The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Post-Holiday Ellipses'

I want to open up this Dispatch with a special mention for one of my very best friends - Richard ("Dick Wobbly") Steinmeyer, who turns 40 years young this week. I've known Richard more than half our lives and he's always been a grand guy, late-night confidante, and trusted fellow musician; we've seen each other through good times and bad, and he has always treated me like a brother. I love that guy. Happy Birthday Richard!

Now, here he is dancing like a chicken:

...
A wild- eyed visitor comes into the store where I work. Sweatily approaching the counter, he asks:

"You all got a sign that says 'This is the 'Stabbin' Cabin'?"

"Um, 'The Stabbin' Cabin?" I inquire back (realise that we sell a variety of novelty signage, but none so directly inspired by the backwoods redneck horror genre).

"UH - HUH!!" The glistening and corpulent man eagerly affirmed in anticipation.

"I'm afraid - we. don't. have. that. one, currently..." I hastily responded (hoping that I hadn't upset a man with such a desperate need for a 'Stabbin' Cabin' sign)

"...but, perhaps you could check at our other store down the street..."
...
Not A Real Word Department.
Prontookulous; adj. : full of an exuberance which makes one want to add hats to images of dinosaurs.
...
At half-off racks a year from now-
Mayan themed torso apparel emblazoned with the phrase:

"I survived the end of days and all I got was this  lousy t-shirt."

They'll be located next to this copies of this recent bumper sticker:

"I already have an attitude, thanks. I don't need yours."

...
It's a vast parade of humanity that passes through the retail environs in days closest to our nation's birthday celebrations. America at it's grandest and most diverse. At my day job - I get the chance to greet the sun worshipers whom look as if they've had their brains boiled right out of their skulls - and folks whom wonder aloud, and in my direction, if there is anywhere in town to buy "Nautical Shells." - Yes. "Nautical" Shells.

"Well Sir," says the clerk in a shop that sells sea shells somewhat near the sea shore,

"You are surrounded by them."

Also seen carousing the aisles - a lovely girl bobbing her head and singing along to the Beach Boy's 'Good Vibrations" as it played on the in-store radio. Directly ahead of her - the boyfriend;  gruff, grumbly, misshapen, and sporting a tattoo portrait of a KKK Grand Wizard.

OMG Bless 'Merica, Y'all.

On the same day, I overheard another patron reassure her hungry brood with the following:

"There's a restaurant down the way - they probably have food and stuff."

My fingers are crossed for you, ma'am.
...
Free Band Name Of The Week: Slug Knuckle (You're Welcome)

...
I attended a street fair at the neighborhood farmers market a Lil bit ago. An emergency team had been called for a woman felled by exhaustion, or the excitement of the day, or something of the sort. Point being, the injured woman would be o.k., and she was fully reassured by the EMTs as they loaded her stretcher into the awaiting ambulance. I wonder, however, if her confidence wavered at all upon seeing the oncoming trolley advertising that evenings Ghosts and Gravestones tour.

...
We conclude with the latest in our growing collection of modern day malapropisms, overheard in downtown St. Augustine, Florida:

"I don't know - I'm off of the loop."

Really, aren't we all?

---
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor, Etc., Etc., Etc.
escalatorville@yahoo.com for dots, and dots (and dashes too).

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: J.H.'s Jukebox...

"Better you watch your head, a guy like you.
You're not near as tall as you're thinkin' - but then, this is a short man's room"
-Joe Henry

Kings Highway
The street on which I live is under re-construction. It has been for months, and will be for about another year or so. Thus, where there once was relatively smooth,yet pockmarked and pot-holed pavement - there is now a minuscule mountain range of dirt piles and mud puddles.

I walk just about everywhere I go. I must admit, since the construction started, the downsizing of traffic has been nice for a meandering pedestrian such as myself.

However; the lack of "through" traffic also means lead-foot heaven for drivers whom either live in the neighborhood, work in the neighborhood, or whom have just found a neighborhood in which to speed through and ignore signs (I'm looking at you, Sightseeing Vessel...).

