Pure Twaddle

Right after the harrowing stoplights of park slope past flatbush avenue and past the intersection where I was hit by a car at sixth and dean up the flat hill and just after the meaner, patient climb of Vanderbilt I hit the red but there was no one right or center so I took my time going left when the wind just stopped and I glided along in silence on a mountaintop along an empty trail turning a lonely bend and nothing but smooth, beautiful, soft, clean snow leading down any path I choose if I had the inclination but then another intersection with a green this time but a harsh cross wind at the cross street that turned the wheel on black asphalt I was back on the street in New York heading deeper into Crown Heights and onto my Glum Existence.

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Part the First

Wherein our hero decides to undertake a large book

A year ago I ordered A Distant Mirror, Barbara Tuchman’s epic non-fiction account of the “calamitous 14th century.” A few days later the 600-page paper brick arrived from an anonymous Amazon used book monger. I felt I had made a mistake. I rarely read non-fiction or gigantic books – and this was both. So I decided not to read it.

It sat on my shelf for ten months. First I ignored it: it was a foolish, impulsive purchase. Then I rationalized it: I didn’t have time for a huge commitment, and, besides, I knew nothing about the 1300s. I’d be lost reading it an probably wouldn’t enjoy it.

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It is getting late and I have to work early the next morning, so I say goodbye to my bowling buddies and go to the bar to settle my tab with Pete the Bartender.

“Done already?” he says through yellow teeth.

I had explained my early work situation enough times that night to change my mind. What’s one more beer? Pete seems entertaining enough. I mean, with silver mutton chops and a red vest who wouldn’t be? I order a cheap macro.

In between ten other customers and conversations Pete manages to tell me a story. “So you know, some guy come in here four months ago and I says, ‘Hey! I know you!’ And he says ‘Yeah, I’m part of that band…’ Aw, what’s it called? You know it…”

Still waiting for clues, I say, “I don’t think I do.”

“Yeah, you do!” Pete makes two fists with his hands and starts pumping them back and forth from his body. He says with no tune, “I like to move it. I like to move it.”

I pull the name from the deep recesses. “Reel 2 Real?” That was one of the first songs I downloaded off of an FTP site back in 1996, thus beginning a long career of never paying for music.

“Yeah! That’s it! He come in here four months ago. Real nice guy. Buys everyone drinks.”

“One more beer,” I think, “and this will start making more sense.”

A couple beers later, a tall black man in his mid-forties appears beside me and orders four pitchers of Bud. He’s flanked by two young, attractive women who are showing more skin than not.

From the other end of the bar Pete lights up and points frantically at the man standing next to me. He yells “That’s him! That’s that’s the guy! I like to move it!”

I look up and behold a bald, aging man in a tan suit. Play it cool. “Reel 2 Real?” I ask, as if I knew all along.

“Yeeeah…” His voice was an octave lower than mine and twice as slow. “Hey, Pete. Buy this guy a beer.” He points to me. “And this guy,” he points to someone else.

“Uh, thanks man,” I say as he collects his pitchers and leaves. I call out after him, “Oh, and I dig your work!” I refrain from mentioning his role in my early piracy.

Pete comes up with the beer. “A nice guy. A nice guy,” he says.

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It’s been awhile, blog. I know I haven’t written, but I’ve been caught up in other things. Yeah, I know, writing about a trip to Gallipoli doesn’t take up all my time. But researching volunteer opportunities in Brooklyn was a time-intensive project. Then there’s the day job and registering to vote and the summer laying about. Why, it just was impossible to keep you updated.

But the season is turning and I’d love to come back if you’ll take me. What do you say?

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New post on the web! Make some pruno!

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Woah! Here are pics from the Knoxville house explosion. This also happens to be my roommate’s parents’ neighbour’s house. Sadly, the son of the two parents died in the explosion…

From the neighbours:
“A house in our neighborhood blew up two nights ago due to a gas leak. It threw the couple onto the back lawn and the house is obliterated. Their son was asleep in the basement and didn’t survive. It woke up us when it exploded……shook our entire house. We live about three streets over from them. We did not know them.”

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In early celebration of the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall, let me share my first introduction to the Cold War (despite having lived in West Germany as a child). This is Alvin and the Chipmunks doing what Reagan couldn’t:

If you need some context, here’s the beginning of the best A&TCM ever (with three “the Boss” references within 20 minutes!)

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I now believe I have found the strangest site on the internet.

Where an adult can be a kid?

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This is why I’m glad I don’t own a television. We’re quickly becoming a nation of dangerous attention whores.

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No internet. Little housing. Few updates until further notice.

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