Your back aches, your arms feel like you've spent the day waggling them out the back of a fast moving airplane. You can almost feel the knuckles on your newly extended arms dragging of the pavement. Your legs feel like to over-cooked rammin noodles, that is, until you sit in the truck for an hour in traffic, then they feel like two planks used as scaffolding for a crew of beer drinking, four hundred pound brick layers from Southern Jersey. You're exhausted, the line up you faced when returning the truck to the U-Haul center almost made you rip the heads off that couple at the counter that seemed to take forever to complete their transaction with one of only two cashiers who seemed to be dueling each other in the battle of the slow. In other words, you're sore, tired and a bit cranky, and you feel fucking GREAT.
You are three split seconds from toasting the completion of moving your good pals from thatty there place to thissy here place. It was a good move, your pals hadn't asked a crew of ten people to come by to stand around chitty chatting and generally getting in the way of the three people doing the job. Your friends didn't get stressed and stretched into knots, maybe they did stress a bit, but they didn't pour their stress down the back of your shirt like cold water that makes your shoulder blades tighten up and block your ears.
Your friends were organized enough, enough so that the flow of boxes was uninterrupted as we scoodled them from floor to truck and back to floor. The best thing was that your friends weren't the type that had to over think the whole process, you know the type that spends more time thinking about how a truck should be loaded, than loading the damned truck. I mean, think about it, think about your average mover-guy; usually he's a big smelly oaf; neck thicker than his head and just a little smarter than the truck he drove up in. Moving is really quite easy on the brain, see box, pick up box, move box to truck, return for another box, repeat until truck can't fit no more boxes, drive.
This was a good move.
OK, I'm a bit sad that I moved my friends out of my neighborhood, BUT, I am glad I was there when they moved. I mean, being part of a transition in your friends life is an great opportunity, experience and an honor. AND, no, no, no... Thank YOU, thank you for giving me something worthwhile to do on a Saturday, thanks for getting me up without a hang over, and putting me to the task of simple honest work. THANK YOU especially for having me part of a move that we all know is going to be great for you two. I see a whole load of brand new dreams percolating from within' the walls of your home, now that your home is no longer an uncleanable tenement dumpster fully stocked with an evil assortment of mistreated kids and bastards with no regards for the clock or the lack of insulation.
OH AND... you owe me nothing. Dinner was nice, but all you owe me is your continued friendship and the bunches of more good times I am certain we're going to have. Just give me a place to break down and schlop out after pulling the shoot on the next crazy night in your new hood, your great new hood. Can't wait to have some good clean fun in your great new home!
Monday, February 28, 2005
Ken, the Beutifully Jazzy Jazz Mongrel
This ol' story starts with small notice for the potential for evilness in small small town Ontario. Let me start this saying "yo Canada, get over yourself, and get off your high frikin' horse". I became really good friends with Ken on the weekend I realized that the whole black/white racism thing was not strictly the purview of these slave driving bastards down here in my newly adopted home. That weekend, Ken and I were assigned to the same group in our Urban Geography class that had been contracted by the local BDIA to canvas Brighton upon a survey of proposed improvements to this and/or that in town.
Of course the first thing Ken and I did was to spark a great big fatty prior to setting out to knock on the doors of our assigned neighborhood. Now, I guarantee you, it wasn't that we wreeked of weed, as every door I knocked on offered someone who would answered the 15 or so questions I asked. Ken's doors on the other hand yielded nothing, well nothing but "no thank yous", "what are you doing heres" and a least one nigger reference that Ken would not expand on... Hey, maybe it was the Combination of a nigger wreaking of dope, who the heck knows. We ended up forging the resto of our surveys, our neighborhood firmly apposed the improvements, drove to the beach and hung for the remainder of the day.
One small defense of my old school. In general circulation, even though he was only one of three black kids in the entire student population, in general circulation, Ken had very few problems. I guess showing up on these folks doorsteps was just a line he was not supposed to cross. I don't recall the subject ever coming up, but I assume him dating one of their daughters would have stretched the line as well. Hmmm... actually maybe I do recall something like this coming up once...
Ken, entirely on his own, is probably the most talented musician, singer songwriter I've known personally, and I've known quite a few very talented musicians. One goofy little snippet memory I have of his being the cool daddy jackassy smart-assed-dude we expect our musicians to be came during a school assembly. Ken, although his first talent being piano played what he might call his 15th talent, Bass, in our school band [I mean, c'mon, if the drums were fulled up, I guess the next place you're gonna stick the black kid is the bass]. Anyhow, Ken did get his kicks in, I remember making eye contact with Ken at during a break in the assembly, he gave me a little nod and proceeded to crack out the bass line to "Watching the Detectives", yet another small offensive in our ongoing attempts to be punk-dudes in our corn-paddy back-water high school come holding cell.
Ken came from, rather, at the time I knew him, lived in the trailer park down the road from my place. It was probably that fact, more than the fact he was black that my folks were always a bit leery of our friendship, actually, I could guarantee you this. On the days when his bitch of a hard hittin' pill addicted mother let him out of the trailer, or on days were he'd just plain managed to escape, we'd usually just hang in my room. He'd strum the guitar I never did manage to learn how to play, usually cracklin' joke songs. I'd sit there, either drawing one of my silly fancifuls, or making lame-assed attempts to draw him. We'd talk politics and pop outside from time to time to smoke the spliffs [of course, this may also my have impacted my folks feelings about my friendship with Ken].
Ken was a manic writer. Back then he'd carry around note books full of songs. Prolific, he was probably knocking out two or three a day. I think he carried these books around more so that his mother would not find them or that his A.D.D. brother wouldn't rip them to shreds. Ken was the son of a Jazz musician from Montreal, a good friend of Oscar Peterson, but was living with a woman who hated the musician who had knocked her up and left her with nothing but two black kids living in a trailer park. The hatred of this musician ultimately soon applied to all musicians, Ken was in a bit of a jam.
Ken and I drifted apart after I stopped smokin' dubes. The drift apart was formalized with my sudden bolting to Toronto [another story]. However, this separation was the start of a new form of relationship I would soon have with Ken.
Like an angel, Ken drifts into and out of my life, usually drifting in at the exact moment I need him the most. Maybe I'll start calling him my "dark angel"... I probably will not. Ken's music is peppered with sardonic wit, he brings this wit and this music into my life at beutifully irregular interval. Our first happen-stance meeting after the high school days was when he found me living about five blocks from where he was living. He had been checked into some psychiatric out patient residence.. He was in pretty rough "out patient" shape. I think I learned some humility or at least found myself humiliated by my inability to help him out in any tangible way. I was down myself, busted and unable to offer him anything more than a few nights of reminisance.
A few years later, quite a few actually, he came to me while I was yoggleing in some bar by myself, probably morning the loss of losing some this girl or that. He was flogging his first CD, carrying a baby in a papoose strapped to his chest. I bought two CDs and persisted in my assertion that I'd track him down... I didn't, but of course he found me again a few years after that, this time he invited me to hook up with him at his now regular gig.
His regular gig turned out to be a "piano bar" night at some up town trendy spot. Ken not only played beautiful bar jazz, but had also tuned his sardonic wit into that between song patter that makes lounge singers famous. Of course fame continued to allude, regardless of how deserving he was. I caught that gig for a month or so. I was between "wives", so I had a whole big bunch of dates to fill on the calendar. This was a great way to fill them. We hung out a few times outside the gigs as well, I recall helping him set up his piano in some park to crank out some impromptu set, saw him at his usual yearly gig or two at the Toronto Jazz Festival, then poof, he was gone again.
I've seen him, you know brief run ins on the street a few times since, obviously no times since moving down here to Brooklyn. I googled him the other day, last I read of him. Apparently he's living in Stratford, or at least was so back in 2000. I emailed him, and added him to my buddy list. It would be absolutely grand if he'd contact me and I could waggle him down for a visit. This would be the perfect time to have a visit from an angel.
Of course the first thing Ken and I did was to spark a great big fatty prior to setting out to knock on the doors of our assigned neighborhood. Now, I guarantee you, it wasn't that we wreeked of weed, as every door I knocked on offered someone who would answered the 15 or so questions I asked. Ken's doors on the other hand yielded nothing, well nothing but "no thank yous", "what are you doing heres" and a least one nigger reference that Ken would not expand on... Hey, maybe it was the Combination of a nigger wreaking of dope, who the heck knows. We ended up forging the resto of our surveys, our neighborhood firmly apposed the improvements, drove to the beach and hung for the remainder of the day.
One small defense of my old school. In general circulation, even though he was only one of three black kids in the entire student population, in general circulation, Ken had very few problems. I guess showing up on these folks doorsteps was just a line he was not supposed to cross. I don't recall the subject ever coming up, but I assume him dating one of their daughters would have stretched the line as well. Hmmm... actually maybe I do recall something like this coming up once...
Ken, entirely on his own, is probably the most talented musician, singer songwriter I've known personally, and I've known quite a few very talented musicians. One goofy little snippet memory I have of his being the cool daddy jackassy smart-assed-dude we expect our musicians to be came during a school assembly. Ken, although his first talent being piano played what he might call his 15th talent, Bass, in our school band [I mean, c'mon, if the drums were fulled up, I guess the next place you're gonna stick the black kid is the bass]. Anyhow, Ken did get his kicks in, I remember making eye contact with Ken at during a break in the assembly, he gave me a little nod and proceeded to crack out the bass line to "Watching the Detectives", yet another small offensive in our ongoing attempts to be punk-dudes in our corn-paddy back-water high school come holding cell.
Ken came from, rather, at the time I knew him, lived in the trailer park down the road from my place. It was probably that fact, more than the fact he was black that my folks were always a bit leery of our friendship, actually, I could guarantee you this. On the days when his bitch of a hard hittin' pill addicted mother let him out of the trailer, or on days were he'd just plain managed to escape, we'd usually just hang in my room. He'd strum the guitar I never did manage to learn how to play, usually cracklin' joke songs. I'd sit there, either drawing one of my silly fancifuls, or making lame-assed attempts to draw him. We'd talk politics and pop outside from time to time to smoke the spliffs [of course, this may also my have impacted my folks feelings about my friendship with Ken].