Four wheeled, Six-wheeled, Eighteen-wheeled vehicles - all careen and speed down our road with no thoughts to self damage or the fact that other folks might want to, you know, "share" the space.

It's a desolate, destitute 'Mad Max' parkway with a 'Back To The Future' mindset:

"Roads? Where we're going, we don't NEED Roads."

I've found myself having to evade a random pickup truck every now and then - and almost always take a different route at night. The other evening however, I was walking back from a short sojourn, and found that  - for once, vehicles driving by were slowing as they passed, giving me several feet of air betwixt their vehicles and my person.

When I got home, I think I discovered why I had suddenly become such a beneficiary of common courtesy. I had been wearing a white and orange shirt,  the same color as the construction teams reflective warning signs. I had been a moving caution signal.

Sure, I may have looked like a six foot Creamsicle, but that resemblance might have saved my life.
------


Scar
When I was about 10 years old, I used to hang out a lot with a friend who lived down the street. His house had a tree in the front yard with a branch one could climb to an upstairs window. Also, the side yard had a run down, but huge, old wooden trawler that was unsuitable for water - but made a great fort, playhouse, or hideout.

We were fortunate during the summer because we lived so close to our elementary school. When school was out - we had the entire playground to ourselves. We could also pop over to the City tennis courts and softball fields which were just a couple blocks away. The large recreation spaces and sports fields (not to mentin the great dirt hills and "forest" trails behind teh local ampitheater a mile or so down the boulevard ) also provided great places to ride our bikes.

At this point in time, I rode a modified cruiser bike. It once had the sweeping U-shaped handlebars akin to the greatest motorcycle 'choppers' and a banana seat which could have doubled as a hammock. I'd converted it to a "BMX" style however, with knobby tires and short, dark, rough handlebars so I could look super cool when doing my jumps (on a really good day I could catch an astonishing 4 or 5 inches of air).

One day, my pal wanted to go riding. Alas, my bike was in mid-mod, the old seat gone, the new one yet to be purchased.
Heck, I was a BMX pro, I balanced on the pedals most rides as it was.
No seat? No Problem.
Thus, I decided that I would ride the bike nonetheless. I wasn't just another dumb kid. I was a smart and brave lad! I would just keep reminding myself -
"Do NOT sit down. Do NOT sit down."

We rode to the softball fields. Being the over-actively imaginative youngsters that we were, we decided to run the bases - on our bikes. A plan that was swift and splendid - we pedaled through the breeze, orange dust clouds kicked up by spinning tires.

Then, my gory mistake.

I opted to slide into home plate. My feet hard on the pedals as I rounded third -with the plate in sight, I slammed backwards on my "brakes."

The bike skidded across the dirt, a snakelike rut leading up to, and over, that small plastic pentagon which declares one to be "safe."
And I wasn't.

The sun in my eye, momentum dragging me toward the wood-plank and chain link wall behind the catchers spot.

I didn't even feel it when I hit. I felt no pain whatsoever. I only knew, seconds later, that I was bleeding. A lot.
Some would say gushing.

I grabbed my bike and ambled quick as possible 150 yards across roads and the fresh-mowed Elementary lawn towards my familiar front door. I had to run fast to be safe-at-home.

I remember standing on the porch, knocking on the door and waiting for my mom to answer. At my own house. In retrospect, I suspect a little bit of shock was beginning to set in. My mother had worked as a medical assistant, which to her 10 year old son meant that she knew at least the basics of traumatic injury repair.

She opened the door, I pointed to my leg.

"Can you fix that?" I asked, hoping to get a simple "Yes."

"Maybe you can put a butterfly bandage on it?" I inquired, using up the remainder of all medical knowledge I had ever accumulated.

"No," my mom uttered, without stutter - "you're gonna have to go to the hospital for this one."

