The Dispatch From Escalatorville: HollowDays and Wasted Nights.

As he often does, Mister Universal Truth rode by me on his bag and box laden two wheeler  the other day, offering the following kernel of wisdom:
"Man, people here LOVE it when it's warm, but the minute it gets cold -
they biiiiiitch."
---

Days of Yersteryule
Our recent cold snap has done a little to extend the holiday season here in Florida - mainly because it's been too cold to think about taking down the decorations. It's also helped to hold tight those long past and semi-current holiday memories.

This most recent Christmas Eve, I found myself as one member of the four generations of my family that gathered for Mass with my 92 year old Grandmother. Nearly a dozen of us took up an entire pew of The Holy Comforter, Episcopal in my home town of Richmond, Virginia.

We sang hymns together, enjoying the readings, and scanned our fellow attendees for familiar faces from times when we were regulars. The last act a more difficult one for your truly, having not been a practicing parishioner for nearly three decades.

(Confidential to the youngish, modern female church-goer: that peek-a-boo style blouse and thong-revealing jeans - more appropriate for sun worship than, y'know, Son worship. Just sayin'...)

To be completely honest, I can't recall the words spoken from the Christmas Eve pulpit, yet I could feel a sense of warmth as the preachers prose coated all in the sanctuary with a momentarily unified sense of belief.

The belief that there just may be a higher force guiding parts of this universe, the belief that there still exists a sense of common good in the world, the belief that justice exists, the belief that your check won't bounce if you write it to charity, the belief that cooler heads will eventually prevail, the belief that this coming week will be free of car trouble, the belief that the cute gal you've been eyeing will indeed call you back, the belief that manipulating 'pressure points' will make a headache vanish, the belief that the perfect pizza is waiting for you somewhere, the belief that my sister still has possibly the best singing voice of that entire congregation.

Of course, only the latter is close to verifiable - but for just a moment in the Holidays, it's nice to embrace the warmth of infinite possibility.
---

Yet, nobody has any fruitcake left, wha?
One thing I enjoy about these post-holiday weeks is the abundance of Holiday themed goodies that linger in the convenience stores. They're not going bad, not completely out of place, yet no longer seasonally trendy - and sometimes, they're on sale.

Such is the case with Eggnog.

I don't know when I first began to enjoy eggnog, but I have found it to be a near perfect apres-yule beverage. It mixes so well with so much, and turns any drink into an instant "Christmas" drink.

Normally, I shouldn't even go near the stuff. It's two main ingredients are things that, as separate entities, I despise wholeheartedly in their natural form.

Milk and eggs.

I'm not a milk drinker by any circumstance, no sir. Oh, I'll pour some of it into java if the creamers unavailable, and I adore Ice Cream, for certain. Yet, milk, standing alone in a glass - never gonna happen.

And Eggs; either simply yolks, or the whole damn embryo - slightly stirred to avoid separation. Ewww. For me to even eat eggs -much less drink them- they have to be prepared as to be nearly unrecognizable. Forget 'over easy or 'runny' - mine have to stop dead in their tracks. I cook them so harshly, it automatically raises the reputation of tofu.

Yet, when blended together - that milk and egg concoction just mixes so perfectly, with a dash of cinnamon or nutmeg to cap off whatever tasty beverage you may prefer - it goes real well in coffee, so I've heard...
----

Tales From The Retail Rodeo, part X in a seemingly never ending series (in which X = # of Years in Customer Service multiplied by the square root of Wages Earned/Wages Deserved +  Amount of Force used in "Choke Resistance" Per Day)

* A middle aged patron eyes the selection of cheapo slingshots available at the front of the store. Upon picking one up, she gleefully recalled,

"Oh, we had these when I was a kid..."

"But,..." she stated while dropping the item haphazardly to it's container "...they're weapons now."

*Near the cash register (the "Point Of Sale" for those in the game, also affectionately referred to as "P.O.S."- for all that abbreviation implies), we have a few similar tchotchkes that come in two very distinct sizes.

Our display sign indicates prices for "small" and "large."

More than once, I have been asked:
"Which are the small ones?"

*Simply a point of observation - any customer facing a situation in which they feel compelled to alert you to the antiquated dictum "The Customer Is Always Right" - is usually dead wrong.

