Sunday, August 10, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
A Trip to the Vet's
I was peed on by a dog today. A little, white rat bastard of a dog at the vet's. This is why, even though I have owned two beloved dogs and known many others, my leaning is towards cats. I will watch my language through this post.
One of the cats needed a small but important procedure, and to take a cat to the vet, you sanely need a two day warm-up. First, you get the carrier out, ha-ha, look, it's just the carrier, no one is going anywhere; leave the carrier in a place where the cats will pass by it during the day, so that it becomes part of the furniture arrangement for them. Have the door open.
The day before, tip the whole thing up on one end, so that when the time comes, you can casually drop the cat in like a reverse rabbit out of a hat trick. Check the door to make sure it is firmly set within the hinges, and will swing shut one-handedly.
The day of the appointment, do not call kitty kitty kitty, for the cat knows. I will put on a short play, and maybe have a book, a paper, or a plant in hand and not even head for the cat. Not even go near the cat. I carry my book around the apartment, like there is book business to be taken care of, nothing to do with cats, nope. When I've walked around enough so that the cat ignores what I'm doing, I nonchalantly walk by, set down whatever I'm carrying, and gently but firmly swoop up the cat and lie to it. What a good kitty you are, such a good cat, we're going for a short ride to see grandma and I think Sammy Davis Jr. will be there (I love Sammy Davis Jr.), we can stop for ice cream, blah blah blah. The cat is tense but really likes ice cream, so there may be a deal.
At the upended cage, put the cat in hindquarters first, that way they can't brace themselves with their front paws against the frame of the carrier door. Do it fast, and they won't know what happened. The whole thing is easier if they're asleep, but there is something unfair about that. Tulip, who recently had surgery, was the one going; she was given to me by the vet who said that since I was so good with cats, I won Door Number Two, behind which was a small teapot shaped animal. She was frightened of everyone, and stayed in the Room with Books for four years. Four freaking years. Of course, the white cat who is short one vertebrae, has bad knees, hops, and is basically a Special Olympics cat bullied her, lorded it over, was the cat of cats until one day Tulip snapped and beat the snot out of Snowbelle. Now the roles have switched, and Tutu lives anywhere she wants and will chase the white demon to under the bed.
Anyway, the point of all of the above is that Tulip is a ninja at hiding; I started carrying a plant around an hour earlier, because it would take that long to find her. She was nowhere, a flashlight to look under dressers, beds, and in the back of closets revealed her powers of invisibility. You get goofy when the appointment is nearing, and start looking in obtuse places, like, did the cat accidentally get stuck in the refrigerator? Vents, behind folded towels, in areas that she would have to melt herself into a pancake to fit into, nada, my friend.
There are three dressers, and she was in the second drawer of the second dresser, managing to wedge herself under the loose top drawer and in with the winter sweaters. She is a small cat. The stunned look on her face when the drawer opened was gratifying, as if Holmes caught Moriarty. Scooped her up, did the rear end first into the carrier, and latched the door. She cries pitifully, and adds further pathos by essentially giving up and laying on the floor of the carrier, dismal, sad, on the way to the gallows. Tulip would give the Broadway stage a run for their money.
At the vet, three different owners have the same breed of dog, bichon frises, and are talking as to how amazing it is that they have the same breed, with appointments on the same day. I had gotten up to Purell my hands, and noticed the owner of one was looking at the available adoptees, apparently unaware that her dog was whizzing on the swinging door to the reception desk. Then he peed on the display of canned food, then he peed on the available adoptee. THE OWNER DID NOTHING. Come on Sherbet, let's go sit down. She was either blind to the color yellow, rock stupid, or just plain rude. The receptionist got gloves, spray, paper towels, and wiped up the three puddles Sherbet the fireman bestowed on the surroundings.
