The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Awkward Thought Clearing House

Hi. Welcome back! I'm about 100 days late and a million bucks short with this Dispatch, so let's jump on in...

The ole "Cell Phones as Walkie Talkies" ploy worked well on Bess and I's recent drive back from Virginia. As part of our trip involved the pickup and delivery of another vehicle - our journey involved driving one car up, but driving two back. Using the "speaker phone" option so as not to break laws or kill other road warriors, we were able to sporadically inform each other as to when we were stopping for gas, food, and lodging. More importantly, we could let one another know what cool radio stations we found throughout the ride.

One frequency the wife hipped me too was a small station in the Carolinas playing some mighty fine "mountain" music. Upon the conclusion of a song entitled 'Trail Of Tears' a disc jockey spoke about the sorrows of that lamentable forced relocation which erased not only the lives, but much heritage, of many Native Americans - along the sad path of the songs title. The DJ concluded that "it just seems that every time one people tries to decide what's best for another people, it always ends in tragedy."

He then paused, and informed us that we were listening to the "Good Times Bluegrass Program."

Now sir, please explain how TV went from Black & White to Color...
Overheard in the downtown area, two middle aged men discussing Mega-Sharks and other ancient dinosaurs of historical and sci-fi horror flick fame. One man was happy to explain to the other that-
"The reason those creatures could get so big and still move around is because Gravity was different then."

How to make enemies, part one - create a list.

The List: People who just won't get off my radar, no matter how much I'd like them too:

-Pregnant women who dress not in a style that flatters their burgeoning motherhood, but whom choose to dress in the now ill-fitting and inappropriate Skank-Wear that got them to this position in the first place. (Please note, I DO NOT refer to ALL pregnant women in this manner; the vast majority of them, and women in general, are NOT of the "skank" variety -I merely reference the ones whom are trying to embarrass their own children before they are even born.)

-Prison-eligible Politicians who continuously state that they were "never convicted," yet refuse to announce that they are innocent.

-Men of minuscule penile accomplishment whom make up for this fact by blasting songs they'd never let their parents hear from stereos in cars that they cannot afford.

-Families that smell like burnt ham.

-Persons who refer to the digits at the end of their hands as "Fangers." I suspect they're from the same family as folks who root for local football squad, the Jacksonville "Jag-Wires."

-Tourists happily guiding their aging parents, despite elder hesitations, into decor purchases they know they will someday inherit.

-Whomever thought that the increasingly unnecessary annual delivery of those environmentally unfriendly phone books could be enhanced by wrapping them with individual plastic bags. Seriously, we got three of them this year - and the only people I actually call are already listed in my phone. Get with the 90's, phone book people.

Next up, 'Walkin' On Sunshine'
The song took on an entirely different contextual meaning when- after years of hearing it used by contented political campaigns and uplifting sitcoms - it's chorus blared out, cracking with static, from the antiquated boom box in the homeless shelter parking lot:
"Don't. Stop. Thinkin' About Tomorrow..."

A town running on fumes is still running, right?
Overheard while walking past city offices in the downtown area; two colleagues in nearly matching tailored suits exiting a meeting: "Those are some great questions, I'm glad no one asked them."

How to make enemies, part two - infest the web.
If you're ever watching television and the spiteful vindictive pundits drive you to the point of disbelief wherein you think, "How much more callous could human beings get?" - then I suggest you avoid any Internet message boards. God bless free speech. God help those who make an art of turning it ugly.

"Ich habe eine Krankheit? BulleScheiße! Ich heilte sie mit meinem Gehirn!"
I still work part time at the front desk of a local hotel. Whenever guests from Germany or Austria check in, I sometimes try to eavesdrop on their conversations to see what,if any, of my high school language lessons remain (with much apologies to Frau Hefty that my brain was more sieve than sponge at that point in life). However, listening to a recent conversation, I determined that this practice must stop. It wasn't due to frustration at only recognizing the occasional guttural utterance or crash of consonants that construct their language; my new found disdain for the art of overhearing is rooted in the fact that the phrase that I identified most often in their conversation repeatedly contained the words "Charlie Sheen."

Cue the Rim shot, please.
I had an online conversation in the near past regarding the current state of modern comedy. It's still my belief that no comedian should be content enough in their career to rest on their laurels. Unless that comedian is Oliver Hardy, of course.

"Pool-ogy," or "Fin-eral"?
Some folks are still wondering about the magic, gill-adorned wonder that lived forever in a pond in our backyard, and has made a couple of appearances in past Dispatches for his near death experiences and awkward diet. Well, I'm sad to report that Fish is no longer with us. He was found, in typical "dead fish" pose, one morning earlier this year.

After giving up the ghost (or whatever spirit our water-logged pals have that haunts their dreams and provides impetus for their Merry Fishmas movies), the most stouthearted fish we'd ever seen was removed from his aquatic home and buried in the backyard. No service was held, for how is one to eulogize such an odds-defying creature?

Not that it would have sufficed; for merely one day later, I returned to the burial mound to find that the pounds of dirt which had covered our finful friend had been pushed away - with no trace of Fish, or any fish parts, to be found nearby. One could speculate that he'd been dug up by one of the neighborhood cats, or torn from the earth by an erstwhile hawk circling above. However, I like to think he escaped after catching his breath - and is now terrorizing smaller beings throughout the marsh waters that retreat from our yard towards the San Sebastian River.