I have  a degree in English as well as Theatre - in these situations, I combine my knowledge of both to create something we call "Tact."
Almost always...
----

The Worst Tinsel
On my morning walk, I noticed that a neighbor a few block overs had been a victim of a prank that I had long thought had it's heyday. A house, yard, and trees, all covered in streams of toilet paper. Floorboards to chimneys,  roots to bird nests - toilet paper everywhere - blowing ever so gently in the morning wind. Unspooled rivulets of bleached, processed  pulp draped lazily over branches and power lines.

I would have taken a picture - was about to - but I realized how un-amused I might be if it were my place that had been rolled in comfortably soft and fluffilly absorbent "papier hygiénique."

For a moment, I even thought that maybe, just maybe, I was looking at a half-hearted holiday display that had grown haggard and worn with time and weather.

Nope. They definitely got pranked.

The little kid part of my brain thinks it's hilarious. The old man part wonders if anyone is going to help them clean up. Yeah, it would be an oddly tedious job  - but hey, free toilet paper.
----

Because "Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta" hadn't been written yet.
Cruising the Intertube video feeds at random, as I am wont to do - I happened upon a 1980's commercial that used as it's background music, an instrumental version of the '60's song 'Georgy Girl.'

Yup, 'Georgy Girl' - that pop tune which includes lines such as:

"Hey there, Georgy girl
Why do all the boys just pass you by?
Could it be you just don't try - or is it the clothes you wear?

...and...

Life is a reality, you can't always run away
Don't be so scared of changing and rearranging yourself."

And what, pray tell, was this ode to near anti-feminism used to hawk, you ask?
Why, Barbie Dolls, of course...
---

Ermagherd, The Derspertch Ferm Erscalerterverlle!
Z.F.Lively, Proprietor/Mistletoe-Stubber
escalatorville@yahoo.com
for platitude, gratitude, quotes from The Dude. (link NSFW)

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Wonky McRuthless And The "Happy" New Year...

Sometimes, I step outside myself - look at circumstances surrounding my life and think "Gee. What's the deal with THAT guy?"
Then it hits me.

I assume everyone goes through this every once in a while. After all, a little identity crisis (No. "Crisis" is the wrong term - think less startling, more reflective...) - identity "reconciliation" (that's more like it) never hurt.

Also, it occurs to me that any of our lives, in and of themselves- each with it's own peccadilloes, secrets, shames, pains, and private jokes - could indeed be a heck of a lot worse.

To be who we are and where we are at this point in time is a blessing that tends to get overlooked. Troubles, trifles, mysteries and muses we all have, and oft times focus on; yet, there are so many other possibilities that escape us, paths un-taken, lives we could have lead - that we forget to be thankful for the place we are.

The fact that you are reading this right now means that you are more privileged than over half of the people on the planet. And yet, we can so easily devolve...
---

Head Check
Every town has it's share of what we once called "Crazies" - the folks that, due to various and sundry circumstances find themselves on the mental edge, and thus the fringes of society. The people that need, but seem not to find, help to improve the health of their noggin. Sometimes, there's a bona fide, physician classified disorder; sometimes the disorder is caused by random or methodical chemical ingestion. Nonetheless, each little burg in our world has those that roam the streets, hurtling through the intersection of 'Insanity Road' and 'Low Meds Boulevard.' Heck, this town has it's allotment, and probably a few other towns portions as well.

In the recent past, I've encountered a local woman on random occasions as she darted about the street, spouting obscure and nonsensical phrases to tourists and residents alike. Almost always - a transparent plastic cup in hand, itself holding the remains of a clear mystery liquid.

(Attn.: burgeoning rock stars, this weeks free band name is 'Mystery Liquid') 

Every now and again, this woman pauses to yell at a sign or a lamppost. Once not too long ago, she poked her head into my place of employ, rolling her eyes half-back in her skull while stating to no one in particular - "I'mNotEvenGonnaSayOHNOMisterBill!" - before popping back out onto the thoroughfare.

Then, one day during the holiday season, she nonchalantly entered the store and proceeded to browse around, eyeing our gewgaws, knick-knacks, and jewellery. Cautiously, I watched as she made her way around the shop. A sketchy situation at best, my co-workers and I awaited her imminent breakdown and departure.