It was true - I'd need stitches. Apparently, the unadorned metal seat post had continued it's forward push when the wall behind home plate had stopped the rest of my entity. The cut , two inches from my knee, on the inner thigh, happened so destructive and quick that - as stated, I didn't have time to feel it. Adoctor explained to me later that day - the post itself had pushed halfway through my thigh and bounced back out - severing all nerves for that part of my leg in a flash.

Hearing my Mom admit that she couldn't fix my clumsy mutilation, that's when it started to sink in that, maybe,  I was a dumb kid once in a while. I don't remember crying at all, but I was certainly freaked out.

My mom remained sedate, and made certain that I did as well. Politely, she sent my friend back home, explaining that we'd be in touch later. She cleaned up the wound as best she could with what we had at home.

It was still gross and bloody, and I got nervous just looking at it. The more I saw it, the more I wanted to get to a hospital.

Irony being what it is, my Dad was out running errands with my sister in tow. One of the tasks they had set out to complete - buying a new seat for my bicycle.  Dad being unreachable, we called my Grandparents who lived a couple miles away, a quick trip over the river to our home. My Dad's Dad (whom my entire family - despite actual relation or lineage - called "Dad") raced across the Nickel Bridge and took my mom and I to the hospital.

[Editors point of interest: This marked the second time I'd been taken to a hospital with a leg injury via the back seat of a Grandparents car. The first occurred was when I was all of 3.  Take Heed, Toddlers - no matter how much your cousin goads you: Do NOT jump on that bed. I repeat, DO NOT jump on that bed.]

Because of the instantaneous nerve damage, I didn't feel the numbing agent for stitching, nor the humongous needle used to apply it to the gaping hole in my leg. Gleefully and luckily painless, I took a curious interest in the procedure. Thirteen stitches closing the gash in my skin, which followed the 5 put on my interior muscle. I watched the staff insert every single one.

A few weeks later, I watched them all come out. I felt more of my injury then, when it was all over, than when I first got injured.

To this day, I still have that mark. I'm not ashamed of it, nor am I apt to show it off. It hasn't changed much over the years,  looks a bit like a "greater than" sign. A tiny check mark to remind me of the sometime consequence of foolishness.

I've tried to be safe in regards to almost everything in the decades since, safe to a fault at times. So, I guess something wore off on me. The tiny "V" that embellishes my leg is a reminder that life can get quickly out of hand, uncertain, and a bit scary.  Trying our best to remain calm we remember that most of the time, damages ARE going to hurt - but eventually, may be a cherished souvenir; albeit survived by a distinguishing scar.


---
Civilians

As stated earlier, my neighborhood is being invaded by road improvement crews. They are generally nice guys, but intercede on all of our lives, at all hours of the day. This is frequently inconvenient. Such was the case when, a couple weeks ago, I returned from my mid-day errands, hoping to catch a shower before heading off to work. As I pulled up toward my house, I caught the attention of one of the contracted workers.

"Since y'all are still right in front of where I live, is it safe to assume that I don't have any water right now?"

"Oh, yeah," was the bored response, "but we should have it back on in about 20 minutes."

Nodding my acceptance, I walked past him, onto my porch, and then into my home.

After pouring myself a cup of water from the reserve I keep in my refrigerator, I did a few errands around the house, then took a 45 minute nap.

I awoke an hour after I had initially returned home. 20 minutes -  times three.

Alas, no water.

I peeked outside. All the workers were about six feet into a ditch and I thought it best not to pester them.  They work no more than 15 feet from where I sleep - and have access to backhoes. So, I made a quick,  informative call to our city's Department Of Utilities.

I was put on the line with a receptionist and explained my concerns. To what will be the the absolute shock of no one, the Receptionist (whose name will not be revealed to protect their innocence - and because I forgot) put me on hold for a few minutes.

A few minutes later - the Receptionist came back on the line. Having asked office co-workers for the correct procedure, the Receptionist would now be taking my phone number, with a promise to look into matters further and get back in touch with me soon.

"Uh-huh." says my sarcastic initiative...