Don't page Robin Leach just yet (look him up, youngsters).
I am fortunate enough to play in a pretty cool band. As a band, we are fortunate enough to have recently released an album* and played in a pretty cool festival. Now, despite occasional delusions of grandeur, we are taking it all in stride and for what it is - a great time playing music for great people. However, if you haven't experienced what it's like to have people you've never even met singing along to your words - or to walk into a bar and hear your song playing on the house sound system - I cannot accurately describe the thrill of having even a small bit of localized fame. But, I can totally understand how actual rock stars gain those super-egos that we "real" musicians often hate them for. In the meantime, I'll keep doing what I'm doing, until the Limo gets here.

Thank you, little people.

Z.F. Lively
Chief Escalatorvillian

*Purchase info for 'Everybody Happy!' by The Wobbly Toms will be available soon - write to Escalatorville@yahoo.com for further details, or just to harass me for this blatant plug.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Every Mother's Child Is Gonna Spy...

Later on, we'll conspire -as we dream by the fire...
It's been a bit chillier in the Nation's Oldest City of late. We're not immune to low temperatures here, but it always seems to come as a shock to most residents, and especially visitors. The complaints start as soon as the wind chill brings us down to the mid-50s - as if the Tourism Board advertised that Florida would have its own privatized weather system. C'mon people, not all of Florida has Disney money...


The chill does serve to remind us once again what time of year it is. The blast of cold bringing to mind the winds and snows of Christmases past, thoughts of fireplaces, Santa Claus, and lengthy journeys devised to bring gifts to kids. The cold air and our frigid fingers should also serve to remind us that it's the time of year to warm our hearts as well.

No matter what celebration you espouse at this time of the year, chances are - its roots are in kindness and joy. It's a time to share a smile with a stranger, to share grade-school jokes with co-workers, and time to remember that- yes, if you are able to read the words I've posted here - you are more privileged than the majority of humanity.

In hard times, so called, we tend to be a bit more selfish - especially in the financial department. Yet, we should hold fast to the memory that this is not the season of getting. It is indeed the season of giving. Remember, please, that the notion of giving highlights the advent of, and crowning moments within, our existence - and it's a notion far far older than money.



Deck The Halls, Hit The Decks
I went to the local Christmas Parade this year, it's always an odd juxtaposition of the segments of this little burg's community. This year, the Pirates Ship immediately preceded a unit comprised of WW2 veterans. I wonder if the planning committee thought that out. Did it occur to them that parade spectators would get to see overly made up drama geeks firing cannons directly at the few remainders of the greatest generation that still exist in our town?

And Caroling out in the Snow...
Anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes knows that I am a fiend for Christmas Music. Yet another reason why this is my favorite time of year. Whether it's a 1950's "novelty" record from Augie Rios to Mannheim Steamroller, I have a special place in my heart for Yuletide themed musical wonders (with the exception of that damned "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" drek.)

In my mental cataloging of Christmas hits and ephemera, I have noted something similar in all of the following "Christmas" songs:

Jingle Bells
Jingle Bell Rock
Winter Wonderland
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Let It Snow
I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm
Sleigh Ride

Y'see, these rumored "Christmas" Songs have no mention whatsoever of anything specifically related to Christmas. No Jesus, No Santa, No Rudolph, No Shopping. Nada. (Check Out Lyrics if you don't believe me).
Bewildering, huh? Well, you know what this means.

We can now sing them all year long.

Holidays In The Video Age: Betamaxmas.com and Beyond
It wouldn't be the holiday's without another list, so here is some noteworthy entertainment for you. Click on the links and enjoy:

One of the best of the Rock N' Roll Christmas Songs, especially of the 1980's, was a gem from the always underrated Billy Squier. See how many early MTV Veejays you can find in the video for Christmas Is the Time to Say I Love You



Also a favorite is the Royal Guardsman's Snoopy's Christmas, someone put together some footage from a Charles Schultz show, and it looks like this


It's Christmas all over the world, although I'm not sure I know what anyone in Japan is actually doing.


In other parts of the world however, Christmas goes way beyond what we know of it here. Mr. Steve's is always very informative.

Finally, a Christmas rarity - it's a Pink Floyd Christmas, no really - a Christmas Song By Pink Floyd

I hope that brings some Yuletide Cheer, have a great holiday and a happy new year!
-The Gang At Escalatorville
"De-Humbugging Since 1971"
escalatorville@yahoo.com for letters to/from Santa

The Dispatch From Escalatorville; Turn On The Positron

A Louse-y Start
In every touristy, beach adjacent area, you are likely to find a store that may sell tiny crustaceans as pets. My daylight employer used to be one of those stores, but stopped this practice for a variety of reasons long before I started working there.

We do, however, get return customers eager to view or purchase from our "pets" section. However, no matter how many times we deny that we sell them, and as routine as the response has become, I was caught unawares the other day.

A young girl ran in, jogged up to the counter - and in a voice loud enough to cause everyone in the store to turn and look in my direction asked:

"Do You Still Have Crabs?!?"

In the seconds it took for me to comprehend the actual intent of this question, I turned beet red. Then, I answered in a slightly raised and perfectly clear voice - so that I too could be heard by the entirety of our customer populous:

"No. We No Longer Sell Those Creatures Here."


Having realized that he has now begun two separate, yet sequential Dispatch's with obtuse references to the order Brachyura - our author attempts to change the subject:

Me, Myself, and I-95 (Volume 1)
In my 24th year, I purchased my very first car. I bought it mainly out of convenience, and for a fairly lengthy Christmastime road trip that I would be taking a couple months after its purchase. However, if this experience wasn't humorously anomalous, I probably wouldn't be telling it. The tale of my first owned vehicle - and it's brief history in my universe - is one that left me weary and wary of vehicle ownership. In the 15 years since the advent of this story, my history of travel has improved a bit, yet to this day - each adventure arrives with a hint of trepidation.