She lingered at a jewellery case for a few moments before I rallied up the courage to walk over and ask:

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

I held my breath and braced myself for a litany of lunacy...

Instead, we had a fully logical and comprehensive conversation revolving around her search for a holiday gift to give to her out of town daughter. A polite and pleasant talk in which she compiled a list of items in the store as potential holiday presents. Gifts in mind, if not in hand, she thanked me for my time, stating she'd be back soon, and gracefully headed out the front door with a pep in her step and a smile on her face.

Three days later, I caught sight of her - barking at a picket fence.
---

Brain Fart
Random thought: how 'bout we start up a take-out only restaurant, serving the tastiest in portable food - then confuse folks by naming it "Where Zis From?"
Imagine the fun party conversation when you bring in a few trays of our enigmatic delectables!

Or: I'm opening a bakery that makes only erotic breads from exotic sources;
"50 Shades Of Grain"

(p.s. The Enigmatic Delectables will be the opening act on
The 2013 World Tour of Escalatorville Recording Superstars: Mystery Liquid)

---

This Neck O' The Woods
Recently Acquired Malaprops (gathered exclusively in St. Augustine, Florida - The Nation's Oldest City, Y'all!:

-From a man on cellphone reporting to his satellitic friend at the other side of that call, the tale of how another pal had just received a raw deal somewhere in The Ancient City Shop-o-Rama:
"Man, he sure got the short end of the stack."

-From a stroller-bound child (the best kind), as he reminisced to his parents of their moments ago visit to Castillo De San Marcos, tourist mecca and historic fortress/battleground:
"Fire The Canyons, Mommy - Fire The Canyons!"
---

Spiny
As one may have guessed, I tend to overhear customers conversations as they come in through the front door of the shop.  Within the recent political season, I was privy to some interesting tete a tetes in regards to many of the political parties and their respective candidates for office.

A couple of regulars entered the store discussing those nefarious and greedy folks of "the entitlement culture" - "...always trying to get something for nothing..."

Moments later, as they were checking out - I made a mental note of their shock when they realized I hadn’t automatically given them a "Locals Discount."
---

Gut Wrench
I admire folks who are proud of their beliefs. I can even understand the wearing of symbolic imagery to show ones faith. What I don't get, however, is why anyone would chose to wear skin tight jeans with embroidered cubic zirconia crucifixes on the -for lack of a better term- "ass pockets" of said skin tight jeans.
I wonder what the higher powers think of those pants, and I kind of feel like a sinner just for knowing they exist.
---

End Notes
I cannot tell you enough how much I dig the sound of Booker T and the MGs - always have. The fact that they not only had major hit records of their own ('Green Onions,' 'Hip Hug Her', and on and on) - BUT, played as the backing band for "virtually every recording made at Stax from 1962 through about 1970*" as well as providing the core of the Blues Brothers Band = nothing but praise in my book.

However, there's one thing that always get me. Everytime I hear the band's version of 'Hang Em High' - I always end up singing both 'House of The Rising Sun' and 'Theme to Gilligans Island'.

Based on the overall awesomeness of the group, I'm going to assume this was intentional.

Here - try it yourself:

*Thank you Wikipedia
---
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/PrettyPrettyPrincess (Did I mention that my house has a mischievous ghost?)
escalatorville@yahoo.com for Eventualities/AvengedDualities

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Not Just for the Northern Hemisphere (although it's one of my two favorite hemispheres)

"If that water's supposed to be 'non-potable,' why do they carry it around on the back of a big truck?" - Local rube.

---
Oblivious Hypocrisy
A customer came into the store wherein I am employed and bought a bit more than two dozen postcards. Then, said customer shunned the idea that I would put their purchase in a paper bag -

"We have to save the trees."
---
Life in the Ancient City
I am hoping, as I grow older in years, that I become wiser with age. I also hope that I will continue to keep abreast of what goes on in the world at large. I mention this because, living in the town in which I do - I find that we have a number of "old" folks whom continue to live within the values and beliefs that were commonplace at the year of their birth.

I was recently asked, point blank, and with no hesitation on behalf of the asker:
"What is it that the black people call themselves now?"

This from a person whose Rolodex of recent cultural touchstones end at Vanna White and 'Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous'

(For the record, my answer was "Uh, people.")

