"Someone Saved my Life tonight."
A truck passes leaving a muffled, quiet rumbling in its wake. In five seconds the void returns and the lyrics drift in through the slatted glass window.
"someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life tonight."
In looking out over the night covered streets the song comes from nowhere. The courtyard below, and the corner grocer parking lot, are empty. Cars pass occasionally and temporarily burning after images in the empty corner with their headligts - but here, on 17th and Ocean Park, Santa Monica is asleep save for Elton John's pleading voice. This is when and how the city block sings out loud when it believes no one is listening.
"Someone saved my life tonight."
While inside one of the many apartments, the Latin Playboys are on an indefinite loop with the song "Crayon Sun" stating "This is what I am. This is what I am."
The neighbors in my building have in past and or present represented many unique points on the nations vast demographic scales. Criminals, a published Christian essayist, Korean school girls, parents, a septa or octagenarian, multiple visual effects professionals, caucasians, African Americans, mixed race couples, writers, visual artists, teens, forty year olds, mustaches, gray hairs, transients and long-timers. Not everyone gets along but at least people don't fight with each other in shouting matches. Sometimes a tv is played too loud, or sex is had at volume eleven, at one in the morning. Homeless people are invited around by one resident who has once gone so far as to make a lobster dinner for his homeless acquaitance and deliver it with some beers and served on top of a garbage bin next to the laundromat. Regardless of day or night, the bitter, and sometimes acrid, stench of wacky-tobacky lingers in the open air halways, just outside apartment windows. On some nights, random strangers stand in the dark alley with the tiny cords coming from their ears. Their eyes are often lowered as usually they desire to avoid direct eye contact. One person wore a hoody, stood completely in shadow against the day care hedges. This warranted a call to the police of suspicious activity. Of the weekly or monthly craziness that happens on my block, some of which starts in my apartment building, nothing was more scary or absurd than the resident who was hauled off to jail for human trafficking. We never learned where he was keeping the trafficked humans, but it wasn't in our apartment complex. This was over a year ago and there's been no similar trouble since.
Tonight though it's quiet as the city sings "someone saved my life tonight" and one apartment quietly replies "this is what I am."
Showing posts with label apartment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apartment. Show all posts
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, October 16, 2011
An Apartment Tour
A viewing of my apartment is long overdue. For over a year I have
referred to it in many forms from the modestly self-deprecating
"improbably small" to the more sarcastically self-deprecating "I just
found a shoebox. This will make a great lean-to." Of course, when a
worldly view is taken, my apartment is described modestly as "not that
bad" and when seen against the most ravaged areas of the world it is
described with blunt vulgarity as "pretty fcking good" or as described
with a rated G vernacular "a king's palace." While not all of these
descriptions are correct they do all give a nod to it's relative place
in the world and I hope with whimsy or humor.
I've given the topic of displaying my apartment great thought. Do I display the inherent glitz or glamour of living in LA, which is missing from my apartment? Perhaps I showcase the with an artistic air only an illustrator / programmer could. Maybe, a nod to the great mystery novelists of Los Angeles, Raymond Chandler and James Ellroy, is in order. I've decided on an amalgam of the last two. What follows are photos in the style of artistic mystery. All photos were taken using low light to enhance the thrilling excitement found in a good mystery novel, with avant-garde compositions to reflect my artistic nature. This exciting expose was shot at night with the lights off.
The first image in the series is taken at night with the lights off. Notice the slanted perspective, the daring contrapasto of line and shape. Is that a shadowy figure lurking with ne'er a thought of charity? Or is it the top of my bunk showcasing a new, softwood portable shelf I designed? It's the shelf of course! It's hard to see in this photo but the shelf and feet of the shelf were joined with handmade dowels. The shelf has yet to be finished, but already the quality of a solid 4" x 10" x 2' board can be appreciated.
This second picture adds further mystery with an ominous red light. It's placing is daringly off center creating a heightened anxiety to an already riveting composition. The light draws the viewer in forcing him or her to ask "Is that a laser sight for a sniper rifle? Is the picture's hero figure about to be iced by a government conspirator?"
No! That's a picture of the smoke detector inside my apartment at night with the lights off. The red light means you know it's working.
The third picture is dark, smokey, filled with a dread foreboding brought to silently thrilling life by the silent juxtaposition of decanted angles and bold chiaroscuro. The viewer is often heard thinking silently to herself: "Oh god! what fell thug waits in the shadows just beyond the door?" The answer?
Why just to the left of the door is a framed series of etchings tastefully framed. If you look closely to the right of the door, you'll see custom made blackout curtains adding to the ambience of a photo taken at night with the lights off.
This last photo required me to really stop down to f64 and focus on resculpting the available light to describe a haunted scene. The lens choice was a prime with post-expressionist tendencies creating veritable Manet zeitgeist.
Monday, July 6, 2009
I Moved Again
::Mandatory Preamble::
The events discussed in this moving journal relate to both moving and of tidings unfortunate. If you find yourself in a mood unprepared, or unwilling, to digest a spot of sadness then I recommend you put this down and come back later - at a time more suitable. I believe in laughter and make light, as much as possible, of events that are otherwise. I do this as a choice and not to be obnoxious (however, if you knew me as a 7 year old with a dinosaur jokebook you might easily believe that being obnoxious is second-nature). Finding something positive in things negative is what I try to do. So, this journal is dedicated to the notion: if it's not a comedy, you might still be able to salvage it as a dramady.
Oh, and of course... if you're happier to be without these e-mails then let me know and I can revise the mailing list. Conversely, if you haven't received this e-mail and would like to receive future messages I will be happy to amend the mailing list.
Things to Ponder...