She, her boyfriend, and Sherbet were called in, whatever exam needed was done, and they came struttin' back out, big smiles as everything must have gone well. I'm not watching the lawn sprinkler, lord knows why I expected one of the adults to be aware, right then I was telling Tulip how big guy cat Steve could make a sandwich out of any of these little bichon freezie pop dogs, when the nice lady next to me gasps. Oh! says Sherbet's owner, he's peeing on your shoe-leg-purse. Another Trifecta. Did she pull him away? NO, SHE DID NOT. I gave the little creep a shove and if I was not in front of people, Sherbet would have been the Canine Sputnik of 2014, or I would have given him to the restaurant up the street. They sell goat, why not French dog?
No assistance, no help with paper towels, there was one "I'm sorry," before turning back to the counter to pay the bill. I got the disinfectant spray and toweling, and cleaned up as well as I could before it was Tulip's turn. The lady next to me, who worked at the SPCA for ten years, asked the owners if the dog was recently neutered? Nope, no, he was fixed when we got him. Did you get him from a puppy mill? Nope. They seemed offended that the rest of the world thought less of Sherbet than they did. Their entire lives must be anointed with dog whizz.
When home, I tossed the shoes and pants, and dabbed the purse with hydrogen peroxide, but have a feeling that it will be discarded as well, for every time I look at it, I will think of Sherbet, which will make my blood pressure go up, and it's pretty good right now. So, how was your day?
I'm going to bed. It's the Farmer's Market tomorrow with Pauline, and then a Day of Art. Maybe soup. Pauline and her husband have a very nice dog, he's a good fella who could wear Sherbet as a corsage. The night holds promises; the farmers may be out picking in their fields even now, some rise at three in the morning to bundle carrots and Swiss chard. Stir your dreams, wrap them in endeavor. Good night.
One of the cats needed a small but important procedure, and to take a cat to the vet, you sanely need a two day warm-up. First, you get the carrier out, ha-ha, look, it's just the carrier, no one is going anywhere; leave the carrier in a place where the cats will pass by it during the day, so that it becomes part of the furniture arrangement for them. Have the door open.
The day before, tip the whole thing up on one end, so that when the time comes, you can casually drop the cat in like a reverse rabbit out of a hat trick. Check the door to make sure it is firmly set within the hinges, and will swing shut one-handedly.
The day of the appointment, do not call kitty kitty kitty, for the cat knows. I will put on a short play, and maybe have a book, a paper, or a plant in hand and not even head for the cat. Not even go near the cat. I carry my book around the apartment, like there is book business to be taken care of, nothing to do with cats, nope. When I've walked around enough so that the cat ignores what I'm doing, I nonchalantly walk by, set down whatever I'm carrying, and gently but firmly swoop up the cat and lie to it. What a good kitty you are, such a good cat, we're going for a short ride to see grandma and I think Sammy Davis Jr. will be there (I love Sammy Davis Jr.), we can stop for ice cream, blah blah blah. The cat is tense but really likes ice cream, so there may be a deal.
At the upended cage, put the cat in hindquarters first, that way they can't brace themselves with their front paws against the frame of the carrier door. Do it fast, and they won't know what happened. The whole thing is easier if they're asleep, but there is something unfair about that. Tulip, who recently had surgery, was the one going; she was given to me by the vet who said that since I was so good with cats, I won Door Number Two, behind which was a small teapot shaped animal. She was frightened of everyone, and stayed in the Room with Books for four years. Four freaking years. Of course, the white cat who is short one vertebrae, has bad knees, hops, and is basically a Special Olympics cat bullied her, lorded it over, was the cat of cats until one day Tulip snapped and beat the snot out of Snowbelle. Now the roles have switched, and Tutu lives anywhere she wants and will chase the white demon to under the bed.
Anyway, the point of all of the above is that Tulip is a ninja at hiding; I started carrying a plant around an hour earlier, because it would take that long to find her. She was nowhere, a flashlight to look under dressers, beds, and in the back of closets revealed her powers of invisibility. You get goofy when the appointment is nearing, and start looking in obtuse places, like, did the cat accidentally get stuck in the refrigerator? Vents, behind folded towels, in areas that she would have to melt herself into a pancake to fit into, nada, my friend.