I was also witness to the sad, yet comically uncanny, timing of satellite radio programming immediately upon the outcome of the following event:

An extremely aged person I know recently had a medical procedure. The aftermath of the procedure was facilitated by pain relievers, which, while they may have decreased some osteopathic inflamation - did nothing to affect the loss of memory and functionality in this particular person of well-worn lifespan. A person who prides themselves on their independence and self-supervision, despite their advanced and obviously declining years.

Due to the onset of non-premature ageing, my acquaintance made a mathematical error - not realizing her misfortune until about a half hour after the fact, when the mistake was pointed out by another party.

She was thrown. Not by the mistake itself - that was pushed aside with a "fiddle dee dee," or some other antiquated expression - but rather, by the cause. I could see her face start to wither as she took into account that her senility itself had created an issue; she was, at that very moment, beginning to realize that she was indeed growing old.

A sad, reflective moment to be certain. I felt a bit awkward then, when I silently guffawed at the song-list which permeated the airwaves;

The Beatles "Eleanor Rigby"
followed directly by
The Rolling Stones "Mother's Little Helper"
and
Three Dog Night's "One (is the loneliest number)."

Radio: Bringing Light-Hearted Humor to Life's Interesting Moments Since 1906.
---

A Poem(for the life of me I can't think of a decent title...)
Cute girls on skateboards, in my neighborhood.
An old man on a walk - I'd look away if I could.
Yet, they carve trails right toward me,
('cause they're up to no good).
Those cute girls on skateboards, in my neighborhood.

Those cute girls on skateboards, in my neighborhood,
can't roll past my house - the road is all mud.
But, if the ole guv'ment would pay for some pavement,
then perhaps kindly angels would...
send more cute girls on skateboards through my neighborhood.
---

The Ghost Of Semantics Strikes Again
Y'know, there's not a heck of a lot of difference between the phrases
"Koo Koo Katchoo" and "Goo Goo G'Joob." 
My bet is that Mrs. Robinson was the Walrus this entire time.
---

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Escalator Excavator
escalatorville@yahoo.com for misheard lyrics and such.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Parlour Tricks For Dummies

Overheard (Mom to Daughter) at a local bagel and coffee purveyor:

"You can't turn yourself into a frog, honey - you're not a witch yet."

The Incredible Disparate Hearing Act.
I was at work the other day when a father was trying to describe to his son the Cut Bamboo Xylophone that we sell in the front of the store.

"Well, that's an interesting instrument." the Dad spoke.

What I originally heard however was
"Well, that's a Hipster-magnet"

The sad truth is that both descriptions are correct.
----

The Great Escape.
I once worked as a "character" at the Old Jail stop on one of of our towns multiple, nightly Ghost tours. My persona was that of a prisoner who had been hung at the gallows on the site 100 years ago, and was rumored to still be present in the building - along with a number of other unfortunate ne'er do wells whom, even in afterlife, were bound to their prison cells.

I was quite good at it, and was able to thoroughly convince tourists and townies alike that there were indeed a few spirits still floating through the old burg.

Then, one night, I was participant in an event that scared me more than any other boogeyman tale I've heard or been involved in.

After the last tour one evening, 'round midnight or thereabouts, I began the process of making sure all exits and entrances were secure, turning off the lights in the second floor of the building. The upstairs cells shut and dark, I'd routinely head down the steps and do the same for the first floor of the building.

It's a creepy kind of place in general, and so I had taken up the habit of whistling to myself to calm my nerves as I did this task. On this particular night, however, I'd no sooner shut the door to the "Jail" portion of the building, when I heard another whistle - the sound coming from directly behind me, no more than a foot or two away from my ears. A different tune than the one I'd been making up, this was no echo. I could feel the breath on the back of my neck.

I started to whistle a bit louder as I headed into the stairwell.

Halfway down the concrete steps, the whistle still behind me - I felt a push upon my back, energy so forceful that I had to steady myself with the handrail. I took a millisecond to catch my wits, and then took the remainder of the steps two at a time, rushing to turn off the lights, shut the doors, and get - the - heck - out - of that building (I would say to get the Hell out of the building, but at the time I thought it best to leave the Hell exactly where it was).

