskey we drank. Normally, that would have been the case, but we were on a mission. Rex locked the doors and started the engine just as they reached the car. They pounded on the windows.

"You motherfuckers!" they yelled.

I gave them the bird. In a very short span of time, Rex and I had went from standing, to running, to, now, sitting. The rapid stop-go-stop motion had unsettled my stomach and I felt much drunker now than I had inside The Fence. Rex threw the car in reverse and backed into the car behind him, shattering his taillight and punching in their front grill. Then he threw the car in drive and scraped against the car in front of us, tearing off their rear bumper. He sped off down Carnegie. Luckily we were the only ones on the road. That is, except for the bike ahead.

"Look at that! Look at that!" I said. "He even has my fucking taillight on. That son of a bitch." Sure enough, the guy that had stolen my bike had turned on the blinking red light I had fastened to the seat post. It was a beacon guiding us to justice.

"What should we do?" Rex belched.

"Pull right fucking alongside him," I said, out of my mind. "I'm gonna fuck his shit up."

"Go easy dude!" Rex said. He wiped sweat from his forehead. I rolled down my window as Rex neared. We approached a railroad trestle, a spot where the road dipped down to go underneath.

"Closer! Closer!" I yelled. Rex did as I asked. I lurched my upper body out the window and grabbed for the thief. He was an old man, haggard, with some grey stubble and a ratty winter cap. I clamped onto his tattered overcoat and as we passed beneath the railroad bridge, I gave a shove, directing him into a concrete support. The front wheel of the bike completely buckled, bent in half, and the man vaulted over the handle bars, flying face-first into the wall.

"Jesus!" Rex screamed. He slowed the car to a halt.

Headlights reflected in the rearview mirror.

"Let's go back," I said. "Let me get my bike."

"You're bike's trashed, Reeves," Rex said. "It's fucked."

"I don't care, I'll fix it."

"Someone's coming."

"Do it."

Rex shook his head. He threw the car into reverse and we backed up to the scene. Rex and I got out. Sure enough, the bike had been completely destroyed. Parts from it and parts from the man littered the space beneath the bridge. The man was heap of bloody rags. He breathed noisily, somehow still alive. He turned his face to us, streaming crimson, teeth stuck to his chin, eyes swollen shut. The blood glistened in the oncoming headlights.

"Uh, Reeves," said Rex.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't your bike."

"What?"

I walked back to where Rex was standing, over the mangled frame. It was not mine. This was a mountain bike, not a road bike. And it had stickers all over it. I looked back at the man. His face now rested against the pavement, a pool spreading around his pulverized head.

"We need to get out of here," Rex said. The sound of car motor grew louder, as did the world become brighter.

We had just reached Rex's wagon when the car reached us. It was a shiny purple Caddy with a lift kit and sparkling rims. Over the rear fender was airbrushed: ZiggyBigDee. The car stopped and the front passenger window rolled down. A man with a thick beard and dreadlocks stuck his head out.

"Antoine? Antoine, is that you?" he yelled at the dying heap of man under the bridge. Then he looked at us, Rex and I. "What the hell did you do?"

That was just it. I didn't know. See, I was the victim, not Antoine. He did me wrong, not the other thing. Who was I convincing? It didn't matter, not just yet. For right then there were sirens, not far off, and Rex and I were in his car doing a hundred miles an hour down Carnegie, punching reds all the way. AndZiggyBigDee was around, around. Not right there, but around. If we could make it back to my neighborhood, the Heights, we could stash the wagon and sleep it off. Confront the world come daylight. On two legs but not two wheels.

Androidgyny: Act III

2008-11-10T23:47:00.004-05:00

[Act I archive]

[Act II archive]

III.

“Dude, Andy, you look like shit,” Leroy said as he walked onto the back porch. “You didn’t even change out of your fucking work shirt.”

“I unbuttoned it, at least. It makes me look biz casual,” I said, giving the keg a few nursing pumps. I had staked out my claim next to the beer, as was what I tended to do at parties.

“Jesus, you fucking stink, too. Have you showered yet today?”

“Why? I have to work in the morning?”

“Fucking disgrace.” Leroy shook his head, then said, “Hey Sam.” I had forgotten she was standing next to me.

She appeared surprised and excited. “Hey Leroy! How are you?”

Leroy and I both agreed that we were working on the contents of our red SILO cups. All three of us took a swig. I gave the keg a few more courtesy pumps.

Leroy had just come out to join us, having driven separately. Sam had been kind enough to give me a ride, driving all the way back to Coffee & Water even though she had been done for a few hours. She pulled out her pack of smokes, dug around for the half of the one she had started earlier.

“Um, Sam,” I began. Without letting me finish, she presented one for me. “Aw, thanks,” I said, “how’d you know?”

“You always ask for a cigarette when I have one,” she said. “Every single time since I’ve met you.”

“You two are so cute,” Leroy said. He waved to someone and stepped inside the house.

“C’mon,” I said to Sam, “not every time right?”

“You’ve asked me for a cigarette a total of 37 times since I first met you 5 days ago.”

