I've left coins in different places.
At the time, in Europe, the mid to mid-late-mid 80's, it seemed like the thing to do - I could hide them on a USO bus tour one weekend and miraculously 'find' them a year later. We're talking mostly Pisa and Rome. And a few castles in Germany.
Probably zero interest so far. There is a coin in a hole in The Leaning Tower in Pisa, and one in the Colosseum in Rome. I shoulda hid coins in the Pentagon and The Empire State Building, but, no.
Nyet.
It ISN'T that easy.
Get a notepad. Yes, I'll wait. (Whistling and sighing ensue.) Ready? No?! Dag-nabbit? (I'm dyin' here.) A good pen. Check in the thing by the sink, there's always one there.
The Pisa Coin.
This one ISN'T easy to find. Due diligence, all that shit. Get to Pisa. Buy the ticket to climb the stairs. There aren't that many, it's a fixed distance roughly 'round and up.' Go to the sixth level of The Leaning Tower, one step at a time. Count them, for all I care. I hope they haven't closed off the 'outdoor rings.' They may have. ('They?') Again, with the 'they.'
On the extreme north side of the Tower, look to a hole in the wall about six feet up, a really round hole, maybe three inches deep or so. The marble is really white there, so the hole is obvious as 'fruitcake.'
Reach on there with a fingertip, probe, and there I'll be. Is it the 500 lira coin or the 1965 US quarter?
Maybe you'll tell me. Shit, I can't remember.
The Roma coin.
This one may be inaccessible now. Same as before, get to Italy, but this time be in Rome. It happens with planning, people - SO - buy the tickets for the Colosseum, and deviate from the norm. You'll be in a group of tourists, wondering about their sniffles, when... When the procession heads off the first level to go down, veer left. Really left. No, lefter thanthat - the outside ring. At the last 'safe' vestibule there's an old piece of marble column laying on the 'ground.' Go to the south/southeast side of it and squat down. There's a raised lip on one side. From your knees, line up the raised lip to the hole in the wall. It might take some creative sways, so chill. It's pretty obvious, once you think about it.
PS... there's a coin in there.
Tell me all about it.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sometimes I DIDN'T Watch TV
""Sometimes, people forget..." The Who says it bestly...
Oh, there were times. I remember them, because I was actually DOING things. Probably, push-ups. So, there were memories of things other than laughter sound-tracks, unpaid characters vying for a tax-laden Mil-spot by debasing themselves, Honda CRXs, bad beef jerky, Manhattanites with big apartments and bad banter...
Kinda glad I missed that all, actually. The Early 90's SUCKED, as it were. Television wouldn't have helped. (Except for 'Star Trek: The Next Generation.' Because of Whorf. It's a long story involving salvation, combat and glory, so...)
Being outside the USA during the late 80's, now - hindsight 20-20 and all that - seems like some sort of enforced bliss. I was permanently employed in the US Army as some sort of mercenary, but, without digressing, I was okay with that. Plus, the foreign experience thing. Have you ever eaten a pig's foot in jelly? Bought good mustard in a convenient squeeze-tube? Bread-lets by the kilogram?
Yeah. Precisely my point.
From what I read in The Stars and Stripes, the homeland then was becoming a mess. Bush I wasn't that good for the world after that CIA fuck-up in Kuwait. Was anybody paying attention in 1989 or 1990? I ask because I didn't see it in the neon and hand-print t-shirts. Lots of bad beer. No evidence hidden in the newly-mown grassy knolls? No ankle tattoos? And what's with these new 'latte' things? WHAT THE FUCK?!
"'Have you even been to deep Mexico?' comes to mind." Norteno mariachi... with the tubas? Hmm? Spit it out!
Maybe This Is a Test. El pero esta blanco? Quick - what is 'pi' to seven digits?
Wow, I DO digress. It really is all I do. It's practically a career. Digressing. I'm a digressor. I'll readily admit it. That's why I have a sword by the door, because this ONE time...
...so that mailman isn't on this route anymore.
Phew. Is it hot in here?
"If I could make a wish, I think I'd pass..." The Hollies rule.
SO, I didn't watch TV for a long while. Minus a bunch of movies on VHS or early, 12 inch videodiscs, I basically missed the 1984-1999 television time period. (You KNOW the movies - "Repo Man" "Dune," "Terminator" and "Empire Strikes Back." so shut up about that.) (GAH!)
Perhaps, you can imagine my imagined horror. No "Urkel." No "Alf." No Olsen twins. It was almost magic. I didn't know who Jon-Benet was because I was in Korea. A pageant girl murdered? (Is this a quiz?) I say the brother DID it. His voice was in the 911 background, but he was supposed to be of fat college. What possible outcome would make parents clam up? BEEP! Alex, 'What is a guilty sibling?"