Ken was a manic writer. Back then he'd carry around note books full of songs. Prolific, he was probably knocking out two or three a day. I think he carried these books around more so that his mother would not find them or that his A.D.D. brother wouldn't rip them to shreds. Ken was the son of a Jazz musician from Montreal, a good friend of Oscar Peterson, but was living with a woman who hated the musician who had knocked her up and left her with nothing but two black kids living in a trailer park. The hatred of this musician ultimately soon applied to all musicians, Ken was in a bit of a jam.
Ken and I drifted apart after I stopped smokin' dubes. The drift apart was formalized with my sudden bolting to Toronto [another story]. However, this separation was the start of a new form of relationship I would soon have with Ken.
Like an angel, Ken drifts into and out of my life, usually drifting in at the exact moment I need him the most. Maybe I'll start calling him my "dark angel"... I probably will not. Ken's music is peppered with sardonic wit, he brings this wit and this music into my life at beutifully irregular interval. Our first happen-stance meeting after the high school days was when he found me living about five blocks from where he was living. He had been checked into some psychiatric out patient residence.. He was in pretty rough "out patient" shape. I think I learned some humility or at least found myself humiliated by my inability to help him out in any tangible way. I was down myself, busted and unable to offer him anything more than a few nights of reminisance.
A few years later, quite a few actually, he came to me while I was yoggleing in some bar by myself, probably morning the loss of losing some this girl or that. He was flogging his first CD, carrying a baby in a papoose strapped to his chest. I bought two CDs and persisted in my assertion that I'd track him down... I didn't, but of course he found me again a few years after that, this time he invited me to hook up with him at his now regular gig.
His regular gig turned out to be a "piano bar" night at some up town trendy spot. Ken not only played beautiful bar jazz, but had also tuned his sardonic wit into that between song patter that makes lounge singers famous. Of course fame continued to allude, regardless of how deserving he was. I caught that gig for a month or so. I was between "wives", so I had a whole big bunch of dates to fill on the calendar. This was a great way to fill them. We hung out a few times outside the gigs as well, I recall helping him set up his piano in some park to crank out some impromptu set, saw him at his usual yearly gig or two at the Toronto Jazz Festival, then poof, he was gone again.
I've seen him, you know brief run ins on the street a few times since, obviously no times since moving down here to Brooklyn. I googled him the other day, last I read of him. Apparently he's living in Stratford, or at least was so back in 2000. I emailed him, and added him to my buddy list. It would be absolutely grand if he'd contact me and I could waggle him down for a visit. This would be the perfect time to have a visit from an angel.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Have you called your sister lately?
I was recently boasting about my sister to some friends... I say boasting, as perhaps that how it may have sounded. I was actually gushing. I'm as proud of my sister as I think anyone can be about a sibling.
She beat me up constantly until I was about 13 years old, she went off to University when I was 16, studied Kineseolgy, after graduation spent 6 month in a hospital and promptly up and quit...
She fell in love with photography, took a Photo Journalism course at our local Community College, immediately got picked up by the Toronto Star as a staff photgrapher, quit that, later got picked up by the Globe and Mail... she's quit that as well and now focuses entirely on her own projects.
She's won an Attkinsons Fellowship and a Canadian Press Award. I will not drone on with one of my usually tediously self absorbed, long and winding rambling posts. I've quickly grabbed the ten pictures from her site that struck me the most...
Oh, and I should point out that she's done all this while raising two kids, subjecting herself to the usual stresses of buying and house and building a home AND while being married to my adorably crazy Irish Brother in Law.
This is how my Sister sees the world:
Of course my phote editing prowess aint that good. You can always have a look for yourself at www.pattigower.com, it's worth a drop in.
She beat me up constantly until I was about 13 years old, she went off to University when I was 16, studied Kineseolgy, after graduation spent 6 month in a hospital and promptly up and quit...
She fell in love with photography, took a Photo Journalism course at our local Community College, immediately got picked up by the Toronto Star as a staff photgrapher, quit that, later got picked up by the Globe and Mail... she's quit that as well and now focuses entirely on her own projects.
She's won an Attkinsons Fellowship and a Canadian Press Award. I will not drone on with one of my usually tediously self absorbed, long and winding rambling posts. I've quickly grabbed the ten pictures from her site that struck me the most...
Oh, and I should point out that she's done all this while raising two kids, subjecting herself to the usual stresses of buying and house and building a home AND while being married to my adorably crazy Irish Brother in Law.
This is how my Sister sees the world:
Of course my phote editing prowess aint that good. You can always have a look for yourself at www.pattigower.com, it's worth a drop in.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
A Bridge Crossed Alone... Is a Good Bridge Crossed
It became clear what the mission for the day would be sometime after the fog of the other night's drinks lifted and just before I had gobbled down the last foul forkful of gooey greasy goodness at the Scorpion. I had been fighting a creeping sadness all weekend, perhaps "nursing it" would be a more appropriate description. This sadness kind of blossomed early Monday morning after waking up groggy [again]; heading off to Jen's to feed the cats... creeping sadness, suckled on booze and left unchecked by self imposed immobility for the entire long weekend. The mission was indeed obvious.
I had blown an opportunity to walk the sun the day before. Spent that day cooking glop and trying to convince myself I'd be more productive at some later point in the day. It snowed later that night, and today I was faced with a total gray bleakness and a six inch layer of slush covering the city. The mission would be more difficult, but maybe more rewarding for it. I gobbled down breakfast and headed for the Bridges.
I had a thought of maybe recreating the epic seven bridge journey I'd made one Easter a few years back, 59th, Roosevelt, Tri-boor, 125th Street, Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg... thought better of it. I concluded that it being President's Day, my objective would be OK, ok, corny and obvious, I'd walk the GWB... hey what the ho, maybe I could start a new tradition.
Like many of my bridge walks this one started with a hoof over the Pulaski on my way to the 7 train. Like many of my bridge walks, I got to the 7 only to find that, fuck, it was closed again. Luckily I caught a shuttle right away and had a nice above ground bus trip through that beautifully ugly part of Long Island City on up to Queens Plaza. Being dumped immediately at the base of the 59th Street Bridge called out for a warm-up walk so off I went.
I'd done the 59th late Christmas Eve, walked it at 2:30am after midnight mass. The 59th, not my favorite, but probably the most meaningful, after all, it had been our means of escape a few falls back. A grand old bridge, the last one built before the Ammann dynasty. Some think it ugly in it's overwhelming sturdiness, I prefer to enjoy the almost "added-on" ornamentation that tries desperately to decorate it's utilititarianism. Hey, it's my bridge, the one I see out my window. A familiar old lady who has helped me out and given me a warm feeling when crossing her old crusty soul into or out of the city. I only hope they don't paint the life out of the old rusty bitch over the course of her current restoration.
Had a nice chat with the old gal as I crossed head long into a blustery sleety headwind. Exiting the 59th, on either end is mostly unceremonial, the city side more so in so much as you're literally dumped into a tiny hole of a street with a gaggle of cars trying desperately to navigate what god himself would not have been able to design an intersection into that worked. [By god, of course I'm referring to Robert Moses]. I got the first soaker of the day coming off the old lady, but was undeterred and kept moving towards the President's Bridge.
I half attempted to make it uptown to the GWB entirely above ground. That objective came to an end when I crawled down the hole at jumped the 1 train up to 181st street. I was bit wobbly from the 59th walk. I think the weekend had caught up to me and that, coupled with the miserable day, had left me a bit pooped. I think I was half hoping the GWB would be closed, hey at least the attempt would have been made. As I approached the gate, it almost looked closed, but it was just the angel, the bridge was open, it had to be walked.
Sometimes I do feel a little manic when in the middle of these pursuits. Othertimes I don't quite have that total overwhelming desire, nor do I get that rush of satisfaction after getting over one of them. Indeed, crossing the old lady didn't whip me up for the next crossing. Maybe it was only because of all the cities Bridges the GWB is the least personal, more the pursuit of triumph and conquest rather than a mystical metaphor for some fanciful moment of realization that the East River Bridges provide me. Maybe because the only thing you can really do once you cross the GWB is cross it back home again. Maybe because once crossed, you're in Jersey, an ugly bland part of Jersey at that. I decided on creating a rather pedestrian quest for this trip, I'd cross then go in search of a bar I could smoke in.
This pedestrian quest helped little to raise any spiritual moment, especially when I found out that the bridge had not been plowed. I had an almost miles walk through six inches of dirty brown slush while constantly afraid of being blown into the Hudson. I walked hugging the road railing putting me at target for great globs of salty muck flying from the wheels of the cars and trucks zooming along I-95. Sleety rain had soaked my glasses and a crushing fog had all but buried the city, couldn't see a damned thing so I basically put my head down, walked in low large steps and trudged my way to New Jersey. Couldn't wait to get down off the damned thing and have that beer.
I've already mentioned that the Jersey side of the GWB is kind of grim. I was unprepared for just how grim it would be. Fort Lee is a frikin' wasteland. Under two inches of wet snow, it's an annoying frikin' wasteland empty of any redeeming feature, or... bar. I found one that seemed closed, not just for the holiday, but forever. I walked through empty streets holding nothing but those bleak 14 story high rises, not built to house the poor, but rather built to house the almost poor who had no clue as why they were alive and who had been given no warning that living in these lifeless slabs would eventually suck the last ounce of interest in anything out of their souls. I finally found a renovated shopping area, unfortunately it was a Korean town, unfortunately apparently Koreans in Fort Lee don't seem to need a bar.
I settled on the Plaza Diner, a place I'd passed earlier but passed on in hope I'd find a little familiar local. I settled for wine instead of beer and was happy to see an ashtray on the counter. The waitress was nice, she showered my with the usual number of "huns" and "sweeties" you expect when being served at an old classic diner. She even joined me in a glass and gave me the heads up on how to catch a bus back to the city. Although I had an inkling to end the day on my old pal the Williamsburg, I had NO intension of walking back across the GWB.
The bus ride back to the city included some nice new views I'd never seen, but after the first few miles it all started to look horribly the same. Miles and miles of busted down old discount stores peppered with the usual number of Pizza shops and Duane Reades. I guess I was more tired than I thought as after a time, I just stopped looking out the window, went into my head only to find my weekend companion, this sadness still hanging around, playing a game of solitaire waiting for me to get home so he could pound another shot into my stomach.
