Oot and aboot

WordPress altered my ability to post video, but here is a link to see last nights finale. Open it in another tab and listen while you read. Then watch it again.

After Emma’s Surgery, Dr. Lavu gave her a timeline of how her recovery would go, week by week. He said she would probably be out and about by the sixth week. With his Indian accent it sounded more like “Oot and aboot,” and Emma’s favorite television show (Southpark) often made fun of Canadians by having their lines sprinkled with “Eh”s and oddly pronounced words. Emma locked onto the phrase, and about six weeks out we walked down to the convenience store at the end of the block. It was snowing, but she wanted ice cream and Tasty Cakes cherry pies. She looked up at me from the freezer with wide eyes and said “Blake, I’m oot and aboot!” with the most beautiful smile. We walked home laughing.

Janice and I went out last night, a number of friends have a very special band, “In The Pocket.” The venue was the Ardmore Music Hall, a small (600 people capacity) club, previously known as 23 East or Brownie’s. This is our first close contact outing since quarantine, and we took every precaution (double masks, one N95 and the other cloth with filter insert, fully vaccinated).

What pleasantly surprised us were the precautions the venue had in place. All staff wore masks at all times, and everyone had to show proof of vaccination. Mine threw the guy a bit, I have three entries. He had never seen someone who had received the booster before, and looked a bit confused. I just said “Booster” and everything clicked. To be fair, boosters had only been released the day before. The mask policy was “at all times,” which meant you moved it to drink and then put it back. Between sips. People who did not replace theirs masks immediately received a refresher on policies by one of the staff. It took a while for everyone to figure out how to do it, what worked best for me was to grab the chin and pull down. A quick smoothing of the mustache so it didn’t get soggy, and then pull up from the top, which drags across the mustache so it rests in an upward position.

The facial hair causes a number of issues, the first being that it prevents a seal of the mask to the face, so air could move in that space. The styling gets messed up by the mask and because the beard makes the face larger, the straps sometimes fold my ears.

But anyway, the band was fabulous. Lead by David Uosikkinen, drummer for The Hooters, the lineup is flexible. Before he moved to Arizona, my friend Buddy Cash played with the band often. Last night’s lineup was Kenny Aaronson who played with everybody in the 70’s and 80’s starting with the band The Stories. Ben Arnold, Richard Bush of the A’s, Steve Butler from Smash Palace, Tommy Conwell of The Young Rumblers, Alexis Cunningham, Greg Davis of Beru Revue, Joey DiTullio, Charlie Ingui from Soul Survivors, Cliff Hillis, Wally Smith from Smash Palace, Kenn Kweder (who had an Ozzy moment at the bar, “I’m Kenn F%#&ing Kweder, dammit), ZouZou Mansour of Soraia, Greg Maragos from Smash Palace, Don Van Winkle, and Jay Davidson holding the horns together, “plus special guests.”

Eric Bazilian was one of those guests, I’m pretty sure Bob Beru was up there, and of course a number of faces I am not familiar with. Everyone performed as if they had been locked away in quarantine for a year and a half. You will notice in the clip above (if I can get this to work), someone was playing a “hooter” during “And We Danced.”

It was wonderful to see everyone again, the mood was relaxed. Maybe that is because of the Covid precautions. Everyone present had been responsible enough to get the vaccine. They were prepared to be masked all evening. It seems that the same people who deny vaccines and mask wearing are the same people who cause problems at events. Not always bar fights, but just irritation, their credit card is rejected and they hold up the line. Just a thought.

I’ve been spending less time worrying about the antivaxxers and such. Sixty percent of Americans have been vaccinated, the suicide cult is getting smaller by both conversions and losses. They’re not sociable, so Society won’t miss them.

The Cowboys vs The Eagles

I was born in Texas, lived in Dallas until I was eight, moved back in the eighties, moving to Pennsylvania in 1985. I am a Cowboys fan. In the sense I like it when they win. I know the “ball” is shaped like an egg and carried with the hands. but to avoid tension I still call it Football. I also call Futbol Football, the game where you kick a ball with your foot.



My indifference to sports in general should be obvious, for most sports I know at least the shape of the “ball” that is used.

After I found myself in Philadelphia, I was amazed to find that there is a “rivalry” between The Philadelphia Eagles and the Dallas Cowboys. Maybe it was due to my lack of interest, or maybe it was because only Philadelphians are aware of the rivalry. I asked family members, and one Uncle had heard of it, but for the most part, Dallas sees Philadelphia as just another team. The root of the rivalry is the basic Philadelphia crankiness. The Cowboys, once called “America’s Team,” had won too many times to the liking of Philadelphians, who had not even made it to the Superbowl until 2005, where they lost; they made it back in 2018 and won.

The degree of hatred for the Cowboys was made clear by a girlfriend’s son in law in the nineties. I was cooking, he was in the living room watching an Eagles game. I heard him yell out a cheer, and asked if the Eagles had scored. No, they had not, he was reading the news crawl at the bottom of the screen, and had seen that a Dallas player, in a different game, had received a season ending injury. When the Eagles scored, he was not as excited as when a player in a different game was injured. He was one of the kinder Eagles fans.

A few years later I married Emma, who was born in South Philly. She was more of a typical Eagles fan. As folks in the neighborhood got to know us, there was always jokes about how awful Eagles vs Cowboys games must be at our house. We laughed as well, because for us it was a day to combine my chili and Emma’s nachos. The combination was so popular we started getting orders, and game days became cooking days as we filled people’s thirteen by nine pans with the mix.