When living Life, one has chance to ponder many things. Some things to ponder are frivolous, which is not to say unimportant: can I still eat tacos after they've been fire cooked; can I fit that whole cookie in my mouth, at once; Is buying a Nintendo Wii an acceptable expenditure after a break-up? Of course some things pondered bring to mind serious health risks or ring eerily of the lesser adventures of Scully and Mulder: what Is in my sink that, when dishes are left in it for a while, manages to Etch glass permanently? Should I be showering in the water that comes from the same source as the mysterious glass-etching sink water? Is it just the sink bacteria from dirty dishes left out longer than publicly acceptable that etches the glass of my dishware? Is that thing I just squished really a spider or is more like a light-armor plated tick crawling up my torso? Then, with any life, come the tasks for which there is no room to ponder and yet I find myself pondering upon anyway: Do I really have to start packing my apartment? Can't I train the boxes to pack and move themselves? Should I turn the gas utility on at my house before or after I move in? Invariably we find the answers to be roughly as we thought: no; yes; yes; no one knows because it seems to only happen to me; I'd rather not know but maybe someone reading this will have a better answer for me; see previous answer; armor-plated tick (I think); yes; no; before, if I want hot showers in my first week of moving. Then there are the questions of purpose and pedigree and other p's of portent: What is best in Life? I believe Conan said it best... To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women as you stuff whole cookies in your mouth. Nom nom nom...
The events discussed in this moving journal relate to both moving and of tidings unfortunate. If you find yourself in a mood unprepared, or unwilling, to digest a spot of sadness then I recommend you put this down and come back later - at a time more suitable. I believe in laughter and make light, as much as possible, of events that are otherwise. I do this as a choice and not to be obnoxious (however, if you knew me as a 7 year old with a dinosaur jokebook you might easily believe that being obnoxious is second-nature). Finding something positive in things negative is what I try to do. So, this journal is dedicated to the notion: if it's not a comedy, you might still be able to salvage it as a dramady.
Oh, and of course... if you're happier to be without these e-mails then let me know and I can revise the mailing list. Conversely, if you haven't received this e-mail and would like to receive future messages I will be happy to amend the mailing list.
Things to Ponder...
When living Life, one has chance to ponder many things. Some things to ponder are frivolous, which is not to say unimportant: can I still eat tacos after they've been fire cooked; can I fit that whole cookie in my mouth, at once; Is buying a Nintendo Wii an acceptable expenditure after a break-up? Of course some things pondered bring to mind serious health risks or ring eerily of the lesser adventures of Scully and Mulder: what Is in my sink that, when dishes are left in it for a while, manages to Etch glass permanently? Should I be showering in the water that comes from the same source as the mysterious glass-etching sink water? Is it just the sink bacteria from dirty dishes left out longer than publicly acceptable that etches the glass of my dishware? Is that thing I just squished really a spider or is more like a light-armor plated tick crawling up my torso? Then, with any life, come the tasks for which there is no room to ponder and yet I find myself pondering upon anyway: Do I really have to start packing my apartment? Can't I train the boxes to pack and move themselves? Should I turn the gas utility on at my house before or after I move in? Invariably we find the answers to be roughly as we thought: no; yes; yes; no one knows because it seems to only happen to me; I'd rather not know but maybe someone reading this will have a better answer for me; see previous answer; armor-plated tick (I think); yes; no; before, if I want hot showers in my first week of moving. Then there are the questions of purpose and pedigree and other p's of portent: What is best in Life? I believe Conan said it best... To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women as you stuff whole cookies in your mouth. Nom nom nom...
Moving...
The first year of graduate school has ended and only one totally haiku e-mail was sent. Let us give thanks. Oh, first things first. I have moved. My new address is:
(my privacy clause in my blogger contract prohibits the releasing of this data...)For those counting, this marks legal residence number 17 in as many years. My current nesting fantasies center around staying at one address for 2 years or more. Oh, and whenever I walk through certain sections of Target I can't help but think I need throw pillows for my futon. Throw pillows, really? In the middle of one of the very intense nesting urges I called a friend out in California for a little anti-shopping therapy. I don't need throw pillows. I truly do not. They serve no purpose. And yet I can't help admit that they sure would add a nice accent to the living room. Ugh... If you'r reading this, you may receive random calls from me asking for your assistance to guide me away from the "Home Interiors" section at Target. (my thanks for Mr. Mack's voicemail for being the first to take this hit)
But... back to the new house. The current location is ab-fab (minus the ants longer than my thumbnail and the abundance of spiders and the mowing). It's a two bedroom house with a garage, washer/dryer, central air, roof, driveway, clothesline (in olden days, that harken back to tymes when people visited ye olde shoppe and Dickens was a fast-paced novelist, people used to dry their clothes on long hemp-cords that hung outside of their homes where little sun-particles magically mated with the water particles causing them to leave my clothes), recycling, nicely painted walls, front AND back yards. It's a nice place, very homey. It's no larger than the previous apartment but it is free of domestic abuse neighbors, leathery-skinned old men driving lawnmowers attached to chairs, and the old landlord. Of course, there's the reduction in energy costs promised on this new home that make the move very appealing.
But... back to the new house. The current location is ab-fab (minus the ants longer than my thumbnail and the abundance of spiders and the mowing). It's a two bedroom house with a garage, washer/dryer, central air, roof, driveway, clothesline (in olden days, that harken back to tymes when people visited ye olde shoppe and Dickens was a fast-paced novelist, people used to dry their clothes on long hemp-cords that hung outside of their homes where little sun-particles magically mated with the water particles causing them to leave my clothes), recycling, nicely painted walls, front AND back yards. It's a nice place, very homey. It's no larger than the previous apartment but it is free of domestic abuse neighbors, leathery-skinned old men driving lawnmowers attached to chairs, and the old landlord. Of course, there's the reduction in energy costs promised on this new home that make the move very appealing.