A few minutes later - I get a call from the Receptionist. The Receptionist is contacting the Contracting Company which does the work for our section of town. Then, the Receptionist, in league with the Contractor's Receptionist will determine which crew is working on my street. Then the Receptionist(s) will contact the Foreman of the particular group of men working in front of my house. Together, they will assess what to do to get the water turned back on in a timely manner.

Just explaining the process made the Receptionist sound exhausted.

I gave my thanks, and assumed I should continue with my day - expecting no result whatsoever. Even if the Receptionist gave it 115%, there seemed to be way too much tape to untangle, and too many contacts to make just to find out how to get in touch with any- "Ding-Dong. Ding- Dong."

Two minutes.

Two minutes after I hung up the phone, my doorbell rings. It's the foreman.

He graciously apologized for any confusion and intelligently explained how the miscommunication happened. He and I had a pleasant 5 minute conversation about the progress of the work at hand and how everyone seemed to be fairly easygoing and cool about the whole thing, which the workers understood and appreciated. We shook hands and parted ways, even though I would still have to wait a bit for water.

I had to go to work without taking a shower, but it was a short shift - and I don't think I offended anyone too badly. I can always fake 'presentable.'

A couple days later, I headed out to work again, but early in the morning. I'd strolled a block away from the house when a truck sped up from behind to greet me. It was the foreman again.

"Good Morning! I just wanted to check and see what time you'll be returning to home today?"

A bit taken aback, I told him that I wouldn't be out of work until around 5:30 in the evening.

"Oh, alright, we'll be done long before then..."

He then pulled off, leaving me with the odd thrill that can come from the occasionally awesome power of one, politely concerned, phone call.

At that point, my brain started a vainglorious inner monologue with a 100-voice choir chanting "I AM VICTORIOUS" - so I had to calm myself down a little bit.
-----

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively: Proprietor, Etc...
Escalatorville@yahoo.com for favorite Jukebox numbers (I like G17, myself)

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.
---
No-hitter
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
escalatorville@yahoo.com for hate mail and tarter sauce recipes.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Abandoned T-Shirt Factory

I've been thinking about Seattle, my friends there, and the unrest in the Emerald City these past couple days. I had seen Drew Keriakedes and Joe Albanese play with Circus Contraption and can vaguely recall meeting members of that band - most likely either or both of these gentlemen, who -with 3 others- had their lives taken from them on what should have been an average Wednesday. (Now, my recollection is never 100% accurate, but after having seen photos of these great musicians in the news, my head clicked with how familiar their visages seemed; "Damn it,  I've been at a party with those guys!" was my first reaction. Then, just "Damn it. Damn it!")

I never experienced anything as traumatic as the incidents within Cafe Racer and outside Town Hall. My most "horrifying" moments in Seattle were being led out of my office building by the National Guard during the WTO Riots of '99 - and praying that I didn't get maced by the cops on the way home.

In 2006, Bess and I moved to Seattle from Florida (back for me, first time there for her) - and we settled in an apartment on First Hill, just blocks from where Gloria Leonidas was made a victim yesterday as well. We were in the city when the Seattle Jewish Federation was attacked by a shooter in July of that year - the incident then left us o.k. but slightly numb, each of us having been in separate nearby buildings when that tragedy took place.
 
I guess, occasionally, the universe feels the need to explain - with bloody and feral ugliness - that our lives are indeed precious commodities, friendships are to be celebrated, and, ultimately - we may not have control over our own fate.

This is not a good intro for a blog that is ostensibly humorous in nature, but I'm sure you'll forgive my mourning a bit for one of my alternate home towns; a place that - for all the oddball and uncomfortable circumstances which caused me to move there and vacate it, twice - still gives me plenty fond and quite happy memories. While you may be suffering right now, Seattle, good times will recur - and I may wish to join in those again myself someday. Peace to you.

