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January 28, 2005
On the Bus Part Three
I would like to resist the urge to make this blog all about riding the bus. It is a compelling idea, doubtless inspirational to many other content-starved blogs. But today, I am too weak to resist the siren call of bus tales. Once again, it involves a damsel who resisted eye contact, the most innocuous form of pre-flirtation. At the bus stop the fairest damsel of the bus stop adjusted the settings of her portable cd player, studiously resisting eye-contact, the most subtle and perhaps intriguing form of flirtation. Eye contact implies mutual recognition, the basis of all interpersonal relationships.
Fridays may be the slowest day of the week on the 50 LTD. Everyone boarding was able to secure a free seat. It took me a while to find where the damsel had alit. There were still some open benches in the middle of the bus; it turns out she had grabbed one of the free seats across the aisle from the driver, normally a perch that offers superior protection from the schizophrenes. However, the cart-dragging schizophrene on this morning's 50 LTD sat right next to her.
This must have caused at least some consternation, but such are the perils and probabilities of taking the bus. However, a more sinister fate awaited her. As I watched her from my redoubt at the bench immediately behind the rear door, she exclaimed "GET YOUR HAND OFF ME!" Once again, a seemingly dominant strategy revealed its weakness. The man got off the bus at the next stop, perhaps both chagrined and excited by his provocation.
Follow up: I exited the 50 LTD and proceeded to Harvard Market to get some cough drops. On the way over to the classroom, I crossed paths once more with the damsel. And lo, there was the fast eye!
Posted by Underblog at 11:26 AM | Comments (1)
On the Bus Part Two
Wednesday's are long days. They begin with class at 10:00 and end when my boss gets back from his weekly meeting. This past Wednesday, I stayed even later to finish life stuff that I started earlier in the day. Although I did not enjoy staying so late, it felt good to complete something. By the time I boarded the 50 LTD for the ride to Snelling, it was already getting dark.
Not that the man at the front of the bus would have noticed. I had seen him several times before, in the cafeteria, being led around by various young workers. I had seen him in the basement hallways, using his cane to guide his way.
As it happened, he was getting off at Snelling too. I heard him tell the driver that he needed to get to the Spruce Tree Building. The driver responded that he had just passed it and the man would have to cross Snelling to get there. I offered to guide him, since I was heading in that direction anyway. It was cold out, and a dirty mound of ice made stepping out of the bus a challenge for everyone. But because he could not see his way, he had to step way down to street level, and then step way up to the berm formed by repeated snow plowings. Once we had both descended (much to the relief I'm sure of the driver and the other passengers), he took my arm and we proceeded to walk slowly into the wind in the direction of Snelling Avenue.
We chitchatted about the bus service and how hard it was to get off the bus. He explained that he was supposed to be at this meeting at 5:30 or quarter to six. It was already nearly 6:00pm. I saw for the both of us, which meant that I was busy making eye contact with other pedestrians, so that they could get out of the way. Walking on icy sidewalks is hard enough when one has a chance to see the hazards. Because I was so engaged, I did not have the opportunity to look at my companion until we arrived at the corner of Snelling and University. He wore a bright orange watch cap, which he had pulled down as far it would go, covering his sightless eyes entirely. I thought to myself "Why the Hell not?" We crossed Snelling, the crossing signal providing inadequate time for us to make it across. Drivers making left turns onto Snelling drove around us as if we were obstacles to their quick and warm drive home.
We navigated the icy step up onto the sidewalk, and around the snow-covered planter in front. I got him to the front door of the building and sent him on his way. And still I wonder what would drag him out into the icy wind for a meeting at the Spruce Tree Building on a Wednesday evening.
Posted by Underblog at 7:22 AM | Comments (0)
January 26, 2005
I Too Have NothingNothingNothing
I have been falling behind on my blogging. It is interesting (to me, anyhow) that no sooner do I make a space for it at mayoreric.com, I seem to lose interest in it. It may well be that I have been busy with things, e.g. getting MT installed on my server space and developing my new webspace. As usual, school is interfering with my plans; statistics keeps me on campus four mornings per week, and I typically put in some hours afterward.