"Correct."
"I'll take Onion Recipes for $1200."
"This double-named city in WA State is famous for sweet yellow onions."
(Hey! It's not Kent, Auburn or Federal Way. No answer EVER will include them unless the answer is "This shithole has horrific crimes and doesn't do JACK SHIT about it, because everyone who lives there is a an actual piece of shit. We checked.)
It's Saturday night. I'm not watching "Saturday Night Live" and that's something. I can recall staying up late enough in 1977 to watch the new episodes, but I was more of an SCTV fan, truth be told.
Maybe it's okay to go without television. Maybe you can survive... I did, for almost a decade, until those damned "X-Files" debuted. I DO Believe.
(The evidence is out there, unless you're too busy, or watching TV.)
But if you watch Fox News and believe it, I'm gonna be the boogey-man that comes and gets you.
TV makes monsters. I just emulate them.
SO delicious.
Except "Roswell."
Oh, there were times. I remember them, because I was actually DOING things. Probably, push-ups. So, there were memories of things other than laughter sound-tracks, unpaid characters vying for a tax-laden Mil-spot by debasing themselves, Honda CRXs, bad beef jerky, Manhattanites with big apartments and bad banter...
Kinda glad I missed that all, actually. The Early 90's SUCKED, as it were. Television wouldn't have helped. (Except for 'Star Trek: The Next Generation.' Because of Whorf. It's a long story involving salvation, combat and glory, so...)
Being outside the USA during the late 80's, now - hindsight 20-20 and all that - seems like some sort of enforced bliss. I was permanently employed in the US Army as some sort of mercenary, but, without digressing, I was okay with that. Plus, the foreign experience thing. Have you ever eaten a pig's foot in jelly? Bought good mustard in a convenient squeeze-tube? Bread-lets by the kilogram?
Yeah. Precisely my point.
From what I read in The Stars and Stripes, the homeland then was becoming a mess. Bush I wasn't that good for the world after that CIA fuck-up in Kuwait. Was anybody paying attention in 1989 or 1990? I ask because I didn't see it in the neon and hand-print t-shirts. Lots of bad beer. No evidence hidden in the newly-mown grassy knolls? No ankle tattoos? And what's with these new 'latte' things? WHAT THE FUCK?!
"'Have you even been to deep Mexico?' comes to mind." Norteno mariachi... with the tubas? Hmm? Spit it out!
Maybe This Is a Test. El pero esta blanco? Quick - what is 'pi' to seven digits?
Wow, I DO digress. It really is all I do. It's practically a career. Digressing. I'm a digressor. I'll readily admit it. That's why I have a sword by the door, because this ONE time...
...so that mailman isn't on this route anymore.
Phew. Is it hot in here?
"If I could make a wish, I think I'd pass..." The Hollies rule.
SO, I didn't watch TV for a long while. Minus a bunch of movies on VHS or early, 12 inch videodiscs, I basically missed the 1984-1999 television time period. (You KNOW the movies - "Repo Man" "Dune," "Terminator" and "Empire Strikes Back." so shut up about that.) (GAH!)
Perhaps, you can imagine my imagined horror. No "Urkel." No "Alf." No Olsen twins. It was almost magic. I didn't know who Jon-Benet was because I was in Korea. A pageant girl murdered? (Is this a quiz?) I say the brother DID it. His voice was in the 911 background, but he was supposed to be of fat college. What possible outcome would make parents clam up? BEEP! Alex, 'What is a guilty sibling?"
"Correct."
"I'll take Onion Recipes for $1200."
"This double-named city in WA State is famous for sweet yellow onions."
(Hey! It's not Kent, Auburn or Federal Way. No answer EVER will include them unless the answer is "This shithole has horrific crimes and doesn't do JACK SHIT about it, because everyone who lives there is a an actual piece of shit. We checked.)
It's Saturday night. I'm not watching "Saturday Night Live" and that's something. I can recall staying up late enough in 1977 to watch the new episodes, but I was more of an SCTV fan, truth be told.
Maybe it's okay to go without television. Maybe you can survive... I did, for almost a decade, until those damned "X-Files" debuted. I DO Believe.
(The evidence is out there, unless you're too busy, or watching TV.)
But if you watch Fox News and believe it, I'm gonna be the boogey-man that comes and gets you.
TV makes monsters. I just emulate them.
SO delicious.
Except "Roswell."
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Dreams of Blue Tape
The One Thing You Can't Control.
Paint only goes where you put it. (I'm going with the synopsis first.)