I moved about 3 weeks ago now. Most everything is still in boxes. Calculus (summer school) and my new Nintendo Wii seem to take some prime daily schedule real-estate.
After a Break-Up... If it's not a comedy, you might still be able to salvage it as a dramady.
Life after a break-up is complicated. This complication arises from the immediate lack of complications that are present when dating ends. Now I'm forced to find new ways to occupy my time. Did I mention calculus and the Wii? Putting Life back together after such a dramatic event finds me celebrating the little victories all over again. For instance, just the other day I folded my clothes. What else happens after a break-up?
Let me tell you about the virtues of random crying. First, your friends love it. Imagine a quiet Middle-Eastern bistro set to the peaceful backdrop of redneck central, with 4x4 dualie pick-up trucks growling blackened smoke from their custom dual exhaust pipes pointing up to the great fume absorption sponge in the sky, our ozone. Set in this bistro, where red sauce smells quite sharply of Chef Boyardee and the waitress has never played a game of Memory in her life, your friends will look upon your crying over a break-up as emotionally machismo and daring to brave the socially awkward gaps in conversation with random and scathing comments about engagement rings and commitment. Ne'er will your locally grown friends chide you for this behavior that was once thought to be girlish. This is a new time, and you're a new man breaking gender barriers at speeds greater than the sonic boom of the break-up itself. The woman's movement adores you for bringing a fresh blend of nambypambyism to today's modern male.
Oh, and you find spaces on your bed that you hadn't discovered since the last time you were single. Once again... the bed is the right size.
Oh, and you find spaces on your bed that you hadn't discovered since the last time you were single. Once again... the bed is the right size.
17m:36s of eau du grammont...
A conversation with a supportive gramma is an ameliorating experience (thanks to Ms. Kubo for helping me study those big words). When breaking up, much is in turmoil. Physical habits, day-to-day habits, emotional and even spiritual habits are altered or affected by the presence of someone, and then again through the immediate removal of that person's presence. Reminders of that time are everywhere and can sneak to the deepest feelings in our bodies; mine sneaks to the center of my chest. That feeling finds it way to the center. It takes root, and as alarm-clocks are irritating reminders that it is time to leave bliss, so too are those rooted feelings. Every altered habit triggers that alarm-clock. Every stupid song on the radio. It's so easy to learn sadness in a hyper-romantically-aware culture. There are two cures to these blues: 1) comedy (of the non-romantic nature) and 2) eau du grammont.
When comedy is the cure, my antidotes are "The Lonely Island," "Lego Batman," and "Flight of the Concords." Be warned now... NO SONG on the Lonely Island album is safe for work (and that's one main reason it is hilarious) or safe for mother's or grandmothers. The second cure, seems to be 17minutes and 36seconds of Gramma.
Sometimes a Gramma is just thing I need to pick me up when I'm feeling blue. I've tried, for a few days now, to find ways to best describe Gramma. Is it her voice, her grace, her general Southern charm all mixed with a hint of the frenetic and wild-eyed artist? It occurs to me then the best way to describe Gramma, aka. The G-Ster, is through food and charm. Imagine a Rube-Goldberg assembly-line contraption that starts with fresh pea-can pie (it's pronounced 'pecan' everywhere outside of Texas). Those pies roll over about 10 feet of airport baggage claim conveyor belt technology where they fall into a large glass distillery. The pea-can pies are smashed with large auxillary hammers and broken down into the smallest particulate construct of pea-can pie, the lesser pea-can pie measureing approximately pi centimeters across. Now the process requires the distillation of the lesser pea-can pie crumbs to the essence of gramma (or... eau du grammont). Add a Texas flag, one brick from the Alamo, and sugar cookies from the bakery at 2411 N. Zarsamora (in San Antonio). Combine these ingredients with the pea-can pie crumbs and voila. You have, in your hand (though I recommend you put it in a bottle first and the hold it because its a liquid and it'll get all over your hands and then people will wonder why you talk like my gramma and that would be a hard one to explain... trust me) eau du grammont. So, what that fantastically distracting metaphor alludes to is, though I'm sure it was totally obvious already, that I love Gramma. After 17 minutes and 36 seconds of talking to her, she made me feel like a million bucks. If you ever need a self-esteem boost, just call my Gramma (1-800-THATS-MY-GRAMMA). She'll hook you up yo.
It's Time to Put Those Things Aside...
I was going to take this space to write about an interesting, informative and hopefully inspirational conversation I had with a student a few months ago. He was failing my class through what appeared to be a practice of over-extending himself with a plethora of commitments. He was calling it quits on my class before the class itself ended. He hadn't taken the final, nor had the due-dates passed for several important assignments. He carried with him deep grief and regret about not doing more to excel in my class and apologized to me personally for his lackluster behavior. Shame and guilt were his companions and I could see them resting heavy on his brow. It saddened me to see this. Though I try not to be emotional with students, his guilt and his shame have very much been my own throughout much of my Life and so I could relate to his heavy head: guilt, regret and shame over heights not achieved and over hurt-feelings caused along the way. Because his companions are my companions too, I asked him if he might take the time to set aside shame and guilt. I asked this of him because I know that shame and guilt never solve a problem. They have never helped me pass a course and it was very clear they were not helping him. I told him that these feelings will always be there when he wants to visit them and that if he puts them down for a bit (to pass my class) he can puck them up again when the work is done. Nothing will be missing and nothing will be taken from him, not even shame and regret. So as I read the title of this section I think of the engagement ring that sits in a box, on a shelf. And I still don't know when the time will be to put that aside.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Now in Haikus
Hello everyone.