As the years have passed, I have come to appreciate good coaching. Is that any surprise? The Cowboy’s coach, Tom Landry, was an institution by himself. Perhaps he is an explanation for my fascination with hats. Most folks believe he never removed his signature fedora, even in the shower or bed. Landry was an inspiration for the Cowboys, which is why they were America’s team. One of my favorite quotes attributed to him is “Leadership is a matter of having people look at you and gain confidence, seeing how you react. If you’re in control, they’re in control.” This was crucial in my military career, being able to see threats and not panic.

Tom Landry with the Cowboys

These days we follow coaches as much as we follow teams, Andy Reid, a former Philadelphia coach who is now coaching Kansas City is a favorite. Doug Pederson, coach of the Eagles, is not. The Eagles led the division in the first half of the season with the benefit of having ended a game as a tie, reducing the number of losses. They led the division because they had lost the least amount of games. Now the end of the season they face the toughest teams, so they have no hopes of reaching the play offs. Pederson is stuck on his quarterback, the team is not, allowing the most sacks in the league.

Janice is a sports fan, having lived in Southern New Jersey a Philadelphia fan, in every sport. Thank God she doesn’t care to watch basketball, which to me is as fascinating as watching grass grow. It is a little unusual having the sports fan in the household be the female, but there is very little about us that fits a definition of “normal.” I got used to being called a weirdo sometime during 1967, those wonderful days when being a weirdo was a badge of honor.

How football in America will continue is still a question. Watching the Las Vegas Raiders in their brand new, state of the art, empty stadium, raises questions. All of those untouched concession stands are saddening. The upside of the quarantines are that now we get to see the cheerleaders, there is no crowd for close ups. I am not sure how financially stable football stadiums will remain. No sports, no concerts, no income. The game itself is riddled with injuries, teams decimated by Covid 19, rosters that change at the whim of a virus. The best hope at this point appears to be the XFL, which is planning a 2022 return rather than a dismal 2021 season.

This year, just playing makes you a winner, so whichever team is your favorite is a champion.

Enough tears to fill the oceans

My country is on fire. The riots which began in Minneapolis Minnesota have spread throughout the world. I was concerned when they reached Philadelphia, I have friends and loved ones within the now barricaded city. I just came back from the pharmacy and it too has closed in preparations for more. Less than a mile from my home.

I have spent the last few days providing intel for friends who want to join the protests, and guidance for the younger ones who think they have to be there. These kids really don’t know what they’re up against.

In Indianapolis, friends on the ground report seeing a MK19 firing teargas. The MK19 is a belt fed 40mm automatic weapon, used by the military. It has a three hundred seventy five rounds per minute cyclic rate, equating to a practical rate of sixty rounds per minute. It’s target range is seventy five to fifteen hundred meters. At fifteen hundred meters, the shooter can’t see his target.

 

The MK19

 

Other friends have seen pallets of bricks being dropped off in some cities. I have wondered since Ferguson where people found bricks to throw on a city street. Now I know.

I have tried to explain to people the motivations of the police, and though some thought I was justifying their response others made use of the information. Kids can be hard headed, I hope that protects them.

The police are there to protect the community. Peaceful demonstrations usually end peacefully, but when fires are started and property damaged they respond with force to dispel the crowd. While tear gas and rubber bullets are less than lethal responses, they do on occasion kill. Fired from fifteen hundred meters they are not aimed at an individual, but still may hit one. My advice to all has been know who is around you. Shun outsiders.

There are no available statistics, so I won’t say “all,” but many of the riots were started by outside agitators as we used to call them; the new name is “accelerators.” They are usually people with goals completely opposite of the demonstrators. They intend to distract attention from the object being protested, so they can claim the protestors were just violent looters, avoiding the issue of another murdered black man. Every person who says “Why are they burning their own neighborhoods?” does not understand that “they” did not start the fires. Once the situation turns into a riot common sense finds an exit, some people steal from the broken stores. Again, this is often outsiders, turning a riot into an opportunity to steal. You can pretty much be sure that none of the people carrying away television sets were part of the non-violent protest. Outside and out of race people have frequently been seen committing acts of vandalism in the name of Black Lives matter.

Thankfully, nearly everyone carries a phone and takes videos. The racist assholes who incite the riots are often assholes in day to day life, the ones that have been identified have usually been pointed out by ex-girlfriends. Such as this man, identified as an officer of the nearby St. Paul Police Department. The following video was filmed in Boston earlier today, I have no idea why the police would destroy their own car, but a number of crimes in Boston have been falsely blamed on “black men” who did not exist.

I don’t think there is a single person who saw (fmr.) Officer Derek Chauvin kneel on the neck of a handcuffed, bleeding, and gasping for air George Floyd for nearly nine minutes (the last two minutes of which he was already dead), doubts the officer’s guilt. Finding that in his nineteen year career he had received nineteen complaints of excessive force came as no surprise, nor the fact that his wife filed for divorce and fled as soon as he was in custody. I don’t think anyone would say there are no bad cops. My thoughts are the other three officers on the scene are guilty of dereliction of duty at the least, up to and including accomplice to murder. I just can’t say there are no good cops.

I used to work with them. None of them had been cloned, they were individuals with the same flaws as any human. It has been heartwarming to see police join the demonstrations. My local chief published a statement against brutality the day Mr. Floyd died. Countless chiefs across the nation have met and joined protestors.



I can’t think of an instance in which the chief joined the protestors, and a riot broke out. Ours did not.

As I am writing this, the news is live at interstate 76 at 20th street in Philadelphia. The edge of the barricade. Several hundred protestors broke off from the peaceful demonstration and blocked the interstate. It took less than five minutes for tear gas to start flying. Police have swarmed the area and are taking people into custody, no resistance. This is our third day of protests, the city is under curfew from six to six, just forty five minutes from now. The reporters are emphasizing that this is a splinter group. The incoming bridges are closed. It would be easy to characterize the city as “under siege.” Philly has a reputation for violent police responses, going back to Mayor Rizzo who was police commissioner in the sixties, and continuing when Mayor Goode dropped a bomb on a house in 1985. Today they’re looking good, everything is orderly and peaceful.

