A Short Ramble

I live in the no-coast region of North America, the center of which is the confluence of the Missouri and Kansas Rivers, a geographic low spot where, apparently, the humidity settles and builds, even though it is so far from any major body of water. I open with this revelatory statement because as we speak, it is, according to my calculations, real hot and sticky outside. It is so humid that sometimes small fish will accidentally swim right out of the river and into the first inch thick layer of humid air above. I ain't lying.

My son is moving to the West Coast. When writing West Coast it is proper to capitalize both words, by the way, according to the University of Puget Sound online style guide--and they should know. As a matter of fact, my son is moving to within spitting distance of Puget Sound. I'm excited for him. I kind of wish it was me. Everything is expensive in Seattle so I can't afford to live there. When the weather in Missouri gets especially onerous, I wish I could figure out a way to move out there anyway. As a small consolation, here in Missouri we do get those five or six days in fall or spring when it is neither too hot nor too cold. Unless we don't.

Incidentally, also according to the University of Puget Sound Style Guide, when writing Walla Walla, Washington, it is more or less obligatory to then make a joke, such as I heard you the first time. I just mention this in passing.

I am moving, too, in a few weeks, though on a much smaller scale. Just a few miles, which is enough to remove me from the Kansas City downtown area (refuse to capitalize downtown) and, particularly, out of this spectacularly crappy warehouse-converted-to-lofts building. I moved here about seven months ago when I made an error in judgement and thought it would be cool. I won't get into all that right now.

I have about a month to go, and I'm taking this time to attempt to plan ahead and pack those things which 1.) I never use, ever, such as the unknown stuff in lots of boxes I haven't even unpacked from the last move yet, or b.) I never use in the summer, such as jackets, sweaters, long sleeve shirts, and things of that ilk. I hate moving, but I'm trying to be philosophical about it. I found that being philosophical about something bad not only doesn't make it better, it makes it worse because you think about it more than it deserves. Another item on the long list of exquisite ironies that make up my life. Perhaps all life.  Of course, as I've always said, a life without exquisite ironies is otherwise known as short-term memory loss.

I think that is more than enough for now.

Nothing is as it Seems

This is not a rock from the black sands beach near Reykjavik in Iceland. My son did not put it in his pocket when he was visiting. My son did not go to Iceland last week. This is not my hand.

Not a rock. 

Only in Portland

One can only speculate.

This picture is actually just lifted off of a Google Street View page and lightly photoshopped. The location was just a few blocks from 3rd St. and Burnside Ave, by the bridges just west of downtown. I spent a pleasant few minutes wondering what this dude was up to. Going bike riding, I assumed.

Street Car

Saturday I rode on the streetcar because when I went on my walk, I used up my entire "range," if you will, walking in one direction. This is sort of like driving into the desert in a straight line until you run out of gas, or swimming straight out into the ocean until you become exhausted.

So, anyway, thank God for the streetcar. And for the fact that I was walking along the streetcar line the whole time.  I'm not stupid. So, clang clang clang, I get on.  It's crowded, because it's the weekend, and the streetcar, being sort of a new invention (?) is considered by many to be more like an amusement park ride than simply a mode of transportation. So I watched the people sitting and standing and chatting in the party atmosphere, and while at stops, new riders steadfastly refusing to understand the logic of "let others off the streetcar before boarding" as the sign says. I wonder if I look old enough to just sit there and not offer my seat to an actual old person, or a pregnant person. Seems like this is not even a thing, though. I do offer my seat (and the empty one right next to it) to two ladies standing nearby, but they declined even after I repeated my offer.

I particularly like seeing people who come downtown and dress as if they are on African safari. What an adventure they must be on in their minds. Also, why are men all wearing shorts? I mean, not me, as my legs haven't seen the sun in decades, but, seriously. Then again, I dress just like I did when I was in high school, pretty much. I can and do wear the same shirt until it is literally threadbare and cannot be worn anymore except for when painting or something. And it's kind of amazing just how long it takes to accomplish this.