In an effort to thank you for your time and attention I believe it is necessary to reward the reader (that's you). Sometimes rewards come in the form of large, fat cash payouts sometimes in the size of $20million (US). Sometimes the rewards can be less extravagant. I've decided to stop writing your checks for $20 (US) and am instead changing the format of today's moving / grad school journal. I am writing today's journal in haiku form. I think you'll find that these autobiographical haikus are worth more than your checks for $2 (US). I think it best to keep in the tradition of the haiku format specifically as they relate to philosophical musings about nature and hardships. The haiku format gives a spiritual compass for the intended subjects by painting words with a broad brush providing you with the opportunity to ponder the minutiae minutae minuatia mininininin of the moment.
I journal maker
The writing esta bueno
Welcome to hiakus
Dodge Jeep strong like bull
Transmission of demon spawn
Vroom-vroom crash, tear drop
Chicago road trips
Windy skies and snowy fields
….ummm...
Enjoy this haiku
Teach computer class
Grades like ice flower in sky
Why students exist?
Apartment so cold
Why landlord no fix heater?
Tiny spring flower
I watch Olberman
Heat bill three hundred dollars
Tiny flower wilts
Landlord is missing
I see though he did one thing
Weather stripped screen door
I write graphics code
Artist is now code monkey
Hoar frost grows in ears
It’s now 2 a.m.
Code shimmers, waves like mirage
Damn the blue screen death
Hello Lafayette
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Die pretty flower
Spring Break with Girlfriend
School Conference with Free Travel
Crap.
Stands tall with presence
Kendo practice good for soul
Students now half off
Drip drop ceiling wet
Landlord make roofing repair
Fix ceiling later
Ceiling now have holes
Frozen air pours from baseboards
Where is sealing foam?
Must make finance books
Desperate blackness eats soul
Small flower is broke
“Zak and Dakota”
Bring old project into school
Can I have money?
Crazy professor
“That’s hard like hell!” says teacher
Rose blossom on leaf
Homework due Friday
Dear God, will it ever end?
Needs more horsepower
Mutter’s Apple Pie
Her Gramma bakes a fine treat
Word to yer Mutter
Thank You,
Andrew Britton
In an effort to thank you for your time and attention I believe it is necessary to reward the reader (that's you). Sometimes rewards come in the form of large, fat cash payouts sometimes in the size of $20million (US). Sometimes the rewards can be less extravagant. I've decided to stop writing your checks for $20 (US) and am instead changing the format of today's moving / grad school journal. I am writing today's journal in haiku form. I think you'll find that these autobiographical haikus are worth more than your checks for $2 (US). I think it best to keep in the tradition of the haiku format specifically as they relate to philosophical musings about nature and hardships. The haiku format gives a spiritual compass for the intended subjects by painting words with a broad brush providing you with the opportunity to ponder the minutiae minutae minuatia mininininin of the moment.
I journal maker
The writing esta bueno
Welcome to hiakus
Dodge Jeep strong like bull
Transmission of demon spawn
Vroom-vroom crash, tear drop
Chicago road trips
Windy skies and snowy fields
….ummm...
Enjoy this haiku
Teach computer class
Grades like ice flower in sky
Why students exist?
Apartment so cold
Why landlord no fix heater?
Tiny spring flower
I watch Olberman
Heat bill three hundred dollars
Tiny flower wilts
Landlord is missing
I see though he did one thing
Weather stripped screen door
I write graphics code
Artist is now code monkey
Hoar frost grows in ears
It’s now 2 a.m.
Code shimmers, waves like mirage
Damn the blue screen death
Hello Lafayette
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Die pretty flower
Spring Break with Girlfriend
School Conference with Free Travel
Crap.
Stands tall with presence
Kendo practice good for soul
Students now half off
Drip drop ceiling wet
Landlord make roofing repair
Fix ceiling later
Ceiling now have holes
Frozen air pours from baseboards
Where is sealing foam?
Must make finance books
Desperate blackness eats soul
Small flower is broke
“Zak and Dakota”
Bring old project into school
Can I have money?
Crazy professor
“That’s hard like hell!” says teacher
Rose blossom on leaf
Homework due Friday
Dear God, will it ever end?
Needs more horsepower
Mutter’s Apple Pie
Her Gramma bakes a fine treat
Word to yer Mutter
Thank You,
Andrew Britton
Friday, February 20, 2009
2008: A Year in Review
It's often best to get right to the point, to get right to the heart of the matter. Today's journal will get right to the heart of the matter through clear obfuscation. In short: I am a Japanese Power Ranger.
The holidays, the previous summer, and the semester's end have brought many confusions: learning statistics (wait till I tell you my final grade... hello nervous anticipation), navigating safe passage through Love, a first semester at University, moving to the Midwest, living again in the Midwest, The impermanent and vaguely unattainable Hope of Straight A's, two dead cats, one irritating police officer, random rudeness and the mistaken identity as a vagrant, an ill-professor and his extra workload, travel, grading, test-writing, students who beg, ailing automobiles, ill-timed NSF deadlines, money, self-identity inquiries and I-65.
4.0...
It is over. The semester hath ended. With an extreme fury - like that of Zeus fathering a child who turned out to be the illegitimate lustful offspring between Cronos, Boetis (a famed she-goat known for her in-depth knowledge of manual transmissions and all things relating to horse-power) and Elmus (a lesser Muppoid of the house Sesamete) - the semester wrought great havoc upon my Life. Last semester Severely harshed my mellow man. Through the thick and thin of it all I managed a feat previously unattainable by my mortal hands... for the first time ever, dating as far back 42 bce, I earned the famed, the coveted, the oft-sought and rarely discovered, the pinnacle for the house of reformed slackerdom, the non-trivial proof that maturity has finally latched its spindly tentacles into my cerebrainium... Yes... I say clearly to all who read this (thanks mom), I have, on record, as documented by the school of Purdue University, through no coercion or subterfuge of my own, and achieved, while maintaining academic integrity, a 4.0 for the semester.
Thank You.
Two Dead Cats...