A station chief who had served in the former Soviet Union once advised me “When the shooting starts, the conversation is over.” This applies to everything, including the protests. Once violence begins, no one is thinking about anything other than survival.

Another saying from that time was “Think globally, act locally.” Change can be made at the local level, with time those changes can move to larger theatres. One man changing the world only happens a few times in a lifetime, focusing on local elections, local issues, is the way to make a difference.

For now, we just need to watch the rain and hope for a rainbow.

Dancing about Architecture

It has been a rough month. My typical approach to such times is to embrace the mantra “When the going gets tough, the tough go dancing,” but this has provided little comfort this time around, the wounds I have received are far deeper than any logic would predict or dance could remedy.

I have yet to prove to myself any purpose in continuing to exist, and such thoughts cause me to define existence. The definition, of course, returns me to the dance, the depression staining my interpretations cannot obliterate the beauty of the performance. I remember, and try to convince myself of what I once held as truth. One does not travel the paths I have without making connections in the matrices which serve as a foundation when life attempts to remove one’s soul.

One footing of that foundation is music, which has sounded sour to my ears these last few weeks, another is writing, which requires more thought than a mind filled with self doubt can provide. Another footing is human connections, and despite the betrayal these connections have faithfully provided, little sparks of hope occasionally illuminate a bridge. Knowing I must pull myself together, the universe conspired to bring me to a minuscule venue over a fabric store in Philadelphia, the irony of the side street sharing the name of the woman who has torn my heart to shreds is not lost on me.

A string of obscure introductions led me to meet Ritchie DeCarlo, a local musician who plays in a couple of bands. I’m going to call him a “drummer” rather than “percussionist,” although his kit contains some fascinating percussion instruments, because he also covers synthesized sounds which are only percussion in an examination at the quantum level, such as his use of a theremin.

 

Ritchie on theremin

 

Playing theremin always reminds me of someone conducting an orchestra. I had explained to my second wife (the Conductor) how a conductor was the only person allowed to dance at a performance; she was not amused. So I guess it is time to explain the title of this article to those unfamiliar with the phrase. It is from a quote by Frank Zappa, “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” In my world, “Dancing” is a metaphor for life. The matrix of meanings and metaphors choreographs a sequence which supports my soul, even when that soul is in tatters.

One of the lineups Ritchie is involved with, the “The Trio from Hell,” more commonly referred to by the names of the band members; Percy Jones, Scott McGill, and Ritchie DeCarlo, performed at TTR Studios last night to a crowd of about fifty. Ritchie introduced the band, categorizing the music as “Not so easy listening.” It is a fusion of styles, most noticeably Jazz, “New Age,” and Electronica. Here’s a taste from last night;

 

 

 

Funny the things you notice in a video, I would have never noticed that bald spot developing on the back of my head. Back to the dance.

I find the music very easy to listen to, soothing with just enough twists to keep me from lulling into a trance. The guitar work of McGill was fascinating, his use of fretless guitars and midis, combined with a left hand that floated over the neck delivering lightening strikes reminiscent of a gulf thunderstorm, must be seen to be believed.

 

Scott turns chaos into order

 

In an industry in which the term “legend” has been overused to the point of meaninglessness, Percy Jones demands a personal adjective. His playing not only has influenced my musical directions, it has influenced many of my other influences. He effortlessly propels his line from “rhythm section” to “lead instrument” and back, creating sounds many people might not associate with the bass. This type of thing warms my heart, having been ridiculed for some of my arrangements; living within the definition of “improvisation,” yet not improvised at all.

 

 

Percy Jones

 

Ritchie’s drumming glides between the styles fused in this band, again demonstrating the strengths required to play in a trio, the ability to effortlessly transition from lead to rhythm. In the case of a drummer, changing rhythm can be difficult, the mind (approach) is altered with time signatures and style. I recall trying to teach a drummer a particular passage which he envisioned as a waltz, or 3/4 time. It was not, it was a sequence of triplets in 4/4 time. The guitarist (whose ego dictated he believe “RMS” was a reference to his initials) scoffed at the explanation, but the drummer got it and never missed the beat in that piece again. Ritchie played a rather large kit this evening, but far from being gimmickry each piece fit the arrangement in which it was used, from his tympani tomtom through his eclectic collection of cymbals.

Most of Ritchie’s kit

 

Perhaps the most fortunate part of the evening was my friend bailing out at the last minute, leaving me with no one to share the experience. Because I do have someone, you.

Writers write, musicians play, and chefs cook. I’m ready to do all three today. I’m not back yet, I still need to make the “Lovers love” part work again, which rests with that woman named with a side street.

Music

Music is an integral part of my life. It serves as a refuge, and it affects me in a myriad of ways. My experiences creating music began at age eight with piano lessons, then saxophone, drums, flute, and bass. I can pretty much pick up anything and make music with it, I bought a trombone because I thought it would look nice on the wall and ended up learning to play it. My first wife wanted to play the harmonica. I bought her a nice one in C major and she struggled with it for a while. One day I came home from work and “Piano Man” by Billy Joel came on the radio, her harmonica was right there so I picked it up and played along. She never touched the harmonica again.

I may not be a great dancer, but music flows through me and my body moves with it, I found a report card from first grade and the teacher had commented  “Blake doesn’t walk, he dances.” I like to use that phrase now when I have trouble walking, “I didn’t stumble, I’m dancing don’t you know.”

The most wonderful thing about music is no one owns it, anymore than they can own the air around them. Sound is a vibration, a wave traveling through the air, you cannot stop it or cage it. Sure, people control the ability to make money propagating music, but anyone can sing to themselves,  and harmonize with others. One of my wives found it annoying that my fingers trace the patterns in music, caressing her body like an instrument without any thought. Others have found it quite pleasant.