At the time of this tale, I was employed by a local museum - where a co-worker hipped me to his friend the mechanic, who happened to be letting go of a car. After a couple meetings with said "friend," I checked out the car and test drove it. $1300 later, it was mine.

The 1983 Honda Accord Hatchback was imported from Japan - as Honda's production facility in Ohio wasn't running at 100% capacity yet. It featured a four-speed automatic transmission, as opposed to the three-speed which had been standard until then. What it did not include was an Idiot Trigger -a fictional light/sound device I just made up that would begin to glow/buzz with increasing frequency as one begins making bad automotive decisions. 'Coulda used one of those.

A month to go before the trip, I began to get the car updated, upgraded, and generally combed over by a fix-it shop in my neighborhood. I took it in for an overall inspection and to see if there were any other peccadilloes that I may have overlooked.

After having the car in the shop for a couple days, I called to check on it's progress. Like every decent automotive inspector/repairman would, they had found quite a few things that needed to get fixed. I asked;

"What would be the best things to do for the car?"

Then the mechanic said (and this is an exact quote, folks):

"The best thing you could do for this car is to drive it into the river and then piss on it."

Instead of taking him up on this advice (which, in retrospect, would probably have been more entertaining), I authorized his team to make the repairs necessary. All tolled, the amount I spent on fixes and repairs for this vehicle in the first two and a half months of ownership equaled the amount I had paid for the car in the first place, $1300.

In the meantime, the guy whom sold me the car had split town with his girlfriend, and left no forwarding address.

Again, where was that Idiot Trigger?

After depleting the bank account for repairs, the day of the trip came into focus. I had been lucky enough to attend the wedding of two good friends a few days earlier, and the night before my journey, I joined them for dinner along with some other close friends of the bride and groom.

We finished our meals, then said our goodbyes around 10PM. I drove home, took a quick nap, and made preparations to leave. I gassed up the Honda at around 3AM, and headed off for the adventure.

Driving from St. Augustine to Richmond isn't really that difficult. You simply turn onto Interstate 95, drive north for about ten hours, then turn off interstate 95. Simple. I thought I might make it home in time for lunch.

The first trip to the filling station went fine, I even checked all the cars fluids just to be safe. "Hunky Dory," I thought, and I was on my way again.

My plan to head out early worked, I was making great time, as there was almost no traffic. Then, about 730AM - the car made a sound. A discomforting sound. A sound which resembled a coughing competition between a room of octogenarian smokers and a German Shepherd.

As we are taught in Drivers Ed, I did what anyone in this position should rightly do: I cursed. Loudly.

Next, I noticed the smoke. Pouring out from under the hood, thick and Grey - puffing up into my face to laugh at me for buying the joke of a car from whence it came. I managed to pull over safely to the side of the road and let the car come to a complete stop.

Then I cursed some more.

Moments later, as I paced beside the billowing, belching vehicle, I tried to put ideas together in my head as to how this situation could be resolved (hopefully, before lunch). Still fairly early, the traffic wasn't heavy - but there were a few rubberneckers straining to see where the plumes of smoke were escaping from - yet no one willing to stop and help.

That is, until an odd little camper van type vehicle slowed down, and pulled up behind the Accord. A man and his young son emerged, carrying two bottles full of water. As they approached, I recognized them. The day before, they had been visitors to the museum at which I worked. Austrian, I remembered, as we had had a bit of language difficulty at the ticket counter.

The man spoke very little. His son spoke less. The man offered water to cool things off, and I opened the hood to spill the H2O in whatever way would have been the most helpful. Alas, the water, though a very polite gesture, didn't cure anything.

The man and son went back to their camper van after indicating to me that they would try to alert any police or sheriff that might be patrolling. They hopped back in their vehicle and puttered off, vanishing like ghosts into the off-ramps and exits that laid before us on the highway.

10 minutes later, a proud member of the South Carolina Sheriff's department stood at the side of my car. This being the days before everyone was was constantly telephonic, the officer indicated the pay phone was available one exit away. Looking toward an upcoming highway mile marker - I was just outside the towns of Turbeville and Florence, South Carolina - about half way through my journey home.

The officer offered to drive up to the next exit for me, as he knew of the only garage open in town on Saturday morning. Desperate and thankful, (although in retrospect, this seemed like sketchy behavior on behalf of the cop - didn't it?) I watched the officer drive off - and return 15 minutes later, tow truck close behind.

Apparently the only garage in town open on a Saturday morning was, as it turns out, a one truck establishment which I can only remember as being named something similar to "Old Man and Sons." It was run by one Old Man, a very nice but tired and quickly aging gent; and his two sons, both in their mid-30s, still acting as though they were in their mid-teens - the type of fellows who only string together a sentence or two at a time, half of which are sex or fart jokes..

We all piled into the cab of the tow truck and drove my sorrowful vehicle back to their garage. Now when I say "garage" here, what I'm actually talking about is the barn located behind their double-wide trailer - in the suburbs of Outskirt Village. I sat on a doorstep made from a railroad tie, in front of an AstroTurf welcome mat, while the Old Man inspected the damage.

After a few moments, the Old Man's wife (herewith called "Old Lady") came out and asked me if I wanted some water or to use the phone. Both please, I requested, and I was let into the house to make a collect call, letting my folks know what was going on at this point, and also to let them know that they would be expecting more collect calls from me throughout the day.