There are three dressers, and she was in the second drawer of the second dresser, managing to wedge herself under the loose top drawer and in with the winter sweaters. She is a small cat. The stunned look on her face when the drawer opened was gratifying, as if Holmes caught Moriarty. Scooped her up, did the rear end first into the carrier, and latched the door. She cries pitifully, and adds further pathos by essentially giving up and laying on the floor of the carrier, dismal, sad, on the way to the gallows. Tulip would give the Broadway stage a run for their money.
At the vet, three different owners have the same breed of dog, bichon frises, and are talking as to how amazing it is that they have the same breed, with appointments on the same day. I had gotten up to Purell my hands, and noticed the owner of one was looking at the available adoptees, apparently unaware that her dog was whizzing on the swinging door to the reception desk. Then he peed on the display of canned food, then he peed on the available adoptee. THE OWNER DID NOTHING. Come on Sherbet, let's go sit down. She was either blind to the color yellow, rock stupid, or just plain rude. The receptionist got gloves, spray, paper towels, and wiped up the three puddles Sherbet the fireman bestowed on the surroundings.
She, her boyfriend, and Sherbet were called in, whatever exam needed was done, and they came struttin' back out, big smiles as everything must have gone well. I'm not watching the lawn sprinkler, lord knows why I expected one of the adults to be aware, right then I was telling Tulip how big guy cat Steve could make a sandwich out of any of these little bichon freezie pop dogs, when the nice lady next to me gasps. Oh! says Sherbet's owner, he's peeing on your shoe-leg-purse. Another Trifecta. Did she pull him away? NO, SHE DID NOT. I gave the little creep a shove and if I was not in front of people, Sherbet would have been the Canine Sputnik of 2014, or I would have given him to the restaurant up the street. They sell goat, why not French dog?
No assistance, no help with paper towels, there was one "I'm sorry," before turning back to the counter to pay the bill. I got the disinfectant spray and toweling, and cleaned up as well as I could before it was Tulip's turn. The lady next to me, who worked at the SPCA for ten years, asked the owners if the dog was recently neutered? Nope, no, he was fixed when we got him. Did you get him from a puppy mill? Nope. They seemed offended that the rest of the world thought less of Sherbet than they did. Their entire lives must be anointed with dog whizz.
When home, I tossed the shoes and pants, and dabbed the purse with hydrogen peroxide, but have a feeling that it will be discarded as well, for every time I look at it, I will think of Sherbet, which will make my blood pressure go up, and it's pretty good right now. So, how was your day?
I'm going to bed. It's the Farmer's Market tomorrow with Pauline, and then a Day of Art. Maybe soup. Pauline and her husband have a very nice dog, he's a good fella who could wear Sherbet as a corsage. The night holds promises; the farmers may be out picking in their fields even now, some rise at three in the morning to bundle carrots and Swiss chard. Stir your dreams, wrap them in endeavor. Good night.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Ante Meridiem, Post Meridiem
From now on, I will get up and out before 9:00 a.m. if I want to go for a walk down to the berm, because, one: the day was sunny and hot, and required sunblock so now I smell like sunblock; and two: it was unusually crowded and felt like I was at the county fair, weaving in and out between people that were meandering but would suddenly stop midst meander to report on some occurrence or photograph a blurred moment, and I would have to throw on the brakes. Or almost tripping over the couple who were laying on the Canadian goose pooped grass sans blanket in the middle of a pathway through the public garden making no sense whatsoever. Of course anyone can lay on the grass, but right in front of the entry to the bricked walk? If I were a goose, I would have made an organic statement. If I were a Canadian, I would have inquired politely if they thought civilization was a recent idea.
Because I am an American, I used my garden path rage to step up the pace and buzzed around them, since the alternate route was a steep hill. But it was hot, and by this time I was soggy and wondering what on earth possessed me to think that this was an idea of merit. Coming to the railing beside where the two rivers meet Lake Erie wasn't any cooler, but I pushed on because I am taking a damn walk, you jazz-loving, grass-rolling tourists from the 'burbs.