Music can tie itself to a moment, bringing a memory whenever it is heard. “A Whiter Shade of Pale” was playing when Emma learned of her first husband’s death, twenty years later she was still disturbed every time it played, even though she loved the song it brought sadness.

There are people who believe they must be the only ones to enjoy a particular band, once the band becomes popular it isn’t “cool” anymore. Such people don’t comprehend music, and they don’t comprehend cool. There is no status attached to being the first to enjoy a song, and if the only enjoyment comes from some sense of superiority, it has nothing to do with the music. The waves travel through the universe, touching everyone in a unique way. Sharing is at the heart of music.

Music has no age, songs do not go stale. I listen to new music and songs from my childhood side by side. I saw a chart a few weeks ago comparing intelligence to the type of music a person prefers, suggesting some music makes you stupid. According to the chart, I was too intelligent to like any type of music. The truth is music only affects your intelligence if you’re making it, countless studies have shown that music education leads higher test scores in all subjects.

I’ve recently taken to following a group of musicians in South Eastern Pennsylvania. You’ve heard me refer to my “brother,” Buddy Cash, who plays with several different line ups, giving me the opportunity to hear an array of arrangements. One of my favorite venues is Gallucio’s, a small restaurant and bar in Wilmington Delaware. The crowd is eclectic, families and singles, young and old. This week a young fan lifted my heart.

Buddy had started the evening at Tom and Jerry’s in Millmont Park Pennsylvania, a weekly happy hour gig from 1700 to 2000. It’s a nice venue, Emma had worked there so I’ve been meaning to stop in some night. Following that was a special Halloween gig at Gallucio’s. Buddy thought I was following him to his place between shows, I thought he was going straight to Delaware, so I arrived before him, and he spent some time waiting for me back at home. George decided to get things going so he started an acoustic set, and Callan Brown, age two, who had been staring at me up to this point (okay, I was dressed like a pirate) was mesmerized by the music.

 

Buddy showed up, and joined George. Callan was enjoying every minute.

 

 

Callan reached his bedtime, but I stayed up well past mine as the band built up.

 

Music is like that, it wakes me up, it gives me life. The guy who is in bed every night at 2000 stays out until 0330 if there’s live music.

Music is not a line of work for those seeking wealth. The hours are long, the pay is minimal, the equipment is expensive. Yet there are thousands of musicians in every city. There is a currency in music far more valuable than any other, love. The love of music is felt by the musician as well as the audience. It feels good to make music, it feels good to make other people dance and sing.

The woman who didn’t like me to “play instruments on her” was a classically trained vocalist and horn player. She teaches High School music somewhere in New Jersey. She never really understood the joy in music, she approached it with a clinical precision. The woman who enjoyed my touch loved to dance, and though she had a horrible singing voice loved to belt out her favorites. She was the love of my life, carried with me in every song she loved. I can’t even remember what the other woman looked like.

Old friends

I woke up this morning thinking of an old friend. I think of him from time to time, wondering how he’s doing.

I met Smith on my fortieth Birthday (not his real name, but he preferred to be called by his last name, and to be identified as male even though biologically he was female). He (she at the time) was working as a piercer on South Street in Philadelphia, I was having my tragus pierced to celebrate my birthday and some recent life changes.  I noticed his belt buckle, a Texas star, and asked if he was from Texas. He said he was from Euless, a little town between Dallas and Ft. Worth. I had a cousin living in Euless, and friends in the area, and I told him we used to call it “Useless Texas,” to which he said “Why do you think I’m here?”

I saw Smith a couple of times on South Street, when Emma had her first piercing I made sure Smith was her piercer. The shop where Emma and I purchased our wedding rings (and other items through the years) published a monthly newsletter, and it was in the newsletter I first saw Smith dressed as a man, as a participant in a “Drag King” event. When we were ready for some more piercings we found that Smith had stopped working as a piercer and was cooking at a local restaurant.

A few years later I ran into Smith in my neighborhood, he had moved to an apartment a block away from me and was cooking in Fishtown, riding his bike the six miles to work every day. I saw him often, walking his dog “Sookie,” sometimes dressed a little flamboyantly, one particular outfit stands out in my mind, yellow corduroy pants, a green shirt with a purple corduroy suit coat, big black framed round glasses, and a green Hamburg hat. He had shaved his head (which he did from time to time) and you could see the tattoos which adorned his scalp peeking out from under the Hamburg. He didn’t quite fit into the neighborhood, but Emma always made him welcome at the restaurant where she was working at 9th and Jackson, and I know the baker she lived next door to, Joe, was always friendly when we walked by his window.

I saw him last when Emma was ill, he was very kind and displayed the one feminine quality I always loved about him, a concerned look with pursed lips, a soft voice as he said “I’m so sorry” and gave me a hug. With Emma’s treatments I lost track of life in the neighborhood and missed Smith’s departure when he moved closer to work. I found him about a year after Emma died through a mutual acquaintance, we emailed a few times but our lives had gone in different directions.

Yesterday a friend at work commented on my tragus piercing, I wear a diamond there now and it gets noticed once in a while, that’s probably what has me thinking about Smith. He lives not far from a venue Lieve and I have been to a few times, maybe I’ll see him at a concert sometime; we like the same kind of music. I think he enjoyed as much as I the fact we were such friends but led such different lifestyles. Two transplanted Texans trying to make sense of these silly Northerners.

Smith made the choice to present his gender in the same sense that you might choose to wear a tie one day and a sweatshirt the next. His gender perception never came across as an issue of sexuality, in fact I know nothing about his love life, it was simply the way he saw himself. He was the best of what you would want in a human being, a strong woman and a gentle man, more simply a good person.