And now some stuff that I'm pawning off as "wit:"

"I'm not tense, just terribly, terribly alert."
At first, they seemed to be the perfect tourists. A mother and father quietly, politely ushering their quiet and polite children into the gift shop. Mom, ready for the day - energetically buxom and threatening to burst free from the sundress she was strapped into,  picked out two small bracelets for the kiddies. Referring to her husband as "Adonis" (which, at one point  - before the balding, before that look of ingrained stress that accompanies taking care of children between the ages of 1 and 47 - he may in fact have been) - she collected their cash and headed to the register.


"Great," my whimsical thoughts colluded,  "a quick trip through, a fast purchase, then out the door and every one's happy."

However, if that were the case, I probably wouldn't be telling this story.

It seems some folks view the purchase itself as a kind of admission fee into the realm of our retail playground. [I don't know exactly why, but this seems to occur with our global neighbors from different countries. Perhaps they view our intense capitalism as mainly a spectator sport?]


The moment the receipt hit Die Mutter's handbag, the kids strapped on their bracelets like those extremely sticky and hair-gripping paper/glue wristbands one gets at a concert festival or theme park - then off to the races they ran. Mom und Dad dropped their umbrellas at the front door and followed the children, slightly, as the whole family cavorted about the store. For 10 long and loud minutes.

They made no further purchases, but did bring in visitors; Uncle Sven, Aunt Dagma, Grannie Claire, the entirety of WWII's allied and axis fronts - all of whom HAD to see what trinkets and baubles were to be gawked at or groped in our gallery of grisly and groovy gewgaws.

Finally, the crew left in mass, having completed their first trip on a day full of roller coaster consumerism. On their way out, they nearly knocked over two brothers comparing weaponry. The eldest son explaining to his younger sibling how the pistols they just bought could so easily be launched from the handy and inexpensive slingshots at hand near the store's entrance.

They'd barely pulled back on the rubber band when I could hear a far off parents audible yawp:

"Put those down right now!"

Those kids will probably become Generals in the Army someday...

----
"No sense in being pessimistic - It wouldn't work anyway!"
The ubiquitous "they" have decided to enhance the warning labels on cigarette packs. Instead of just the standard "this is dangerous and can kill you" phraseology, images reflecting the hazards of smoking - charred lungs, malformed body parts of cancer patients, people on deathbeds, etc. - will provide a more visual 'caveat emptor' for the purchaser.

I think this is a great idea. If it works the way it's supposed to - I have suggestions for the outer wrapping of other consumer products:

Fast Food: Sandwich containers should feature a photo of either an exploding heart, or perhaps a photo of an EMT crew having to rip off the side of a house in order to rescue a 1200 pund man. This is, of course, provided you can see the pictures around all the grease.

S.U.V.'s: The perfect 'warning label' for these behemoths of the pavement would simply be a mylar reflection of the purchaser. The mylar itself, however, would show extra stress lines on ones face, and picture ones clothing with holes wherever pockets would be. (Also, in the background - there should be photos of angry people with word balloons saying things like "You cut me off!" - "Watch it, Ass#ole!" - and "I think you just ran over that family..."

Alcohol: So many different images to choose from! I say go lenticular, that way, we can have two photos on every warning - and the possibilities are endless. Example; look at a bottle of booze from one angle and see a picture of a really ugly baby, look at it another way - a portrait of a wrecked vehicle parked atop a mountain of debt receipts, lost friends, and a ripped up license - there's an arrow pointing to a big mess underneath the pile,  the mess is labeled "You."

Marijuana: I had a really great warning label in mind for that but I think I left it in the...hey man, good to see you, how'd you get here - what?

(cough, cough). Yeah, I know what you're thinking:

"But, what kinds of labels would you see at a tombstone warehouse?"

----

"I started off with nothing, I still have most of it left."

I was at a local festival recently. The band on-stage had just finished performing it's first song of the day.

"Hi, we are _________ _______," the frontwoman gleefully told the crowd, "We're so happy to be here today! This is our VERY FIRST GIG. Thank you so much for coming out and especially to the crew of______ Sound for doing such a great job for us today!"

She then moved across stage to change guitars.