“Jesus,” I said, “how’d you keep track of all that?”

She shrugged, looked into her beer. “I don’t know, I just can. I’m different than most girls.”

I saw this as an opportunity. “I’ll say,” I said and slung my arm around her narrow waist. She very slowly brought her head to rest on my shoulder. The stereo inside changed songs, afforded us a few moments of silence. Again, I heard the high-pitch revolution of the dentist drill. It was really annoying and made me think of all those times as a kid I had my teeth drilled. I ran my tongue against my molars, each of which contained a silver filling. Some had started to crack.

I looked down at Sam. She seemed to be grinding her teeth. “Is everything okay?” she asked, smiling her crooked smile up at me.

I was about to tell her to stop grinding her teeth, that’s nasty, but the door behind us slid open noisily and Leroy and Doug and some other line cooks came stumbling out.

“What are you two doing out here?” Doug yelled. Sam and I split apart. Doug was a large man, and although he was a Teddy Bear in face and body, he could still command a room with his voice. Like whenever he would tell me to mop the grill line ‘today, Stool, today!’ Or tell me to stop farting around the customers. And co-workers.

“Stool,” he said, in good fun, “you’d better leave Sam alone. She’s a nice girl. Clean. Virtuous. A sweetheart. You two have nothing in common.”

“Ohhhhhhhh!” his posse yelled. Most of the party had gathered on the back porch.

“That’s not very nice, Doug,” Sam said. “We have a lot in common.”

“See what I mean?” Doug said. “You would never stick up for her like that.”

He was right, but I didn’t say that.

“No, I probably would.”

“Probably.” Doug finished his beer. “Ah, I’m all done with my brew. You need some, Stool?”

I had just filled mine before the whole party came out to make fun of me. “No thanks, I’m solid.”

“Yeah, solid like a brick shithouse,” Leroy yelled. The party erupted again.

“No,” Doug said, “I think you need a refill.”

Just then, three or four line cooks snuck up behind and lifted me, carrying me towards the keg.

“Hey, what the fuck guys?” I yelled down. Upon reaching the destination, they shifted their grasp, pivoted me at my ankles so that I was hanging upside-down. I had to grab onto the outside of the barrel to stop my face from banging into the keg.

“Guys, seriously,” my voice bled panic, “I-I get motion sick real easy!”

It was already happening, my world coming undone. I saw Sam. She had her hands before her mouth. Doug inserted the tap nozzle into my mouth. With his other hand he pumped. That was supposed to me my job.

“Drink up, Stool,” he said, then pulled the trigger. My mouth filled with ice cold light beer. Despite gravity, it traveled up my gullet and into the furnace. This went on for 45 minutes to an hour, I estimated. By the end, I and everyone involved were soaked in beer. They let me down and I puked off the edge of the deck. Or at least tried to. Later accounts provided that I in fact puked on myself and fell over. They have their story; I have mine.

Most of the party afterwards was a blur, locked into the vault of Blackout Wasted. It’s possible that Leroy, Sam, Doug and I got high in Sam’s car. Then she drove me home. Was it just the two of us or did Leroy tag along, too drunk to drive himself? It was unlikely, for Leroy did not tend to drink much, let alone when he was DD. I recall being thankful that Sam remained sober. In fact, I didn’t remember her drinking more than that first beer. But then again, I didn’t remember much.

Streetlights reflected and danced along the windshield as she drove me home. A slow mist began falling, distorting the harmony of the lights. The broken rhythm turned my stomach. I asked her to pull over. But we had already stopped. I fell out of the car heaving, vomited liquid and bile onto the parking lot. Then I lay there for some time, hoping Sam would just drive off and leave me to die. She did not.

The rain picked up and made me feel much better. After all, I hadn’t showered that day so maybe all I needed was a good spritz. The rain stopped and I stood up, wobbly, still unsure on my feet. Sam stood beside me with an umbrella. She allowed me to steady myself against her. I then recognized that we were in my apartment complex, so we made our way up to my place.

Once more, I blacked out, found myself in my twin bed, disrobed. Sam stood in the low light of a security lamp outside my window and removed her clothes. I questioned, as I always do, my fortitude, especially since I was drunk. She shimmied over to me, her body a straight line, an Ohio highway, rigid and wholly unremarkable. She crawled beneath the sheet and lay on top of me. The air mattress made sounds like flatulence.

She kissed me and it tasted of tin foil. I felt as if my cavity fillings were shooting electricity into my gums. This made me not want to make out as much.

The sex was methodical, as if she were a machine press stamping sheet metal. But I was that metal; I was the end product. And there was some victory in that. It had not lasted long – three, four minutes, maybe – and I passed out immediately thereafter.

I slept like a stone, except for one hazy moment in which I had woken up on account of the thunder outside and the rain droning against the window. A light shone into the hallway from the bathroom. Although I didn’t have my glasses on, I could make out Sam’s form in the mirror. But something was not right about it. Her face appeared shiny, metallic, and wide flaps protruded from either side. In between thunderclaps I heard the dentist’s drill, much louder than before. I shifted and the bed made a noise. The light snapped off. Darkness settled around me and I had to think, drifting far and far way, that it was just a dream.

