Making Grandpa proud.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Lurking
Yes, I have. But, like the creaky floor in the loft in which I am squatting, downstairs neighbors are well aware of my presence as I rouse to use the facilities.
I go home today, the real one (for now), a piece of my heart having arrived sometime last Saturday. It has been an adventure of reflection, which can be exciting in its own right, don't you know. I have learned a few things:
Playing nice can be stifling, just as playing cautiously is not as rewarding as it can be.
This virtual world is not as serious as the feeling of solitude it engenders. Hugs are better.
Contradictions and obliquities (yes, I made up the word) are part of my parcel. Then there is the screaming back to earth.
I made good money. I slept poorly.
I held back tears while others did not.
I acted like a drunkard while dead sober. And spoke of death with one suffering from his last binge.
And I have pictures. Lots of pictures.
Until then,
I go home today, the real one (for now), a piece of my heart having arrived sometime last Saturday. It has been an adventure of reflection, which can be exciting in its own right, don't you know. I have learned a few things:
Playing nice can be stifling, just as playing cautiously is not as rewarding as it can be.
This virtual world is not as serious as the feeling of solitude it engenders. Hugs are better.
Contradictions and obliquities (yes, I made up the word) are part of my parcel. Then there is the screaming back to earth.
I made good money. I slept poorly.
I held back tears while others did not.
I acted like a drunkard while dead sober. And spoke of death with one suffering from his last binge.
And I have pictures. Lots of pictures.
Until then,
Friday, November 27, 2009
Til Thursday, my friends
DW and DD (daughter) head to their respective coasts tomorrow. I hit the road with DM for a few days then return for one more peek at the infant grandson (DIG) before heading home to the animules and a kiss at the door. Until then I will be sans internet. Notebook and camera will be in tow.
Be groovy, y'all.
Be groovy, y'all.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Watching
I was waiting, which makes for great watching. In that it was at the airport, it was even better. A young man approached, slicked down hair, jeans and hoodie, and asked a neighbor waiter if he might have an extra smoke.
The young man had a look about him, one I had seen before: furtive, figuring, running the numbers. He smoked the bummed cig with some urgency, and with his free hand practiced rolling a quarter over its knuckles.
He played. I just knew he played. He just hadn't gotten it down yet, is all.
The young man had a look about him, one I had seen before: furtive, figuring, running the numbers. He smoked the bummed cig with some urgency, and with his free hand practiced rolling a quarter over its knuckles.
He played. I just knew he played. He just hadn't gotten it down yet, is all.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
More "In the Old 'Hood"
So, no, this place isn't home again, nor did we expect it to be, having willingly left six years ago. We had our fill back then, and it doesn't take much to top it off on a return. DW and I both enjoy seeing a few old friends, and then there is family. These are the things that keep s coming back; little else.
We are staying in a neighborhood that is very familiar to us. It is the neighborhood where we lived, met, dated, and fell in love. We ung out in the independently owned coffeeshops, danced until 4 am in the clubs, and ate tamales from the street vendors. But even back then things were changing, and even though we didn't care to face it at the time, our early presence in the neighborhood was bringing about the eventual gentrification. It was a neighborhood artists could afford to rent in, and since artists lived in the neighborhood, it became the hip place to live. The demand made rent prices increase, artists moved out in search of cheap rent, rinse and repeat in the next neighborhood over. Eventually, artists learned that to stop the cycle, they had to beg, borrow and steal enough money for a down payment, buy a building in the next neighborhood, wait for the suits to move into the area, sell the building to them for five times the original purchase price, and move out of the city with the proceeds. Artists don't make money from art; they make it in real estate. (More on this in the future.)
So, now, instead of five panhandlers on the main six-corners, there's is one. Most of the bodegas and taco stands are gone, as are the druggies and gangbangers. The are replaced by fancy restaurants, valet parking attendants and little combo coffeshop/wine store/green grocers.
The kids needed some groceries today, so I went into one of the latter establishments today. It was three blocks from the place DW and I met. She lived on the second floor, I lived on the third. The neighborhood was run by the Cobras to the north of us, and by the Mob to the south. Both stayed out of each others' way, yet the Cobras had to contend with other gangs, and as a consequence, there was often gunfire right outside of our building. More than once I had to corral my children into my daughter's bedroom, the only room that didn't have windows exposed to the street.