In the mean time, the Old Man had inspected the car - and determined the damage. A split engine block, cracked head gasket - major damage. That car would not be running again that day. After he made numerous phone calls to parts reps/dealers/service centers, etc - the man came back with a few answers. It would take at least 7 days to get everything - and the cost, you guessed it: $1300.

I took this as an omen, and really wanted to get to something that resembled "home" at this point in time - so I struck up a deal with the man. Take me to the nearest airport, let me get back to Virginia. Then, I would call him within two days - if I wanted him to fix the vehicle, I'd figure out how to get the money to him, and pick it up on my way back through. Or, I would mail him the cars title, allowing him to do with the car as he pleased, with a promise to send me a bit of the profits should he see an monetary benefit.

He agreed, and then offered his sons services in escorting me to the Florence airport, 40 miles away- via their own pickup truck.
"Thank you," I said, and started grabbing my things.

It was no problem, they replied, and it would only cost me 40 bucks!
(Strange as it is; sometimes, when your caught between a rock and a hard place - it actually helps to be kind to the rock.)

Grabbing the belated Christmas presents I had loaded the car with, I made space within my luggage and said goodbye to a favorite blanket which remained in the hatchback of the Accord (not to mention a glove box full of totally awesome cassettes, damn!).

We clambered into the cab of the brothers pickup truck, and I knew immediately that I was in for a "fun" ride. I sat in between the two brothers, and could see a couple freshly opened beer bottles sitting in the floorboards - which would be emptied and replaced by the time of our airport arrival. I glanced at the dashboard clock, it was 10 AM.

Now, I will veer off-topic here for just a moment to say this: I have always enjoyed the music of AC/DC - however, I much prefer their earlier works, as opposed to the stuff they've been cranking out since, say, the "Thunderstruck" era. That's may own personal opinion, make of it what you will.

That said, the only music these brothers had on hand, was the cassingle (yup, another "C" word from the land of the '80s) of AC/DC's "Ball Breaker" - which was played in its entirety, repeatedly, for the entire 30 minute drive. Yes - we drove the 40 miles in 30 minutes. [Just for the record, I am against this type of offensive or reckless driving. As the lovely Bess can attest, I drive like the really old people in public safety films of the post WW2 era (however, in this particular case; I felt that asking them to slow down was akin to a man faced with a firing squad asking for sunblock).]

Nonetheless, we arrived safely - and I stumbled out of the truck, head still rumbling with the sound of Angus Young's guitar.

I had asked to be taken to an airport - not because I love to fly - but I figured that's where one could rent a car. It would be cheaper, and - since I may be returning to this very town in a matter of days to retrieve my soon to be miraculously fixed vehicle, why not rent a car that I could return to this very place? A simple plan, which worked marvelously - until I got to the rental counter. I produced my ID when I was asked, only to be rebuffed by the clerk:

"We can't rent to you." the voice (whose face may or may not have been an actual blur) stated.

In my head, I went through a litany of reasons why I should be allowed to rent a car; no traffic violations, no criminal record, finances relatively secure (I had one paid-up, until that point, credit card), and was having a not great day. So why shouldn't they rent me a car?

Alas, at 24, I was told, for probably the last time, something that I have only wished I could hear more often in the intervening years: "You're Too Young."

Too young to rent a car, eh? I looked into my wallet and grabbed the credit card. I went up to the nearest ticket agent, and asked for a seat on the next, cheapest flight from Florence, South Carolina to Richmond, Virginia - a distance of 343 miles.

At approximately 1040 AM, after being awake all night, leaving a trashed car 40 miles away on a lonesome morning highway, and having to endure a ride from hell with the brothers goof-nut; I was told that I could easily make the next flight- in 7 hours.

I bought the ticket, and made the calls to folks back home, letting them know the new plan for my arrival . My Dad would meet me at the Richmond airport later that night. Everything was worked out. Now, there was time to kill.

A lot of time to kill.

The Florence, South Carolina airport is about as big as a kittens paw and had, at that time, more Christmas bows on the walls than paying customers in the halls. There were a couple of televisions, playing local news, followed by whatever the Saturday Matinee B-Movie may have been that week. There were a few benches, and I believe a food/coffee cart - which sold three magazines, 'People,' Newsweek,' and 'People En Espanol'.

I wanted out.

Coming onto the airport property, I had noticed a sign for a museum near the airport grounds. After I had stepped outside for a breath of slightly different air, I saw another sign leading from the airport parking lot .

The museum was a couple hundred yards away - I could easily walk to it, lose myself inside a museum for a while and make it back to the airport proper with plenty of time to make my flight. So, I started walking. The museum wasn't that far at all, but had plenty of advertising on the short distance along the dirt road leading from the airport to the museum. I filled my head with the many time-wasting and interesting exhibits that lay ahead, hoping I could spend at least a couple hours filling my brain with things that didn't involve expenses, cars, or any combination of the two. I got to the the museum grounds, turned a corner and headed directly toward the front door, where was posted the following:

'Closed On Saturdays'

Dejected, I turned around - and since there were no windows low enough to peak into, I started the walk back to the airport. Slowly.

I made it back in time to watch the end of the Saturday Matinee from a bench next to my departure gate. I started doing a crossword puzzle - and then must have either succumbed to the demons of slumber, or just faded into oblivion, for the next thing I knew, I was within an hour of flight time.

Excited, I was finally headed homeward. I had neglected to check the details of my ticket. I was indeed traveling toward Richmond - however, I'd be taking three separate flights.

At this point, I simply didn't care. I hate to fly, but I desperately wanted out of Florence.

