Sunday, June 10, 2012

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Crossed Fingers and Crossed Eyes

Has anyone else ever noticed this? On the recording of the Moody Blues' 'Tuesday Afternoon' from 1967/68 the lead singer sounds slightly off-key during the entire tune. It could be just me, it could be that my heads simply not right (my thinker has been a bit pre-occupied the past little while, thus the air of randomness and inconsistency in the ole Dispatch for a bit).

Think of this the next time you hear the song, however, it seems a bit off.

Imagine that, a work of brilliance, just over 40 years old - and slightly out of whack the whole time. I relate, Moodies, I relate.

A Close Call For All
A creepy and slightly insightful thing happened to me the other night. I was walking back from the store, waiting at a crosswalk for the stretch -taxi blocking my path to complete it's left turn. While lingering, I saw a near tragedy out of the corner of my eye.

The entire next paragraph takes place in the span of a breath:

I cocked my head to see the vehicle in mid-turn, jerking to a quick halt. In the cross-hairs of it's headlights - a bicyclist squealing to a stop, just inches from major danger. His panicked and clamorous call rang directly toward my ears;

"You're   All   I've   Got!"

His message was cryptic at the time. A catastrophe had indeed been averted; the cyclist backed up enough to let the car complete it's turn and head on it's way, then he biked past me giving a mutual nod of comprehension that everything was fairly hunky dory. I gazed up and down the block as I pondered what the lucky pedaler had meant by that particular phrase. Then I got it.
The street was empty. I had been the only witness to that almost incident.

"You're All I've Got!"

It was a warning, and a plea. Should the worst, or even semi-worst had occurred, I would have to be the one to recount the story. I'd be the one reporting the most intimate  details to authorities, while maintaining the credibility of the cyclist, whom, honestly, had indeed been the most innocent party in the matter. More importantly than recalling the sight of possible carnage -  I'd  have been the one to soothe and speak with  the injured cyclist and settle the nerves of stretch-taxi driver, while simultaneously- calmly and collectively -contacting the cops and EMTs.

"You're All I've Got!"

That's a heavy phrase to hang on the corner of a man's eye.

I'd like to think that, had it been necessary, I would have been able to be that strong, to be able to be all that someone has in a time of crisis, to keep my cool and get done what needs to be done in the name of expedience and safety.

I am glad, however, for that one night, I didn't have to take that test.

Rambling at the Retail Rodeo
Go figure this one: In the store where I work, within the span of 5 minutes last week , I sold a superstrong energy drink to a small child, then sold a sling-shot to a middle aged man.

Those are just two examples from the spate of humanity that I encounter on week days. Others that I look upon with befuddled wonder:

-Men who have obviously been bald for ages, yet insist on keeping a hideous ponytail. The pony  left the stable some time ago, sir.

-Women whose risqué, tight fitting clothes state that they are 'Juicy' -when a more applicable brand name would be "Lumpy" or "Bulky."

-Parents whom blatantly have a favorite child. "Stop whining Billy, and go get your sister a soda, maybe we'll let you have a sip" (Yes, this actually happens  - all the damn time)

-Those men whom have avoided being healthy to the point wherein their face has overlapped their neck; making it appear as if a man's  head has begun to melt into his torso. Yes, I know that some folks have an actual uncontrollable medical condition that causes obesity, but usually they're the ones without tarter sauce dripping from their lips.
It's been said that the game of Baseball should be looked upon as a marathon, not a sprint.
I usually look upon it as a game of Baseball.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively Proprietor/Batboy Umpire for hate mail and tarter sauce recipes.

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