Now that I have ultimate control over the files that I upload and can find paths to them, I am tempted to integrate the blog into the rest of the webspace. There are good reasons to, and good reasons not to, I suppose. I recognize that blogs are public reading, and that that is their raison d'être. Therefore, the more traffic the blog sends the way of the site the better. But I think I might be serving more than one public. Putting the site under one roof is a great start to figuring out what I am really about. At least digitally.
I am not sure what the significance is of the fact that the people that know me as a person rather than as their great hope for the future are most supportive of my next Lunatic Business Venture. I am sick to death of being a lousy grad student, and equally sick of providing no reason why I might be considered otherwise.
I am mindful of the story of a neighbor's nephew, a freshman at the U. He was snowboarding in Colorado recently, and had a terrible fall, breaking three vertebrae. Everyone is hopeful that he will walk again, and the preliminary signs are better than they were a week ago. That being said, within days of being told that he would miss his classes due to being traction and on a respirator etc, the U. called his mom and told her to pack up his stuff subito. The U. might have had some good reasons for doing so, like they were worried about its potential liability for the theft of his possessions or that they really needed the space. I would have hoped that they would have respected the busy schedule of a mother whose son (a customer of the U.) is on life support. In contrast, the ski resort where he fell sent a representative out to personally deliver his snowboard and personal effects that had been found on and near him. They told the mother that they knew he had not hit a tree after all, because they did not find any bark on him. The things one learns from the Ski Patrol.
The point of all this is that I should not expect the U. to allow me to exit gracefully. I think my departure will be more of the sort "Give us the keys and the laptop NOW. You will be escorted out of the building." And this is why I keep attending classes and registering for non-existent classes (thank God for pre-thesis credits!).
Shermanilla has been writing about the various places she would consider living, should the opportunity ever arise to get the heck out, at least for a while. Recently, we have been looking at Merced, California, of all places. Merced is a Central Valley town ala Fresno or Modesto that lies at the approach to Yosemite. It is also where a brand spanking new UC is going to open. Perhaps she and I are both something of real estate speculators. Every family has at least one, I suppose, and hers more than their share.
One of the nice things about a personal webspace, untethered to the U., is that the people who may want to follow up on me will be able to do so. One preserved friendship will be worth the expense and the effort.
Posted by Underblog at 4:32 AM | Comments (0)
January 10, 2005
Undercover
We set off for Cabela's to pursue a huge sale on Gore-Tex. That material is de rigeur for canoe camping in the Boundary Waters, since it appears true that it is always raining there. When it is not snowing that is. We used to receive the Cabela's catalog when we lived in Dunsmuir, and I remember wondering why they sent it to me, since I had never gone hunting in my entire life.
The good folks at the Pioneer Press had published an Outdoor Holiday Buying Guide, wherein various outdoorsy folks typed up the gifts they would like to give and receive. This was included in one of the free newspapers we get every so often in a losing attempt to win back our business. One of the people in the guide mentioned the Gore-Tex from Cabela's, at a price that was less than half what REI or LLBean has it for. After debating the pros and cons of driving 60 miles to Owatonna versus ordering through the internet, we took off for Cabela's fairly early, if not too bright.
Along the way, we passed a mega strip mall which hosted a Gander Mountain. Gander Mountain is another hunting and fishing catalog like Cabela's, but without the caché. Once we exited I-35 and took a look inside Gander Mountain, it was easy to see that they lacked caché. They had a lot of camo furniture on display, and the prices were not that great. Not a stitch of out of season stuff was stocked. Much of the floorspace was occupied with what can be best described as "dreck": clocks and ceramic figures of labs and golden retrievers, acrylic throws, and ice-fishing setups displayed in plastic boats. There were people there, for sure, but it was not bustling inside.