I boarded the plane - a simple 60 seater, which transported 15 of us from Florence, South Carolina to Atlanta, Georgia - where I had a brief layover before boarding a 24 seater which flew me to Raleigh, North Carolina - there, I boarded a 12 seater, which carried me from Raleigh to Richmond . If you want to compare mileage flown to the amount I paid for the ticket, I suppose I got a bargain.

Finally, somewhere around 11PM, I stepped into the final airport I would see for quite a while - and sat enjoying the ride as my father drove me to his house, where I knew a meal and sleep were finally going to make their appearance.

As it turns out, I chose to rid myself of the car. Upon returning to Florida, I sent Old Man & Sons the title to the Accord, and wished them well. I hold no grudge against the town of Florence, however - I do get more anxious any time I have to travel through that area. There's a strange vibe in the air, I guess, and it causes things to happen. In the years since, I've had radio stations change themselves, cars suddenly backfire, momentary gas pedal failure, but no more breakdowns. I call it the "Florence Shudder" - and sure enough, it's there nearly every time I am.

Perhaps, however, it's my old vehicle calling out to me across the woods and back roads of South Carolina - trying to draw my attention once more. I wouldn't doubt it's carcass is still there, somewhere, slowly rusting it's way to the netherworld.

Plus, it's been a decade and a half now, that Old Man hasn't sent me a dime.


A Not-So-Secret Recipe
On a trudge to find material goods, I saw a man ambling along the sidewalk in my direction. The gentleman stopped in his tracks and flared his nostrils, taking a whiff of the mid-day air. His eyes then scoured the street. After a couple seconds, I saw him point, and call out:

"Hey man! Hey! How you doing?"

Targeting an assumed friend riding a bike on the opposite side of the street, the man darted across the road. I could see where his attention lay - a fast food To-Go container in hispals right hand.

"Hey Man, lemme get some of that!" He cried out.

"Some of What?" I heard his friend reply - before tuning them out...

I had allowed myself to become distracted. At the moment that fellow pedestrian with the healthy sniffer hopped over the curb, my attention was grabbed by a sight in a recently opened confectionery. Through the shop window I could see the cashier standing, bored, dejected at a counter in the empty room. In the window itself, just below the level of her slumped shoulders, was posted a sign with the exuberant exultation:

"Shop With Us Online!"

Half a block later, I was passed by a man on a bicycle, a rigid grip still holding his lunch.


Ah, Escalatorville - it's like a sandwich made of words.

Z.F. "My hands have two left feet."Lively,
Man Of Letters
escalatorville@yahoo.com (it's for email)

Dispatch From Escalatorville: Grieving, Reprieving, Pet Peeving

About mid-August, during one of my evening walks, I was approached by a drunken bicyclist who stopped to offer me a warning:

"Those College Girls are making it rough tonight, man - but you don't want them anyway, don't go get crabs from one of them (Insert Name Of Local College Here) girls!"

After acknowledging that I had no intent of such a thing, I walked on.

However, as an Alumni ["Class of Blah-blah-Four" - I think (give me a break, I drank A LOT that summer)] - I felt for a second that perhaps I should report the incident to my Alma Mater. Goodness knows what might happen to the good name of the college if it became a habitat for those parasitic poachers of pedantic privates.


Less Steam, More Punk.
Folks that see me on a regular basis can attest to the fact that I am not exactly up to date on modern gadget trends and popular devices. I'm what you'd call a retro techie. I still play records on a near daily basis, and the only electronic gaming system in the house is an Atari 2600 (circa the year my wife was born).

However, the lovely Bess and I do have cellular telephonic communicators, which we will soon have to get upgraded. As a technophobe, of course I am wary of this. I do like having the ability to text and to talk to friends/family/government agency switchboard operators - but that's really all I desire in such a unit. I don't need to access the net from elevators or parking lots. Nor have I the urge to "update my status" constantly or broadcast when I've just walked into Schmengies House of Big and Tall Falafel*. I'm just not programmed for that type of living. I needmore apps in my normal life before I get them on my phone.

*On a side note about modern tech - Spell Check thinks this word should be either "Falwell," " Falstaff," or" Faulkner"

Eaves Dropped
Working in tourism retail, as I do, I get to listen in on snippets of conversations that occur between family members. Most often, what I hear are folks arguing whether Uncle BoBo deserves the three dollar or seven dollar charm bracelet. However, the ones I enjoy the most are the disjointed rejoinders spoken by folks, such as grandmothers or friends of parents, whom have volunteered to journey into the store with youngsters - while giving "a break" to the childs progenitors.

"Oh, you wanna find Mommy? I'll. Take. You. To. Mommy..." I heard one woman state, creeping me out more than the kid - after the childs relatively subdued (yet still loud) objection to their company.

However, I recently heard possibly the most disturbing phrase uttered from the lips of a woman stating to her baby, in that baby-talk that we all adopt when confronting anyone under the age of four:

"Ooh, you could take that apart, eat the pieces, and it would choke you, yes it would."

At least we're teaching our children honesty at an early age.

Alternate Tune-ings
Sometimes songs have to be played at the right time - after all, don't you too think it's a bit odd when you're listening to The Who's "5:15" and you realize that its only 4:42?

Also, I'm all for the occasional "re-interpretation" of classic songs, but I think we need to police ourselves a bit better. It's only a matter of time before someone comes up with a Drum N Bass remix of "Abraham, Martin, and John."

Ex-Static
I always enjoy when the radio announcer reads that a highway report is sponsored by a fast food entity or donut shop, then has to begrudgingly tell us that traffic is indeed HEAVY.