 

Choosing a doctor

A few years back, while living in South Philadelphia, we decided to change primary physicians. The most surprising thisg we learned is that most people don’t give much thought to the choice.

When we first moved into the neighborhood, we just chose the closest doctor, a guy with a multiple partner practice within walking distance. He was very popular in the neighborhood, it didn’t take long to figure out why. Despite being near impossible to reach by phone to set up appointments, Doctor “A” had a thriving practice. He accepted every insurance plan, and once you were in the office, the wait in the waiting room was short. He used medical students as interns, so his time with the patient involved saying hello and writing prescriptions. He wrote a lot of prescriptions, all you had to do was ask and he would write one for anything.

We were more interested in a doctor that was interested in our health, so we started shopping. We interviewed a few, and most were shocked that we had standards we expected to be met. We expected an office staff sufficient to answer the phone when we called, or at least return a voice message within an hour. That knocked half a dozen practices off the list. We expected the staff to be polite and fluent in English. Scratch off anther three offices. We expected a clean office and waiting room. Another two down. We expected to see a doctor, a person who had graduated from medical school, for examination and diagnosis. The list of practices kept getting shorter.

Finally we got down to interviewing doctors. The shock on their faces when we answered the question “What seems to be the problem today?” with “We’re choosing a doctor, and want to get to know you” was cute at first, but by the time we got to the third candidate it was annoying. You could feel an attitude of “What right do you have to make a decision about my qualifications?”

We made a decision, Doctor “B” was right down the street, and we saw him a couple of times over the next year. The third visit I sat in the examination room waiting for him, and was able to hear every word on both sides of a conversation he was having on the speakerphone in his adjacent office. So much for confidentiality, and I was unimpressed with the way he discussed this other patient’s issues with the other doctor on the phone, making more comments about her personal life than her medical condition. Then he entered the examination room, my file in his hands. He sat down, thumbed through the pages, and said “So how is your diabetes?”

I don’t have diabetes.

I told him I didn’t have diabetes, my issue was multiple sclerosis, and he shook his head and looked closer at the file. Then he turned it right side up. Then he put on his glasses, saying “looks like I need to have my eyes checked again, haha.”

I slowly stood, maintaining eye contact with him and said “You’re fired. Your eyes didn’t get any worse while you were sitting here, so that thumbing through my file was just a show. If I wasn’t clear enough in the beginning when I told you I need a primary physician who would treat me as a person, perhaps you can remember this” and I walked out the door.

We tried our second choice, and kicked ourselves a few times for not making him our first choice.

Doctor “C” had a small storefront office on Broad street, a bit further to walk but there were a couple of different bus or subway choices available. One of his nurses would bring her dog to work, but the dog stayed in the filing room and everything was clean. Doctor “C” turned out to be one of the best doctors I’ve ever dealt with, and I had already dealt with quite a few. A few years later, when Emma developed cancer, doctor “C” went from being a good doctor to being a great doctor, I considered him a genuine friend. When she received the diagnosis, he sat with us, holding our hands, and said “Pray for God to guide your doctors,” he filled in when the specialists she was seeing made mistakes or overlooked details, and made our lives better during the very worst of times.

I realize that anyone with a passing average in medical school can become a doctor. Some doctors will be naturally better than others, some will be friendlier, and the doctor you find will be in your area. We were fortunate to find Dr. “C”, had we simply behaved like sheep and stayed with the first doctor we met our lives would have been worse.

My advice is to make the extra effort, find a doctor you trust, because when you need a superior physician, it is too late to start looking.

 

 

The big news

There was a shooting at a school in Philadelphia. As I write this first draft, it happened just two hours ago.

It is the only story being covered on the ABC outlet right now, I’ve had the TV on for about twenty minutes and have learned the following important facts;

(1) Two fifteen year old children are in the hospital with gunshot wounds.

(2) The firearm has not been recovered.

(3) Three “suspects” were involved, one is in custody, the others remain at large.

(4) Without a script, dead air is more informative than the news media.

Seven different reporters, five locations, interview with parents, a registered nurse, and the chief of police and the most surprising thing was how many stupid comments were made.

Let’s start with, “We don’t know if the gun went off intentionally or not”. Guns don’t have intentions. Guns don’t just “go off”. It is illegal for people under the age of twenty one to possess a handgun, and illegal for anyone to carry a gun inside a Philadelphia school. So what we know that someone intentionally committed the crime of possessing a handgun, and intentionally committed the crime of bringing that firearm to a school. Anything that happened at the school with that firearm happened intentionally.

From a parent, “What am I concerned about? I’m concerned if my kid was shot, if it’s not my kid, I’m not concerned”. Okay, maybe not stupid. Honest and insensitive most assuredly. Stupid was asking a parent what their concerns are outside a school where a shooting has taken place.

From Police Commissioner  Charles “The pointy end of the bullet goes in first, right?” Ramsey, “Kids aren’t supposed to have guns at school”. I’ve written about Commissioner Ramsey before. His last job was Chief of Police in Washington DC, so he doesn’t really understand much about gun laws. Kids aren’t supposed to have guns at all, Chuck.

From the reporter at the home of the suspect in custody, “We don’t know how he got from the school (at 5201 Old York Road)  to his home in the 2200 block of Bucknell”. My guess? He walked a block to the Logan subway station, took it to Snyder Ave, caught the 79 bus to 24th St, and walked a block home. The bigger question might be how a kid from South Philly came to be enrolled in a school in the Logan section, but the route is obvious to me, and I haven’t lived in Philly for three years (when I did, I lived off Snyder Avenue).