Bridge walks are not specifically meant to lift ones spirits, they're just a nice thing to do when you have time to fill and things to think about and/or talk to yourself about. What one can think about while bridge walking is as varied as the weather one faces while crossing. They definitely aren't meant to cheer you up on a lonely day, AS for the most part they are a totally solo endeavor. OK, crossing with Dan has always been a pleasure, AND those very few times a special guest has followed through and joined me has been, well, special; but for the most part a bridge crossed alone, is a good bridge crossed.
I probably did have certain expectations that a good walk or two would have cleared some cobwebs and helped me deal. I guess I have just reminded myself not to have these expectation or risk diminishing a perfectly good bridge walk. Maybe I should dump a bunch of the other expectations I'm currently holding onto as well. Settle in for a long period alone with not much else to do.
Maybe if it's nice tonight I'll walk home over the Williamsburg Bridge.
I had blown an opportunity to walk the sun the day before. Spent that day cooking glop and trying to convince myself I'd be more productive at some later point in the day. It snowed later that night, and today I was faced with a total gray bleakness and a six inch layer of slush covering the city. The mission would be more difficult, but maybe more rewarding for it. I gobbled down breakfast and headed for the Bridges.
I had a thought of maybe recreating the epic seven bridge journey I'd made one Easter a few years back, 59th, Roosevelt, Tri-boor, 125th Street, Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg... thought better of it. I concluded that it being President's Day, my objective would be OK, ok, corny and obvious, I'd walk the GWB... hey what the ho, maybe I could start a new tradition.
Like many of my bridge walks this one started with a hoof over the Pulaski on my way to the 7 train. Like many of my bridge walks, I got to the 7 only to find that, fuck, it was closed again. Luckily I caught a shuttle right away and had a nice above ground bus trip through that beautifully ugly part of Long Island City on up to Queens Plaza. Being dumped immediately at the base of the 59th Street Bridge called out for a warm-up walk so off I went.
I'd done the 59th late Christmas Eve, walked it at 2:30am after midnight mass. The 59th, not my favorite, but probably the most meaningful, after all, it had been our means of escape a few falls back. A grand old bridge, the last one built before the Ammann dynasty. Some think it ugly in it's overwhelming sturdiness, I prefer to enjoy the almost "added-on" ornamentation that tries desperately to decorate it's utilititarianism. Hey, it's my bridge, the one I see out my window. A familiar old lady who has helped me out and given me a warm feeling when crossing her old crusty soul into or out of the city. I only hope they don't paint the life out of the old rusty bitch over the course of her current restoration.
Had a nice chat with the old gal as I crossed head long into a blustery sleety headwind. Exiting the 59th, on either end is mostly unceremonial, the city side more so in so much as you're literally dumped into a tiny hole of a street with a gaggle of cars trying desperately to navigate what god himself would not have been able to design an intersection into that worked. [By god, of course I'm referring to Robert Moses]. I got the first soaker of the day coming off the old lady, but was undeterred and kept moving towards the President's Bridge.
I half attempted to make it uptown to the GWB entirely above ground. That objective came to an end when I crawled down the hole at jumped the 1 train up to 181st street. I was bit wobbly from the 59th walk. I think the weekend had caught up to me and that, coupled with the miserable day, had left me a bit pooped. I think I was half hoping the GWB would be closed, hey at least the attempt would have been made. As I approached the gate, it almost looked closed, but it was just the angel, the bridge was open, it had to be walked.
Sometimes I do feel a little manic when in the middle of these pursuits. Othertimes I don't quite have that total overwhelming desire, nor do I get that rush of satisfaction after getting over one of them. Indeed, crossing the old lady didn't whip me up for the next crossing. Maybe it was only because of all the cities Bridges the GWB is the least personal, more the pursuit of triumph and conquest rather than a mystical metaphor for some fanciful moment of realization that the East River Bridges provide me. Maybe because the only thing you can really do once you cross the GWB is cross it back home again. Maybe because once crossed, you're in Jersey, an ugly bland part of Jersey at that. I decided on creating a rather pedestrian quest for this trip, I'd cross then go in search of a bar I could smoke in.
This pedestrian quest helped little to raise any spiritual moment, especially when I found out that the bridge had not been plowed. I had an almost miles walk through six inches of dirty brown slush while constantly afraid of being blown into the Hudson. I walked hugging the road railing putting me at target for great globs of salty muck flying from the wheels of the cars and trucks zooming along I-95. Sleety rain had soaked my glasses and a crushing fog had all but buried the city, couldn't see a damned thing so I basically put my head down, walked in low large steps and trudged my way to New Jersey. Couldn't wait to get down off the damned thing and have that beer.
I've already mentioned that the Jersey side of the GWB is kind of grim. I was unprepared for just how grim it would be. Fort Lee is a frikin' wasteland. Under two inches of wet snow, it's an annoying frikin' wasteland empty of any redeeming feature, or... bar. I found one that seemed closed, not just for the holiday, but forever. I walked through empty streets holding nothing but those bleak 14 story high rises, not built to house the poor, but rather built to house the almost poor who had no clue as why they were alive and who had been given no warning that living in these lifeless slabs would eventually suck the last ounce of interest in anything out of their souls. I finally found a renovated shopping area, unfortunately it was a Korean town, unfortunately apparently Koreans in Fort Lee don't seem to need a bar.
I settled on the Plaza Diner, a place I'd passed earlier but passed on in hope I'd find a little familiar local. I settled for wine instead of beer and was happy to see an ashtray on the counter. The waitress was nice, she showered my with the usual number of "huns" and "sweeties" you expect when being served at an old classic diner. She even joined me in a glass and gave me the heads up on how to catch a bus back to the city. Although I had an inkling to end the day on my old pal the Williamsburg, I had NO intension of walking back across the GWB.
The bus ride back to the city included some nice new views I'd never seen, but after the first few miles it all started to look horribly the same. Miles and miles of busted down old discount stores peppered with the usual number of Pizza shops and Duane Reades. I guess I was more tired than I thought as after a time, I just stopped looking out the window, went into my head only to find my weekend companion, this sadness still hanging around, playing a game of solitaire waiting for me to get home so he could pound another shot into my stomach.
Bridge walks are not specifically meant to lift ones spirits, they're just a nice thing to do when you have time to fill and things to think about and/or talk to yourself about. What one can think about while bridge walking is as varied as the weather one faces while crossing. They definitely aren't meant to cheer you up on a lonely day, AS for the most part they are a totally solo endeavor. OK, crossing with Dan has always been a pleasure, AND those very few times a special guest has followed through and joined me has been, well, special; but for the most part a bridge crossed alone, is a good bridge crossed.
I probably did have certain expectations that a good walk or two would have cleared some cobwebs and helped me deal. I guess I have just reminded myself not to have these expectation or risk diminishing a perfectly good bridge walk. Maybe I should dump a bunch of the other expectations I'm currently holding onto as well. Settle in for a long period alone with not much else to do.
Maybe if it's nice tonight I'll walk home over the Williamsburg Bridge.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
David Johnson and the Mysterious Trail of Blood
Current mood: nostalgic
My current living arrangement brings me to mind of an incident in my long long ago past. An incident so heinous I think that I may have even forgot about a few times. Well anyway, it was in my long long ago past, I mean before what I call before my “playtime” which came after my wife, and well, even before my wife… Actually, it would be difficult to give this period in my life a name. Unlike “the Art School Days”, my “Childhood”, or say “The Mackerel Years”… this period had little distinctive qualities.
I had just moved back from Europe after quitting Art School. I still believed I was going to BE an artist, and still tried to live that life style. I bopped from one friends warehouse lofts space to another. Drinking gallons of coffee most nights, beer on others and generally eating off the snack tables at the variety of Art openings we’d get word of. Hey, having a few bo-ho wanna be twenty year olds gorging themselves on the brie, salsa and chips and cheap ol’ wine you set up to woo your friends and family to lay down cash for your shit assed art, never hurt the cache of the moment. Anyhow, that’s for yet, another time.
Hey, why not, just to get kind of romantically plagiaristic, I’ll call this time my “blue period”. I mean, I was sad a lot, well, rather, grumpy in that angst ridden “I hate the world, cause, well the world is evil” mental thing we all seem to go through in or early 20’s. Listen, Art School dropouts go through it in spades, in some of the worst cases, adopting it as a personality and never shaking it…
Again, I had been bopping from loft to loft; the most permanent place I had managed to find in say an 18-month period was a room in a rooming house full of ancient East Side punks. The place was crawling with roaches; the Kitchen was disgusting even by my standard, uninhabitable for the most part… These punks were, well, punks, surly and unfriendly, especially to me who followed a more late sixties, early seventies “style” of punkedness, you know, it keeps resurfacing, straight folks cast away clothing bought from the 50 cent bin at the Sally Ann, or Goodwill [that’s right kids, you did not invent this look, nor did I]. Anyhow, all I remember of my three month there were watching the CBC, the one channel I got, endlessly, and masturbating over and over again to these same five pages of porno I had found ripped out their magazine and blowing down the street one night. Oh ya, it was while there I got my Janitoring job.
The Janitoring Job is a whole other story, I’ll leave it as, this job, was the best paying job I had ever had in Toronto. Although it was a lot of work, I soon became the best paid of my peers. I had the cash to go looking for my own loft space; I had the cash to buy art supplies. Of course, I would always allow any one to come flop at this yet to be found space, as after all, that’s what us post hippie communist did… more on that later.
The Toronto Loft scene, like the North American loft scene started long before I was born [I think]. It’s nothing new, and the weird twisted version of it that persists today is really nothing but the poor mutant retarded inbred child of things that happened on this continent years and years ago.