* * *

iRobot

2008-11-09T23:59:00.003-05:00

Today I built this robot. I bought him at the MoMA store in NYC. The Piperoid, as he's called, is from Japan and made of little paper tubes. All of the instructions are in Japanese. Alex helped me with that. I had considered giving the Piperoid to my little brother then helping him build it, but then I reconsidered, as Alex translated on the package that the build is recommended for ages 15 and up.

Not that I thought my 5-year-old brother would not appreciate the Piperoid, but I had trouble believing he would remain patient through the whole process. Am I just getting older, or do all kids have ADHD these days?

I picture this Piperoid to stand 50' tall and live in the parking garage beneath Mall C in downtown Cleveland. Sent to Cleveland as a robotic ambassador from Japan, Piperoid helps assemble the new wind farm on Lake Erie. He is an iconic reminder that Cleveland is a city geared for the 21st century.

I recently finished Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and seriously debated referring to the Piperoid as a he (or she) or an 'it.' I opted for gender, even if Piperoid is a soulless machine. He deserves at least a little humanizing for helping to construct Northeast Ohio's sustainable energy grid.

Now if only I could settle upon a name. I'll leave that to the readership. If you have any suggestions for a name for Piperoid, please leave it up on the comments. I accept Japanese submissions, if anyone is so inclined.

Buses/No Buses

2008-11-08T23:52:00.004-05:00

Today was a day of firsts for me in terms of socialized transportation -- both local and regional. I embarked for the first time on a Greyhound bus which took me from Cleveland to Youngstown so I could visit my family. In order to reach the Greyhound station on Chester and E. 16, I opted for the new Healthline (I prefer Silver Line) buses on the glorious EUCLID CORRIDOR. This trip probably required more planning than I had provided, as lots of systems linking was involved, and route timetables should have come into play. A mistake was letting my dad talk me into taking the early bus to Y-town.

The conversation went like this:

Me: Yeah, I think I'll take the 11:00 bus. I'll get in around one.

Dad: There isn't an earlier bus?

Me: (beat) There's one at 8:55.

Dad: Why don't you take that one?

Me: That's pretty fucking early.

Dad: C'mon, it ain't that early. What time you usually get up on Saturdays?

Me: You mean, like, what time do I get out of bed or what time do I actually start my day?

Dad: Both.

Me: Noon and never.

Dad: Well pretend you have to work.

Me: 8:55 is when I get up for work. And that's if I feel like taking a shower, which is not often.

Dad: (beat)

Me: Okay, I'll do the early bus.

* * *

My lady friend and I spent Friday night drinking Christmas Ale and watching Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. We also played the Bike Game with that film. If you aren't familiar with the Pee-Wee's Big Adventure Bike Game, you should ask me about it privately. More than likely, you'll want to play. That is, if you have the evening free. And you won't have to wake up early in the morning. Friday night, however fit only one of those criteria. By film's end, I was pretty messed up.

I had my alarm set for 7:30, which I figured would give me ample time to make it over to Euclid Ave from Cedar-Fairmount. However, I slept through the first two alarms and eventually rolled out of bed around 7:50. I blame the Christmas Ale (and Pee-Wee). Skipping the shower (I took my father's advise and pretended I had to work), I tossed clothes on, stuffed some random travel crap into my bag and hit the road at about 8:10. This provided a measly 45-minutes to make the Greyhound. I was nervous, especially since I had to catch one bus before I could catch the other. Plus, it is a good 20-minute walk to Euclid Ave from my apartment. I hustled, missed one Silver Line by about 5 minutes, waited on Euclid for another 15 before the next one came. By the time it arrived, though, it was 8:40 -- 15 minutes until my bus left -- and I still had to make it downtown.

The new CORRIDOR buses are quite nice inside, though not terribly different from ordinary, non-shiny RTA buses, just larger. The jury is still out on the center island means of loading/unloading. It seems that the bus takes longer to pull up to one of the raised center platforms than it would if the bus were just picking people up off the sidewalk. I suppose this is justified by having fewer stops. I cringed each time the driver stopped, as that ate more time off my too-tight schedule. Still though, I was amazed to have arrived at E. 18 at 8:50 -- a mere 10-minute trip despite all the stops.

I exited the bus and leapt down from the raised platform with no regard for the ramp leading down to the crosswalk. I booked it down to Chester then over to E. 16. It was a short run, but by the time I got to the bus station, I felt like I was about to pop. Desperately hoping that the Greyhound was running characteristically late, I breezed into the station and found myself at the end of a five-person-deep line. The clock on the wall read: 8:52. I took this moment to examine Cleveland's Greyhound Station. It was very clean and modern inside and I was quite impressed. It could have been the time of day, but there was a surprisingly low Crazy quotient. Therein permeated no odor -- foul or otherwise.