From the Registered Nurse, “Both children were wounded in the arm, and while hospital officials have said they are not life threatening injuries, they could still be life changing injuries”. I just got back from Philly, we were at a concert today, but I was tempted to drive back just so I could strangle this idiot on camera. Yes, it could be good, or it could be bad. Flipping a coin would tell me as much. Life changing? That depends on the victim, but assuming the child is moderately sensitive, yes, their life has been changed.

The important part of the story is that two children, in the gymnasium after school, suddenly found themselves in the hospital, which was fortunately only two blocks away, being treated for gunshot wounds. Secondary to that is whether the shooter and gun are in custody. After that I’d like to know what the weather will be tomorrow. Unless anything else important happened in the fifth largest city in the United States, you can tell me about that. But hours on end covering a one minute story? Seriously?

As the evening progressed we found that one of the “children”, an eighteen (not fifteen) year old  female student, had been wounded in the bicep and released from the hospital three hours after the incident. The other victim, her seventeen (not fifteen) year old boyfriend, had taken the bullet in his shoulder and as of Sunday (the shooting occurred at 1530 on Friday) was still hospitalized.

The shooter was identified as a seventeen year old student and was charged as an adult. He surrendered to Police with his attorney at 1300 Saturday.  His attorney said “I’m saying it’s not intentional and we’re not admitting any fault on his part, he’s a good solid kid and you’ll see he has no prior record. He stays out of trouble and he’s been cooperating with police. Thank you very much”. Because, you know, for a seventeen year old to not have a record just indicates how exemplary a student he is, don’t most people have a record by the time they’re seventeen? I can understand the unintentional part, the illegal handgun loaded itself and chambered a bullet before it crawled into his backpack and then jumped into his hand. Shocked by its sudden appearance, the young man just had enough time to say “what is this?” before the gun released its own safety and pulled it’s own trigger. </sarcasm>

The suspect who had been arrested in South Philadelphia was cleared, he had been misidentified (by the same school security officers who missed a gun entering the school) and had been in another part of the school at the time of the shooting.

The other students who had been sought had been cleared of any involvement.

And now, Monday evening, the plot thickens. Another person is being sought by police. The eighteen year old who sold the shooter the gun. So this “good solid kid” didn’t bring a gun to school, he was buying a gun. From an eighteen year old, at school in the gymnasium. The transaction was apparently caught on tape.

So instead of answers, I have questions. If two kids hadn’t been shot, would anyone have ever followed up on the sale of a handgun between teenagers on school grounds? Maybe the same security officers who identified a fifteen year old who had been in a different part of the building and missed the gun entering the school would put down their doughnuts and suddenly do their jobs?

There is still no information about the gun being recovered. Maybe it was, and the less than competent media has failed to report it, or maybe it’s still floating around, waiting for an opportunity to accidentally shoot a few more people.

Guns are not nearly as dangerous as stupid people. We do not need more gun laws, we need to enforce the ones we already have, and fire the people who fail to do so.

College radio

When I was young, “College radio” meant a low power station operated by students. The music was often local unsigned acts that provided cassette tapes recorded in garages. It wasn’t unusual to have a minute of dead air a couple of times a day. DJs made horrendous mistakes, often providing unintended humor.

The methods have changed over the years, the first station I was involved with didn’t technically “broadcast”, it was just a channel on the school’s public address system. Lieve worked at a “pirate” radio station, which is still around but has gone legit. A friend does a weekly “radio” program (92.1, Brussels) but I’m able to listen to it here as it streams over the internet.

A handbill for Lieve’s old radio station we found in Leuven

In Philadelphia, the University of Pennsylvania’s radio station is removed from the college entirely. WXPN pretends to be a college station, but its employees aren’t college students. Its leading host (David Dye) is nationally syndicated, and I believe his grandchildren have graduated from college. From his initial project with NPR, “World Cafe”, a small empire has risen.

“World Cafe Live” is the name of two restaurants/concert venues. They are connected to WXPN in ways I can’t determine, weaving in and out of each others operations. WXPN is officially a National Public Radio station, and as such a non-profit organization. World Cafe Live is quite obviously a profit driven enterprise. I don’t know how they do it, but I’m glad they do.

Every Summer WXPN hosts the “XPN festival”, a three day concert with multiple stages, and acts ranging from local favorites to world class headliners. Tickets run about $25 a day, and access to the artists is incredible. Not only did I stand about twenty feet from Citizen Cope and Booker T, and within an arms length of Dar Williams and Gary Clarke Jr. on “stage”, there are meet and greet tents after every performance.

World Cafe Live hosts a variety of local and national acts in a theater with a capacity that ranges from 300 to 650 depending on whether there are tables or SRO. One miserable night in the middle of a storm we saw Martha Davis play a full set to about fifty people. Tickets are rarely more than $30, and every Friday there is a free mid-day concert, “Free at Noon”, which is broadcast live on WXPN. Next week we’re going to see Suzanne Vega. Free.

When we attend the evening concerts, we usually sit in the mezzanine, which is closer to the stage than most seats at large venues, and has comfy couch seats and cafe service. Having the band play in your home wouldn’t be quite as comfortable. We recorded this from our favorite seats.

Upstairs is the main restaurant, which also has a stage although I’ve never heard a band I liked there, mostly because the acoustics are suited to acoustic instruments, and the bands are usually amplified.

The food is good, innovative, and interesting. There aren’t near enough vegetarian options, which I found rather surprising considering the target clientele. The beer selection is robust, although they stopped carrying Stella Artois last year.

World Cafe Live also has charity events, and because of the odd relationship between World Cafe Live and WXPN, the charitable donation made to attend an event ends up paying for a membership to WXPN. We attend the “Musicians on Call” event every year, a fund raising concert for musicians who perform for patients in hospitals.

Being a member of WXPN has benefits, we get a discount at the Princeton Record Exchange and for the XPN festival, and early entry for the free at noon concerts.