I've had ghostly encounters in this town before and since, but the apparitions I've encountered have usually been fairly solemn and non-aggressive.

Never before had I been mocked or harmed by an otherworldly resident, but that night taught me that there are indeed many different kinds of spirits.
Ones that make their appearance and move along - and those that just want to be left alone in their terror, by any means necessary.
---

Like A Rabbit From A Hat, But Not At All.
A side note to the oldest city's downtown dog walkers; It's great that you put your puppy's waste into a tidy plastic bag, really, I applaud you for the effort (you can't tell because I'm typing, but it sounds like applause, honest).

However, part two of that scenario is supposed to be that you pick up said bag and trash it. As special and wondrous as your pooch may be folks, those aren't lawn decorations.
---

Nothing Up - Mights Leave.
I said to the young lady, as she was exiting the store, my normal farewell for those who perused without purchase:

"Thanks for stopping in today!"

Replied the gal back to me:

"Oh, yeah - you too."
---

Encore.
Finally: for Ocracoke, Atlantic City, Hoboken, Queens, New England, Virginia, and everyone else affected by this weeks horrific storm:

"The aurora is risin' behind us, The pier lights our carnival life on the water."



The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Chief Puppeteer, Non-Puppet Division
escalatorville@yahoo.com for love letters and advice.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: More page views than Pliny the Elder's blog (maybe)

I live in a relatively small town. This is sometimes really cool, sometimes not.

Here's one of the cool things:

I can, on occasion, have dinner at a good friends apartment and then, on the walk home, pass by the house of a random stranger having a cookout/chillout in their backyard - and blaring the latest album by said friend on their porch stereo.

Pretty neat, if I do say so myself.
---

Thoughts of a Simple Man
On the way home from the store one evening, I heard a local band at a local alcoholery play a cover version of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama."

Now, if one is a musician in a southern town, and in particular a southern town less than 50 miles from where Lynyrd Skynyrd was born and bred, then you are expected to know at least a song or two by those local boys done good.

Anyhow, in that particular song, there's a vocal part after the line "In Birmingham they love the Governor" wherein original back up singers Clydie King, Merry Clayton, and Sherlie Matthews sing "Boo! Boo! Boo!" to cement the meaning behind the song [Taken from the Wikipedia: "In 1975, (Singer and Writer of the song Ronnie)Van Zant said: "The lyrics about the governor of Alabama were misunderstood. The general public didn't notice the words 'Boo! Boo! Boo!' after that particular line, and the media picked up only on the reference to the people loving the governor...Wallace and I have very little in common," Van Zant said, "I don't like what he says about colored people."].  They sing the line so emphatically and royally that it becomes a  key moment in the tune.

This brings me to my point of frustration, and I'm being nitpicky, for sure, but if I wasn't nitpicky, then I wouldn't write half of the things I do. Y'see, it's that very small but crucial part that cover groups screw up the most. Bands use that minuscule pause in between the words "Governor" and the first "Boo!" to make their presentation either too ornate, too explosive, or too discombobulated  - always. It takes the oomph out of the song.

It was done so perfectly the first time around, why should it be messed with?

Now, if you are in one of those bands that permeates the south and is frequently pestered by obnoxious music fans to cover a Skynyrd tune, please try to avoid showboating it. If your guitar slingers have the chops to pull off a decent version of say "Freebird" or "Gimme Three Steps," then by all means, go ahead.

If yer gonna be extremely flowery about it though, please don't. You can worship Skynyrd, you can cover Skynyrd, you can even mock Skynyrd (heck I doubt they could care less) - BUT - you can never out-do Skynyrd,
and don't you ever forget it.

(This hatches an embryonic scheme in my brain, however. I'd like to see a regional Lynyrd Skynyrd Invitational Tournament - a battle of the bands as it were. Each performer would do one Lynyrd Skynyrd cover, any tune they like, and will all perform on a single night. The winner gets named the best Skynyrd Salute of that year - and maybe a few prizes. If enough folks get behind the idea, we'll see what we can do to get it going. Send me your thoughts/band suggestions/audition videos via a comment on this blog, or to escalatorville@yahoo.com - I'm frikkin' serious.)
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Original Gangster?
It happened again. From a block away I could hear the massively loud truck stereo. A roving group of tipsy, would be frat boys from a college without any fraternities tried to clumsily sing along with the track they were blasting. A sloppily chanted "Heey. Heey"  -  a pause, then again - "Heey. Heey."

