The Dispatch From Escalatorville - Eat My Shorts.

Every now and again, I'll take up the challenge of trying to write a short story. Sometimes, I'll have an idea that won't escape until I put it down in full detail - other times, I write for the sport of it. What follows are two pieces of the latter, written according to specific contest guidelines (i.e. a given subject matter, a word-count requirement, etc.) - for contests that I did not win.

However, the losses (if one can really call them that) give me the chance to show off these stories on my own. Eventually, these may become longer and more thorough stories, or screenplays, or simply forgotten altogether. I'm presenting them now in their "submitted" form with the hope that the ideas behind them will provide a bit of enjoyment; possibly put a few images in your own head-space, and give a different glimpse into mine.
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The Power Of Persuasion
(Written for the short fiction series which is part of a Nationally known Public Radio program)
Anton Mesmer sat in the room of his Presidential Library, reading headlines from his inauguration 28 years prior; reminiscing on slow days when business wasn't exactly busy.

He'd been the first Independent victor of the race for the Presidency, although he'd had otherworldly help. Unknown to the public, he was the first President with supernatural powers.

A child in Iowa, he'd stopped a bully's violence - willed it gone by stating “You don't need to do this.” - thus becoming aware of his  ability to convince others to do his bidding. He'd inherited the trait – coercive persuasion/mass hypnosis- from his father, who warned Anton at age 11;

“Strange? Wonderful? Yes.” Dad cautioned,
“But, NO ONE can know of this – use it sparingly – for it could vanish in an instant. Use this wisely, only for good.”

Anton stood strong. Smart, passionate - he used intelligence and fortitude to get ahead – resisting the use of his phenomenal skill. That is, until he personally witnessed suffering that self-absorbed actions of die-hard politicos brought his fellow citizens.

At 37, he ran for President. With grand ideas, he beguiled media interviewers. A common sense platform plus subtle mind control equaled landslide victory.

A photo from inauguration day shows Mesmer after taking the oath, proud father leaning to whisper in his ear. In reality, 'twas a plea- “I know how you did this; please be careful.”

Soon after, Anton faced opposition from D.C. bigwigs used to ingrained benefits gained from lifetimes of being on government payrolls. At a joint session of Congress – Anton made his grandest suggestion:

“Inspire the country,“ he stated, casting a spell over the throng, ”Take personal responsibility.”

An audible gasp filled the room, the Judicial and Legislative branches hadn't considered “responsibility” in ages.

He proposed the only bill ever passed unanimously: Federal Employees Reduced Entitlement Plan – cutting ornate pensions afforded to  Senators, Representatives, and the Executive Branch.

“Why,” he asked the entranced, “should taxpayers continue to pay for services that WE have retired from?”

The people so admired Anton for his honesty and integrity that, via a write-in campaign coupled with the citizens blitzkrieg on media outlets, an amendment was passed to change the face on the $100 bill. So long Franklin, make way for Mesmer.

Then, March Third, Mesmer's fourth year in office, it happened.

Anton called the kitchen, requesting his favorite breakfast – peanut butter waffles with hot chocolate. Hortense, the official chef, declined – offering a healthier alternative.

“Really?” he pressed, trying hard to use the power which had  propelled the country toward greater days.

“Today's menu:” clarified Hortense, “Cereal, Fruit, Orange Juice.”

As warned, the power had vanished. Anton's confidence remained high, but his diminished persuasiveness made Washington revert to it's old ways. There'd be no second term. Policies were overturned, save one - Commander's in Chief would pay their own way upon leaving office.

Decades on, Anton stood by this decision.

“At least,” he pondered, “I used that power to good ends, some folks had their burden eased for a while.”

His thoughts were interrupted by a rumbling truck on the pavement outside. Anton ambled out the front door.

“Can I help you?” he stated, diplomatically.

“Fill it up with regular,” the driver said as she popped out of her seat, stiletto heels clicking on the fluorescent-lit floor of the station bay, “I'mma use the restroom.”

She then skipped across the lot to a door marked “Women.”

Mesmer -gracefully still serving the people- took the gas pump, topped off the tank.

The gal returned,  “Whadda I owe yuh?”

“$92.78, Miss.” the former President uttered.

She pulled a bill from her wallet, never glimpsing the face of the once prominent man she'd read about in school not so very long ago, and handed it over -
“Keep the change, buddy.”

Ignoring the small museum on the grounds, the truck rushed back to the highways that lay beyond that tiny Iowan town.

Anton returned to the register on his desk and quietly slipped his portrait into the till.
----

Creep City
(My entry into the County Library System's recent murder/mystery challenge.)

There are plenty of places to dispose of a body in The Nation's Oldest City.

Heck, in this towns vast and voluminous history, there's no part of town that hasn't served as a graveyard or burial ground. Hidden crevices in ancient buildings, marshes and ditches galore, loose cobblestones in the wee hours on dark streets... 

The very elements of the city itself, mixed with a few of the right chemical compounds, of course - and a person can disappear into the realm of the ghostly in fairly quick time.