That said, I love watching the wonder in the eyes of young twenty year olds who are breaking new ground and grinding their own living spaces out of the seemingly never ending supply of tossed out building here, there and everywhere. When I went looking on the market, I wouldn’t say the market was matured, not at all, I mean it was still totally illegal to live in 95% of the building my friends were living in. The problem was that the stock of potential places, that is places where owners and management firms looked the other way had dried up [as it turned out, only momentarily]. I had a pocketful of cash, and I could not find my dive…
Looking back, this inability to get my space was probably based as much upon my lack of a credit history, or any financial history, really, as much as the lack of stock. It was pretty grim for a while, as I had dumped my Punk Palace and had hit the “loft surfing” set again. I honestly have NO clue how I got my place, but I did… Wait, now I remember, I got a place with Patrick. Patrick was a 40 something dude hiding out amongst us bums… he had credit, a car, parents in the burbs, etc. etc. etc… He was a very good pal from my first year group at Art School, and he wanted to share a place with me… I would live there, he’d just set up his togs; come over and paint for a while, and we’d sit, smoke, drink and talk about the deep meanings of what each of us were doing… As an aside, I was painting rather large rather primitive paper and acrylic painting of daisies… I’m probably making this up, but I recall having some theory that art was just fucking wallpaper anyhow, so why not paint shitty wallpaper. Honestly, I don’t have the foggiest recollection what Patrick was doing… probably something fidgety, as he was a pretty fidgety guy… It was at this time, David came back into my life.
David was an old high school friend. More specifically, David was a cubbyhole pal, one of the dudes from Weller Ontario, a small farming town just another hippy from the farms up north. I hung out with more than a few tribes at high school, but I believe I had the most affinity with my cubbyhole crew. I guess I should clear up this cubbyhole business. The Cubbyhole was this recessed door to the Gym, near where the buses dropped us and picked us up. Basically it’s where we smoked and stayed out of the wind while smoking. Obviously, it being a nice recessed door afforded us the opportunity to smoke more than just cigarettes.
The cubbyhole hole crew, well how do you describe them, I mean we’d listen to equal parts The Clash, Patti Smith and Bob Dylan. We/they wore mostly old vintage army jackets and jeans, we scoffed the rockers [many of whom were my very good friends], and we scoffed the preppie, engineer wanna-bees [again, many of whom were my very good friends]. Weekends outside the cubbyhole, were spent, usually in some nearby provincial park, or out in the back forty of one of their parents farms talking to cows, smoking ounces [yes kids, ounces] of weed; or maybe dropping a tab or two and doing something which in hindsight was probably completely dangerous, illegal, or both… David was a cubbyhole kid, he’d finished high school a year after me, he’d floated for a while and finally ended up at the door of Patrick and mine’s loft.
This loft Patrick and I got off the back of Patrick being respectable and all, was in a very respectable building. The Carpet Factory had “renoed” ages ago. It was filled with mostly small businesses, film companies and architects. “Living In” was strictly verboten. I enjoyed playing with this with my neighbors who all thought me a complete workaholic artist… I remember pushing it way too far once, being caught escorting a Parkdale hooker from the building one night, well way too late… Well, anyway… Dave showing up caused the usual friction.
I was required to oblige his staying at least for a while, but Patrick wanted no part. It was all settled eventually when Patrick found his own space in the building and I, somehow miraculously, convinced the management firm was trustworthy enough [hey, I’d been living there illegally for 9 months or so], to allow them to give me, no mention of David, another space in one of there neighboring buildings. I have been known to sweet talk business people from time to time, even sweeter when my rep was some forty year old gal who probably had a soft spot for dirty kids who were just a few years older than her own.
The trail of blood… Well, OK let’s get into the more physical telling of the “trail of blood” story. I mean, the airy fairy metaphorical side of the story might be obvious in so much as David WAS after all a cubbyhole kid. I mean, my friends are my friends and I am always willing to go through whatever tumult with my friends… blah, enough of that, too much sacrin as there is.
So, David and I actually kind of thrived down in the hole… The new space was a semi-basement space in the building next to the carpet factory. Cement floors, brick walls, chopped into a little room and a big room. David and I, still wanting to believe we were artists decided the small room would be home, and the big room would be the space were ‘god like creation’ would take place. OK, I mounted a few sculptures [one of which surviving only in sketch form remains the one piece of art I made that I am still somewhat proud of]… despite that most of my memories of the time David and I spent there are of two idiots, one on an old couch, the other in this makeshift bed I had fashioned out of an old painters scaffolding slept off hangovers from the various “warehouse parties” that had started up as an affront to Toronto’s archaic 1:00am last call…
David painted I sculpted… To be fair, I should describe David’s art, I mean, he did have some pretty unique notions and was extremely passionate about what he was doing. David also had this special approach to art in so much as he never went to art school, wasn’t tainted by the “brain-speak” that haunted every brush stroke I laid down. He was genuinely a painter from the cubbyhole school. I remember once, I think I was sitting at our work bench [which doubled as both kitchen and coffee table] trying to assemble this scale plastic model of an Apollo Space Rocket that I had found at a junk shop somewhere [I’m certain, it was meant to become a very important metaphorically strategic part of some piece of art I was working on that would expose the corruption of America once and for all]… I remember, sitting and listening to David describe one of the last pieces of art he’d “pulled off” at home; David had gone from friend to friends place, scoured their basements, grabbed as many cans of old paint and spray paint as he could find. He’d laid out these cans on top of some old bed sheets on the side of a small hill out back on his fathers farm, kicked back a few and just started firing at them with his .22 rifle. He told me how he enjoyed the patterns made while the spray cans burst, and the paint buckets oozed. In the end he wasn’t happy with the way the sheets looked when it all dried up so he just chucked it out. Come to think of it, I think David threw everything he did out eventually.
So here we were, two old cubbyholers, sharing a bedroom, and a space to make art. We were in one of the most illegal live in spaces in a town that was now full of illegal living spaces. Oh, in order to make this story work, I have to point out one last thing… just down the road from where David and I were living was The Massy Ferguson Factory, The Tractor Factory. A dilapidated one/two story warehouse complex that covered, most likely, 20 square acres. Almost in the middle of what we called the west end fringe, I mean, minutes from down, seconds from the trendiest, hippest neighborhood in the city. Here we were at the junction between lofts being a place for artists to do art, and for hipsters to be hip, literally, physically and historically, my “blue period” indeed.
It would happen one night that David and I ventured off to the bars down on Queen [think East Village, Williamsburg, or whatever down side pre-gentrified bar hood that happens to be in your backyard]. We had got nicely toasted, probably chatted some girlies even though we were both complete dorks more used to drinking and pretending to talk to each other as we though Braque and Picasso may have spoken with each other back in their bo-ho days… We’d found out about an after-hours [pre-rave bitches, pre-rave]…
At this point the Toronto after hours were legendary. This one I had noted for one great architectural highlight. It was held in an eight-floor loft, just east of ours. About 3000 square feet, good DJ, OK beer prices, BUT, there was a crane access door that had been left open to let out smoke leaving a six foot by ten foot gaping hole in the wall, out of which any one of us drunken, foolish, stoned, late night idiots could easily have danced their way over to and fallen out of to their… well, you know… sad end.
I remember flirting with some girl I knew, but was uninterested in, I remember hooking up with Kevin and Rick, Rick who would later be tenant number two at The Hole. I remember David all of a sudden not being there any more.
No, David did NOT fall to his death although he later told us an uncorroborated story of some big dude hanging him over the security rail of the freight elevator by his ankles, threatening to drop him if he did not admit to angling toward this big dudes girlfriend… as said, uncorroborated, but essentially the reason for his sudden departure.
Rick and I finally decided to leave. I had arranged to give Kevin a break and let Rick come to my place in order to free up Kevin’s couch for someone else. Rick was an old friend. He was part of the Saskatoon crowd, and I had known him from parties, coffee talks and many a crossover/sleepover week or two during the days doing the loft bop circuit. As I said, Rick would soon be resident at the hole, had probably already stayed there a few times, so our leaving and heading home after what ever strikeouts we’d both suffered was definitely no surprise.
I remember talking about David with Rick. I think I may even have been complaining, and his sudden disappearance became part of that complaint. Although on the limits of a transit trip, Rick and I, engaged in this conversation, hit it to my place on foot. This despite the near or near under freezing temps and fresh inch of snow on the ground.
As we walked by the Tractor Factory, I recall we both salivated over the idea of some bo-ho reno that would have converted the acres of space into some artistic utopia [fucking hippies]. The place was nothing more than failing brick walls and shards of rock smashed windows. OK, I know you know this is obvious… but honestly, As Rick and I pulled up to one of these windows, we saw a few drops of blood… we also saw that the blood drops seamed to pull away and head in the general direction of where we were heading back to my building next to the carpet factory. A mystery, a story to invent and concoct to ourselves as we walked the last 10/20 blocks back to my place.
Of course David became the central character of this story. I mean, we had no thought based in reality of this, but we laughed and invented some scenario were David may have been mugged, or accosted by some hooker… It was a fun story and a fun walk… a fun walk until we realized the blood drops not only lead to my building, BUT, down the side street and too the alleyway that got me to the back door I used as my front door. When I saw blood all over the half steps leading down to a blood soaked door handle. I panicked, slipped on the ice, could barely get my keys in the doorknob and twist. I ran down the hall not even noticing the continuation of the drips we had followed for the last twenty minutes.
When I open our door, I found David, literally in a pool of blood, hands in pocket unconscious, half form beer, half from blood loss. No cell phones, kids, Rick and I literally picked him up, threw him on my shoulder, headed for the streets and hailed a cab. Rick and I had him to St. Joes in no less than twenty minutes despite the fact we probably had no more than five bucks between us.
The staff at emerge, decided that Dave, although up on their triage list could wait a few patients. By this point, I’d managed to slap him around a bit and get him to at least semi-consciousness… After waiting for what seamed like days, but most likely only firkin hours. I got the story from David. This is when I heard how he was hitting on some chick, how this chicks boy friend had threatened him [the elevator shaft torture, still uncorroborated]; how he’d left in a panic, but had calmed himself wit a pocket beer, and the freshness of the falling of snow and a nice quiet walk home. The danger of getting pounded receded, new danger awaited.
David, like myself, had always been fascinated by the Massy Ferguson Plant, The Tractor Factory. We’d both waded in on those adventurous Saturday mornings, looked around dreaming then leaving to do what ever Saturday chores needed being done. That night, Dave had tried to venture in again, slashed his wrist on a shard in the window and thought better of it. This is where it gets dumb.