I posted this picture on my facebook page. I really like it, for some reason.  This does not mean it's good, though I hope that is also true.

Not in a While

Continuing on in the tradition of habit, routine and sheer momentum, here is another blog post. The truth is I have about two hours to kill before I even think about dinner--and I'm not hungry anyway--and it's too hot to go outside, especially since I just took a shower and don't really want to take a second one before I go to bed.

It's hot, it's humid, it's Kansas City. I note, however, that it's a little early in the summer to be flirting with 100 degrees and this kind of humidity. 

I am preparing to move (again...) but it's a ways off and it's possibly just a little too early to start packing things up right now, but I have been giving some thought to those things that I haven't touched since I last moved, and the things that are still basically packed up. The latter will take care of itself. I just move the same boxes again.  Good to go. 

Why am I moving (again...)? The noise from the air conditioning compressors, all seven of them, that sit on the roof right above me, making humming, droning, throbbing noises that get inside my head and make me crazy. I've been here seven months.  That's not a bad run. I accept the fact that this is all part bad luck and part quirkiness on my part. I am "sensitive" to this kind of noise, I guess. I also accept that if this is true, it's part ageing, and part more quirkiness on my part. 

At any rate, I found a very nice place to lease.  It sits right in the middle of what I have always considered the nicest part of Kansas City, and one of the most interesting.  I have the entire top floor (it is an up/down duplex--the other tenant has the ground floor) and I have a garage, finally, and I can actually fit my car into it.  This will the first time that has happened since about the year 1999. So, bonus. 

About the picture, below: This was a little grocery store of a type that filled a niche in the 50s and 60s, back before gas stations had grocery stores (or grocery stores had gas stations.) This was the Milk Jug. When I first moved to Independence in the late 60s, it was here, and although it's closed now, the building and the sign still remain. This is how Independence works. 

I still remember buying cases of PBR for $4 here. 

Nothing ever changes in Independence.

The Fly on the Window

So I was watching television and I paused it in order to get a drink of water when I heard this tiny, little, high pitched sound coming from the window. I walked over to it and saw my little visitor here, and now that I was closer, I could see the horrified look on his face as he clung to the outside of the slick, glossy surface of the glass some 50 feet above the street below.

He repeated his almost inaudible cry. "help me." 

"It's okay," I said. "You're a fly. All you have to do is let go."

"Oh." he said. "OK. Thanks." He dropped off the window. I looked down, but in a split second he disappeared, lost in the busy background of the street below. In my thoughts I wished him well, and I went to the kitchen, thinking that he was having a much more interesting day than I was.

But Tuesday's Just as Bad

Playing Stormy Monday on an instrument
intended for Puff, the Magic Dragon.

This is the only known picture representing my brief but furtive professional musical career, which took place in its entirety in a single evening at the Black Dog Coffeehouse somewhere in the bowels of Kansas, during which I played the goofy 12-string guitar you see pictured here. (That's me on the right.) It must be noted that I made no mistakes, and also that no money was involved, except at the end of the set when I got a cup of coffee and they charged me for it.

I paid for the coffee, but I did not put a tip in the jar.

For this gig, we called ourselves the Square Waves.  That was mine.

My son was there--that was the whole point, a father-son band, as you can see with the front man there and his son, the bass player--but my son was not in the picture. Well, not exactly. He is being eclipsed in this shot by the front man, Detroy. Hence the term front man, I guess.

We played for about 45 minutes--all covers, of course--and I did not sing. The most challenging piece was our rendition of Stormy Monday, I thought. Detroy gave me the chords, and I listened to the Allman Brothers Band track about 20 times, and made my own part on the 12 string. It was all a lot of fun.

 Did we suck?  Oh yeah. Not as bad as the free-form jazz combo with the Pakistani drummer and bass player, but that's another story. Or, actually, no--I'm never going to talk about that.