Thursday, March 03, 2005
I guess word gets around
Yesterday I got two great messages. One was a voicemail from my dear friend Lisa, at whose house I traditionally do a big passover ceremony. Passover is approaching and I’ve been in touch with Lisa and her family about the schedule and plans in general. Yesterday morning Lisa called me on behalf of her five(?)-year-old daughter Sophie, who could clearly be heard in the background prompting mom on what to say: that Sophie thinks it would be a good idea for me to have a special passover ceremony for the kids, with pictures instead of words so the kids can understand it, and a chance to play and to have fun for passover… I think it’s a Great Idea and I’m all over the “thinking it out” phase already. My favorite part though, was just before the tape on the machine cut off, Soph was really getting up a head of steam telling Lisa what to tell me, and Lisa offered, “why don’t you just tell him yourself?,” and the tape ended with Sophie in the background shouting “NO NO NO NO N...”
The other great message was an email from my friend Mitchell, which whose family we spent a lovely evening last saturday. Seems his son’s godparent’s friend was randomly surfing blogs and found this site, realized that she knew who I was talking about in my 3/1 post, and got word to the good man, who wrote back saying that his life was now complete - he’d been blogged. Well I hope I didn’t bring ya down good buddy but here’s two considerations to considerate: first, you were blogged in the spirit of sharing joy and good times, and with the warmest and fondest of sentiments to you and your whole family and that cool house of yours too - I hope it didn’t shock you too badly but it was damn good for me and I’d go back for seconds anytime. I AM TALKING ABOUT BLOGGING, and also about that awesome rack of lamb you roasted for us. It was a truly fulfilling evening, I am enjoying it still. Which brings me to point number dos: dude, I wind up blogging about a lot of people whose lives are anything but complete, regardless of their cyber-immortalization here at the ‘hut. In fact, I guess I blog more about people who, on some level, seem to be in a place of incompleteness and malformation, than about well-adjusted paragons of cool sophistication like yourself and Cath.
As to which, and changing the subject completely: Here’s a few observations from the concert I saw on monday - three people I saw in the audience (recognizing them from other earlier similar concerts), and three I saw while waiting for supper.
* Visually impaired guy who forces his way up front. A little below average height, pale skin, very thick glasses, stringy hair, grizzled shadow of a beard, well-worn tie-dye and jeans. His cane collapses on a shockcord into a grimy fasces. He leans on people, heavily and frequently, when he gets his beer from where he set it on a nearby (but not quite adjacent) table, and again when he sets it back down again after each parsimonious sip. He seems desparate for conversation and essays lots of clumsy gambits to get people talking to him; he’s so loud and pushy, though, that people literally turn their backs on him. He seems to compensate by hooting and screaming all the more loudly in support of the band, to a degree that begins to feel excessive given the low-key nature of the music, screams of glee that often devolve into a happy howling cackle from which he ultimately collapses into uncontrolled fits of deep bronchial coughing.
* Well-groomed, professional type who misses nary a Tuna show and stands way down in front every time. Short fringe of brown hair beneath a shiny pattern-bald scalp; sober glasses; tidy Ned Flanders moustache of moderate proportions; the face of a proud new partner in a small accounting firm. Cosby sweater, sensible slacks. As the band plays, he rocks back and forth in a transport of delight, slapping his thighs and the air, shiva-dancing, bobbing and bucking to uniquely personal syncopations, until he ultimately can’t keep up with his physical self-expression of the music and just waves his outstretched index fingers at the musicians, returning energy back to them in paroxysims of renewal.
* He’s not a big guy but he looks dangerous anyway, like the guy at the green felt table who says nothing all night long and then pulls out a blade without warning and perforates the dealer. His skin is the kind of pale that I associate with casinos. His square chin is thickly thatched with a dark red beard, dense but trimmed into a coherent shape. His eyes glow cobalt under a lowering brow; beneath his brown leather riverboat dude’s hat (sweatstained; habitual), his head is wrapped in a tired bandana. He weas a fancy western jacket (also habitual), with rosettes and embroidered “f"s stitched into either side up the front; it’s buttoned up over a once-rugged flannel shirt. His hands are tucked into the meagre pockets of his tight brown slacks and he stands very still, front and center. The only change is in his eyes: someetimes he looks as if he just remembered he killed someone, and sometimes he looks like he finally just forgot.
* And then: there were the guys at Shalimar earlier that night. It’s a garrishly lit place, long-suffering formica four-tops and cafeteria chairs; you order at the counter up front and they’ll bring it to you if you’re eating there. I was getting my food to go so I stood off to the side of the open kitchen area and waited and watched.
There were a few other patrons: two tables of young hip-looking ‘loin loungers with sculpted hair and ironic insouciance, and some older guys. At one point while I waited, the older guys finished their supper and one of them came over to me and asked me, somewhat officiously, to take their picture. I gladly acquiesced and was given a thorough lesson in using a point-and-shoot disposable camera *WITH* flash capacity, and then instructions on how to frame the photo (don’t get the dirty plates; get this painting behind us (a large mural of a serene watergarden), get all of our bodies, don’t cut off our heads). I took two pictures, and two careful looks at these three men; then I sort of kept them in view till they staggered out of the restaurant.
First guy: taller than me, heavy to the verge of obesity, thick silver hair in a shellacked mass. Prominent nose and jaw, olive-tone skin. Aviator glasses, black fleece jacket, black slacks, brown walking shoes. He gave orders.
Next guy: younger than first guy, darker hair, curlier and neglected. Simmering sense of resentment. Fleece shirt with Quark Biotech embroidered over the breast. Just before they left, he put on a grey fishing jacket over the fleece, and also a grey tweed
driving cap - one of the round ones with the little bills, a pair of khaki cargo pants, running shoes - leather, overworn. He looked down a lot and nodded in agreement more than he spoke.
Old guy: old - like in his 80s or more. Obese, with spindly arms and legs; white hair still long and thick, but receded substantially from his forehead. Before they left he put on a stained, ratty khaki driving cap. White shirt with blue stripes - a “business” shirt with a collar, but transparently thin and clearly disclosing his undershirt beneath. Pants: black cotton, significantly stained, primarily with brown flecks and smears; unbuttoned and unzipped but clamped, gaping, to his gut with an ancient straining belt. Blue windbreaker jacket with “Oracle” embroidered at the breast; under this, an old green fishing jacket with lots of pockets, worn to the point of being worn-out. Brown moccasins. Wide american-flag suspenders. Thick moustache; vague smile; rheumey eyes.
Details: the younger son has a surgical cuff on his arm, under his shirt, over his elbow - not a cast, but a compression and isolation therapy of some sort. They have with them two double-bags from Trader Joe’s, seemingly with groceries in them. Against the wall, a walker, thick with the accretions of city use. It seems to take them ten minutes to stand up and leave the restaurant.
There. Y’all are complete. See ya tomorrow with god knows what.