Think about this… If you have just slashed your wrist, what have you been taught to do? Wrap it, apply pressure ELIVATE it. David, nope, David stuck his hands in his pockets and headed home. As it turns out, the blood drops Rick and I followed home that night dripped off the cuffs of David’s blood soaked jeans. My good friend, dork of a friend David probably lost a third of his blood that night. Oh, he probably would have regained consciousness and got himself to the hospital on his own, so , no Rick and I are not saviors…BUT it does bring to mind my new roomie, Dylan.
Dylan, you are a DUDE! You have an enormous understanding of your responsibilities to yourself and your pals. That said, after seeing you keyboard face-plant asleep at the desk here, I assume you are capable of a misstep… Trust me! I’m watching for trails of blood, I’ll do my best to cover your back AND if I ever find you in a puddle of blood in the middle of our apartment, you’ll be in the nearest emerge with in minutes! Regardless of what cash I have in the pocket at that moment.
My current living arrangement brings me to mind of an incident in my long long ago past. An incident so heinous I think that I may have even forgot about a few times. Well anyway, it was in my long long ago past, I mean before what I call before my “playtime” which came after my wife, and well, even before my wife… Actually, it would be difficult to give this period in my life a name. Unlike “the Art School Days”, my “Childhood”, or say “The Mackerel Years”… this period had little distinctive qualities.
I had just moved back from Europe after quitting Art School. I still believed I was going to BE an artist, and still tried to live that life style. I bopped from one friends warehouse lofts space to another. Drinking gallons of coffee most nights, beer on others and generally eating off the snack tables at the variety of Art openings we’d get word of. Hey, having a few bo-ho wanna be twenty year olds gorging themselves on the brie, salsa and chips and cheap ol’ wine you set up to woo your friends and family to lay down cash for your shit assed art, never hurt the cache of the moment. Anyhow, that’s for yet, another time.
Hey, why not, just to get kind of romantically plagiaristic, I’ll call this time my “blue period”. I mean, I was sad a lot, well, rather, grumpy in that angst ridden “I hate the world, cause, well the world is evil” mental thing we all seem to go through in or early 20’s. Listen, Art School dropouts go through it in spades, in some of the worst cases, adopting it as a personality and never shaking it…
Again, I had been bopping from loft to loft; the most permanent place I had managed to find in say an 18-month period was a room in a rooming house full of ancient East Side punks. The place was crawling with roaches; the Kitchen was disgusting even by my standard, uninhabitable for the most part… These punks were, well, punks, surly and unfriendly, especially to me who followed a more late sixties, early seventies “style” of punkedness, you know, it keeps resurfacing, straight folks cast away clothing bought from the 50 cent bin at the Sally Ann, or Goodwill [that’s right kids, you did not invent this look, nor did I]. Anyhow, all I remember of my three month there were watching the CBC, the one channel I got, endlessly, and masturbating over and over again to these same five pages of porno I had found ripped out their magazine and blowing down the street one night. Oh ya, it was while there I got my Janitoring job.
The Janitoring Job is a whole other story, I’ll leave it as, this job, was the best paying job I had ever had in Toronto. Although it was a lot of work, I soon became the best paid of my peers. I had the cash to go looking for my own loft space; I had the cash to buy art supplies. Of course, I would always allow any one to come flop at this yet to be found space, as after all, that’s what us post hippie communist did… more on that later.
The Toronto Loft scene, like the North American loft scene started long before I was born [I think]. It’s nothing new, and the weird twisted version of it that persists today is really nothing but the poor mutant retarded inbred child of things that happened on this continent years and years ago.
That said, I love watching the wonder in the eyes of young twenty year olds who are breaking new ground and grinding their own living spaces out of the seemingly never ending supply of tossed out building here, there and everywhere. When I went looking on the market, I wouldn’t say the market was matured, not at all, I mean it was still totally illegal to live in 95% of the building my friends were living in. The problem was that the stock of potential places, that is places where owners and management firms looked the other way had dried up [as it turned out, only momentarily]. I had a pocketful of cash, and I could not find my dive…
Looking back, this inability to get my space was probably based as much upon my lack of a credit history, or any financial history, really, as much as the lack of stock. It was pretty grim for a while, as I had dumped my Punk Palace and had hit the “loft surfing” set again. I honestly have NO clue how I got my place, but I did… Wait, now I remember, I got a place with Patrick. Patrick was a 40 something dude hiding out amongst us bums… he had credit, a car, parents in the burbs, etc. etc. etc… He was a very good pal from my first year group at Art School, and he wanted to share a place with me… I would live there, he’d just set up his togs; come over and paint for a while, and we’d sit, smoke, drink and talk about the deep meanings of what each of us were doing… As an aside, I was painting rather large rather primitive paper and acrylic painting of daisies… I’m probably making this up, but I recall having some theory that art was just fucking wallpaper anyhow, so why not paint shitty wallpaper. Honestly, I don’t have the foggiest recollection what Patrick was doing… probably something fidgety, as he was a pretty fidgety guy… It was at this time, David came back into my life.
David was an old high school friend. More specifically, David was a cubbyhole pal, one of the dudes from Weller Ontario, a small farming town just another hippy from the farms up north. I hung out with more than a few tribes at high school, but I believe I had the most affinity with my cubbyhole crew. I guess I should clear up this cubbyhole business. The Cubbyhole was this recessed door to the Gym, near where the buses dropped us and picked us up. Basically it’s where we smoked and stayed out of the wind while smoking. Obviously, it being a nice recessed door afforded us the opportunity to smoke more than just cigarettes.
The cubbyhole hole crew, well how do you describe them, I mean we’d listen to equal parts The Clash, Patti Smith and Bob Dylan. We/they wore mostly old vintage army jackets and jeans, we scoffed the rockers [many of whom were my very good friends], and we scoffed the preppie, engineer wanna-bees [again, many of whom were my very good friends]. Weekends outside the cubbyhole, were spent, usually in some nearby provincial park, or out in the back forty of one of their parents farms talking to cows, smoking ounces [yes kids, ounces] of weed; or maybe dropping a tab or two and doing something which in hindsight was probably completely dangerous, illegal, or both… David was a cubbyhole kid, he’d finished high school a year after me, he’d floated for a while and finally ended up at the door of Patrick and mine’s loft.
This loft Patrick and I got off the back of Patrick being respectable and all, was in a very respectable building. The Carpet Factory had “renoed” ages ago. It was filled with mostly small businesses, film companies and architects. “Living In” was strictly verboten. I enjoyed playing with this with my neighbors who all thought me a complete workaholic artist… I remember pushing it way too far once, being caught escorting a Parkdale hooker from the building one night, well way too late… Well, anyway… Dave showing up caused the usual friction.
I was required to oblige his staying at least for a while, but Patrick wanted no part. It was all settled eventually when Patrick found his own space in the building and I, somehow miraculously, convinced the management firm was trustworthy enough [hey, I’d been living there illegally for 9 months or so], to allow them to give me, no mention of David, another space in one of there neighboring buildings. I have been known to sweet talk business people from time to time, even sweeter when my rep was some forty year old gal who probably had a soft spot for dirty kids who were just a few years older than her own.
The trail of blood… Well, OK let’s get into the more physical telling of the “trail of blood” story. I mean, the airy fairy metaphorical side of the story might be obvious in so much as David WAS after all a cubbyhole kid. I mean, my friends are my friends and I am always willing to go through whatever tumult with my friends… blah, enough of that, too much sacrin as there is.
So, David and I actually kind of thrived down in the hole… The new space was a semi-basement space in the building next to the carpet factory. Cement floors, brick walls, chopped into a little room and a big room. David and I, still wanting to believe we were artists decided the small room would be home, and the big room would be the space were ‘god like creation’ would take place. OK, I mounted a few sculptures [one of which surviving only in sketch form remains the one piece of art I made that I am still somewhat proud of]… despite that most of my memories of the time David and I spent there are of two idiots, one on an old couch, the other in this makeshift bed I had fashioned out of an old painters scaffolding slept off hangovers from the various “warehouse parties” that had started up as an affront to Toronto’s archaic 1:00am last call…
David painted I sculpted… To be fair, I should describe David’s art, I mean, he did have some pretty unique notions and was extremely passionate about what he was doing. David also had this special approach to art in so much as he never went to art school, wasn’t tainted by the “brain-speak” that haunted every brush stroke I laid down. He was genuinely a painter from the cubbyhole school. I remember once, I think I was sitting at our work bench [which doubled as both kitchen and coffee table] trying to assemble this scale plastic model of an Apollo Space Rocket that I had found at a junk shop somewhere [I’m certain, it was meant to become a very important metaphorically strategic part of some piece of art I was working on that would expose the corruption of America once and for all]… I remember, sitting and listening to David describe one of the last pieces of art he’d “pulled off” at home; David had gone from friend to friends place, scoured their basements, grabbed as many cans of old paint and spray paint as he could find. He’d laid out these cans on top of some old bed sheets on the side of a small hill out back on his fathers farm, kicked back a few and just started firing at them with his .22 rifle. He told me how he enjoyed the patterns made while the spray cans burst, and the paint buckets oozed. In the end he wasn’t happy with the way the sheets looked when it all dried up so he just chucked it out. Come to think of it, I think David threw everything he did out eventually.
So here we were, two old cubbyholers, sharing a bedroom, and a space to make art. We were in one of the most illegal live in spaces in a town that was now full of illegal living spaces. Oh, in order to make this story work, I have to point out one last thing… just down the road from where David and I were living was The Massy Ferguson Factory, The Tractor Factory. A dilapidated one/two story warehouse complex that covered, most likely, 20 square acres. Almost in the middle of what we called the west end fringe, I mean, minutes from down, seconds from the trendiest, hippest neighborhood in the city. Here we were at the junction between lofts being a place for artists to do art, and for hipsters to be hip, literally, physically and historically, my “blue period” indeed.
It would happen one night that David and I ventured off to the bars down on Queen [think East Village, Williamsburg, or whatever down side pre-gentrified bar hood that happens to be in your backyard]. We had got nicely toasted, probably chatted some girlies even though we were both complete dorks more used to drinking and pretending to talk to each other as we though Braque and Picasso may have spoken with each other back in their bo-ho days… We’d found out about an after-hours [pre-rave bitches, pre-rave]…
At this point the Toronto after hours were legendary. This one I had noted for one great architectural highlight. It was held in an eight-floor loft, just east of ours. About 3000 square feet, good DJ, OK beer prices, BUT, there was a crane access door that had been left open to let out smoke leaving a six foot by ten foot gaping hole in the wall, out of which any one of us drunken, foolish, stoned, late night idiots could easily have danced their way over to and fallen out of to their… well, you know… sad end.