I considered my only other experience in a Greyhound Station -- Pittsburgh, PA, 1992. My Grandpa deBiase had taken it upon himself to take the Greyhound from Tampa, FL to Pittsburgh. This signified a daunting task for anyone, let alone a 450 pound, 55-year-old retired Air Force Sgt such as my grandpa dB. At the time, I was about 8, and my mom and I had ventured down to the Greyhound station to pick him up. From what I recall, the place was a sty, with grimy tile floors, nasty benches, and bums -- oh the bums! We waited for several hours, my mother spending most of the time fending off advancing hobos, with no sight of Grandpa. And the man was nearly impossible to miss. We were at a loss, eventually abandoning our post. We hoped that GdB would understand this violation of the Leave No Man Behind policy. My grandpa arrived some 17 hours later and phoned my dad from a payphone at the station. He was promptly rescued.

Years later, Grandpa deBiase came into my room as I was writing something -- what it was, I don't exactly remember. I was probably 14 at the time. He sat on the edge of my bed, told me that if I was going to write a story about anything, it should be about his bus trip up the East Coast. He even provided a title: "Riding the Dog." I was a snotty teenager then and summarily dismissed the idea. Looking back, though, I wished I had enquired more about that excursion, as I believe it would make for interesting [creative non-]fiction. My grandfather passed away in 2002.

* * *

Back in line at the Cleveland station, I felt that a long span of time had elapsed. The clock now read 8:57. They made an announcement of the final boarding call for my bus: Akron/Youngstown/Pittsburgh/New York.

"Fuck, that's me," I said.

The woman in front of me turned around. She had several bags and a large U-Haul moving box. "That's your bus?" she asked. I nodded. "You better hurry up and get your ticket. They probably ready to pull out. Here, watch my stuff."

She ran out to the platform. I could make out that she was gesturing to a few Greyhound employees. She came back inside, said, "They ain't even loaded the luggage yet and I couldn't find the driver so I think you good. You can go ahead of me."

I thanked her profusely and said I would help her with her box once I got checked in. The man ahead of me in line counted out his fare in coins. It took a painfully long time.

"Come on man," the woman said, gesturing towards him.

The man split and I stepped up right as he left. The lady at the desk got me all signed in and handed me the ticket. I then helped the woman carry her box to the baggage check, thanking once again. I may have even thrown out a "God bless" for good measure. As I sprinted across the station, a security guard flagged me down. The bus driver was just leaving the restroom and she was able to stamp my ticket. I went outside and climbed on the bus. The front of it read: CHICAGO, but I had a hunch it was lying. Luckily, I was right. The bus was about half-full and I found a seat in the back near the rest room. Very shortly thereafter, we were on our way.

The only incident worth mentioning on the trip was our stop in Akron. Greyhound's Akron station is essentially a shack off of I-77. One of the passengers boarding the bus was an overweight (morbidly obese) woman in an electric wheelchair. For her to enter, an automated lift was to be utilized on the side of the bus. The crew tried for a half hour to get the elevator to work. It seemed the woman was too heavy. She would roll off the lift and it would work; once she got back on, no dice. Eventually, a Greyhound worker and a random passenger took turns using a hand pump built into the contraption to manually lift the woman up and onto the bus.

Riding the dog, I thought.

Bullshit Friday Post

2008-11-07T23:41:00.006-05:00

NaBeGroMo Update - Week One

Status: Stubbly and holding.

I will keep you posted on any further updates.

in[pursuit of]justice

2008-11-06T23:53:00.002-05:00

"I witness injustice everyday," I said to Sam as I walked into our apartment. She lay on the love seat in the living room, heavily insulated with several fleece blankets.

She pulled them away from her mouth. "I have a sinus infection," she sniffled.

"This community has an injustice infection," I said and sat down on the couch across from her.

Just minutes earlier, as I was walking from the train station to the Superfresh on my way home from work, I witnessed a young man being pulled over by the police. As I crossed Cedar, fortunately at a cross walk, this young man (most likely a Case Western student), cut diagonally through the intersection. As he did so, a cop at the stoplight hit the siren and ran the red light, nearly running me down as I crossed. I made my way to the sidewalk and walked past the car. The officer, an older white male -- a hardliner, to be sure -- asked the kid for his ID. He obliged, and I could hear the officer preparing his manufactured speech about how jaywalking is illegal and how we have laws for a reason.

I recognized this cop -- let's call him O. Hardline -- from a previous run-in I witnessed some months ago. One night last spring, I was walking up from the train station. A young man (again, probably a Case student) rode past me and continued on up the hill. At the intersection of Cedar and Euclid Heights, this same cop, O.Hardline , flashed his lights and pulled over the kid on the bike. As an avid cyclist, I was curious to hear the offense, so I stuck around. After the two parties split, I asked the cyclist what he had done. Basically, the cop pulled him over to see if his bicycle was registered, which is mandatory in Cleveland Heights. Naturally, the guy did not have his bike registered. O.Hardline informed him that he was okay to go this time, but if was caught again riding an unlicensed bike, he would be forced to pay the $80 fine.