I made it halfway down the berm before deciding that staggering from the heat wasn't that attractive, came about, and headed back across the asphalt towards home. Everything was soggy, including my sun spotted brain. Heat does not agree with me, and many of my jobs included working in restaurant kitchens in front of broilers and fryers during the summer. I would get tiny blisters all over, my whites sticking to me like Saran Wrap; the wait staff would keep us going with pitchers of ice water and cola, in hopes of getting their quiche out first.
Living in Florida was different, the heat was humid but you had the ocean to jump into and frankly, one could walk around like Jungle Jane with next to nothing on. I tell you, I have seen centenarians elasticized in speedos or origamied into bikinis. Nobody cares, it is just too freaking hot.
Got back and splashed water over my face; broke out the ice and loaded a glass for water, more water. Summer is overrated in my opinion, until the sun gets close to the western horizon, spills a hymnal spectrum, then reddens, descends, and the night hawks come out. Blessed night, when the day crowd has retreated and life slows down to an observant, sphinxlike measure. The night ones walk through the stillness of shadows, and can hear their own footsteps on the pavement; heavy doors are pulled open, dreams are spoken out loud. Colors disappear until a candle on the table blazes, casting an illuminating glow on many a question.
How could you know? Has anyone told you of the night? Sensation is magnified; sight, touch, hearing, smell; all increased to make up for the lack of depth in night vision, the reduced line of sight. Come home to sleep, and the night will soothe and calm, sending the brain into subconscious levels till we are no smarter than a lizard scurrying to the end of a branch. Yet inside works the laboratory of thought, instinct, premonition as we sleep, dreaming of tides, of searching for home.
I will tell you a story. Sleep well.
Because I am an American, I used my garden path rage to step up the pace and buzzed around them, since the alternate route was a steep hill. But it was hot, and by this time I was soggy and wondering what on earth possessed me to think that this was an idea of merit. Coming to the railing beside where the two rivers meet Lake Erie wasn't any cooler, but I pushed on because I am taking a damn walk, you jazz-loving, grass-rolling tourists from the 'burbs.
I made it halfway down the berm before deciding that staggering from the heat wasn't that attractive, came about, and headed back across the asphalt towards home. Everything was soggy, including my sun spotted brain. Heat does not agree with me, and many of my jobs included working in restaurant kitchens in front of broilers and fryers during the summer. I would get tiny blisters all over, my whites sticking to me like Saran Wrap; the wait staff would keep us going with pitchers of ice water and cola, in hopes of getting their quiche out first.
Living in Florida was different, the heat was humid but you had the ocean to jump into and frankly, one could walk around like Jungle Jane with next to nothing on. I tell you, I have seen centenarians elasticized in speedos or origamied into bikinis. Nobody cares, it is just too freaking hot.
Got back and splashed water over my face; broke out the ice and loaded a glass for water, more water. Summer is overrated in my opinion, until the sun gets close to the western horizon, spills a hymnal spectrum, then reddens, descends, and the night hawks come out. Blessed night, when the day crowd has retreated and life slows down to an observant, sphinxlike measure. The night ones walk through the stillness of shadows, and can hear their own footsteps on the pavement; heavy doors are pulled open, dreams are spoken out loud. Colors disappear until a candle on the table blazes, casting an illuminating glow on many a question.
How could you know? Has anyone told you of the night? Sensation is magnified; sight, touch, hearing, smell; all increased to make up for the lack of depth in night vision, the reduced line of sight. Come home to sleep, and the night will soothe and calm, sending the brain into subconscious levels till we are no smarter than a lizard scurrying to the end of a branch. Yet inside works the laboratory of thought, instinct, premonition as we sleep, dreaming of tides, of searching for home.
I will tell you a story. Sleep well.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Storytime
"Books, books, books! Thousands! Millions of them! All spines intact! All these will I give you if you will obey me," said Harper Collins, Doubleday, Pantheon, and Random House.