"SKREEEEEEEONKONKONKOOOEEEEEE" - chortled the loudspeakers.

Thus began the triple feature of audio horror:
-'The Big Feedback.' 
-'Feedback Too; Revenge of Feedback.'

-'Sweet Feedbacks Baadasssss Song.'

A quarter hour of beeps, boops, and tweeks that were nowhere near as cute as their appellations would imply.

After a few half-hearted attempts at dangerously bad jokes and a number of quizzical looks tossed amongst band members - the problem got fixed.

Rejuvenated - the group strode the front of the stage, heads held high.
They performed two mediocre cover tunes. Then left.

"That's our time, Thank you St. Augustine! Good Night!"

----

The Dispatch From Escalatorville

Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Prop Rioteer

escalatorville@yahoo.com for sloganeering and japes.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: And I've Got More Hits Than Sadaharu Oh

Amok. Turtles. Oops.
On a recent trudge, I happened upon a local lake chock full of area wildlife.
Cranes preened from mid-water stones while screeching their songs to any being with ears. On the near bank, a plethora of turtles - one big guy lazily fanning himself with his giant paws. Or so I thought.

Taking a closer look, I found that low tide had left the large one stranded. Belly stuck on a hump of mud, he paddled the air. I was on a dock 10 feet above, heeding the "Gators In Lake" sign - and opted to take a picture of the fellow, figuring he'd be perfectly fine in a half hour when the tide came in.

I got out my photographic device, bent down to aim, and then - "WHOOOSH!"
some massive, unseen force launched the turtle off the bank - swiftly diving through the ripples at waters edge, only to resurface a half minute later - and 20 yards out.

There are a number of reasons for his rapid escape; electroshock mine planted by those wily cranes, massive buildup of reptilian methane, or what have you. Of course, my theory is that he was in some sort of Lake Dwellers Witness Protection Program, and was fleeing the camera for fear of having his photo seen by angry members of the Turtle Mafia.

Oh, IT exists. Everyone knows you sleep with the fishes if you cross Don Tortuga.
---

 "Accidental, Tourist?" vs. "Drunkards Lullaby"
A former drinker myself, I've indeed navigated the streets of this ancient city with an inebriated, slightly incoherent, charm. Having that experience amped up my humor intake on a recent stroll. A couple headed toward a nearby vehicle, the potential passenger already on the road to Schnokker-Town. Her Royal Drunkenness whoopsilly avoided hitting a parked car, and me, as she excused herself off the sidewalk.

"Babe," spoke her companion/chauffeur, opening a door to the aforementioned car, "This One's Us."

"Oh, right," she clumsily slurred, "that's right because that's the one that's it."

Her phraseology reminded me of a piece I'd written years ago to describe a familiar old town evening that so many of us now fail to remember:

Drumble Home Stunk (writ by z.f.lively)

Twas late, no, early evening-

a misty night in town.

We'd foregone dinner once again.

Yet, still, we washed it down.

At a local Irish saloon,

The ale steadfast was poured.

A pint, a quart, a gallon?

No one can be quite sure...

"One more, barkeep!" our battle cry

before the trek to meet Queen Mab.

"All right, just one," answered a sigh,

"and then, you'll pay your tab?"

Through night air tower bells would ring,

like echoes from a tomb.

We talked, and laughed, and tried to sing

on that awkward stumble home.

A cryptic phrase from someones lips-

twas pointed out as words were spent-

"This is grass. That is brick. And There, is just cement."

Despite our froth, I'd not forget

thoughts of her that filled my head.

So, I snuffed another cigarette -

and took myself to bed.

-----
Takin' It From The Streets
Feeling, as Eeyore might say, a little "un-cheered" the other night - I embarked on a hike around the neighborhood. Sure enough, three minutes later, I was a bit uplifted.

I passed local legend Carrie Johnson's house. Emanating from the backyard, a Doobie Brothers classic. I walked along, bobbing my head - as I heard voices from other houses begin to chime in:

"I'd like to hear some funky Dixieland
 Pretty mama come and take me by the hand
 By the hand (HAND), take me by the hand (PRETTY MAMA)
 Come and dance with your daddy all night long
 I want to honky tonk, honky tonk, honky tonk
 With you all night long..."