I have a hard time understanding a mandatory regulation for registration of bikes. Not only that, the method of enforcement is completely unconstitutional. Does this instance suggest that O.Hardline pulls over every cyclist that crosses his path (or every jaywalker, for that matter)? What happens if the person presents a valid license?

'Thanks for your cooperation. Good day citizen.'

'And a good day to you officer. May God Bless your civic vigor.'

I doubt it.

It appears as though the Cleveland Heights PD is content serving the public by fleecing it, through outrageous parking fines (my girlfriend once got a ticket for parking with one tire against the curb -- and this was on Christmas night, with snow on the ground), enforcement ofunnecessary laws (jaywalking, are you serious?), speed traps, and more parking tickets. Oh, and parking tickets. Lots of em.

As I witnessed O. Hardline drawing up a jaywalking citation, a Superfresh employee came outside for a smoke break.

"Damn," he said, "who getting busted?"

"That guy just got pulled over for jaywalking."

"Are you serious? Man, that's fucked up. That's the same dude that fined me for jaywalking. What a fucking prick."

"Yeah, he's a dickhead." I reiterated the story of the fellow on the bike. "We live in a police state," I said.

The guy shook his head.

"Bullshit, right?"

Yeah.

I ask you, as active citizens, what can we do to combat the injustice that we are faced with everyday? At this point, I am at a loss. Maybe. . .maybe we should start thinking about injustice, familiarize ourselves with it, begin noticing it in our day-to-day lives. Once we begin noticing it -- forcing ourselves to notice -- maybe then we can conjure a way to correct it. In learning the symptoms, we can in turn inoculate ourselves against injustice. Then maybe we can figure out a way to make a difference.

Conversation

2008-11-05T23:19:00.001-05:00

First off, I was irritated that Jimmy John's ran out of French submarine bread. All they had were slices of 7-grain. They might as well have put the quarter pound of roast beef between two sanding blocks. But I had walked the whole way there instead of going to Subway, which was much closer but not nearly so satisfying. As I waited for my number ten, a group of teenagers came in behind me. More than likely, they were in town for the show that night at House of Blues. En route, I had walked past a long line of young mall punks that stretched down Euclid. I had no idea who was playing.

The young lady behind the counter shouted, abrasively, "All we got is 7-grain! We outta everything else!"

The girl in the group said, "That's all you have?" She let out a brusque sigh.

"We about to close. Closing at seven."

"But it's six," the girl said.

I looked at my watch. It was, in fact, a quarter to six.

"Yeah, we closing. Ain't made no new bread since," she paused, "one o'clock. Since one o'clock."

One of the guys said, "How can you not have bread? This is a sandwich shop."

"I don't know what to tell you," counter lady said.

She handed me my sandwich and I left.

On the way down E. 6th, a heavy set woman in a noisy pullover accosted me.

"You know where the Phoenix Coffee is?" she asked.

Now, I enjoy few things more than providing people with directions, especially when I know the place. I tend to gesture a lot, too. "Yeah, you're gonna have to turn around, make the right on Superior, then left on E. 9th. It'll be on your left." I reached broadly past her, angled my wrist right, than jerked it to the left.

"Aw, you mean it ain't around here? Damn, I thought it was around here."

"No," I said. "Plus it's probably closed. I think it closes at five."

"Damn, that's early! The one in Lakewood open til midnight. You go in that one anytime you like."

"Uh huh. Yeah everything downtown closes at five. Unless it's a bar, then it's nine. You know, I think there's a Phoenix on Superior and like E. 30th, near Cleveland State." Like a Garmin, I had located the next closest coffee shop and tried to navigate her there as best I could, pointing my hand ahead of us then pointing it left.

"Nah, I don't like the East Side."

"Oh." I happened to like the East Side. I lived on the East Side. I wouldn't necessarily consider E. 30 as East Side. Maybe Near East.

"Yeah, I like Phoenix in Lakewood. You go to that one, don't matter who you are, what you look like, people talk to you. Downtown everybody look at you like, 'You ain't got no suit on. What is it that you do? I ain't talking to you.' All better than everybody. Wearing suits. Like Mr. Business Man and Mr. Lawyer."

"Esquire."

"You know, but like maybe I come in tomorrow in my nice suit. I got nice clothes too. And people say, 'Hey, who are you now?' But I don't need that shit."

"Nope."

Our pace had slowed considerably. Really, it was mine. She was weighing me down. We came to Superior. I saw my opportunity to break away, but several RTA buses drove past.

"Same with RTA people," she continued. "They all stuck up. Bus drivers all stuck up. You talk to them, ask them questions, they think you flirting with them."

"Yeah, they can be pretty rude."

"So you know what I'm talking about?"

"I got you."

"Yeah, and this one bus driver, she keep hitting on me, trying to get in my panties. But I was like uh-uh I got standards. I don't need no RTA girlfriend."

"Wow, yeah." I was beginning to sound like a broken record. I had only signed on to give directions. As soon as that walk sign lights, I thought, I'm gonna light this shit up.