I am hauling out over one hundred books so far, in the soon to be reached goal of eliminating the book case in the living room/studio for room to set up the H-frame easel just given to me by a dear, retiring art teacher. The above quote, twisted from Renfield in Todd Browning's film Dracula, indicates how many I have accumulated over the past twenty years due to a happy belief that the world is an evolving, large place with much to know. However, if I ever equated books with happiness, that was only a partly right supposition, built on the ancient history of my aunt's attic which was lined with shelves of books. The house had been owned by a dentist, and at the top of the scary, corkscrew stairway you scurried through the first room haunted by shapeless, crumbling furniture, then arrived at the second room which had an Oriental rug layered with a hundred years of silent dust. And there they were, the glorious, wooden shelves lining two whole walls, packed with books.
The shelves were filled with cloth-bound, hardcover editions of The Bobbsey Twins, Alice in Wonderland, and hundreds of others that, in the attic heat, gave up a sweet, papery aroma which still drives me delirious when opening a book from a former century. No glossy paper, no slick glossy covers, sometimes a handwritten note inside a front board. This trove was there when my Aunt Dorie bought the house; she would allow me to select a few, then get more when those were returned. It was part of the respite of visiting her and my cousins on Lafayette Avenue in the city, for I was allowed books at home.
In an attempt at creating a library of my own, I have amassed six bookcases worth, plus the books which sprout like mushrooms after a rain on smaller pieces of furniture, in a stack by the bed, or on the kitchen counter. And the art table. And the dresser. Everything flat has a purpose. They are sort of organized by subject; all the fungi books near the seashell identification guides and all other science. Silent film has three shelves to itself, then medieval stuff, humor, reference, poetry, home, cookbooks, theory, ancient civilization, the little bit of fiction, and art. Sort of. But since moving things around, it's jumbled, but I love it. Almost the same papery fragrance, they are comforting, practical; they give me roots.
Cookbooks are the easiest to pull; there are a few specialty books, like for cakes, various cultures, or soup that I will keep besides the old standbys. But I will never make my own sauerkraut. Then there are the philosophy books which have teeny tiny print and references by the yard; I've kept a few of those, but hermeneutics? Nah. No more. Algebra. Hamiltonian paths are lovely, and the basis for one of my favorite computer games, Planarity, but it's taking up needed shelf space. And so on. It is looking successful.
You will find things in books that will never make it onto the internet; old dictionaries have words no longer used; old cookbooks will list hygienic standards, and advise against going out into the night, when poisonous vapors waft up from the ground. Don't hang around swamps. Don't overheat your brain. Turning pages is a treat, and works without batteries; you can bookmark a page, write a note; go ahead, use pencil.
Reading in bed is a lovely pleasure, and there is a stack of books next to the bed; some are being read again, others have new subjects and ideas. One of the first animals to crawl out of the sea was a millipede-like segmented creature, which is why today's modern millipedes belong to the class of crustacea, like crabs. This stuff fascinates me, where things came from and where are they going, mineral, animal, vegetable.
Sleep well this cool summer night, take a book in with you and read; what is the commonality which links you to this story, whether of earth or city, fact or fiction? You learn of the world, but you also get to know the secrets of yourself, and what to do about it. Fall into your pillow, I shall meet you up in the stars, midst the calm darkness, dreaming of wishes, dreaming of time. You storybook, you.
I am hauling out over one hundred books so far, in the soon to be reached goal of eliminating the book case in the living room/studio for room to set up the H-frame easel just given to me by a dear, retiring art teacher. The above quote, twisted from Renfield in Todd Browning's film Dracula, indicates how many I have accumulated over the past twenty years due to a happy belief that the world is an evolving, large place with much to know. However, if I ever equated books with happiness, that was only a partly right supposition, built on the ancient history of my aunt's attic which was lined with shelves of books. The house had been owned by a dentist, and at the top of the scary, corkscrew stairway you scurried through the first room haunted by shapeless, crumbling furniture, then arrived at the second room which had an Oriental rug layered with a hundred years of silent dust. And there they were, the glorious, wooden shelves lining two whole walls, packed with books.