This merging of enterprises, profit and non-profit, may not fit what we expect of the tax code, but I think it fulfills the intention of “non-profit”. It certainly fits the spirit of radio.

A simple wedding

Three years ago, I did something I thought I would never do. I got married.

I met Lieve less than two months after the end of the world. There was certainly no reason to get involved in a relationship, particularly with a woman who had two teenagers and lived in New Jersey. New Jersey? They don’t even have enough sense to pump their own gasoline over there. I had been married in New Jersey, twice, and neither of those relationships ended well.

It turned out that Lieve wasn’t really from New Jersey, just passing through. And she had the most beautiful smile. And she made me laugh, when I couldn’t remember what laughter was.

We were puzzle pieces, our eccentricities complementing each other, making each other whole.

We married just a few months after we met, in the bitter cold of a December day in Philadelphia. Initially we had considered doing it next to the LOVE statue in center city, but decided on the less crowded and less windy venue of Magic Gardens, a sculpture garden (really just one big sculpture) created by Isaiah Zagar. We both enjoyed Isaiah’s work, seen throughout Philadelphia.

It took a bit of work convincing everyone that Quaker weddings are in fact legal. There is no clergy involved, and the involvement of the state is limited to issuing the license. You can only obtain a Quaker license if you live in Ohio or Pennsylvania, so as a resident of Philadelphia I was able get the license and we performed the ceremony within the state of Pennsylvania.

A Quaker wedding requires that the two participants promise to love each other, the state requires two witnesses, so we all met at Magic Gardens and picked a spot. The staff was friendly, and even though we told everyone they could stay in the section we chose we were left alone. Isaiah walked through the lobby as we were preparing but had other commitments. I don’t think anyone else realized the entire ceremony would take just over a minute.

After the ceremony we all went over to Monk’s, a Belgian cafe, for mussels, frites, and beers.

Our honeymoon was a few weeks later, we flew into Frankfurt Germany during the worst storm in forty years and spent Christmas Eve working our way through a series of cancelled and rerouted trains (made easier by the lack of luggage) to Leuven. We arrived in a deserted and snow covered town, and I woke Christmas morning in Lieve’s childhood bedroom.

No honeymoon lasts forever, but everyday we spend together is a gift, a reminder that hope springs eternal.

Traditions

There are an incredible variety of Thanksgiving traditions. Many are centered on football (the pointy ended American kind), the Dallas Cowboys play every Thanksgiving, so in my family dinner was arranged around the game, as we moved around the country dinner time changed to facilitate watching the game. Last year Lieve and I were in Dallas so she was able to witness the event with my extended family, complete with the unspoken wagers on who would pass out on the floor first, my nephew Kirk won, dead to the world only minutes after dinner.

In High School, Thanksgiving meant the homecoming game against Summit. Wonderful memories of buying two cups of coffee just to keep my hands warm, and a drumstick cracking on the downbeat as we marched onto the frozen field. My first Thanksgiving after High School the holiday completely skipped my mind. I called a friend to hear a band at a bar, and didn’t understand why she had the family over for dinner on a Thursday.

There are movies that are family viewing traditions, for some reason “E.T.” has become a tradition in some families, I seem to remember watching “Wizard of Oz” every year at some point. I picked up the habit of sharing “WKRP in Cincinnati”s “Turkey Drop” episode with my friends. It seems even more appropriate now that I’m a vegetarian.

Happy Thanksgiving – WKRP Turkey Drop – kewego

When I moved to Philadelphia, I found one radio DJ, Pierre Robert, would play “Alice’s Restaurant” every Thanksgiving, which seemed a perfect occasion, so I picked up that tradition. It’s the source of numerous lines I use in everyday conversation (Of course WKRP’s “Thanks for that on the spot report” ranks high as well). My favorite is “If you want to end the war and stuff you have to sing loud“. There have been a few revisions over the years, but the original is the best, capturing a Thanksgiving that can’t be beat, and the world before “don’t ask don’t tell”.

Oh, you’re from Dallas?

I used to live in Dallas, Texas. For a few years as a child, and then again as a young adult, and yes, I lived there on that day.

I was just five years old, but I do have a few clear memories of the day, and days afterward. In the years that followed, I got plenty of strange looks, many less than intellectual types blamed every citizen in Texas, and Dallas in particular, for the assassination of a president who was at the lowest point of approval in his career.

It helped me realize, later in life, that all Japanese people were not responsible for Pearl Harbor or the horrible conditions in Japanese POW camps. All Germans were not responsible for the Holocaust, all Muslims not responsible for 9/11. Through the years I found myself attracted to friendships outside my normal circles. I learned to appreciate and respect cultures foreign to my own.

My family moved to the bay area, just in time for me to witness the summer of love, then down to Orange County California so I wasn’t far fro Robert Kennedy’s assassination. I was in Ventura, California during the Sylmar earhquake, and I wasn’t far from Three Mile Island when they injected the word “meltdown” into the vocabulary. On 9/11 I was well up one of Philadelphia’s “twin towers”, and watched the horror from a hundred miles away.

The one thing that really stuck with me as a prejudice was when John Lennon was murdered. Manhattan had been a playground during High School, it wasn’t uncommon to skip school and take the train in. I loved driving in the city, and navigated the streets with joy. After 8 December 1980, I didn’t enter Manhattan again for over twenty years.

In 1980 I was living in the Poconos. Devon was just a year old, we had built a house on the mountainside overlooking the Susquehanna river. I’ve never been that much into football so I hadn’t seen the game the night before, when Howard Cosell told the world. I went out on the morning of 9 December to warm the car, I would back out of the garage and listen to an AM station from Nova Scotia while the car warmed. That’s how I heard, in the cold dark morning.