"Thirty-seven vanishings from downtown last year," my pal Ralston stated, "This year alone, we're already up to 13, and barely into March!"

Ralston, a reporter for a local radio station and noted gadfly - albeit a very smart fellow - had invited me to get my thoughts, as a native of the area and one of his close friends.

Close friends who've known each other for years, so knowledgeable of  routines and habits that even though we can go months without a deep thoughtful conversation- I can still walk into his kitchen, grab a glass from the cupboard and juice from the fridge any day of the week. He'd do the same in mine. Sometimes what seems like diminished courtesy simply indicates a friendly familiarity.

The circumstances of mysterious disappearances in the old town were never really looked into. It was generally tourists that vanished and the local police nearly always determined - with nary an investigation - that the missing had just grown tired of their situation (or companion) and decided to up and leave without notice. 

The cops did have a bit of a point in their favor; this is what the locals call a “boomerang” town, meaning that one can always "leave," yet will always come back to visit, or live, or die.

Ralston was a determined fuss-budget, however.

He'd invited me to a brunch babble at a bistro in the “Old Town” section of the, ahem, old town. Since I'd been born here, and he'd only been around a dozen years, he thought I might have some more "native" insight.

"Have you ever witnessed another showcase for abandonment such as this?" he prodded.

"Well, not really," I stammered, "but keep in mind that I hardly pay attention to that type of stuff. I'm just a townie, and us townies get it that strange things happen in this place. It's a trait inbred in anyone that's lived here forever. The city's been living up to curse after curse put upon it since the Catholic Spaniards killed all the French Protestants and threw 'em in the Matanzas Bay four hundred years ago."

What I meant to say to Ralston was this; peculiarities that seem odd and random to most folks who visit, are relatively passé to the "born-ins." We live with ghosts all around us. We've all heard, told, experienced, or simply made-up stories of our own that share the tales of this old burg. I myself was born on the day that Athalia Lindsey was killed. My folks drove past that horrific scene on the way to the hospital on Marine street. ("So bloody. A gruesome, jarring memory I'll not forget," my mother so royally stated once . “After seeing the mess the devil made of that woman's flesh, I shuddered all the way to the delivery room.")

"Ralsie," I pestered, "so what - it's a higher than usual number. You're a reporter, you know that crime rates, traffic accidents, births, deaths - they fluctuate every few years, right? Right?" 

I asked twice because I could see he was distracted.

"Zinetta Farussa hasn't been home in 4 days," was his next turn of headline induced phrase. 

"She left work at the Historic Society the other night - and her boyfriend, Dean, hasn't seen her since. The Historic Society's missing a 150 year old black onyx ring, belonged to the wife of the guy that read the Emancipation Proclamation here when Lincoln was President.  Nobody's seen Chad Rettier since Church last Sunday either."

"Chad Rettier's a flake and a pompous ass." I retorted "probably split to some music rave-up downstate, or maybe just up in Savannah on a bender - you know how he gets."

"Well yeah," offered Ralston "But what about Zinetta?"

Zinetta Farussa had been a cheerleader and class president at the local high school 15 years back, and was still a fairly well regarded member of society. A fixture at art walks and local festivals - she remained a smart and admirable, if whimsically wanton, woman.

"I dunno," I replied "I haven't seen her since our falling out at that folk festival, and I don't think she really forgives me for my drunken tirade that night..."

"She's over you." Ralston dryly noted. "Besides, she and Rettier both had failed business ventures with "Old Man" Altemann over on the island.

"You think Der Krautmeister's gotten 'em into some trouble or something?" I haphazardly replied, anticipating a raft of explanation, as Ralsie is wont to extrapolate.

"I dunno," he replied in brief- "but I'm looking into it. Altemann's a sketchy guy, and there's a bunch of folks who think he's up to no good."
-

We ended brunch and walked back toward our neighborhood. We stopped at his place and I cautioned my bud.

"Look, I don't know if there’s any credit to be given to your theories," I warned, "but don't get yourself into trouble over this - there’s just some juju in this place you don't want to mess with. Trust me."

"You got it, Jakey LaBeau." He said as he shrugged (I hated it when he called me Jakey), "but you'll be the first to know when I figure it all out."

"You bet." I laughed at his dedication, but I think he knew he was running a dead horse up the wrong tree.

Perhaps he didn't? I never thought to ask that.

-
At 3:30 yesterday morning, I heard the doorknob turn simultaneously with the sound of Ralston's quivering voice.

"Hey man...I hope you're up, I just found some weird stuff..." he stated with nervous excitement as he entered the house to find me, yes, still awake at 3:30 AM.

Still awake at 3:30 AM, cursing myself that I'd left the damn door unlocked. 

Still awake, and caught at the kitchen sink – blood and chemical soaked, peeling the remaining flesh from the bones of Miss Zinetta Farussa.

Ralston's face turned as white as her exposed and freshly scrubbed collarbone.