I'm done with blue tape, except for extra-ordinary circumstances. (Taping down visqueen to a floor, the not-at-all inevitable Rapture (?), and painting stripes come to mind. Meh, don't do much of those.)
But, otherwise, no more.
Because, at a certain point, it's easier to paint that line - while you're there - than it is to mask it as perfectly as possible, and then paint over it later. And, then, pull the tape and throw it away.
(Away? Is that a place or a concept? We - both - know that answer.)
(Later? There IS no 'later' according to the quantum physicists, so "Get 'er done." Jeez. Science CAN be a bitch. And so can 'cutting-in paint.')
I used to be a procrastinator. A blue-taper. Found ways to avoid 'doing things.' Some would dare to say I was, hmmm, a bit 'lazy.' I was in my 20's, and I found I still needed long-missed sleep... but being that I was in my 20's, some of my proclivities may have precluded a lack of slumber opportunities. I was partying as much as I could. (Like BEFORE it was 1999.) After the Army, back in The World, I craved American culture again, felt I'd deserved an extended fete, and.. and, after that saturation, I needed sleep. I was spent.
Sleep. Glorious, seductive sleep. My nocturnal angels wait to whisper tales in my ears. The pillow beckons, crisp and cool. I fall away, soon to be the imaginary hero I REALLY am once again... floating like a feather, measuring time a different way, allowing threads I've submerged to weave back into the fold... WAYYY better than a hot-tub...
I didn't get THAT kind of sleep in my 20's. Maybe I hadn't learned to need sleep, like a normal human, I suspected. (Because I'm so awesome, of course.) But I still stayed up, way way late, convinced I'd miss something unless I did. I abused nicotine, alcohol, carbs, chocolate, U2, ANYTHING that'd keep me conscious - and thinking - so I couldn't miss anything. I was content to let it all sort itself out later. ("Later" - There it is, again. Doesn't HE know? Time, 'ticking away the moments that make up a dull day.' {You're digressing.} )
Therefore, typing about 'sleep' leads to typing about 'dreams.'
And you can't control your dreams. You can submerge active memories, color things a different tone, and suppress all you want while you're awake, but dreams don't follow the rules of 'consciousness.'
You can be ready for a night of peaceful bliss, and end up with a nightmare. Is it bad karma? Repressed bullshit? What the F? You can define how you go to sleep, but not how, and/or of what, you dream. The dream-state does it's own thing. You can only control so much. (What an awful lesson that was to learn. I blame 'Star Wars.')
Dreams can paint you into a corner. Recurring dreams, so much more so. And where was all your mental preparation there? Hmm? HMMM-MM? They creep under the barriers you've so carefully masked off, past all the 'construct' and effort. Defying you. Flipping the bird at you.
This has NOTHING to do with blue tape. It's about paint.
Exactly. Blue tape is a symbol, of something that at one time seemed useful, and may have been the best thing going, but now, now... not so much. I've LEARNED how to be better than blue tape.
We'll talk about that 'later...'
In our dreams.
Paint only goes where you put it. (I'm going with the synopsis first.)
I'm done with blue tape, except for extra-ordinary circumstances. (Taping down visqueen to a floor, the not-at-all inevitable Rapture (?), and painting stripes come to mind. Meh, don't do much of those.)
But, otherwise, no more.
Because, at a certain point, it's easier to paint that line - while you're there - than it is to mask it as perfectly as possible, and then paint over it later. And, then, pull the tape and throw it away.
(Away? Is that a place or a concept? We - both - know that answer.)
(Later? There IS no 'later' according to the quantum physicists, so "Get 'er done." Jeez. Science CAN be a bitch. And so can 'cutting-in paint.')
I used to be a procrastinator. A blue-taper. Found ways to avoid 'doing things.' Some would dare to say I was, hmmm, a bit 'lazy.' I was in my 20's, and I found I still needed long-missed sleep... but being that I was in my 20's, some of my proclivities may have precluded a lack of slumber opportunities. I was partying as much as I could. (Like BEFORE it was 1999.) After the Army, back in The World, I craved American culture again, felt I'd deserved an extended fete, and.. and, after that saturation, I needed sleep. I was spent.
Sleep. Glorious, seductive sleep. My nocturnal angels wait to whisper tales in my ears. The pillow beckons, crisp and cool. I fall away, soon to be the imaginary hero I REALLY am once again... floating like a feather, measuring time a different way, allowing threads I've submerged to weave back into the fold... WAYYY better than a hot-tub...