The woman who waited on me today at the store commented on my ball cap. I was wearing my "Dead Guy" hat. "Is that from Rogue Brewing?"
"Yes, or a latent wish."
"Or, a 'don't mess with me unless...' hat."
"Well, I suppose there is a little of that left in me. Twenty years ago I lived three blocks north of here." I wanted to reclaim a bit of what used to be.
"Quite a bit different back then."
Yes. Even the graffitti has changed. No more gang symbols or cartoon figures with doobie in hand. The taggers speak to the new residents:
We are staying in a neighborhood that is very familiar to us. It is the neighborhood where we lived, met, dated, and fell in love. We ung out in the independently owned coffeeshops, danced until 4 am in the clubs, and ate tamales from the street vendors. But even back then things were changing, and even though we didn't care to face it at the time, our early presence in the neighborhood was bringing about the eventual gentrification. It was a neighborhood artists could afford to rent in, and since artists lived in the neighborhood, it became the hip place to live. The demand made rent prices increase, artists moved out in search of cheap rent, rinse and repeat in the next neighborhood over. Eventually, artists learned that to stop the cycle, they had to beg, borrow and steal enough money for a down payment, buy a building in the next neighborhood, wait for the suits to move into the area, sell the building to them for five times the original purchase price, and move out of the city with the proceeds. Artists don't make money from art; they make it in real estate. (More on this in the future.)
So, now, instead of five panhandlers on the main six-corners, there's is one. Most of the bodegas and taco stands are gone, as are the druggies and gangbangers. The are replaced by fancy restaurants, valet parking attendants and little combo coffeshop/wine store/green grocers.
The kids needed some groceries today, so I went into one of the latter establishments today. It was three blocks from the place DW and I met. She lived on the second floor, I lived on the third. The neighborhood was run by the Cobras to the north of us, and by the Mob to the south. Both stayed out of each others' way, yet the Cobras had to contend with other gangs, and as a consequence, there was often gunfire right outside of our building. More than once I had to corral my children into my daughter's bedroom, the only room that didn't have windows exposed to the street.
The woman who waited on me today at the store commented on my ball cap. I was wearing my "Dead Guy" hat. "Is that from Rogue Brewing?"
"Yes, or a latent wish."
"Or, a 'don't mess with me unless...' hat."
"Well, I suppose there is a little of that left in me. Twenty years ago I lived three blocks north of here." I wanted to reclaim a bit of what used to be.
"Quite a bit different back then."
Yes. Even the graffitti has changed. No more gang symbols or cartoon figures with doobie in hand. The taggers speak to the new residents:
The malaise of entitlement.
The ethereal 187.
Gotta love this.
In the old days taggers would write and draw over or rivals work to claim and relcaim territory. Now, they leave comments.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Setting the scene
There are leaves on the ground, some remain in the trees. Flowers here and there, but mostly dead or sleeping. Geese just flew overhead, but that doesn't mean anything for they're everywhere nowadays.
It amazes me that I lived in this city for nearly twenty years. In six short years much of what I knew is gone, replaced by banks and Starbucks and hip clothing stores. Community Service workers clean the streets for another night of littering.
The bed sucks. The train runs every ten minutes not 100 feet from the window. The folks staying upstairs have a toddler who likes to run the length of the flat and bang on the piano at 0630.
The water tastes funny.
It amazes me that I lived in this city for nearly twenty years. In six short years much of what I knew is gone, replaced by banks and Starbucks and hip clothing stores. Community Service workers clean the streets for another night of littering.
The bed sucks. The train runs every ten minutes not 100 feet from the window. The folks staying upstairs have a toddler who likes to run the length of the flat and bang on the piano at 0630.
The water tastes funny.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Warning!
This blog may become all about Baby in the next few days (thanks again for all of the kind words), if I post at all. Taking my camera to Illinois with a 4 gig card and lots of batteries. My DM wants me to accompany her to a slot tourney, so I may get a little time at a live table. At the very least, in ten or eleven days there might be an über post a la Iggy's constant tease.
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