I could feel the pumped up bass line in my chest as they rolled and rollicked past me. I recognized the faux gangbanger anthem in my head as soon as they drove beside the space in which I strolled.  It was indeed Dion's "Runaround Sue."
---

Paging Clarence in Bedford Falls
If you ever want to have one of those George Bailey days, wherein you see how the world would look if you never existed -  here's any easy way (because suicide can be messy): leave your house for your daily routine about 5 minutes earlier than usual.

I have done it (I don't know why, I have no reason to get to work any earlier than I actually do - plus, I've timed my morning rituals to be perfectly punctual). In any case, I tried this a few weeks ago and was amazed at how much of the universe is out and about directly before I am. I left my abode literally 5 minutes earlier than usual - nearly got run over by two cars emerging from their respective driveways, got howled at by at least three dogs, and said hello to so many unrecognized joggers that I lost count.

Strange how the world works, especially when it's on a schedule that's not mine.
---

There is no more Hanging Up, There is only Hanging On.
I overhead half of a cell phone conversation a couple weeks ago, but I think I got the whole story.

"Yeah, you'll have to make a right but then it's just a half block from my house,"
the call receiver spoke.

They continued, " Oh, there you are! Yeah, just drive right up, I can see you from here."

Now in normal communication, with normal people, this is where the conversation via phone would have ended, with the party on the phone hanging up to greet the driver in person. Nope, not in Escalatorville, folks.

"Oh yeah, now just turn into the driveway, you have plenty of room. Perfect!"

And it continued,
"O.K., just drive around to the back of the house and park, I'll meet you there in a moment."

"In a moment?" I wondered to myself, "You are literally three feet from the person you are talking to!"

The caller then went in the front door of their house, and I walked away. As I got a half block beyond, I heard the caller again, distantly, as they exited out the back door -"Oh hey, you're here, I'm glad you made it..."

Call Me Zachary, I write humor (Don't hate the player, hate the game.)
So, I can understand the bumper sticker (slightly) that states

"God is my Co-Pilot,"  because, hey - if you're gonna fly through the air,  you might as well be on the side of the guy that invented sky, right?

However, the other day I saw a bumper sticker that read:

"Jesus Is My Designated Driver"

Really?

First of all, you know he was a wine drinker, don't you?
Also, Jesus has never seen a car, so he probably wouldn't know how to turn the engine over, much less be able to navigate.  The GPS would freak him out;  A mysterious, omnipresent voice knowing where one is at any given time, shouting random, various directions and tasks?

Yeah - who'd believe that?

Also, even Jesus is gonna pray that you don't have a stick shift.
(You may have to think on that one for a moment...)
---

Even sadder than the joke? It's probably been done already.
I want to form a reggae band that does covers of classic country-rock singles. We can call ourselves "the Dread-Necks."

Dancing on the High-Wire of Self Promotion
Nearly forgot to mention that we're doing a live show. Yup - you read that right. 'A Night In Escalatorville' marks it's audience laden debut on Saturday the 27th of October. The show is  a combination of monologues and readings based on stuff n' stories found throughout the 5 year history of this very blog - as well as original songs written and performed by yours truly. We're pleased to be inaugurating the shindig in one of the old city's newest venues -King Hall- taking a place on their monthly schedule betwixt the schlock films and rock shows - groovy!

If you are in the St. Augustine area, check in and check it out. More info's available on our Facebook event page. Just click on 'A Night In Escalatorville'. ----

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Middle Aged Earth Dancer
escalatorville@yahoo.com -send yer band links and rad thinks.

P.S.  Gaaah! Read the reviews.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: It's The Truth, It's Actual - but not entirely Satisfactual.

I fully support the smarter than average practitioners of meditation and malapropism. I am a Yogi Bearer...

Modern Rites Of Passage
As I walked across the parking lot of my nearest convenience mart, I found myself surrounded by a smallish group of local youngsters - all a bit more excited than I'd usually expect them to be on a sojourn for energy drinks and bubble gum.