Lafayette will always be a bizarre place for me. I feel very much as an alien in visit. I observe, make judgements and generally avoid too much interaction. It's not as if I'm anti-social. No one around here would claim that of me. It's more that I hope to make this visit impermanent. Y'know, so it won't be permanent. Last semester greeted me with a plethora of surprises, some of those surprises were even welcome. Of the set of welcome surprises, the two dead cats are not included. The first little kitty I found in the dumpster behind my apartment. It lay motionless inside a plastic grocery bag. Angry and very upset, I called non-emergency police. I wanted to know about the legality of leaving a cat in a bag in a dumpster. This seemed illegal. After inquiring with the police operator I was informed that if the cat has passed then "What else is someone supposed to do with it?" To be fair, she did inquire with others to ascertain the legality of this practice. She also informed me that this is one way people get rid of their dead cats. It's very sad to think this is what's become of a cat. I was hoping that maybe the cat would be buried or taken to the vet.
A few months later, I found another cat. This one lay in the street. I pulled it out of the street and onto the curb to keep it from getting run over.
Money? Ha! I'm a grad student now...
Status report... The car: The transmission dies slowly. By the end of last semester it began slipping gears and starting in 2nd. $2200 to rebuild. Monthly electricity costs: November electric bill - $270, December electric bill - $370. The transmission rebuild is being stalled until such time as I can find $2200, not on credit. However, the power bills did have to be paid. What was the landlord's reaction to the electric bills? "That sucks man. I know how it feels. I have $400 in power bills at my house." Maybe, dear landlord, you'd like to look around and see what could be done? "Well, I really don't know what we can do. I guess we can put a piece of insulation that covers your side door." That will be better than nothing. At this time the doors are so poorly spaced from their frames that cold air pours into the apartment. In the beginning of February I'll investigate why my feet are cold when I'm in the office. I will also be amazed, in February, when my power bill for January will $330 while running 3 of 5 of the apartment's baseboard heaters. The bathroom and bedroom heaters will be turned off. By this time in December though, I am sleeping on the floor of my living room because the bedroom is too cold, even with the heater turned on.
Back to the Present Past of December 2008...
Christmas vacation ended. Mom was decorating the house with maroon swatches of fake flowers. In the final moments of said decoration, I jumped at the middle son's obligation to ally a 5 year old's obnoxious sense of humor with a mother's words misconstrued. She, telling the room that had her father fought for the Japanese during WWII (and not the Americans) AND had she been trained in flower arranging then she might have been a Japanese flower arranger. And Me, acting 26 years beneath my physical age and perhaps 2 less then my mental age, asking if my mom was a Japanese Power Ranger.
ps...
I got a 4.0 GPA last semester. That was awesome. And, to be clear... My mom would make an excellent Red Power Ranger. Her martial arts knowledge merging with her legal acumen would thereby produce her own style: Kung Sue.
The holidays, the previous summer, and the semester's end have brought many confusions: learning statistics (wait till I tell you my final grade... hello nervous anticipation), navigating safe passage through Love, a first semester at University, moving to the Midwest, living again in the Midwest, The impermanent and vaguely unattainable Hope of Straight A's, two dead cats, one irritating police officer, random rudeness and the mistaken identity as a vagrant, an ill-professor and his extra workload, travel, grading, test-writing, students who beg, ailing automobiles, ill-timed NSF deadlines, money, self-identity inquiries and I-65.
4.0...
It is over. The semester hath ended. With an extreme fury - like that of Zeus fathering a child who turned out to be the illegitimate lustful offspring between Cronos, Boetis (a famed she-goat known for her in-depth knowledge of manual transmissions and all things relating to horse-power) and Elmus (a lesser Muppoid of the house Sesamete) - the semester wrought great havoc upon my Life. Last semester Severely harshed my mellow man. Through the thick and thin of it all I managed a feat previously unattainable by my mortal hands... for the first time ever, dating as far back 42 bce, I earned the famed, the coveted, the oft-sought and rarely discovered, the pinnacle for the house of reformed slackerdom, the non-trivial proof that maturity has finally latched its spindly tentacles into my cerebrainium... Yes... I say clearly to all who read this (thanks mom), I have, on record, as documented by the school of Purdue University, through no coercion or subterfuge of my own, and achieved, while maintaining academic integrity, a 4.0 for the semester.
Thank You.
Two Dead Cats...
Lafayette will always be a bizarre place for me. I feel very much as an alien in visit. I observe, make judgements and generally avoid too much interaction. It's not as if I'm anti-social. No one around here would claim that of me. It's more that I hope to make this visit impermanent. Y'know, so it won't be permanent. Last semester greeted me with a plethora of surprises, some of those surprises were even welcome. Of the set of welcome surprises, the two dead cats are not included. The first little kitty I found in the dumpster behind my apartment. It lay motionless inside a plastic grocery bag. Angry and very upset, I called non-emergency police. I wanted to know about the legality of leaving a cat in a bag in a dumpster. This seemed illegal. After inquiring with the police operator I was informed that if the cat has passed then "What else is someone supposed to do with it?" To be fair, she did inquire with others to ascertain the legality of this practice. She also informed me that this is one way people get rid of their dead cats. It's very sad to think this is what's become of a cat. I was hoping that maybe the cat would be buried or taken to the vet.
A few months later, I found another cat. This one lay in the street. I pulled it out of the street and onto the curb to keep it from getting run over.
Money? Ha! I'm a grad student now...