"The idea is to die young as late as possible." ~Ashley Montagu
The house we rent is located directly beside a baptist church. On Sundays (and on Wednesday nights when they rehearse) we love to hear the church band. Since the church itself is literally 10 feet from where I write this, the sounds of their services carry quite well. Joyful and boisterous gospel accompanies the Fire and Brimstone preaching during typical weekly services, among other events.

Of course, there is also an occasional funeral. On crowded church days, it's not unusual for overflow parking to occur directly in front of our house. It's a bit unsettling on funeral days however, as I've opened the front door to greet a hearse just sitting there, waiting. Quite an ominous message, if I do say so myself.

I don't mind the funerals so much, as they are generally a celebration of life and are imbued with the jolly spirit that flows during the churches regular service. A few months ago, however, there was a funeral for a younger parishioner. the funeral was proceeding as they usually do, until suddenly, a heart-stopping wail came from inside the church. I believe that it also came from deep within this poor woman's soul - for days I could not unhear her cries of "My Child! My Baby! Why, Jesus Lord God, Why?!?"

The memory still haunts me. The sounds of her anguish and loss has made me reluctant to ever attend another memorial service. Not if I ever have to witness this in person, instead of simply being an ear-stretching neighbor.

Thus, I offer this precursory request to my friends and family: stay healthy. My heart nearly breaks at the mere telling of this story, and brings back memories of those I have already lost. I cannot imagine how I will survive should this occur to any more people I actually know and love. Now, I expect you to all outlive me - and I plan on making it to at least 98 or so.

Go to B-Deck immediately! I repeat: Go to C-Deck immediately!
It's well known that Abraham Lincoln was loved by everyone [Not everyone. He was assassinated, remember? Ed.], thus, he remains the source of great party quotes. For example, in his Gettysburg Address, he decreed that government should be "of the people, by the people and for the people."

I wonder if Congress and the Senate have a smudged copy. A lot of them seem to be reading it as "F the People, Buy the people, Abhor the people."

Watching all the infighting and playground bullying in Washington D.C., I think we might take heed of another ripper from Honest Abe: "Can we all just get along?"

Very Interesting, Your Papers, Please.
I think a lot of folks would agree with me that there seems to be decline in traditional, respectful, honest journalism. Unfortunately, there don't seem to be any reporters willing to write about it. Then again, I live in a city where the local paper is printed 40 miles outside of town. A paper which advertised itself as "Not your average mullet wrapper." At least they admit to being a mullet wrapper.

However, the mindset is such that the paper will still mark any female citizens accomplishments by emphasizing that the achievement was made by a woman. Then again, this is a city in which the tour-tram drivers speed up a little as they pass through the historic African-American neighborhoods where M.L.K. walked and spoke - all the while touting the towns importance in the struggle for equal rights, as if it were actually over.

Also, A nice place to visit.
Despite my consistent criticism, however, I do love living in this coastal burg (i.e. I love to go camping, knowing there's a great chance of snakes and/or poison oak). I'll leave you this time with a couple more snapshots of my adopted hometown:

Seen on the street, through a monster truck window, around 9PM on a recent weeknight - a clearly exhausted middle aged man handing over a fistful of cash to a half naked woman. Of course, I assume he was reimbursing her for Surfing lessons, but why take care of that payment so far from the actual beach?

Also seen on the street, at 1045AM on a Sunday- a college age bicyclist heading back into the neighborhood balancing an 18 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon on his handlebars. That's a definite Augustinian weekend.

Escalatorville loves you, hang in there.

Z.F. Lively,
Linguistic Recidivist
escalatorville@yahoo.com
(we write back)

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: There Ain't No Cure For The Summertime

Howdy, thanks for coming back. We've been away for longer than we had hoped, due to various reasons other than whimsical slackery (honest). I'll tell ya a bit about the Tar Ball Jamboree towards the end, but there's also been an overwhelming heat this summer which has slowed everyone I know at least slightly.

Yes, although we Floridians can handle the annual sweltering piss-hewn mugginess of these robust months that makes lingering fingers of steam and stench grasp upward from crackled pavement in praise to their devilish master-the sun; this year it's been hot. We like our weather to stay "average" here, a variation of five degrees in any direction is far too extreme (a definition which kinda suits the well-staked political vibe here as well). Thus, this year the papers will report that we experienced a "chilling" winter followed by a "blistering" summer - and folks in Vermont or Baja can laugh accordingly.

Another in the long line of excuses? I was almost demolished by a car on my way to bring this Dispatch to you...

Wipeout
It was an average evening following an average day - and I was headed to my night job (a term I can now use in earnest, having obtained daylight employ as well ). I crossed May street with the light; a light that I had just waited 5 minutes for, constantly pressing the "Cross Street" button in the hopes that I may trick the button itself into thinking that there are indeed 79 people waiting, and not just me..

As I wandered through the crosswalk, I saw a vehicle out of the corner of my eye. I'm not sure that I've ever 'hurtled', or seen anything 'hurtled' for that matter - but that car was hurtling toward me, I'm fairly certain. In as many moments as a split second can handle, I watched in cliched slow motion as the car continued it's turn and through the very lane I was currently crossing.

It was obvious that the driver didn't see me until the last second, what could have been THE last second. However, at that second (the almost last one, remember?), I spewed forth an utterance that for what my ears can tell came out as the great and resounding "HarHeaaeaeaeaeaiyyauaugh!!"

Apparently, my less than onomatopoeiac chortle is also universally understood through some hidden translator in automobile windshields and driver doors - as the pilot of the hurtling car screeched to a halt. I only saw his passengers agape face in blur, however. During my yawp, I had jumped to my destination curb - allowing the driver to see that I was physically unharmed before he sped off into the dark.