Syx

2008-11-04T23:37:00.005-05:00

For once in a long series of evenings, I got out of work on time, walked briskly across town and down into the bowels of Terminal Tower to wait for my train to University Circle. As is typical of most evenings, I had recently missed the train and would have to wait another fifteen minutes or so for the next one. Walking onto the platform, I cranked the volume of my headphones to drown out the adult contemporary music blaring through the station speakers. The first bench was occupied by a group of young thugs, three of them, all sitting on the back of it. As I passed, I looked at them and they looked at me, laughing. I couldn't tell if they were laughing at me or at a previous joke from which I happened to draw their attentions.

A lone woman sat at the next bench along the platform. She had stringy, greasy hair pulled back into a long ponytail and sported baggy jeans and a baggy leather Ohio State jacket. The transit benches in Terminal Tower are shaped like mouths from smiley faces. We sat at opposite ends. This woman formed one dimple; I, the other. The grated metal bench was littered with the usual detritus of transit stops: some tattered Classifieds (job listings, specifically), an open can of grape Faygo cola, a crumpled McDonald's bag, loogies.

As I lowered myself onto the bench, she shot a long, suspicious glance at me, which I caught peripherally. I made as if I didn't notice, fiddled with my bag, pulled out the novel I was reading, and took a long look away from her, down the tracks, make believing I was looking for the train to come around the bend. I knew it would be a while.

I opened my book and tried to read, music blasting in my ears, but kept the woman in the corner of my eye. I could make out that she was rolling a joint on her left thigh. She navigated the task with aplomb, keeping the paper in the palm of one hand and sifting the grass into it with the other. Intermittently, the scent of dank sifted through the grape cola smell. Though she concealed the act very well, I could tell my presence made her uncomfortable. Or maybe it was me that was uncomfortable. More than likely, a little of both.

About a minute later, she finished the job and placed the spliff into her jacket pocket. Then she became unruly, shifted back and forth, looking over her shoulders. While her back was to me, I chanced a more direct glare and noticed that this woman sported a neck tattoo. Stenciled on the right side of her neck, in blue-green ink:Syx. The font resembled Garamond , though the actual lettering was comprised of snakes. The last snake, head of which situated itself on the bottom right of the last 'X,' vomited a serpentine underscore. Or maybe it spat venom. Either way, it was a masterpiece -- both revolting and terrifying all at once. She turned back at me, leveled an icy gaze. The woman had a hardened face, pockmarked, scarred, with a prominent jaw. She could easily take me. And then some. I shifted back to my book.

She bent down to pick up the discarded McDonald's bag and as she did so, a knife fell out of the inside pocket of her coat. It clattered briefly against the terra-cotta floor. The knife was not very serious -- just standard kitchen issue, with a faux wood plastic handle. Nonchalantly, she picked the thing up and slipped it back into her jacket. Then she grabbed the fast food bag and began rifling through it, pulling out a few wrappers and littering them on the ground. Eventually, she tipped the whole thing over. At this point, the book reading on my part was merely a ruse: I used it as interference when spying on her. She had taken to staring at me again so again I glanced down the tracks. This time, though, I honestly hoped the train would come.

I thought I saw a headlight coming, or convinced myself that I had, so I stood up abruptly, turned and made my way closer to the thugs at the other bench. I rested against a pillar. She took this opportunity to spit in the area I had vacated. At the pillar, I actually did get some reading done, though I would glance up momentarily to catch the woman staring at me. No matter, for the train had arrived. I made a conscious effort to let her pass in front of me when entering so that hopefully we could sit apart. The plan worked, for she moved to the front of the train; I found an open seat in the rear. Considering that confrontation over, I went back to reading. I laughed a little, to myself, over the kitchen knife.

The train ride was ricketier than usual, with the car listing back and forth violently. The driver slammed the brakes at every stop. I became motion sick while trying to read, lost track of time and place. Disoriented, I thought I heard from the conductor say, over the blare of my headphones, that we had reached University Circle. Hurriedly, I grabbed my bag and ran out the doors just as they were shutting. Immediately, I realized I had made a mistake -- I had gotten off one stop too early and found myself at the desolate E. 105 stop. Across the tracks, behind a chain link fence, the new Juvenile Justice center, under construction, stood like a gigantic cage. A diesel spotlight churned through the night, illuminating ironwork and scaffolding.

At the other end of the platform, I saw her outline silhouetted against the spotlight. She strode down towards me. I tried to act casual, paused the music in my earphones. She and I were the only two to exit the train there. Our only company was the diesel generator across the tracks. The red rear light of the train slowly disappeared around a turn. She came right up to me, hands thrust in her jacket, her shoulder tense. Fear paralyzed me.

"You know what my name is?" she yelled.

I pulled away my earphones, as if music had been playing. "Excuse me?"

"What you think my name is?"

"Um. . ."

"I bet you don't guess it."

She pulled her nappy ponytail over her shoulder on the right side of her neck. I recalled the grimy tattoo.

"Is it Syx?"