Status report... The car: The transmission dies slowly. By the end of last semester it began slipping gears and starting in 2nd. $2200 to rebuild. Monthly electricity costs: November electric bill - $270, December electric bill - $370. The transmission rebuild is being stalled until such time as I can find $2200, not on credit. However, the power bills did have to be paid. What was the landlord's reaction to the electric bills? "That sucks man. I know how it feels. I have $400 in power bills at my house." Maybe, dear landlord, you'd like to look around and see what could be done? "Well, I really don't know what we can do. I guess we can put a piece of insulation that covers your side door." That will be better than nothing. At this time the doors are so poorly spaced from their frames that cold air pours into the apartment. In the beginning of February I'll investigate why my feet are cold when I'm in the office. I will also be amazed, in February, when my power bill for January will $330 while running 3 of 5 of the apartment's baseboard heaters. The bathroom and bedroom heaters will be turned off. By this time in December though, I am sleeping on the floor of my living room because the bedroom is too cold, even with the heater turned on.
Back to the Present Past of December 2008...
Christmas vacation ended. Mom was decorating the house with maroon swatches of fake flowers. In the final moments of said decoration, I jumped at the middle son's obligation to ally a 5 year old's obnoxious sense of humor with a mother's words misconstrued. She, telling the room that had her father fought for the Japanese during WWII (and not the Americans) AND had she been trained in flower arranging then she might have been a Japanese flower arranger. And Me, acting 26 years beneath my physical age and perhaps 2 less then my mental age, asking if my mom was a Japanese Power Ranger.
ps...
I got a 4.0 GPA last semester. That was awesome. And, to be clear... My mom would make an excellent Red Power Ranger. Her martial arts knowledge merging with her legal acumen would thereby produce her own style: Kung Sue.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Tacos en el Fuego
This nugget of my culinary acumen is shared because... it is ludicrous. And... as always, if these messages make it through your spam filter and you wish they hadn't, please send $10 restocking fee and a letter to my editor and these e-mails will cease.
Cooking fire...
I enjoy cooking. It brings joy. It is creative and it involves eating. I like eating. Cooking can also be fun when the entrees are given ridiculous names like: Criminally Insane Cashew Chicken or Murder & Mayhem Mongolian Beef. Dishes of such distinguished names are, in my experience, best tasted with a similar visual palette... in front of the TV watching Alfred Hitchcock or "Thriller" (an old hour long thriller, suspense show).
So the other night, I'm trying to prepare a meal. I'll not lie and try to tell you that it was a nice meal. Specifically, it was leftovers: tacos, taco shells, reheated re-fried beans, Mexican rice and broccoli. It went down well the first time I cooked it, so I figured the reheating would do similarly as well. Oh, I forgot the corn-bread. I was busy though so I thought... I'll just reheat everything together. I put the taco meat, the corn bread, the beans & broccoli and the shells all on the same cookie sheet, slid it on the top rack of the oven and set the broiler on High, y'know... to speed things up. I came back to the oven in a few minutes smelling the food from the other room. I approached the oven to to begin feeding my belly and noticedI left the oven light on... or had I?
In a culinary move, straight from the ramen-noodled pages of my undergraduate years, the soul of my food danced in ignition as it moved beyond the corporeal world and into the great beyond, ashes to ashes and tacos to dust. The People's Exhibit A & B provides all the evidence you need to pass judgement on this cooking maverick who buzzed the culinary tower one too many times. In short.. I set my food on fire. The taco shells were burning something wicked as everything else was reaching a nice warming point. I'm a guy... so I acted quickly in the following manner to extinguish the fire:
Cooking fire...
I enjoy cooking. It brings joy. It is creative and it involves eating. I like eating. Cooking can also be fun when the entrees are given ridiculous names like: Criminally Insane Cashew Chicken or Murder & Mayhem Mongolian Beef. Dishes of such distinguished names are, in my experience, best tasted with a similar visual palette... in front of the TV watching Alfred Hitchcock or "Thriller" (an old hour long thriller, suspense show).
So the other night, I'm trying to prepare a meal. I'll not lie and try to tell you that it was a nice meal. Specifically, it was leftovers: tacos, taco shells, reheated re-fried beans, Mexican rice and broccoli. It went down well the first time I cooked it, so I figured the reheating would do similarly as well. Oh, I forgot the corn-bread. I was busy though so I thought... I'll just reheat everything together. I put the taco meat, the corn bread, the beans & broccoli and the shells all on the same cookie sheet, slid it on the top rack of the oven and set the broiler on High, y'know... to speed things up. I came back to the oven in a few minutes smelling the food from the other room. I approached the oven to to begin feeding my belly and noticedI left the oven light on... or had I?
In a culinary move, straight from the ramen-noodled pages of my undergraduate years, the soul of my food danced in ignition as it moved beyond the corporeal world and into the great beyond, ashes to ashes and tacos to dust. The People's Exhibit A & B provides all the evidence you need to pass judgement on this cooking maverick who buzzed the culinary tower one too many times. In short.. I set my food on fire. The taco shells were burning something wicked as everything else was reaching a nice warming point. I'm a guy... so I acted quickly in the following manner to extinguish the fire:
- Assess the true danger of the situation.
- The fire was inside the oven... I'm all good.
- Slide the top rack out a little to get a better look at the fire
- Nod my head slowly and grin widely in clear appreciation
- Think to myself... "I should put the fire out.... but NOT before I get a picture."
- Take a picture of the fire
- E-mail said picture to girlfriend.
- Fill cup with water
- Throw water on burning taco shells
- Try again... because those taco shells were really burning
- Take a picture of the ashes and e-mail that as well.
- Try to eat what wasn't burned
- Realize, after biting into it, that all other food is soggy from water
- Order pizza
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Moving Journal Update... The Graceful Landing
I think it fair at this point to continue journaling until at least one of the following conditions is met:
* Memorable, share-worthy events stop happening
* People stop reading and everyone asks to be taken off the list
* I die
Because none of the above conditions have been met, I will continue to write. Please note though, that if your interest lay only in cross-country driving journals... then read no more. The following fare will bore you beyond lecture and bring tears more than yellow onions, mixed with lemons, being squirt in your eye in a hundred and twenty degree room.... with salt. I know, it sounds pretty bad.... we just wanted to warn you. And by 'we,' I mean I.