It's Summertime, U.S.A.
Based upon what's been making the "charts" lately, I've decided that we need at least one new aural description. "Newsic" - sound made by pop artists of the modern era which, although apparently popular to listen to, doesn't showcase any musical talent whatsoever. Now you have a place to file all your Ke$ha LPs.

Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days Of Summer
About 6:45 A.M. a recent morning, I was in the hotel lobby at the end of my shift chatting with my follow-up shifter when a little old lady (of the stereotypical little old lady club) came in with a query.

"Do you know if there's any jewelry stores in town?" she asked. Well, of course, there are a plethora of them in and around town. In a retiree rich community, they are a near necessity. I have friends that work for them, and the lovely Bess has also done time in the jewelry market. Unremarkably, there are none open at 7 AM, holiday sale days notwithstanding. This woman was urgent, however, and when we told her that there were none open that early on a Tuesday - she became slightly confused and concerned.

Then came her admission. It seems her friend had hurt a ring finger the previous day, and had gone to the hospital to get it fixed. Having bandaged up the finger, the woman had put back on her rings. Overnight, here had been a bit of swelling, now complicated by the rings tightness on the woman's finger - causing the finger itself to turn colors, and meaning that the ring could no longer be removed by traditional methods.

What bewildered me slightly was the concern about the ring seemed to outweigh the concern over the woman's finger. I can understand not wanting to damage a pricey ring, but didn't they realize that once teh woman's finger falls off, there's no place left to put it?

Another trip to the hospital was simply out of the question, as we were so indignantly told. So, we dialed the local firehouse - the man who answered my co-workers call stated that they could, in fact, cut through the ring in order to remove it.

After giving the old woman directions to the firehouse, she exited the lobby. A few moments later, we saw their car leave the parking lot, presumably on it's way to the fire station. I left work about the same time, and as I watched them down the road a piece, I hoped that after the ring situation was under control, our fair ladies wouldn't hassle the firemen with any of their other troubles - like turning off their cars blinker.


Daydream Believer
I mentioned that I had recently begun a day job to compliment my night job (hey, bills gotta be paid, and since when is sleep ever important on a Monday?). As our section of the state is a pathway towards both beaches and theme parks, I found fiscal refuge in a souvenir shop. Observing the world that passes through the spectrum of retail, I get to view quite an array of humanity, and more hilariously the outfits that folks think they can get away with in public. I saw one tourista [I assume she was a tourist because she spoke in broken English and was spending money (it was the spending money part that convinced me)] wearing a T-shirt which read in all it's glittered glory:
"Ghetto Fabulous"
This is ironic because she was neither.

Summer in the City
On the most recent Fourth of July, I headed over to a friends casa after work, along with the bourgeoisie and banalities that cover our little cities streets. As I turned a street corner, I noticed the following site; A family, headed to stake their claim at a firework viewing area, no doubt - emerged a dozen or so strong from an illegally parked RV - with hands full of lawn chairs and packed plates still steaming with their meal. How American is that?

California Sun
Some folks have asked for an update on a recent Escalatorville character: Everyone, the Fish is still good, still alive, and thoroughly enjoying his 9 cubic feet of space all to himself. The lack of rain has kept his hidden among the depths, but I saw him while replenishing his home with water the other day. I fed him the remainder of some tortilla chips - then he disappeared. Perhaps I should have included some salsa?

I also want to bring your attention to the Tar Ball Jamboree. If you live in the St. Augustine area - or can visit between August 6th and 7th, be sure to join me at the Fraternal Order of Orioles Nest. we're hosting a benefit for workers affected by the Gulf Oil Spill that won't be getting money from BP. Efforts will support two different organizations: The Greater New Orleans Foundation and Pensacola's 399 South Project. The performance schedule looks like this:

Friday, August 6th:
8:15 PM-Joe Moody
9:15 PM-Jeremy Rogers
10:15 PM-Z.F. Lively

Saturday, August 7th:
8:15 PM-Amy Hendrickson
9:15 PM-Chelsea Saddler
10:15 PM-Z.F. Lively's Open Jam

Yup, I realize I'm on there twice. I'm an egocentric bastard, so what? Show up anyway, and you'll hear some fun music and support a good cause.

Until then, even when life throws you a curve, take the escalator anyway,
Z.F. Lively
CAOO(Chief and Only Officer), Escalatorville Studios
Escalatorville@yahoo.com
Christmas is coming, send recipes!

Slowly...

...but surely.

New Dispatch on it's way soon.

The Dispatch from Escalatorville: Shaman, Showman, or Sham,man?

I really need to mow the lawn. Honestly, I do. Alas, it is that time of the year when the heat outside makes one want to stay in the kitchen, or bedroom - or wherever there's a couple of fans and an A/C unit. The grass, though, will be mowed - if I don't do it, then we will be overtaken by nature, and human beings just don't allow that to happen.

I fantasize that somehow, these blades of grass will bloom into marvelously whimsical flowers - emerging as if in an old cartoon; beautiful frolicking blooms, splayed with wonderful colors, singing show tunes from the 1920's - only to collectively commit suicide in about three weeks - never to be seen again. Unfortunately, my reality doesn't have a special effects department.

Writing is a beast of a slightly different nature. Occasionally, there are blades of wit that need time to grow roots, expand, and blossom. There are others that need to be put down before they fester and become ugly, unrecognizable, and eventually ossify into banality (because let's face it, Z.F., no one will ever look forward to a screenplay based on the lyrics of "A Tisket A Tasket").