The shelves were filled with cloth-bound, hardcover editions of The Bobbsey Twins, Alice in Wonderland, and hundreds of others that, in the attic heat, gave up a sweet, papery aroma which still drives me delirious when opening a book from a former century. No glossy paper, no slick glossy covers, sometimes a handwritten note inside a front board. This trove was there when my Aunt Dorie bought the house; she would allow me to select a few, then get more when those were returned. It was part of the respite of visiting her and my cousins on Lafayette Avenue in the city, for I was allowed books at home.
In an attempt at creating a library of my own, I have amassed six bookcases worth, plus the books which sprout like mushrooms after a rain on smaller pieces of furniture, in a stack by the bed, or on the kitchen counter. And the art table. And the dresser. Everything flat has a purpose. They are sort of organized by subject; all the fungi books near the seashell identification guides and all other science. Silent film has three shelves to itself, then medieval stuff, humor, reference, poetry, home, cookbooks, theory, ancient civilization, the little bit of fiction, and art. Sort of. But since moving things around, it's jumbled, but I love it. Almost the same papery fragrance, they are comforting, practical; they give me roots.
Cookbooks are the easiest to pull; there are a few specialty books, like for cakes, various cultures, or soup that I will keep besides the old standbys. But I will never make my own sauerkraut. Then there are the philosophy books which have teeny tiny print and references by the yard; I've kept a few of those, but hermeneutics? Nah. No more. Algebra. Hamiltonian paths are lovely, and the basis for one of my favorite computer games, Planarity, but it's taking up needed shelf space. And so on. It is looking successful.
You will find things in books that will never make it onto the internet; old dictionaries have words no longer used; old cookbooks will list hygienic standards, and advise against going out into the night, when poisonous vapors waft up from the ground. Don't hang around swamps. Don't overheat your brain. Turning pages is a treat, and works without batteries; you can bookmark a page, write a note; go ahead, use pencil.
Reading in bed is a lovely pleasure, and there is a stack of books next to the bed; some are being read again, others have new subjects and ideas. One of the first animals to crawl out of the sea was a millipede-like segmented creature, which is why today's modern millipedes belong to the class of crustacea, like crabs. This stuff fascinates me, where things came from and where are they going, mineral, animal, vegetable.
Sleep well this cool summer night, take a book in with you and read; what is the commonality which links you to this story, whether of earth or city, fact or fiction? You learn of the world, but you also get to know the secrets of yourself, and what to do about it. Fall into your pillow, I shall meet you up in the stars, midst the calm darkness, dreaming of wishes, dreaming of time. You storybook, you.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Suburban Gullywash
Today I went through a McDonald's drive thru; things have changed in America even out in the glazed plains of the outer suburbs. Surrounded by immense stores singular in design, ubiquitous in the use of plastic forms for decoration, this McDonald's was an island in asphalt, barricaded by yellow curbs, organized by yellow arrows, and miniature arched signage.
A large semi blocked the first ordering intercom, on its white side was printed a model burger stacked evenly with green leaf lettuce and the slogan "I'm lovin' it". I scooted around to the second intercom, order given and then around the bend to the first window, which was closed. It stayed shut until the young man partially slid it open, said, "That'll be $7.06", and promptly closed the window again. When I waved the money at him, he reopened the window then reshut it tightly, only opening it partway to hand back the change. On the window was a sign, "No video recording, photographs by camera or cell phone allowed." They weren't lovin' that.
I drove to the next window, which was shut, I waited a bit for the food person to arrive with the order. He cracked open the window, scooched the food out, Haveaniceday, and bam. Closed up tighter than a quahog clam. Made me feel dangerous, a hoodlum in a 2001 Chevy Cavalier. Since I am fairly harmless looking, it can be surmised that this has become company policy at this base in the suburban strip mall village. Go to a McD's in my neighborhood, and there's a chance you can come home with tabs of LSD. No lie; the manager was supplementing his income at the drive thru. Ask for Demmie.