You don't get to see to many spontaneous community sing-alongs like they have in the movies, but I reckon this one was close enough.

---
guest starring SIR STEWART WALLACE as HIMSELF
I saw the Beastie Boys in 1985 as the opening act on Madonna's 'Virgin" Tour.
I had no idea what to make of them: they entered on skateboards, looked like street thugs, and played a really loud mix of punk and hip-hop.

They were awesome. I was a fan.

Some months later, I was sitting in a parked car waiting for my dad to get back with a pizza for the trip home when the radio had a "Smash It Or Trash It" poll for the single of "Fight For Your Right (To Party)." Alas, the listeners of the local classic rock format voted to Trash It.  As soon as we got home, I rushed to the phone and called the station - "Um, if y'all aren't gonna use that song - uh, can I have it?"

The answer was No.

Soon enough, however, the album 'License To Ill' was on top of the charts and was the soundtrack to summer school. Their videos were all over television. They were cool. They were rowdy. They were controversial. They were genius.

They began to evolve. Began to play their own instruments, Founded Record Labels and Charity Groups, Organized Benefit Concerts and Festivals. They made Jazz records (!) - good ones.

Then, in the ultimate act of maturity, founding member Adam Yauch passed away from cancer at 47.

Death is a bit more of a shock when it strikes someone whom came to prominence for youthful and juvenile behavior. Adam Yauch - along with his cohorts Adam Horowitz and Mike Diamond - became an example of what it means to actually grow up and still retain your cool.

He may have left the planet, but his influence remains global.

“If you can feel what I’m feeling then it’s a musical masterpiece/
If you can hear what I’m dealing with then that’s cool at least/
What’s running through my mind comes through in my walk/
True feelings are shown from the way that I talk”
— ‘Pass the Mic’

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The Dispatch From Escalatorville

Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Science Dropper
escalatorville@yahoo.com - complaints/compliance/compliments & condiments

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: 'Tis What 'Tis

Note to self: Stop reading "Sourdough" as "Sound Proof" - no one has ever cared about the audio quality of toast and biscuits.
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Buzz
In the backyard, I found myself stringing up tree lights for a party we were about to host. Standing on the ladder, I heard a faint, approaching, raspy whir. The corner of my eye saw the noisemaker as he neared. soon enough, a large Wasp hovered 'round my head like a News copter checking traffic on a big city highway.

He swooped directly past my earlobe - pausing, yes pausing, just inches from my face - then swiftly darted away. As annoying as Wasps can be, I am about a zillion times larger than the insect in question - my massive size and mumbled gripes probably scared him off. At least that was my first thought.

Moments later, the sound returned - in triplicate. My previous visitor had called for backup. Slower than a flying insect should be able to, the trio of troublemakers floated past my face - their reconnaissance mission leaving me officially spooked. After a couple more circumnavigations of Planet Lightstringer, they sped off in unison, and in formation, reporting back to the head of the Apiary Air Force from whence they were sent.

I finished with the lights quickly, then packed up the ladder and took a rest indoors. I've not been bothered/surveilled since - but I have noticed a tendency to turn my back on the yard when I'm staring out the kitchen window and want to eat some honey.
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Grumble
At the day job, we displayed a "fountain" featuring a water propelled rotating Buddha. Despite the deities reputation, his influence on the store was all but calm.

The piece itself was finely constructed, but also fragile and expensive. It's ideal placement, however, left it vulnerable to the curious hands of malicious schoolchildren, obsequious teens, or numskull grown-ups - all whom want to reach for/into the fountain, and touch the spinning Siddhartha (or, as actually stated by an aforementioned grown-up, to "see if the water wuz real.").

Troubles got to a point whereat it was decided that we'd put up a sign:

"Please Do NOT Touch..."

Within days - we needed a second.