He forced a mumble. "I suppose you have the ring too..." 
-
There are plenty of places to dispose of a body in the Nation's Oldest City. Ralston now knows this to be incredibly true.
-----

Now, I don't know why I wrote key events in both stories to take place in March - neither was written during that specific lunar cycle - but it seems as good as any month to release them to the world. Read 'em twice, that last one's kinda ghoulish. More new stuff to be foisted upon ya soon.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively; Proprietor/Pulp Rioteer
escalatorville@yahoo.com for threats and love letters.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville- Vignettes & Banalities in Ancient Municipalities

I'm almost certain that something more ambitious or generous is coming down the pike in the nearest of futures...in the meanwhile, these rambling thoughts on things -
---
Like 'Zelig' but less colorful...
I grabbed a backpack that had been haphazardly stuffed with clipboards, paper and writing implements, then headed out for a random meander. At one turn I found myself headed through the local campus of my Alma Mater, as I frequently do - however, not quite so much during the changing of classes (as I was doing at the exact same instant the notion for this very paragraph hit my noggin).

As I sauntered through my old stomping grounds; backpack hung in a faux-hipster like fashion over one shoulder, pens and pencils askew and nearly escaping, awkwardly checking the time - I passed by professors whom I'd never had class with, yet always walked by in hallways (some of them obviously thinking "why hasn't that guy graduated yet?") and got quizzical looks from freshman and juniors alike wondering what class the new old-guy-student is in.

Some may, at first deceived by my glasses, believe that I am an instructor - then they see that old backpack (...hung in a faux-hipster like fashion over one shoulder, pens and pencils askew and nearly escaping...) - and my nonexistent cover is blown.

I am neither student nor teacher - I am merely an observer with obvious tools.

---
I'm guessing a major in 'Theater Arts'?
(Editor's Note: It takes one to know one)
As I ambled once again through the campus recently, I noticed a  young woman awkwardly walking her dog. Leashing hand outstretched in front of her, she stumbled forward a few steps, got yanked to one side, tried to right herself, and got pulled to the other.

A quick back step, another slight forward stumble - and after a brief moment of true 'who is walking whom?' peculiarity - she straightened everything out and headed down the side-walk with carefree ease.

That's when I noticed - there was no leash at all, and no dog, either.
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Where are the Animals for the Ethical Treatment Of People?
Don't get me wrong, or write letters, animal lovers: I completely understand the meaning behind that "Who Rescued Who" paw-shaped sticker on the back of your vehicle. But, let's face facts - given what your dog knows about you, they may just have left you at the pound, or would have failed to get you all of your shots. It's not that they're uncaring, they just don’t carry around that much cash.
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The Spollies Of Felling:
A PATRIOT is only one leg away from being the anagram of A TRAITOR. Nothing implied or intended there, just an observation regarding our quirky language (or, our 'Quaking Yule Rag'- if you'd prefer).
---

I thought it was ear wax, apparently it was just words.
About two days after we learned of the resignation of Pope Benedict, I was alerted to this already digested news from acquaintance. An acquaintance whom I've noted before is elderly, senile, and set in the mindset of the South in the 1930's.

As she pointed directly towards the down-town Cathedral - "Did you hear, now they gotta get a new bishop (meaning The POPE)over there, I guess."

Then, under her breath, for all to hear - "I bet this time they probably pick the black one."
---

User Errors
I'm not the most savvy when it comes to the interwebs, or whatever the kids are calling their computery things nowadays - but I do have a general "style vs. discretion" issue with the facebook. Everything has become equally important in the FB world, thus producing some seeming inconsistencies when it comes to what we post.

I cite the following example:
 - a friend posted two notices nearly simultaneously, so that the they appeared in my "feed" one atop the other.

As I scroll down the page I read first an old witticism wherein the joke teller paints himself as an apex of insultery by indicating that he has had carnal relations with the mother of the intended recipient of a nonexistent insult.

This was followed immediately by a sincere and heartfelt plea to help forward a message regarding a missing child. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for helping kids, and especially helping to find ones that are missing (we really need to do more as a society than we're doing about that) - but to hit me with that plea right after relating some ribald punditry?

It's like giving someone marshmallow ice cream while stabbing their tongue with a fork.


---
He's A Desecrated Follower Of Fashion
I have noticed a recent clothing trend which I do not despise. Women of a certain youngish age have taken to wearing dresses that while elegant and flowing against the back of the leg, tend to cut the hem upward a bit toward the fore, coming to rest slightly above the knee. Thus the outfit is shorter in the front than it is in the rear, I've taken to calling it the "Mullet Dress."

Granted it is probably quite a bit comfortable for the wearer; when a lovely young lass headed in my direction found herself wearing one in a slight breeze, however, it also prompted the older gentleman about three steps ahead of me to grumble in a low, yet increasingly excited tone - "uh, oh, whooooooooooah."

I simply smiled as she passed by, but I'm sure she was flattered by both of us, Sir.
---
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/I have a theory about 'The Walking Dead' even though I've only seen the first 5 minutes of the series.
escalatorville@yahoo.com for Murder Ballads and Burdened Mallards

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."
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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...
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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.)
---

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.