I remember flirting with some girl I knew, but was uninterested in, I remember hooking up with Kevin and Rick, Rick who would later be tenant number two at The Hole. I remember David all of a sudden not being there any more.
No, David did NOT fall to his death although he later told us an uncorroborated story of some big dude hanging him over the security rail of the freight elevator by his ankles, threatening to drop him if he did not admit to angling toward this big dudes girlfriend… as said, uncorroborated, but essentially the reason for his sudden departure.
Rick and I finally decided to leave. I had arranged to give Kevin a break and let Rick come to my place in order to free up Kevin’s couch for someone else. Rick was an old friend. He was part of the Saskatoon crowd, and I had known him from parties, coffee talks and many a crossover/sleepover week or two during the days doing the loft bop circuit. As I said, Rick would soon be resident at the hole, had probably already stayed there a few times, so our leaving and heading home after what ever strikeouts we’d both suffered was definitely no surprise.
I remember talking about David with Rick. I think I may even have been complaining, and his sudden disappearance became part of that complaint. Although on the limits of a transit trip, Rick and I, engaged in this conversation, hit it to my place on foot. This despite the near or near under freezing temps and fresh inch of snow on the ground.
As we walked by the Tractor Factory, I recall we both salivated over the idea of some bo-ho reno that would have converted the acres of space into some artistic utopia [fucking hippies]. The place was nothing more than failing brick walls and shards of rock smashed windows. OK, I know you know this is obvious… but honestly, As Rick and I pulled up to one of these windows, we saw a few drops of blood… we also saw that the blood drops seamed to pull away and head in the general direction of where we were heading back to my building next to the carpet factory. A mystery, a story to invent and concoct to ourselves as we walked the last 10/20 blocks back to my place.
Of course David became the central character of this story. I mean, we had no thought based in reality of this, but we laughed and invented some scenario were David may have been mugged, or accosted by some hooker… It was a fun story and a fun walk… a fun walk until we realized the blood drops not only lead to my building, BUT, down the side street and too the alleyway that got me to the back door I used as my front door. When I saw blood all over the half steps leading down to a blood soaked door handle. I panicked, slipped on the ice, could barely get my keys in the doorknob and twist. I ran down the hall not even noticing the continuation of the drips we had followed for the last twenty minutes.
When I open our door, I found David, literally in a pool of blood, hands in pocket unconscious, half form beer, half from blood loss. No cell phones, kids, Rick and I literally picked him up, threw him on my shoulder, headed for the streets and hailed a cab. Rick and I had him to St. Joes in no less than twenty minutes despite the fact we probably had no more than five bucks between us.
The staff at emerge, decided that Dave, although up on their triage list could wait a few patients. By this point, I’d managed to slap him around a bit and get him to at least semi-consciousness… After waiting for what seamed like days, but most likely only firkin hours. I got the story from David. This is when I heard how he was hitting on some chick, how this chicks boy friend had threatened him [the elevator shaft torture, still uncorroborated]; how he’d left in a panic, but had calmed himself wit a pocket beer, and the freshness of the falling of snow and a nice quiet walk home. The danger of getting pounded receded, new danger awaited.
David, like myself, had always been fascinated by the Massy Ferguson Plant, The Tractor Factory. We’d both waded in on those adventurous Saturday mornings, looked around dreaming then leaving to do what ever Saturday chores needed being done. That night, Dave had tried to venture in again, slashed his wrist on a shard in the window and thought better of it. This is where it gets dumb.
Think about this… If you have just slashed your wrist, what have you been taught to do? Wrap it, apply pressure ELIVATE it. David, nope, David stuck his hands in his pockets and headed home. As it turns out, the blood drops Rick and I followed home that night dripped off the cuffs of David’s blood soaked jeans. My good friend, dork of a friend David probably lost a third of his blood that night. Oh, he probably would have regained consciousness and got himself to the hospital on his own, so , no Rick and I are not saviors…BUT it does bring to mind my new roomie, Dylan.
Dylan, you are a DUDE! You have an enormous understanding of your responsibilities to yourself and your pals. That said, after seeing you keyboard face-plant asleep at the desk here, I assume you are capable of a misstep… Trust me! I’m watching for trails of blood, I’ll do my best to cover your back AND if I ever find you in a puddle of blood in the middle of our apartment, you’ll be in the nearest emerge with in minutes! Regardless of what cash I have in the pocket at that moment.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Sweet Daddy Siki
Current mood: Whistful
"The most publicized wrestler on the grappling scene today is Sweet Daddy Siki. He is known as the Negro Gorgeous George and is as tough as they come. Sweet Daddy has been a main eventer several times at Madison Square Garden in New York, as well as other cities in the U.S. He has been headlined in all the big sports magazines and newspapers and is certainly a most publicized figure."
(From Ft. Worth, TX newspaper, Feb. 4, 1963)
I have to thank Sam and the Blog he wrote today for bringing Sweet Daddy Siki to mind. Sweet Daddy and I never met formally, but he was a big part of my life the years I lived in Parkdale. OK, I'll back up a bit. Over the 20 years I lived in Toronto most of these were spent in Parkdale. A grungy little chunk of the west end of the city bounded by hipster ridden Queen West, the lake and Polish town. Actually Greenpoints resemblance to Parkdale is quite astounding. The Queen West mentality always threatened to burst itself upon Parkdale but the hookers, thugs, scuzball welfare dudes and hundred of thousands of subsidized rental units always managed to put up a good defense. Oh I wouldn't say there wasn't a lot of gentrification going on, and there were quite a few very normal, hard working people living in the area. It just wasn't ever going to be hip.
Obviously, my favorite bars were in Parkdale, I can't even remember the name of one of them. I do remember all of them being smoke filled rooms with nothing more than shabby melamine bars with stools and chairs that looked like the could easily have been stolen from any legion hall or Knights of Columbus... These places were usually full of drunken fat pigs during the day [Lottie comes to mind], at night they were usually filled with, well, drunken fat pigs. Music was as sporadic as there were left over quarters for the juke box, so most of the time it was just the radio tuned to some country and western station or if you were lucky, an oldies station. Obviously, these were the places you wanted to be at Saturday nights when you could sit around watching the Leafs on a two color color TV, drink $1.00 beers and smoke 2 packs of your own and at least another 5 packs of the guy next to you'se second hand smoke.
I come by my ongoing love for places like the corner bar quite honestly.
It was in one of these places I first came across Sweet Daddy Siki. Oh, I'd known of him, and well actually had seen him driving around the neighborhood more than a few time, but that's for later. See, sweet Daddy after a relatively successful career as a Wrestler had a relatively unsuccessful career as an Actor/Singer. Sweet Daddy's profession when I met him was that of scuzz-bar DJ / Karaoke host. Keep in mind folks, Karaoke back then was still kind of this foreign thing that the Vietnamese did three nights a week in those mysterious whole in the wall bars whose bright neon sign in the front window, although in Vietnamese just screamed at you: "no occidental pigs allowed in thissy hear place". Really, I guess you might say Sweet Daddy Siki was a Karaoke pioneer, bringing the scratchy drunken sounds of tone deaf idiots into the mainstream of the scuz-bar culture.
Sweet Daddy was a huge man, I mean he was six six if he was nothing; he was as fat as you could get without looking slovenly; but his most distinctive feature was a shock of stone white fro cut almost like a Mohawk down the center of his big black head. This mo-fro was connected to a set of chops that could have fed a family of eight those chops where connected to each other by a big white handlebar... One big marble sculpture, cut trimmed and shaped to fit perfectly on the head of this one big dude. I can't remember him ever having signature clothing, except maybe for the fact, his shirts were always shinny, and his pants pressed. I'd tell you he wore cowboy boots, which wouldn't have been a stretch, but then, I'd be making that up as I haven't a clue what he wore on his feet, being he was always at the DJ booth, or at the wheel of his car when I saw him.
Now his car, THAT was signature! You'd see it parked around Parkdale all the time. Sweet Daddy's ride was as sweet as the Daddy himself. Picture a mid 1970's Cadillac Hearse, stretch version, a great looking car in of itself; NOW paint that thing Royal Purple, add as much chrome trim as you can, and that's Sweet Daddy's ride. The finest of New York City midtown pimps had nothing on Sweet Daddy and that car. If there were any justice in this world, that car would one day be featured at the Las Vegas Car Museum along side the Dusenberg collection, and Hitler's Staff Car. Not quite as historically important, but man, this is a car the current generation of bubble-drivers have to be made aware of...
Well, hmmm OK, sounds like it might be time to end this little drive down the backroads and sides streets of memory lane. I saw Sweet Daddy's act more than a few times. Heck I actually got up and made a drunken ass of myself singing his Karaoke; I believe "Last Train to Clarksville" was the last song I butchered. Anyhow, I don't miss living in Toronto, and New York City has offered me many a new "Classic Dude" to stand in awe of. I have my new scuz-bars to hang out in, even a place to watch Hockey [god rest it's soul]. I have a great gaggle of new pals... but man what I'd give to give a little wave to the Big Black Dude with the Stone White Fro as he drove his Purple Bomb slowly down Manhattan Avenue... Hey, Sweet Daddy, let me buy you a glass at Helen's. I'd have to think he would like that.
"The most publicized wrestler on the grappling scene today is Sweet Daddy Siki. He is known as the Negro Gorgeous George and is as tough as they come. Sweet Daddy has been a main eventer several times at Madison Square Garden in New York, as well as other cities in the U.S. He has been headlined in all the big sports magazines and newspapers and is certainly a most publicized figure."