The Graceful Landing...
It is important to know at this point in the journey all national travel has stopped and I'm now driving around Lafayette, IN with a 14' U-Haul with a Jeep in tow. So, the economy is Loving me, especially OPEC and BP. For some reason, I chose BP. The only reasons I can give you are:
* I like the green and yellow flower logo
* I used them in FL
* They are well lit
* They are well kept
Oh sure... you may be wondering... "But Andrew? Where are your gasoline purchasing ethics? Why would you choose an international corporate entity peddling Gas to locals? Think Global. Act Local! Are you mad?"
Yes. I am mad. Mad mad mad. I payed those gas bills. I have yet to look fear directly in the face and calculate the total spent on gasoline. Check this box if you think I should total it up:
|-----------|
| |
|-----------|
The Apartment...
So, I found my apartment online via Craig's List. Graig's List. Where the online subsection of humanity still pulses with all the unbridled oddities and peculiarities as we were meant to have. Some sections, you keep away from your children. Some sections, you keep away from your parents. Other sections, you probably don't know about... like the joke section. If you need a good joke, look on Craig's List (This e-mail offers no warranty or guarantee on the quality of any joke found on Craig's List, heretoforeafter known as CL).
My new apartment is of the following address:
(You understand of course I had to remove this privacy reasons)
This apartment is beautiful. I have 12' ceiling. A marble fireplace with a 10'x10' mirror above both in my bedroom. The apartment has 4 doors: The front and back door are both keyed. The side door opens up to one of my porches. The fourth door opens to a 2 foot drop. The back door opens up to my second porch. Some downsides are: the carpet floors in all non-wet areas, no washer / dryer or dishwasher. However, the price for such a fine feast: less than $600/mo.
Would You be My Neighbor?...
So the landlord and I finish up signing the lease. He used to work 10 years for the FBI, in surveillance. He of course thought it very funny to make the joke about his being a professional stalker. I laughed in politeness. Fear, of course, punched my aorta and ripples of anxious ice shot through my veins. I believe my ability to read a human is good. I decided long ago my skills in this area were strong enough to trust them. I trust Mike. He made a funny. I know this because he laughed. I trust Mike because of his actions. Upon our first meeting he drive me around Lafayette pointing out places of interest: BMV (Bureau of Motor Vehicles), The Hope Apartments (a halfway house for recovering addicts... right across the street from my place. And "No, we've never had any crime at this location. There's nothing to worry about."), the auto insurance building, the land his friend bought and renovated into a thriving business area. Mike puts great pride in his renovation of this property and mentions the thanks he's received from local home owners and the local constabulary. The apartment is quirky, bizarre, unique, fun, spacious with great possibility. I'm already picking out paint chips. So, after signing the lease and walking out to view my new street...
The lady and I sit together, peaceful, on the fender of the vehicle transport. The street is quiet. The apartment is completed. Tomorrow, the carpets will be cleaned to strip away the cigarette and wet-dog smell. I sigh, content. I'm taking the sights and smells and feeling minute fibers and tendons relaxing into place after many hard days of work culminate in many jobs done and some of them well. I have a friend at my side and we look at each other and nod approvingly. The air around Tippencanoe Street is sprinkled lovingly with the unmistakable and unforgettable smell of a pig farm. Just then I look to my right side and see sitting at the other shoulder is my friend, and yours, Murphy's Law. A black car pulls up to the front of the beautiful 1870's era duplex. Music thumps regularly and distractingly into the air and into the brain. Murphy's Law chuckles as he bows out from the scene. His eye cocked in irritatingly in that manner that says oh so sickly... "I told you so."
I watch the black car stop. A young man walks out. His white t-shirt is 14 sizes too large for his tall, wiry frame. His hair, bleached and short as is the tradition of the gentleman whose name is on this young man's shirt. I say to my girlfriend: "Look. It's Eminem!" He walks to the other side of my duplex. As he nears the other front door, a woman inhabiting the first floor apartment shouts out:
"Who the f*ck that?!"
I figure of course with proclamations such as this there must be someone else in the car. Clearly this is a lover's quarrell so I have to see who the other girl is. All I can see through the tinted window is someone else's hand. I clearly haven't established the validity of this claim at all, in any way. I did not ask the passenger what his/her intentions were with the driver and if they were honorable. Nor did I ask Slim Shady if he was dating either of the other two parties involved. He climbed the few steps to the front door and replied back to the screamer, the agitated proclaimer...
"Shut Up!"
I say to myself... "Hello Neighbors!" And I think to myself... Not more than 10 minutes ago I signed this lease... Damn...
Of course... one can easily imagine the great conversations we'll have.
"Hey Shady! My name is Whitey McCracker. Would you like to come over and start a knitting circle? We could watch Friends while we knit. Oh... I noticed you have a particular slant to your walk, you should sit up straight when you drive. It's better for your posture you know. You don't want scoliosis. Well, I know you have to take off now and take care of business but maybe you'd like to get some double-mocha-grande-frappucinos sometime. They're super delicious."
As I drove away, wondering if I'd made the right choice about my apartment, some new information about my neighborhood came to light. Somewhere just off Greenbush Ave, I saw shirtless men, about 18-22, fighting each other. One threw an elbow into the other's jaw. An old man watched with a beer in one hand and a nasty dog, on a leash, in the other.
Next time... the BMV and Social Security
With Love and Respect,
Andrew
* Memorable, share-worthy events stop happening
* People stop reading and everyone asks to be taken off the list
* I die
Because none of the above conditions have been met, I will continue to write. Please note though, that if your interest lay only in cross-country driving journals... then read no more. The following fare will bore you beyond lecture and bring tears more than yellow onions, mixed with lemons, being squirt in your eye in a hundred and twenty degree room.... with salt. I know, it sounds pretty bad.... we just wanted to warn you. And by 'we,' I mean I.