"Shit boy, how you know that?" Her mouth opened in disbelief, flashing me a row of rotten teeth. "You musta seen this." She pulled her hair away and canted her neck close to my face. Syx spat onto the railroad tracks. The tattoo was less remarkable close-up. The ink job was splotchy and there was no detail to it. Plus, it featured a snake vomiting. I noticed little nicks and cuts on her neck, as if she was learning how to shave. A particularly gnarly gash peeked its way above the collar of her sweatshirt.

"That's nice," I said. "Fancy."

She shrugged; used the sleeve of her coat to wipe the excess spittle from her lips. Syx reached into her pocket and pulled out the joint. She put it in her mouth and lit the end, took a few drags. Puffing her cheeks out to exhale, she said, "You ain't from round here, yeah?" She blew smoke in my face.

"Not really, I got off at the wrong stop," I said.

"What's you name?"

"Roy," I said. It was made up; a lie.

"Ain't all that much down here, Roy" she said. "You picked a shitty ass stop." Her mouth puckered and she released a smoke ring. "You want some?" She offered me the J.

I questioned its true composition -- considered, briefly, the prospect of a three-day-long formaldehyde blackout. "No," I said, "I'm good. Thanks."

Syx did not seem to register this response. She still held it out to me, but turned to face the Juvie Center. "That's gonna be a big place. Prolly where my babies is going."

"Huh." I stated, not really caring to push that statement any further. Though I did partake in looking away from her, at the construction site. Thegenny lights were fading. Its motor wheezed, revving up and down sporadically. "I think that thing is running out of gas." I turned back to her and noticed that she had taken out the knife.Syx held it at her side. She did not threaten me with it, but held onto it, as if it were a flower or a pencil or something normal.

"Will you help me with my babies?" she asked, desperate.

I didn't know what to do. She kept bringing the joint closer to my mouth. The cadence of the genny kept accelerating. "Why don't you have some Roy?" she kept saying, nearly matching its rhythm.

Then the knife was there, beside the joint. Both pointed at me. An ember and a blade in an either or situation. I closed my eyes, selected the ember, pulled its lifeblood into my body, felt it circulate, ruminate. The shit was probably laced but it felt really fucking good so I partook again. Maybe again and again. When I opened my eyes, the knife was no longer before them. Instead, from what I could make out in the low low fading light,Syx was using it to etch inverted crosses (or something -- I was really high) on each of her fingertips.

"My babies," she said. I tried to return the joint but she did not seem to notice. I tapped her shoulder. She snapped up, blade at the ready, staring deep through me and away, past me but into me. Eyes and a knife. And me. She froze like that.

I fiddled with my bag and looked beyond her, down the tracks. I hoped against all fathomable and just hope that the train would come. I thought I saw headlights but it was the spastic light wheezing out its last existence. The knife had returned toSyx's side. I still held the spliff. Her long ponytail hung over slouched shoulders. Everything sputtered to death and the world grew uncomfortably quiet.

We became enveloped in darkness.

Pre-Election Post

2008-11-03T23:35:00.000-05:00

Tonight I've been reading up on the issues for the election tomorrow. I think I have everything figured out, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to go back and carve out a poop sheet I could sneak into the booth with me. Because I need my rest to make an informed decision tomorrow morning, I will keep tonight's post short and hit the hay early. I advise all of you to do the same, unless you voted early, which to me just doesn't make any sense. I can't even really explain why, but early voting infuriates me to no end. I've lost friends over it. No joke.

If I can afford a few pieces of advice for this election, I would recommend against voting Libertarian or Constitution Party. Those guys are a little too radical for me. While you're at it, stay away from the Democrats and the Republicans too. Independents -- go for it. Light that shit up. Oh, and the Greens. They're cool. Vote Green Party too.

I'll leave you all with this anecdote, not terribly unrelated to the grand task that we all face tomorrow (unless you voted early -- I-I just don't get it).

A few weeks ago, I had this dream about Halloween. Now, I should say that I try not to write about dreams -- or rather, I try not to publish writings on my dreams. There are too many ways to read into it, plus I feel so much is lost from the actual experience of dreaming that the piece just falls flat. This one though, is funny, and there aren't a whole lot of ways to psychoanalyze it.

I am attending a Halloween party as independent vice presidential candidate Matt Gonzalez. My wing man at this party is Ralph Nader. Not a friend of mine going as Ralph Nader, but Ralph Nader himself. Going to a Halloween party as Ralph Nader. I think this aspect stays fairly true to life, as I can't image Ralph wasting time on a costume. He has bigger fish to fry.

Ralph and I walk into a room, somewhat dorm-like, with a futon on one side and a lofted bed on the other. Ralph finds some space on the futon between co-eds: to his left, a sexy angel and a sexy nurse; to his right, a ghostbuster. He appears very tired and I can see he doesn't plan on being very social tonight. Rather, he'd just like to rest a bit on the couch. I make my way over to the keg in the corner, fill up a beer for myself. None for Ralph though. He's not drinking tonight.

As all the futon space is occupied, I climb on top of the lofted bed, rest my feet on the ladder. I realize I don't know anyone at the party and in much a dreamlike fashion wonder what it is I'm doing here.