(From Ft. Worth, TX newspaper, Feb. 4, 1963)
I have to thank Sam and the Blog he wrote today for bringing Sweet Daddy Siki to mind. Sweet Daddy and I never met formally, but he was a big part of my life the years I lived in Parkdale. OK, I'll back up a bit. Over the 20 years I lived in Toronto most of these were spent in Parkdale. A grungy little chunk of the west end of the city bounded by hipster ridden Queen West, the lake and Polish town. Actually Greenpoints resemblance to Parkdale is quite astounding. The Queen West mentality always threatened to burst itself upon Parkdale but the hookers, thugs, scuzball welfare dudes and hundred of thousands of subsidized rental units always managed to put up a good defense. Oh I wouldn't say there wasn't a lot of gentrification going on, and there were quite a few very normal, hard working people living in the area. It just wasn't ever going to be hip.
Obviously, my favorite bars were in Parkdale, I can't even remember the name of one of them. I do remember all of them being smoke filled rooms with nothing more than shabby melamine bars with stools and chairs that looked like the could easily have been stolen from any legion hall or Knights of Columbus... These places were usually full of drunken fat pigs during the day [Lottie comes to mind], at night they were usually filled with, well, drunken fat pigs. Music was as sporadic as there were left over quarters for the juke box, so most of the time it was just the radio tuned to some country and western station or if you were lucky, an oldies station. Obviously, these were the places you wanted to be at Saturday nights when you could sit around watching the Leafs on a two color color TV, drink $1.00 beers and smoke 2 packs of your own and at least another 5 packs of the guy next to you'se second hand smoke.
I come by my ongoing love for places like the corner bar quite honestly.
It was in one of these places I first came across Sweet Daddy Siki. Oh, I'd known of him, and well actually had seen him driving around the neighborhood more than a few time, but that's for later. See, sweet Daddy after a relatively successful career as a Wrestler had a relatively unsuccessful career as an Actor/Singer. Sweet Daddy's profession when I met him was that of scuzz-bar DJ / Karaoke host. Keep in mind folks, Karaoke back then was still kind of this foreign thing that the Vietnamese did three nights a week in those mysterious whole in the wall bars whose bright neon sign in the front window, although in Vietnamese just screamed at you: "no occidental pigs allowed in thissy hear place". Really, I guess you might say Sweet Daddy Siki was a Karaoke pioneer, bringing the scratchy drunken sounds of tone deaf idiots into the mainstream of the scuz-bar culture.
Sweet Daddy was a huge man, I mean he was six six if he was nothing; he was as fat as you could get without looking slovenly; but his most distinctive feature was a shock of stone white fro cut almost like a Mohawk down the center of his big black head. This mo-fro was connected to a set of chops that could have fed a family of eight those chops where connected to each other by a big white handlebar... One big marble sculpture, cut trimmed and shaped to fit perfectly on the head of this one big dude. I can't remember him ever having signature clothing, except maybe for the fact, his shirts were always shinny, and his pants pressed. I'd tell you he wore cowboy boots, which wouldn't have been a stretch, but then, I'd be making that up as I haven't a clue what he wore on his feet, being he was always at the DJ booth, or at the wheel of his car when I saw him.
Now his car, THAT was signature! You'd see it parked around Parkdale all the time. Sweet Daddy's ride was as sweet as the Daddy himself. Picture a mid 1970's Cadillac Hearse, stretch version, a great looking car in of itself; NOW paint that thing Royal Purple, add as much chrome trim as you can, and that's Sweet Daddy's ride. The finest of New York City midtown pimps had nothing on Sweet Daddy and that car. If there were any justice in this world, that car would one day be featured at the Las Vegas Car Museum along side the Dusenberg collection, and Hitler's Staff Car. Not quite as historically important, but man, this is a car the current generation of bubble-drivers have to be made aware of...
Well, hmmm OK, sounds like it might be time to end this little drive down the backroads and sides streets of memory lane. I saw Sweet Daddy's act more than a few times. Heck I actually got up and made a drunken ass of myself singing his Karaoke; I believe "Last Train to Clarksville" was the last song I butchered. Anyhow, I don't miss living in Toronto, and New York City has offered me many a new "Classic Dude" to stand in awe of. I have my new scuz-bars to hang out in, even a place to watch Hockey [god rest it's soul]. I have a great gaggle of new pals... but man what I'd give to give a little wave to the Big Black Dude with the Stone White Fro as he drove his Purple Bomb slowly down Manhattan Avenue... Hey, Sweet Daddy, let me buy you a glass at Helen's. I'd have to think he would like that.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Let Me Ask a Question...
Does this day really mean anything to you?
I remember, well, barely, growing up kind of dreading this day. It's not that the brown paper bag taped to my old wooden school desk was completely empty at days end... the brown paper bag that we were told to bring in; had started the day off decorating with red construction paper hearts, glue and sparkles... It's not that my bag was empty, it's more that my bag was full of half baked forced truths, and for the most part meaningless bon mons from my friends from which I always wanted more. OK, we were only 7 or 8, but...
I dreaded the day that your parents and teachers forced you to punch out 30 some odd perforated cartoon heart decorated Valentines day cards. Writes some drivel that only added to the drivel pre-printed, folded sealed and stuffed into each of the other decorated paper bags on the front of each of the other desks in your grades one, two, three, four and five classrooms desk...
Bobby said this, Janie said that, Susan never said what I wanted to hear... I mean c'mon, Susan, my best pal, my GIRLfriend, the cutie beauty I was going to marry when I was 17, I mean, all grown up. Nope, all I ever got from Susan was a pre-perforated, punched out card, just another piece of cheap cardboard tossed into a paper bag...
About ten years ago. I brought my wife to a specially advertised couples dinner at my local pub. The food there was actually quite good, and well hey, a prix fix load of grub, a bottle of wine and a couple of beers might just be "what the doctor" had ordered up as a cure to a relationship floundering on boredom... We had a nice dinner, and a nice chat, when we got home later that night she admitted to me that for the last 3, 4 months she had been having an "affair", and although the "affair" was not cause for separation, the fact that she could even have an "affair" disturbed her to the point that she realized enough was enough and that it was time to end... this.
Fucking stupid bitch! As much as she was the love of my life, my, so called soul mate, one of the very few persons that I think I was absolutely connected to... I will always hate her for coming to that conclusion. Coming to that conclusion on a day I had gone way beyond buying her "stake knives" or tickets to the "ball game". On a night that I had actually thought about putting a little extra something into that red-construction-paper-heart decorated bag of hers.
Does this day mean anything, well I guess maybe it does. While half a bunch of nimrods are walking about dressed in pink shirts and skimpy underwear... while the asshole marketers [myself included], are trying to suck a few extra bucks out of heart strung morons whose greatest love adventure was picked out of a plastic bag they found buried at the bottom of a Captain Crunch cereal box... Today, this day, for me... means the absolute END of love.
And I think that that is absolutely fucking perfect.
I remember, well, barely, growing up kind of dreading this day. It's not that the brown paper bag taped to my old wooden school desk was completely empty at days end... the brown paper bag that we were told to bring in; had started the day off decorating with red construction paper hearts, glue and sparkles... It's not that my bag was empty, it's more that my bag was full of half baked forced truths, and for the most part meaningless bon mons from my friends from which I always wanted more. OK, we were only 7 or 8, but...
I dreaded the day that your parents and teachers forced you to punch out 30 some odd perforated cartoon heart decorated Valentines day cards. Writes some drivel that only added to the drivel pre-printed, folded sealed and stuffed into each of the other decorated paper bags on the front of each of the other desks in your grades one, two, three, four and five classrooms desk...
Bobby said this, Janie said that, Susan never said what I wanted to hear... I mean c'mon, Susan, my best pal, my GIRLfriend, the cutie beauty I was going to marry when I was 17, I mean, all grown up. Nope, all I ever got from Susan was a pre-perforated, punched out card, just another piece of cheap cardboard tossed into a paper bag...
About ten years ago. I brought my wife to a specially advertised couples dinner at my local pub. The food there was actually quite good, and well hey, a prix fix load of grub, a bottle of wine and a couple of beers might just be "what the doctor" had ordered up as a cure to a relationship floundering on boredom... We had a nice dinner, and a nice chat, when we got home later that night she admitted to me that for the last 3, 4 months she had been having an "affair", and although the "affair" was not cause for separation, the fact that she could even have an "affair" disturbed her to the point that she realized enough was enough and that it was time to end... this.
Fucking stupid bitch! As much as she was the love of my life, my, so called soul mate, one of the very few persons that I think I was absolutely connected to... I will always hate her for coming to that conclusion. Coming to that conclusion on a day I had gone way beyond buying her "stake knives" or tickets to the "ball game". On a night that I had actually thought about putting a little extra something into that red-construction-paper-heart decorated bag of hers.
Does this day mean anything, well I guess maybe it does. While half a bunch of nimrods are walking about dressed in pink shirts and skimpy underwear... while the asshole marketers [myself included], are trying to suck a few extra bucks out of heart strung morons whose greatest love adventure was picked out of a plastic bag they found buried at the bottom of a Captain Crunch cereal box... Today, this day, for me... means the absolute END of love.
And I think that that is absolutely fucking perfect.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Home Invasion
The Dylan Expeditiary forces have landed on the beaches of hotel Gord. It's quite exciting as plumes of sweet smelling smoke rise above the horizon at the other end of the couch. Although outnumbered by almost 2 to 1 [I say almost, I mean c'mon], Gord has held fire of his own while keeping his forces well fueled and on the march. As the lights flickerd and the battle hyms of earlier times played the troops did battle then retreated to more stable positions... No reports of massive injury, nor the taking of prisoners was forthcoming.
We'll check Craigslist, and Connecticut, but if anyone can spare the following, please let us know:
-desk
-kitchen chairs
-coffee table
-plates, and other sundry kitchen like items
-televisions
-vacuum cleaner
-ash trays [ours are all full]
Thank you,
Central Command
We'll check Craigslist, and Connecticut, but if anyone can spare the following, please let us know:
-desk
-kitchen chairs
-coffee table
-plates, and other sundry kitchen like items
-televisions
-vacuum cleaner
-ash trays [ours are all full]
Thank you,
Central Command
Monday, February 07, 2005
Super Nova
For some reason everything seems strangely different today. Perhaps it was the warm weather this weekend, or the good company I have found myself in the last few weeks. It all just seems all so oddly different. OK, I'm not particularly happy about this ODD feeling, as a matter of fact, I feel somewhat apprehensive, as if something dramatic is about to happen, and this will all change again. One thing is for certain, I am going to have to make some behavioral changes to assure that I am more alert, and take notice when or if this next change happens. I have a bit of a bad feeling about this... I wonder why? If you have a clue, let me know.