Two signs, positioned in such a way that one couldn't even approach the fountain without being aware of our clearly printed and artfully decorated pleas. Yet, still they touched. And touched. And touched.

Oh, I get the attraction, I do. As the luckiest animal, humans are naturally expected to grab at whatever we please - our native instinct is that of
"Want To Feel. Must Be Mine."

For the majority of every work day - I try to be the gentle, helpful, tall guy for co-workers and other folks 'round the shop. Heh.Heh. Nonetheless, the willful ignorance of my fellow beasts is the quickest trigger to unleash my Bewildered and Grumpy Nostrilfaced Giant. A dozen times a day I had to restrain myself from crossing the very thin line between Shop Steward and Serial Killer. I resisted the urge to summon my most demonic chortle - "Do you not know common decency," I ached to roar, "or at least how to read?!?"

Oh how I wished to melt those words onto the bloody pulsating ear drums of those whom stoked the Giants ire...

Then, we sold the fountain. Oh, I happily cleaned the algae from it's nethers, drying the columns and wiping clean the "soothing stones" that had rested in the fountains basin since the day of it's arrival. We boxed it up and gladly handed the Rube Beacon to it's new owner, who whisked it out the door - returning to this manse with the home game of "Annoyance Decor."

The Nostrilfaced Giant retreated to his pod in the realm of retail fantasy - at least, for now.
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Hum
Walking from downtown to home, I crossed into a regularly tedious intersection. I breezed through it - mentally noting that there were absolutely zero cars within any significant distance.

Mid-crossing, I glanced up - suddenly grateful for the absence of vehicular traffic. There was a glitch in the system; the lights in all directions, simultaneously green.
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tDfE.
Z.F.L., Prop.
escalatorville@yahoo.com, speaks for itself.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Advice and Concepts

"I'd rather go broke, than buy into despair."
-Unemployed, but Happy, Philosopher
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NO, This isn't the early July 4th Edition
I'll admit, I've been a sideline fan of the recent up rise in population of our countries activist groups. Young and old folks, protesting against/for causes given a shuttered view by government, corporations, or mega-media - this is what we're all about!

Fighting for rights, justice, and equality is what has propelled us to being the Apex of Nations. Despite our struggles, current and past, the U.S.A. has stood as a beacon of achievement and hope to most other countries since the dawn of our existence. It is the Americans who have stood up, led marches, organized petitions, and started movements that brought us to prominence. I think we have, for the majority of the time - through time, trial, and tribulation - practiced what we preach concerning democracy and the common good without interference of outside influences.

That said, I have a request for today's Movementeers: please - straighten up your act, you're starting to look foolish.

I mean it. You cannot sell your message if your protest sign is misspelled. Unfortunately, we live in The Hyper-critical Society - no matter the logical strength of your cause or how meaningful a press conference you hold, some random media "reporter" will always interview the most clueless of your group.

Should you be that person, at least try to look semi-presentable, and keep your cool. Freedom of Personal Style is granted (and encouraged), but be aware that our Hyper-critical Society is also visually prejudiced. Frazzled hair, wild,eyes, and a wavering voice make a hard sell for anything but a theme park.

Finally, protesters and protestistas; I would urge you to come up with brand new, intelligent, and memorable slogans. Don't retread or paraphrase decent mottoes from times past - the unoriginality weakens your cause and cheapens the original. Make sure your motto is smart, but not too smart-assed - and no more than 7 easily repeated syllables. Nothing turns people away from a credible cause more than having to repeat overlong, insipid chants:

"WE ARE REALLY MAD. ABOUT A CERTAIN THING.
YOU ARE WRONG AND KIND OF SUCK.
ALSO. MAYBE, THIS RHYMES.
ALSO. MAYBE, THIS RHYMES."

I know, I know - leave it to me to criticize the motivated. I only want to help.
It's my opinion that, if you want to make a big change - you may have to start with some little ones too.

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The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Double Standard Bearer
escalatorville@yahoo.com for truthful hypocrisies