The Graceful Landing...
It is important to know at this point in the journey all national travel has stopped and I'm now driving around Lafayette, IN with a 14' U-Haul with a Jeep in tow. So, the economy is Loving me, especially OPEC and BP. For some reason, I chose BP. The only reasons I can give you are:
* I like the green and yellow flower logo
* I used them in FL
* They are well lit
* They are well kept
Oh sure... you may be wondering... "But Andrew? Where are your gasoline purchasing ethics? Why would you choose an international corporate entity peddling Gas to locals? Think Global. Act Local! Are you mad?"
Yes. I am mad. Mad mad mad. I payed those gas bills. I have yet to look fear directly in the face and calculate the total spent on gasoline. Check this box if you think I should total it up:
|-----------|
| |
|-----------|
The Apartment...
So, I found my apartment online via Craig's List. Graig's List. Where the online subsection of humanity still pulses with all the unbridled oddities and peculiarities as we were meant to have. Some sections, you keep away from your children. Some sections, you keep away from your parents. Other sections, you probably don't know about... like the joke section. If you need a good joke, look on Craig's List (This e-mail offers no warranty or guarantee on the quality of any joke found on Craig's List, heretoforeafter known as CL).
My new apartment is of the following address:
(You understand of course I had to remove this privacy reasons)
This apartment is beautiful. I have 12' ceiling. A marble fireplace with a 10'x10' mirror above both in my bedroom. The apartment has 4 doors: The front and back door are both keyed. The side door opens up to one of my porches. The fourth door opens to a 2 foot drop. The back door opens up to my second porch. Some downsides are: the carpet floors in all non-wet areas, no washer / dryer or dishwasher. However, the price for such a fine feast: less than $600/mo.
Would You be My Neighbor?...
It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Would you be mine
Could you be mine
So the landlord and I finish up signing the lease. He used to work 10 years for the FBI, in surveillance. He of course thought it very funny to make the joke about his being a professional stalker. I laughed in politeness. Fear, of course, punched my aorta and ripples of anxious ice shot through my veins. I believe my ability to read a human is good. I decided long ago my skills in this area were strong enough to trust them. I trust Mike. He made a funny. I know this because he laughed. I trust Mike because of his actions. Upon our first meeting he drive me around Lafayette pointing out places of interest: BMV (Bureau of Motor Vehicles), The Hope Apartments (a halfway house for recovering addicts... right across the street from my place. And "No, we've never had any crime at this location. There's nothing to worry about."), the auto insurance building, the land his friend bought and renovated into a thriving business area. Mike puts great pride in his renovation of this property and mentions the thanks he's received from local home owners and the local constabulary. The apartment is quirky, bizarre, unique, fun, spacious with great possibility. I'm already picking out paint chips. So, after signing the lease and walking out to view my new street...
It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood
A neighborly day for a beauty
Would you be mine
Could you be mine
The lady and I sit together, peaceful, on the fender of the vehicle transport. The street is quiet. The apartment is completed. Tomorrow, the carpets will be cleaned to strip away the cigarette and wet-dog smell. I sigh, content. I'm taking the sights and smells and feeling minute fibers and tendons relaxing into place after many hard days of work culminate in many jobs done and some of them well. I have a friend at my side and we look at each other and nod approvingly. The air around Tippencanoe Street is sprinkled lovingly with the unmistakable and unforgettable smell of a pig farm. Just then I look to my right side and see sitting at the other shoulder is my friend, and yours, Murphy's Law. A black car pulls up to the front of the beautiful 1870's era duplex. Music thumps regularly and distractingly into the air and into the brain. Murphy's Law chuckles as he bows out from the scene. His eye cocked in irritatingly in that manner that says oh so sickly... "I told you so."
I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you
I watch the black car stop. A young man walks out. His white t-shirt is 14 sizes too large for his tall, wiry frame. His hair, bleached and short as is the tradition of the gentleman whose name is on this young man's shirt. I say to my girlfriend: "Look. It's Eminem!" He walks to the other side of my duplex. As he nears the other front door, a woman inhabiting the first floor apartment shouts out:
"Who the f*ck that?!"
I figure of course with proclamations such as this there must be someone else in the car. Clearly this is a lover's quarrell so I have to see who the other girl is. All I can see through the tinted window is someone else's hand. I clearly haven't established the validity of this claim at all, in any way. I did not ask the passenger what his/her intentions were with the driver and if they were honorable. Nor did I ask Slim Shady if he was dating either of the other two parties involved. He climbed the few steps to the front door and replied back to the screamer, the agitated proclaimer...
"Shut Up!"
I say to myself... "Hello Neighbors!" And I think to myself... Not more than 10 minutes ago I signed this lease... Damn...
Of course... one can easily imagine the great conversations we'll have.
"Hey Shady! My name is Whitey McCracker. Would you like to come over and start a knitting circle? We could watch Friends while we knit. Oh... I noticed you have a particular slant to your walk, you should sit up straight when you drive. It's better for your posture you know. You don't want scoliosis. Well, I know you have to take off now and take care of business but maybe you'd like to get some double-mocha-grande-frappucinos sometime. They're super delicious."
Please won't you be my neighbor?
As I drove away, wondering if I'd made the right choice about my apartment, some new information about my neighborhood came to light. Somewhere just off Greenbush Ave, I saw shirtless men, about 18-22, fighting each other. One threw an elbow into the other's jaw. An old man watched with a beer in one hand and a nasty dog, on a leash, in the other.
Next time... the BMV and Social Security
With Love and Respect,
Andrew
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