So, here are a few small, furiously cut weeds of ideas, put out to pasture while we allow the more ornate and lavish ones to germinate for a bit longer.

Zip it.
Even with the surge in electronic communication the past few years, we still get junk mail through the door slot every week. Of course, all of it is advertising of some sort, no matter how official it look (thanks for the confusion, Bank Of YouKnowWho). Stuff addressed directly to us is usually read and recycled, however we also get a lot of mail addressed simply to "occupant." I deal with this detritus simply by writing "not at this address" or "deceased" on the mail itself and then dropping it right back into the postal system. I think I may switch to "return to sender," however, if only to put more of a burden on the jerks that sent it in the first place.

Recently, we've gotten some junk mail for a former resident - promoting rebates for pre-paid cremation services. Now, I know it's been at least 10 and probably 20 years since this particular person lived in our house. I'm sure they don't want to hear about that service now - hell, they may have already used it.

On Luck: Tails
Side note to the scratch off lottery players in line at the corner convenience station - one win after 10 tickets does not, in fact, mean that you are now "on a roll..."

On Luck: Heads
I walked by a man the other day as he was taking out his garbage. When he opened the curb can, he looked down in amazement, reached in, and - having retrieved his treasure - exuberantly turned to me stating: "Dude, I just found a dollar in the trash!"

My immediate response was that we should start checking every receptacle in town.

In retrospect, I wish I had told him to spend the dollar on something recyclable.

Cute met Creepy, and they created this...
New Candidate for the Oddest Conversation Starter Ever: walking past an octogenarian just before a slight smattering of rain, the old man looked me in the eye and asked-
"Are you in the mood for a little sprinkle?"

Since local government is usually a freak show anyway...
I'm a firm believer that theme park technology should be employed throughout our cities as a means to not only increase tourism, but also to add more excitement in our everyday lives. Consider the Roller Coaster as an efficient, fun, and speedy form of mass transportation. Or, how about animatronic "jumpers" placed on drawbridge railings to give the tourists schooning below a bit of a thrill?

I'm just spitballin' here, but I think if it's dollars and civic enjoyment that your town is after, this is the way to go.

Here we are, now entertain us.
I wonder if all the folks upset about privacy issues on social network sites would be as aflutter if you could convince them that they're info was actually being sent to various talent and modeling agencies instead.
Are you paying attention, Friendster? This could be your 'comeback" plan.


I feel stupid AND contagious.
We must be headed to the end times. I keep finding proof. Such as Paul Anka's interpretation of Nirvana.

It's really a shame that Sinatra didn't live long enough to cover Lady Ga Ga, isn't it?

There's a reason Garrison doesn't return my calls...
No matter where you are, within a few months it will be pledge time for your local public radio station. Herewith, I propose slight modifications to current programs that will all but guarantee new donations:

"This American Afterlife"
"All Thongs Considered"
"The World Of Oprah"
"Diane Rehm's 'Glee'"
"Fresh Air and Cheeseburgers"
"Las Vegas Home Companion"
"Fart of The Nation" (to be broadcast directly before "Wait Wait, Don't Smell Me!")

No Life Guard on Duty.
In the middle of my overnight shift, I usually patrol the hotel grounds, just to make sure all is safe and well in the world of overpriced comfort. One night recently, as I walked past the pool area; I noticed a man sleeping, possibly just passed out, with his feet in the jacuzzi - a beer can and small plastic container at his side. Now, we've had guests pass out in that section before, St. Augustine's boats wouldn't float if not for streams of alcohol. However, this man was NOT a guest - and he was completely unclothed. So, how does one approach a naked trespasser?

The obvious answer is - cautiously. Having encountered various characters in my hotel tenure, I was uncertain if the man might be concealing any type of weaponry or agenda. It seemed that all his cards were on the table, so to speak, but I didn't want to risk it.

I raised my voice slightly, as it was 4:30 AM, and I didn't want to wake any of our actual guests, nor alert them to the presence of our drunken nudist.

"Excuse me, sir.." I began from across the pool grounds. Apparently that was all it took to rouse the fellow back to consciousness. He awoke, apparently still inebriated, yet also unashamed. I told him that as he was not a guest that he'd have to leave the property immediately.

He seemed startled, but began to gather his accouterments. Holding up the plastic container, he told me "I have my toothbrush" - twice - then he grabbed the beer can, along with the pants and shirt he had left crumpled in a corner. After asking him to put on his clothing, I repeated that he would have to leave the property, and to please take his belongings with him. He started to put his shirt back on, and walk toward the exit. I let him know that it would be advisable for him to also put on his pants, and he did so. Still, he was ridiculously slow about vacating the property. As quietly threatening as I can muster at that time of morning; I gave him 30 seconds to get off the property and started a vocal countdown, "Thirty...Twenty-Nine..." thinking that might expedite his egress.

The pool area is literally 20 paces from the street - a ten second jaunt at most. Our obstinate exhibitionist wanted to head out the long way, through the parking lot and out the back exit of the hotel property. As such, my countdown got down to "...Three..." before he was gone. As he left however, he wanted me to remember one thing - holding up his toothbrush and beer can he continued to remind me that, no matter what transgressions he may have committed (public intoxication, public nudity, trespassing), "I am not a litterbug."

And this...
I'm sure someone other than me has said it, but I think it always seems darkest while you're looking for the light switch. It's also good to remember that in life, we do need some time of quiet, so that we might further appreciate the noise.

Now, off to make the lawn a little shorter...

Z.F. Lively, Grass Monkey
Contact us: Escalatorville@yahoo.com, It gives a keyboard something to hope for.