Now, as for the weather, how nice was that? I mean, how nice was it to walk light coatedly throughout town on Saturday? How nice was it to sit on the stoop, sipping coffee reading the newspaper as the sun went down prior to the so called "big game" Sunday. How nice was it to close your eyes listening to the sound of gulls while sitting on the beach as the warmth of the sun danced a jig on your cheeks, AND memories of good friends and great times danced a jag in your mind? There is nothing quite like a nice warm day in the middle of a cold old winter.
Speaking of light coatedly... despite the apprehension noted above, or perhaps outside of this apprehension, I continue to enjoy, or rather perhaps I should say, I am starting to enjoy this re-alignment of my social life. Although, yesterday, I was forced into a decision not to see old friends of Jen and mine. Forced mostly because I was a plain old idiot the night before. It was quite sad deciding not to go see Shari and Tom, even more sad realizing that there is a very good chance I may never see them again. Same could be said for Mike and Laura and Elisa and Jason, AND George and Stephanie, Tami, Rori and Chrissy. But, I can take some pleasure in having the friends I have, the friends I will keep, and the new friends I will make. I feel as though I have made a few new friends, I guess time will tell what these new relationships will be like. As always, as with all my friendships, I'm sure they will have a positive impact on me.
Anyhow... Super Nova, was a good day. I think.
Now, as for the weather, how nice was that? I mean, how nice was it to walk light coatedly throughout town on Saturday? How nice was it to sit on the stoop, sipping coffee reading the newspaper as the sun went down prior to the so called "big game" Sunday. How nice was it to close your eyes listening to the sound of gulls while sitting on the beach as the warmth of the sun danced a jig on your cheeks, AND memories of good friends and great times danced a jag in your mind? There is nothing quite like a nice warm day in the middle of a cold old winter.
Speaking of light coatedly... despite the apprehension noted above, or perhaps outside of this apprehension, I continue to enjoy, or rather perhaps I should say, I am starting to enjoy this re-alignment of my social life. Although, yesterday, I was forced into a decision not to see old friends of Jen and mine. Forced mostly because I was a plain old idiot the night before. It was quite sad deciding not to go see Shari and Tom, even more sad realizing that there is a very good chance I may never see them again. Same could be said for Mike and Laura and Elisa and Jason, AND George and Stephanie, Tami, Rori and Chrissy. But, I can take some pleasure in having the friends I have, the friends I will keep, and the new friends I will make. I feel as though I have made a few new friends, I guess time will tell what these new relationships will be like. As always, as with all my friendships, I'm sure they will have a positive impact on me.
Anyhow... Super Nova, was a good day. I think.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Little Ghost Girl Fails to Show, Still, We'll Wait...
Current mood: chipper
So, my little ghost child did not return last night...
OK, for those not in the know, the other night I seemingly had, what a friend later told me to be a sleep paralysis episode. Apparently these are relatively common intense "dreams" in which you are kind of awake, still dreaming but having hallucinations. They generally involve the feeling of being trapped/pinned in your bed unable to move. Most people react with utter fear, often mistaking the experience for a brush with the paranormal... At the risk of contradicting a good friend, I say, bunkers, I just had a visit from my friend, the little ghost girl.
You see, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. Although she never gave me the full details, apparently something like this happened to Jen in our living room last year; and there have been many a time when I've woken up at the hour of the wolf only to have something, or hear something that has stood my hairs on end [get me scurrying back from the toilet to bed all lickity splitly like], anyhow, the other night...
The other night, I was having my normal sleep three, wake one, sleep one, wake one night time diddly-doo. I had had a few dandy-assed dreams and was lying there, when all of a sudden I felt little feet running over my bed. I knew they were little, as they felt, well just a bit bigger than when the cat used to re-adjust herself late at night. As you could imagine, I was quite startled and more than a bit scared. It felt as though these little feet had been used to bolt this little person through my room, over the bed [which these days is actually a couch], and into my living room. Obviously, I wanted to get up and have a look, but alas, there I was, pinned, guilver-hog tied to the bed. Couldn't move a muscle, didn't get a look.
I was spooked, but did manage to fall back to sleep for a while, had some more epic dreams [Nazi's, fiords, stone castles, Danish lunch and dinner dates with piles of logan-berry jam, liverwurst and greasy meat]... I'd have to say, it was a pretty entertaining night in the ol' noggin'. ANYHOW, that morning although STILL spooked, I was far more interested to come up with an explanation for my little jogger-pal experience. The hair was still standing up on my neck when I got email back from my friend. I did take her suggestion as sensible, and I did take it through a few turns on the net as well... lots of good reading, but honestly, I think there's something more to it.
I've decided to call ol' "little feet" my little ghost girl. So far I've filled her in as either an olive skinned dark eyed little Spanish girl with braids, or a pie faced sunken eyed, straight-haired, blond polish child. I figure the child either had some connection with my place, as I assume my apartment has been home to close to 30/40 families since being built sometime over hundred years ago. Anyhow, lets just say, as one possibility, the chances of some kid coming to a no good end in my apartment, sickness, or worse, is pretty darned high. Of course another theory might be, we just have a little ghost girl looking for a place with a little extra space to hang for the winter. I can tell you straight up, I have a lot of extra space in my life these days.
Anyhow, I haven't come up with a name for my little ghost girl. Actually, I'm hoping she'll tell me when she pops on by again, this time sticking around for a while. The night this happened, was one of the few nights in a long while that I had turned the TV off when I wen to bed. I'm thinking maybe this may have pissed her off, so I'm leaving the TV on again. It'd be nice to watch some TV with the kid, play a game, hey maybe I could read her a book [although, I only have two in the house right now, neither of which are really suited for young children]... I guess I could always try to make something up as I turned the pages, a little fairy tale for kids based on "Confederates in the Attic", or "In Cold Blood"... :-)
Contrary to a popular misconception, I do like kids, and have often times enjoyed the company of my niece, nephew and my cousins two kids. So, I am hoping for another visit. Hopefully ghost girl does have an attachment to my place, hey ghost girl, bring a friend if you like, we'll have a tea party [do ghost girls read blogs?].
So, that's my story, I'm sticking to it. To my friend, I say thanks for the info, I have considered it, AND it is most plausible. But for now, at least until such a great distance of time has passed between visits that your theory prove more likely, I'll go with my ghost girl theory.
Anyone like to join us at the tea party?
So, my little ghost child did not return last night...
OK, for those not in the know, the other night I seemingly had, what a friend later told me to be a sleep paralysis episode. Apparently these are relatively common intense "dreams" in which you are kind of awake, still dreaming but having hallucinations. They generally involve the feeling of being trapped/pinned in your bed unable to move. Most people react with utter fear, often mistaking the experience for a brush with the paranormal... At the risk of contradicting a good friend, I say, bunkers, I just had a visit from my friend, the little ghost girl.
You see, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. Although she never gave me the full details, apparently something like this happened to Jen in our living room last year; and there have been many a time when I've woken up at the hour of the wolf only to have something, or hear something that has stood my hairs on end [get me scurrying back from the toilet to bed all lickity splitly like], anyhow, the other night...
The other night, I was having my normal sleep three, wake one, sleep one, wake one night time diddly-doo. I had had a few dandy-assed dreams and was lying there, when all of a sudden I felt little feet running over my bed. I knew they were little, as they felt, well just a bit bigger than when the cat used to re-adjust herself late at night. As you could imagine, I was quite startled and more than a bit scared. It felt as though these little feet had been used to bolt this little person through my room, over the bed [which these days is actually a couch], and into my living room. Obviously, I wanted to get up and have a look, but alas, there I was, pinned, guilver-hog tied to the bed. Couldn't move a muscle, didn't get a look.
I was spooked, but did manage to fall back to sleep for a while, had some more epic dreams [Nazi's, fiords, stone castles, Danish lunch and dinner dates with piles of logan-berry jam, liverwurst and greasy meat]... I'd have to say, it was a pretty entertaining night in the ol' noggin'. ANYHOW, that morning although STILL spooked, I was far more interested to come up with an explanation for my little jogger-pal experience. The hair was still standing up on my neck when I got email back from my friend. I did take her suggestion as sensible, and I did take it through a few turns on the net as well... lots of good reading, but honestly, I think there's something more to it.
I've decided to call ol' "little feet" my little ghost girl. So far I've filled her in as either an olive skinned dark eyed little Spanish girl with braids, or a pie faced sunken eyed, straight-haired, blond polish child. I figure the child either had some connection with my place, as I assume my apartment has been home to close to 30/40 families since being built sometime over hundred years ago. Anyhow, lets just say, as one possibility, the chances of some kid coming to a no good end in my apartment, sickness, or worse, is pretty darned high. Of course another theory might be, we just have a little ghost girl looking for a place with a little extra space to hang for the winter. I can tell you straight up, I have a lot of extra space in my life these days.
Anyhow, I haven't come up with a name for my little ghost girl. Actually, I'm hoping she'll tell me when she pops on by again, this time sticking around for a while. The night this happened, was one of the few nights in a long while that I had turned the TV off when I wen to bed. I'm thinking maybe this may have pissed her off, so I'm leaving the TV on again. It'd be nice to watch some TV with the kid, play a game, hey maybe I could read her a book [although, I only have two in the house right now, neither of which are really suited for young children]... I guess I could always try to make something up as I turned the pages, a little fairy tale for kids based on "Confederates in the Attic", or "In Cold Blood"... :-)
Contrary to a popular misconception, I do like kids, and have often times enjoyed the company of my niece, nephew and my cousins two kids. So, I am hoping for another visit. Hopefully ghost girl does have an attachment to my place, hey ghost girl, bring a friend if you like, we'll have a tea party [do ghost girls read blogs?].
So, that's my story, I'm sticking to it. To my friend, I say thanks for the info, I have considered it, AND it is most plausible. But for now, at least until such a great distance of time has passed between visits that your theory prove more likely, I'll go with my ghost girl theory.
Anyone like to join us at the tea party?