They buzzed and hummed amongst themselves. Their pockets and purses did the same - as phones called out to them with textual updates, as it turns out, on the nights impending activities.

We entered the shop. I separated myself from the swarm, gathered up the few items that I needed, and headed to the cash register.

I approached warily, noticing that the crowd had grown. Phones had been switched to picture and video modes. The group, at least a dozen strong now, had gathered around a young girl at the clerks counter. She carefully made a selection, had cash at the ready and handed her ID to the stores agent of fiduciary intake.

Cameras clicked. The girls name was chanted with a rejoicing lilt. The procurement followed by a smattering of applause and a few over exuberant cheers.

Then it hit me as to what I'd just witnessed. These kids had organized a flash mob to celebrate this girl as she made her first legal purchase - for a pack of cigarettes.

I wonder how many of her pals will still be around years from now to snap pics and offer congrats on her first round of chemo...
----

Arts and Social Sciences
Like many communities nowadays, our little burg fosters acclaim for it's many galleries of imaginative expression by sustaining a monthly Art Walk, occurring here on first Fridays. Often folks will get together with family and friends to turn this into a ritual as they 'support' the arts with their eyes - while the fingers that would otherwise be diving into their wallets instead reach for the free wine and hors d'oeurves provided.

[Side note: When I was still a drinker, I fell prey to this behaviour as well, mapping out my stroll by the selection of beverages available. I'd start at the smaller, more independent venues with punch and sangria - working my way to the high end showplaces  offering Merlot, Shiraz, or Champagne alongside the oil paintings and marble sculptures. Heck, the math works even in small quantities;
(1/2 glass of booze) X (7 or 8 galleries) = 1 good, free tipsy tingle.]

On my most recent visit to the patronage parade, I got caught behind a family bemoaning the fact that they didn't do this enough. An elder proposed a weekly get together instead.

I couldn't tell if the following phrase was said with anticipation or frustration, when one of the daughters spoke up:

"But it's only First Friday every month!"

(Anticipation? Frustration? Possibly Inebriation - they'd just exited a showcase with works in the upper scale of the monetary spectrum.)
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Spaceman vs. Sportsman (or Losing The 'Buzz')
One of the delightful side effects of being a non-drinker is that it's now easier to overhear the claptrap conversations of certain vociferous drunkards. At a pub where The Wobbly Toms were about to play, I heard the felonious argument that Apollo 11 pilot Edwin Aldrin not only failed to go to the moon, but that the 2nd astronaut to plant his feet on the "Luna Punim" was Don (not Ken) Mattingly.

That would have been an impressive accomplishment for the Yankees First Baseman - who was all of 8 years old at the time. I have no doubt however, that he would have been the first Interstellar RBI Champion.
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The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Margin of Eras
escalatorville@yahoo.com for State Facts and Fake Stats

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Country Feedback

I'd like to start a Nature Re-claimancy organization. Possibly run by the National Parks Department - or whomever wants to pay me enough money to do it.

We'd run it a bit like the Nature Conservancy, but would look at old, vacated buildings in my, and your, neighborhood. With the help of local historical societies - the organization could research structural histories and backgrounds  to determine any momentous chronography inherent in those particular properties. If there's a legend or tale to be told, let 'em stand, work 'em up, and open them as museums to exhibit said structures significance in the biography of it's neighborhood.

If the structure itself has no historical value - then dismantle it, donating any usable pieces and parts to Habitat For Humanity - then develop the area as a green space or public park.

It's what some folks would call a win-win. On one hand, the remaining structures could become a revenue and job creating portal for the community. On the other, the spaces left by the removed buildings could be populated with trees and other fresh flora that would help to conserve the planet.

Now, who gets this ball rolling? Anyone wanna give me their house?
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It's the new "Like"
Overheard, verbatim, while passing through the breezeway of a local bastion of higher education (aka my Alma Mater):

"Your timing back there was perfect. Totally perfect. I mean how perfect was that, that it was so perfect?"
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Double Face-Palm Moment of the week:
There are more rooms in my house than I regularly use. Thus, the majority of my "stuff" is relegated to the spaces wherein I take routine repose. Doing some light dust and grime reorganization the other day, I made myself crazy running around trying my damnedest to find the cleaning solution.