But both you and I know why this is happening, go to any video website and type in "McDonald's fight" to witness tantrums fueled by drugs. Chicken nuggets make people go crazy, they ought to install sprinklers like in the produce section of the supermarket at the order intercom, and load them with dopamine. Everyone would be happy. Reports state that the most common drugs in the water supply are Prozac, Effexor, and Tegretol, all mood stabilizers; now that society consumes a packaged, filtered product, we miss the side effects which have the potential to make you see that missing cheese on your burger isn't a personal jab at your shame in not getting what you want. Drink more water out of the tap, people.
Back in the city, a friend and I walked over to a nearby restaurant for lunch; it was full of people under 35 and felt more like a franchise cutie pie brewery one would encounter out in the 'burbs. There are several of these establishments, newly built, full of signage with clever sayings, and by clever sayings, I mean something a nine year old with a permanent marker would write on his sister's dresser. So, is the reverse happening, that the recently developed part of the city is becoming a calming bowl of cornflakes? Huge resin figures of humans doing funny things inhabit this brewery, lending a carnival merry-go-round atmosphere, with smaller versions adorning the taps. Whee. The food was okay, the crowd was okay, you knew there weren't going to be any fights, particularly after a wedding party entered in heels and suit jackets, looking for lemon drop martinis.
On the surface, suburbia looks rather flat and the inhabitants like it that way; the arguments, oddities, and the anonymous are expected to stay within boundaries outlined by expressways and poverty levels. I can't say I blame folks for being cautious, they only want to get home in one piece; but keeping the upsettedness of people with few social skills out by keeping your windows closed won't deter a frustrated human displaying poor judgment from walking through the front door and launching "Wet Floor" signs over the counter. You have to learn to deal with life, at least through first-hand observation; do stay out of the dangerous neighborhoods, but come walk a city sidewalk and you'll breathe easier knowing that your intuition will take care of 95% of the problems.
The kids working at the McDonald's looked tense to me, maybe they went through shut-the-window instruction that morning, maybe there was an irate customer raising indignant hell the day before; maybe the drive-thru lines that I've experienced were manned by servers who had seven inch hairpins hidden under their Happy Hats. It was just different, and I wondered at the transposition of attitudes between city life and the suburban population.
The beautiful, beautiful rain has stopped, and here is the sun nearing the end of day horizon; a walk by the slabs of limestone and chert was lovely as the small waves of the lake and river mouthed at the stoney shore. I inhabit a pocket of space, only as big as peripheral vision and the depth before me creates; there are no people, I am framed by rocks, the zenith of the sky, and the stretch of water before me, a small slice of world, a narrow vision. There is peace in it, but lacking anything more than what attributes are held by silent nature until a young brown rabbit appears in the midst of clover at the end of the rocks. Another mammal, like me; warm-blooded, primate meet lagomorpha, how are the kids? Visible life changes the ethereal scenery into tangible, solid earth beneath foot and paw; good night, rabbit, time to get back home.
It is a blank, starless night still and covered by low clouds hanging above, full buckets of rain contained within. Today the rain shushed and shushed against the leaves of the maple trees, coming down in white sheets, droplets uncountable. Now the ground is soaked, yet in the dark the cool breath
of the earth meanders around corners and trees, over grasses and sleeping rabbits. Rest well, dream much. Latch doors, tuck under. Let go. Love well.
A large semi blocked the first ordering intercom, on its white side was printed a model burger stacked evenly with green leaf lettuce and the slogan "I'm lovin' it". I scooted around to the second intercom, order given and then around the bend to the first window, which was closed. It stayed shut until the young man partially slid it open, said, "That'll be $7.06", and promptly closed the window again. When I waved the money at him, he reopened the window then reshut it tightly, only opening it partway to hand back the change. On the window was a sign, "No video recording, photographs by camera or cell phone allowed." They weren't lovin' that.