Cabela's on the other hand, was something of a madhouse: in the parking lot, SUV's and pickup trucks competed to take up more space. A "Viet Nam Veterans Against Kerry" bumper sticker was displayed on the truck we parked next to. People funneled toward the entrance, which was marked by an enormous canopy. Assembled tree-stands stood out in the snow alongside mock trees, though each carried a sign telling would-be shoppers not to climb on them.
Inside the store, which was mobbed with people, a ring of deer trophies perhaps 30 feet across greeted us. Elk trophies were mounted on the wall above, drawing our eyes back to the 30 foot high mountain diorama at the back of the store. I could hardly keep up with Roomie once she was drawn into the mountain's orbit. There were stuffed bears (brown, black, grizzly and polar), lynx, bobcats, javelinas, red fox, grey fox, arctic fox, bull-moose battling, wolves gnashing at buffalo and chasing deer off a cliff, and the most elusive prey of all—grey squirrels. As we circled the mountain, I was both horrfied by the waste of life and the thought of the needless suffering of these poor creatures while at the same time appreciative that this was the closest I would ever come to seeing any of these animals alive. Except for the squirrel.
I was intrigued by the display of camo baby clothes across the aisle from the mountain. An entire line of them were embroidered with "Daddy's Little Deer" across the bib. A generous interpretation is that camo is appropriate for both boys and girls, but the double-gendered phrase is possibly confusing. Daddy is out shooting deer, isn't he? "Look at Daddy's other deer, bleeding all over the back of the pickup, tongue hanging out, eye gazing at the sun."
Lest you think that a trip to Cabela's converted me to militant veganism, I should note that I left the store with not only an armful of Gore-Tex (two suits costing me less than one complete set from the competition), but a rabbit fur lined hat. I wore it, tags and all, right out of the store.
Posted by Underblog at 7:25 AM | Comments (3)
January 5, 2005
The Perfect Little House
In trying times, I am easily distracted by shopping. And, like many men, the bigger the item the better. Thus, real estate becomes a siren calling out to me. Friends are looking at real estate in Montana, giving Roomie and I the opportunity to vicariously experience the thrill of real estate shopping.
While we were shopping for our house in Takoma Park, we came very close to buying the Perfect Little House. It was in our price range, and the neighborhood was ho-hum. The house was a mock-Tudor built in 1949 and had been occupied by the original owners since then. From the entrance foyer, there was a small living room on the left and a small dining room with a built in corner-hutch on the right. At the back of the living room, a tidy screened in porch projected from the house. Behind the dining room, a smallish kitchen with breakfast nook had all its original cabinetry.
Upstairs, there were two bedrooms. The larger of the two had a small additional room with a window coming off of it. The capacious closets had lights and were lined with cedar. The woodwork throughout the house was immaculate. This couple must have made the kids remove their shoes in the house. Or maybe, like us, they didn't have kids.
Downstairs from the kitchen was the rumpus room. It was finished in black and red linoleum tile and had an electric fireplace. I don't think there was a bar there, but there could have been. The water pipes were orginal and copper. The previous owner paid for top quality stuff.
The garage was a stone one-car affair. Cute as a bug, but too small for our needs. Something would have had to remain outside, and it was not going to be the motorcycles. Because the garage was smaller, the yard was decently-sized. Furthermore, it was fenced and well-maintained to boot. The dogs would have loved it.
Alas, the house was one room too small for our needs. But it was a real one-owner cream puff, the single-family residential equivalent of the car that the little old lady drove only on Sundays, when she had it waxed. We went for a larger house with a larger garage and a smaller yard. Compared to the PLH, the place we ended up with was a dump when we took possession. Once the floors were done and the interior was painted, it was nice in its own way. But it was restored, rather than conserved, the latter making even the wallpaper at the PLH tolerable. The thought we could live in such a place filled us with the idea that we could be a couple worthy and deserving of stewarding such a home. I think we are over it now.
Posted by Underblog at 7:44 AM | Comments (1)