Someone standing in the corner, a greaser, yells up at me: 'Hey who are you supposed to be?'

'I'm Matt Gonzalez,' I say, 'Ralph Nader's running mate.'

'Oh yeah? How do feel about Afghanistan, Matt?' He lets out a deep laugh and most everyone else follows suit.

After it subsides I say, 'Well, why don't you ask Ralph Nader?'

As if poked by a cattle prod, Ralph sits bolt upright, begins gesticulating wildly. 'The criminal war in Afghanistan is unconstitutional and should be aborted at all costs. Nader/Gonzalez -- and you can read all about this on our web site, votenader.org -- advocates a six month withdrawal of our troops and increased humanitarian aid and U.N. sanctioned elections.'

The room grew quiet. Ralph was just getting warmed up.

* * *

I hope Ralph still has some gas left in the tank after this election. I'd like to think he is still getting warmed up.

NaBloPoMo Revisited

2008-11-02T23:48:00.005-05:00

It is National Blog Posting Month once more. Stubble is sprouting from my chin and cheeks and the space between my nose and mouth. National Blog Posting Month equals National Beard Growing Month. A simple equation to remember: NaBloPoMo = NaBeGroMo. I apologize to my girlfriend Alex, for Lord knows she hates my participation in NaBeGroMo. As far as I know, she’s okay with the blog posting part. In case anyone missed it last year, my beard was a disaster (my blog too), and I can understand where she’s coming from. I may even tend to agree. Still, you can’t have one without the other. If I am to be posting every night, then I must let the facial hair grow untended, like the Free Market, though NOMENCLATURE would refuse any bailout offered.

Most of the day yesterday was spend finalizing the mammoth Election Special below – the pilot, as it were, for NaBloPoMo. This was done in conjunction with Charles Parsons of Let’s Work with Orphans. For the afternoon, Charlie and I chatted about revisions and progress via gChat, unless my question was too complicated for instant messaging, in which case I called him. It felt a lot like my job, except a much more fun version of my job.

If you have yet to tackle our voting guide (summary: vote Nader), I suggest doing so. Even if you have already voted or decided upon your candidate, give it a glance. You might learn something.

Last night, around 2:30 a.m., we reverted back one hour for Daylight Savings Time. This night always affords one hour out of the ordinary. You may or may not recall my night last year. This DST night was slightly lower-key, but memorable nonetheless. Mike Sokol, Alex, and I met up at the Great Lakes Brewery to sample some of their Christmas Ale, newly on tap. Despite the ensuing hour of DST gratitude, we were very rudely ousted from the place around 12:30. One of Cleveland’s finest stood at the top of the stairs to the basement pub and yelled at everyone to hurry up, finish, and go get some DUIs.

Mike Sokol, visibly irritated by the push from John Q. Law, flagged down a barkeep.

‘What’s up with the yelling?’ Mike asked. ‘Is that guy always such a dick?’

‘No,’ said the leggy bar mistress, ‘he’s only here for special events. Plus, Christmas Ale turns everyone into a hot mess.’

‘Whatev,’ Mike said.

She smiled and left. We drained the last of our pints and exited likewise, sans smiles.

On the way to Mike’s truck, we discussed the rapid rise of the phrase ‘hot mess.’

‘It’s really the phrase of the minute,’ I said.

‘Yeah, pretty much everyone uses that,’ said Alex.

‘I never really noticed,’ said Mike.

I said that it is time for a new phrase, something to articulate the era of HOPE that Obama is sure to usher in.

‘Shiny Silver Dollar,’ I said. My ale-buzzed tongue slurred the syllables.

‘That’s fucking stupid,’ Mike said. ‘Terrible phrase.’

‘Shiny Silver Dollar,’ Alex said. She giggled.

‘It’s all about hope,’ I said.

We made our way home with Mike piloting his truck a good 20 mph over the speed limit at all times. The ride was slightly nauseating, but I have to admit we made great time. A few ‘brew-dawgs’ (Mike Sokol nomenclature for ‘beers’) later found Mike and I standing before the shift from Eastern Daylight to Eastern Standard Times. The hour between 2:30 and 3:30 (really, between 2:30 and 2:30 after you turn the clocks back) is for grand ideas.

Mike talked about a potential job offering at a nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania. I voiced my distrust of nuclear power, and spoke about the safety risks and the long-term affects on the environment. I advocated to Mike the implementation of renewable energy like wind and solar.

Mike Sokol, realist, said that nuclear, if properly regulated, provided a cleaner and more efficient output than traditional fossil fuels. The energy needs of this country could not be quenched by wind and solar alone. The debate was spirited for some time, and though neither side won, I would say that both of us were opened up to a different way of thinking in that department.

Naturally, the conversation shifted to the military budget. I think we all know where I stand there (see Nader post below). Mike left around 4:30, factoring in the hour gained. The clocks still flashed 5:30. I passed out beside Alex, awoke this morning at 2:30. I was startled that I had slept in so late, then became relieved to learn that it was really only 1:30.