I drove to the next window, which was shut, I waited a bit for the food person to arrive with the order. He cracked open the window, scooched the food out, Haveaniceday, and bam. Closed up tighter than a quahog clam. Made me feel dangerous, a hoodlum in a 2001 Chevy Cavalier. Since I am fairly harmless looking, it can be surmised that this has become company policy at this base in the suburban strip mall village. Go to a McD's in my neighborhood, and there's a chance you can come home with tabs of LSD. No lie; the manager was supplementing his income at the drive thru. Ask for Demmie.
But both you and I know why this is happening, go to any video website and type in "McDonald's fight" to witness tantrums fueled by drugs. Chicken nuggets make people go crazy, they ought to install sprinklers like in the produce section of the supermarket at the order intercom, and load them with dopamine. Everyone would be happy. Reports state that the most common drugs in the water supply are Prozac, Effexor, and Tegretol, all mood stabilizers; now that society consumes a packaged, filtered product, we miss the side effects which have the potential to make you see that missing cheese on your burger isn't a personal jab at your shame in not getting what you want. Drink more water out of the tap, people.
Back in the city, a friend and I walked over to a nearby restaurant for lunch; it was full of people under 35 and felt more like a franchise cutie pie brewery one would encounter out in the 'burbs. There are several of these establishments, newly built, full of signage with clever sayings, and by clever sayings, I mean something a nine year old with a permanent marker would write on his sister's dresser. So, is the reverse happening, that the recently developed part of the city is becoming a calming bowl of cornflakes? Huge resin figures of humans doing funny things inhabit this brewery, lending a carnival merry-go-round atmosphere, with smaller versions adorning the taps. Whee. The food was okay, the crowd was okay, you knew there weren't going to be any fights, particularly after a wedding party entered in heels and suit jackets, looking for lemon drop martinis.
On the surface, suburbia looks rather flat and the inhabitants like it that way; the arguments, oddities, and the anonymous are expected to stay within boundaries outlined by expressways and poverty levels. I can't say I blame folks for being cautious, they only want to get home in one piece; but keeping the upsettedness of people with few social skills out by keeping your windows closed won't deter a frustrated human displaying poor judgment from walking through the front door and launching "Wet Floor" signs over the counter. You have to learn to deal with life, at least through first-hand observation; do stay out of the dangerous neighborhoods, but come walk a city sidewalk and you'll breathe easier knowing that your intuition will take care of 95% of the problems.
The kids working at the McDonald's looked tense to me, maybe they went through shut-the-window instruction that morning, maybe there was an irate customer raising indignant hell the day before; maybe the drive-thru lines that I've experienced were manned by servers who had seven inch hairpins hidden under their Happy Hats. It was just different, and I wondered at the transposition of attitudes between city life and the suburban population.
The beautiful, beautiful rain has stopped, and here is the sun nearing the end of day horizon; a walk by the slabs of limestone and chert was lovely as the small waves of the lake and river mouthed at the stoney shore. I inhabit a pocket of space, only as big as peripheral vision and the depth before me creates; there are no people, I am framed by rocks, the zenith of the sky, and the stretch of water before me, a small slice of world, a narrow vision. There is peace in it, but lacking anything more than what attributes are held by silent nature until a young brown rabbit appears in the midst of clover at the end of the rocks. Another mammal, like me; warm-blooded, primate meet lagomorpha, how are the kids? Visible life changes the ethereal scenery into tangible, solid earth beneath foot and paw; good night, rabbit, time to get back home.
It is a blank, starless night still and covered by low clouds hanging above, full buckets of rain contained within. Today the rain shushed and shushed against the leaves of the maple trees, coming down in white sheets, droplets uncountable. Now the ground is soaked, yet in the dark the cool breath
of the earth meanders around corners and trees, over grasses and sleeping rabbits. Rest well, dream much. Latch doors, tuck under. Let go. Love well.
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