It wasn't under the sink, definitely not in the office or the bedroom (those places are filthy!). After 10 minutes of fruitless searching, it made an appearance - outside on a step leading to the backyard - where I'd failed to pick it up after wiping down the porch table.

Then, upon using the reclaimed blue liquid of wonder to cleanse the goop from the inside of the kitchen trash can - I crumpled the paper towel I'd been using and tossed it in the direction of where the kitchen trash can would have been - were it not still in my other hand.

The song says "Everybody plays the fool, sometimes*" - yet there are days when I emulate Cal Ripken Jr. in that regard.

*No, I will not do my Aaron Neville impersonation for you (unless, that is, you ask me to.)
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Phone-Phollies (aka "Ba-duhm Tchik")
The newest phone books just arrived in doorways and driveways of homes around town. Delivered, of course, at the height of our recent rain season - so I'm lucky to have grabbed a dry one. As stated in previous Dispatches, I like to peruse the corner top indices of each yearly edition  to see what interesting word combinations develop from the proximity of certain businesses in alphabetic order  (thank you, proto-sinaitics!). Herewith, recent findings:

Abortion - Acupuncturists 
(Yeah we start off risky. Too risky. Write your own caption here, folks, I'll handle the rest)
Advertising - Air 
("Choose Life, Choose Air, Get Some Before It's Gone!")
Airport - Alcoholism 
(Those with a fear of flying often succumb to this combination most aggressively.)
Burglar - Business 
(Often called "Politics.")
Chiropractic - Churches 
(I hold the copyright on Ergonomic Pews.)
Golf - Hair 
(I'm torn between the Nicklaus "Golden Bangs" and the "Fuzzy" Zoeller.)
Junk - Land 
(An inexpensive theme park for sure, but whatever you do: AVOID the 'Tunnel Of Love.')
Oxygen - Party 
(If you've fallen for the Air Advertising, this is the next step.)
Septic - Shipping 
(They did all the contract work for Junk - Land.)
Stair - Storage 
("Yeah, just put those stairs in the little closet under the - Hey! Wait a minute...")
Tree - Trophies 
(Usually this is referred to as "Paper ')
Wood - Zoos 
(I can't see the forest for the Tree-Trophies.)

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High Flyers and Low Lifes
There used to be a hawk that lived in my neighborhood, nested atop  an old tree three blocks away, in the parking lot of an architecturally rustic church. I'd see him from the front porch of ye olde casa.  Every now and then, I'd watch the fellow take flight, swoop down with great speed near the swampish riverbanks of the San Sebastian and emerge - ninja-like*, beak full of flesh - be it snake or fish. He'd return to guard his nest and feed the kids.

I think he also scared off the cranes. Every spring to early summer in the years I've been in this home, they arrive to roost - on the posts of disintegrated, century old docks that emerge during the lowest of tides. In the past few years , they've moved their location a little closer to the house, however - and that kind of creeps me out.

Generally, I'm a fan of birds. But cranes just scare the bejesus out of me sometimes. Have you ever seen a crane stalk, attack, and devour a mindless gecko? I have, and it is brutal.  God forbid they should ever form an army set on taking over mankind (Editor's note: Pot Bellied Pigs already have a plan for that).

The Hawk - he kept them away.

I first noticed him during a month when the cranes had indeed visited, getting ever so close to the back gate, which leads direct to the marshy mush.  One day I spotted the hawk at his regular perch - he looked in the direction of my house, and then took off. After a moment of free flight, a hard turn and whoosh right past the backyard - moments later he returned to his throne - something long and wriggly in tow.

And after that - the cranes disappeared. They missed the entire spring this year - and I have enjoyed being able to spy on the hawk during both rainstorms and  sweltering hot days, vigilantly gazing out  from his perch, high aloft- our airborne neighborhood watch.

A couple months ago, however, the Hawk vanished. One day he way floating high above, doing his rounds - and suddenly - gone. I haven't seen him since.

Then, a fortnight back - the cranes returned. They preened on their posts as if they'd never left.  I'm hoping the Hawk comes back as well, just in case those cranes get rowdy. 

*Are there really bird-ninjas? If so, how would you know it?
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The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Puppeteer/Pussyfootin' Proselytiser
escalatorville@yahoo.com for words and punctuation