I didn't get THAT kind of sleep in my 20's. Maybe I hadn't learned to need sleep, like a normal human, I suspected. (Because I'm so awesome, of course.) But I still stayed up, way way late, convinced I'd miss something unless I did. I abused nicotine, alcohol, carbs, chocolate, U2, ANYTHING that'd keep me conscious - and thinking - so I couldn't miss anything. I was content to let it all sort itself out later. ("Later" - There it is, again. Doesn't HE know? Time, 'ticking away the moments that make up a dull day.' {You're digressing.} )
Therefore, typing about 'sleep' leads to typing about 'dreams.'
And you can't control your dreams. You can submerge active memories, color things a different tone, and suppress all you want while you're awake, but dreams don't follow the rules of 'consciousness.'
You can be ready for a night of peaceful bliss, and end up with a nightmare. Is it bad karma? Repressed bullshit? What the F? You can define how you go to sleep, but not how, and/or of what, you dream. The dream-state does it's own thing. You can only control so much. (What an awful lesson that was to learn. I blame 'Star Wars.')
Dreams can paint you into a corner. Recurring dreams, so much more so. And where was all your mental preparation there? Hmm? HMMM-MM? They creep under the barriers you've so carefully masked off, past all the 'construct' and effort. Defying you. Flipping the bird at you.
This has NOTHING to do with blue tape. It's about paint.
Exactly. Blue tape is a symbol, of something that at one time seemed useful, and may have been the best thing going, but now, now... not so much. I've LEARNED how to be better than blue tape.
We'll talk about that 'later...'
In our dreams.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Lovingly Past Midnight
Now. Here. The adverb, as we know it, is on life support. Book your flight.
I knew it long ago. (It stopped sending postcards from Cebu, Ko Samui, wherever it went for relaxation from being THE adverb... It works quietly behind the scenes of English, as we know, unsung, like a 'personal massager.')
Sigh.
Now, myriad technological-wonders are attached, beeping, pinging smartly, giving us up-to-the-second updates on its condition. Arteries hold drip-lines, veins have been tapped for samples - endlessly - it seems, unmentionables have been vigorously palpated, the proverbial gown is on. ('Can you see my ass crack in this?')
Someone in the scrubbed-bleachy hall, probably an overly cynical nurse, murmurs "It doesn't look good. Serious."
Dag nabbit.
Today I heard the call of a bald eagle, and I knew that little, paltry chitter-up from occasional sightings, and I looked up from my exterior trim-painting. The sky was deep blue, but thick clouds off the to the left obscured the Olympics. The city was mostly in cloud-shade, but yellowish sun beat down on the cargo ships anchored in Elliott Bay, Queen Anne and Magnolia, and occasionally flicked off the waves, wind-beaten as they were...
There wasn't just one, but THREE bald eagles cruising on the updraft coming up the beach from Alki. They were - perhaps - 150 feet from me, curling in the top of the flow, riding for free on the results of the westerly wind and the forest terrain. A ferry cut through ultra-blue water peaked with slashed white-caps, nestled into the same, odd breezes.
(And I didn't spill any paint.)
The adverb used to be so lively, so wonderfully vibrant. You should've seen it in spring, in light colors, flitting though the flowers, sniffing at the bees. I almost thought it had a special friend, that smile so fetching...
Turns out, people like language more efficient. Devolution, some would call it. I call it neglect.
Adverb wants food from that deli across the street from the hospital. (They don't have 'American' cheese there, Thank a Deity...) They've got a good, oily pastrami, so...
I scanned the chart hanging on the outside of the door frame, and even though I didn't know wht the heck it said, I know it wasn't good. The graph is going down. It's not like 'shit' rarely happens. (It makes a career of happening, until it's outsourced to several non-descript factories in Guangzhou.) In the middle of the page, there was a line that read, in poorly-mastered cursive, 'Abused, underused, neglected.'
I wanted to weep, unconsolably, but I thought better of it. What would the Adverb think? That I was a puss. We had some great times, notably before the Bush Administrations, throwing out the 'ly' like it w'a'nt no thang. (It was like dancing.) Usually I indulged it, made it feel welcome, offered some quickly reheated left-overs, maybe a Snapple if it was thirsty. A good beer if I had any left.
But I never had the couch ready. I could've been more accommodating. Those little soaps in the shower kept disappearing, and I wrongly thought it was Adverb. Maybe it was just me.
No more letters, no more cards. Not even e-mails. If it wasn't for the silly bracelet, they wouldn't have known to call me. (They?)
I got a voicemail from Vegas, maybe it was Adverb. Sounded soundly drunk, said it's been at the tables for awhile, then walked The Strip. It was all slurred, basically a confession of doom.
Then all this.
So I know Adverb is on it's last legs. I'm gonna hold it's hand. Lovingly, after midnight.
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