I was never really a New York guy in the sense that was popular, the glitzy club type. I liked the earthiness of the village, some of the more honest aspects of city life. I blamed New York City for John Lennon’s death, even though the city had nothing to do with it. I needed an object for my anger, much like the nation blamed Dallas for Kennedy’s death.

It wasn’t Dallas, it wasn’t some vast conspiracy, it was one man on his way to meet his maker. It wasn’t New York City, it was man on his way to an asylum.

When we remember their names we make them more than what they were, but it is important to remember they were alone.

Amelia Mary Aquilino

On 28 October 1956, John Rocco Aquilino and Esther Angelina (Rashella) Aquilino were blessed with their firstborn. The children of Italian immigrants living in South Philadelphia, they raised their daughter in a warm family oriented environment.

The Aquilino/Raschella family, 1956

Amelia learned to cook from her grandparents, and she often praised her grandfather’s Sunday gravy. The neighborhood was full of family and extended relatives, and she had a wonderful South Philly childhood.

Easter, 1961

Her parents moved to New Jersey after her brothers were born, and over time she grew to be a strong willed, independent young woman. Her father was a strict disciplinarian, and shortly after graduating high school she moved out on her own, living on the street at first, determined to go her own way. She met the love of her life, Geoffry May, who gave her the name “Emma”, and lived in Manhattan in the seventies, enjoying every drop of life.

Emma and Geoff May

Geoff was a decade older than Emma, and from a prominent family. He was also a free spirit, and the two of them had a wonderful life together. Geoff died mysteriously on Christmas Eve just nine years into their marriage, and Emma’s world was shattered. Emma pulled herself together and worked in restaurants in Philadelphia, including Bookbinders, where she honed her skills as a server.

Emma in 1990

She moved on, meeting Charles Armstrong a few years later. They married, but had a difficult relationship, with Charles ending his troubled life in October of 1998. I met her shortly afterward, and it was love at first sight for both of us.

Emma was an incredibly complex woman. Strong willed and driven, there was also a little girl inside that needed gentleness. For the first few months we were together she didn’t allow me to enter the kitchen, but over the years she came to appreciate my cooking. She could be sharp and severe, but she could also be tender and loving.

She loved living in South Philly, being part of the neighborhood. She was on a first name basis with most of the business owners in the area, and couldn’t walk down the street without running into someone she knew. It was as if we were all one big family.

Just after our tenth anniversary, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She remained strong through the treatments, always encouraging other patients in the hospital. Her greatest fear was losing her hair, which never happened, and in fact she looked healthier than I did. It was not unusual for people to think that I was the patient and she was the escort. She took a turn for the worse after chemo, radiation, and surgery, but never lost her sense of humor. Her last interaction with the nurses was telling a joke.

Her last hours are indelibly burned into my mind, but I prefer to remember her life, which began fifty seven years ago today.

The best restaurant

I was asked in an interview the other day “What was the best restaurant you’ve ever been to, and what was the best dish you’ve had?”.

What kind of question is that? “Favorite” restaurant? “Best” dish? There are so many intangibles involved.

One of my favorites is Mama Maria’s, in South Philadelphia. Mama’s is prix fixe. For fifty five dollars she serves a six course meal, and complimentary wine, liqueurs, and espresso. Mama is warm and friendly, I used to have a patch of grey hair on my chin and she would greet me by walking up and stroking it. She has a cooking show on public television, and welcomes guests into the kitchen. It’s a small place, maybe six tables, last time I visited we were there for hours drinking espresso and home made limoncello.

Her food is wonderful, but with the level of service you probably wouldn’t notice if she served cardboard. Holiday meals, like Thanksgiving and Christmas, are spectacular. Thanksgiving she served a full Italian meal, then a traditional American Turkey dinner. Christmas she goes all out, the entire Feast of the Seven Fishes.

Another favorite restaurant is now closed. Deux Cheminees closed its doors in 2007 (My God, has it been that long?) and Chef Fritz Blank headed to Thailand. Deux Cheminees was a classic French restaurant, in an older home in Philadelphia. Dark, quiet, and comfortable, it was like walking into another universe when you closed the door to Locust street behind you. The menu was perfectly balanced by the wine list, and equally expensive. A bottle of Chateau Margaux at four hundred dollars went perfectly with a seven hundred dollar meal.

There is a rule I use when buying wine. “Can I honestly say that seventy dollar bottle is twice as good as a thirty five dollar bottle of wine?”. Yes, the four hundred dollar bottle was at least ten times as good as any forty dollar bottle of wine I ever had, and fit perfectly with the meal. The most expensive and very best meal I’ve ever had, worth every penny.

I had a wonderful evening at Moshulu one time, the decor and view were beautiful, and back then you could smoke cigars in the lounge. My girlfriend ended up doing a lounge singer bit with the pianist, it felt like a scene from a film.

The food at Ristorante Panorama is not spectacular, but the wine list is. It is, in fact, a wine list with a restaurant around it. With over eight hundred selections, one hundred and fifty of those available by the glass, Ristorante Panorama is in the Guinness book of World Records. My first date with Lieve started there, so it certainly qualifies as one of my favorite restaurants.

Lieve and I usually review a restaurant based on its Crème brûlée, in fact we have chosen restaurants solely because of their Crème brûlée. That is how we discovered Bann, a Korean restaurant in Manhattan, that serves a “Trio of brûlée” and some unusual Sakes. We chose The Frog And Peach for its Crème brûlée when we were in New Brunswick for a play. Well, that and because of the name, from a Peter Cook comedy sketch. Which, of course, underlines the point. This is supposed to be fun.

Sometimes the most fun comes from the exploring itself, or whatever brought you to the restaurant, or a quirky server, or a beautiful view. A wonderful experience can have as much to do with who you are with as anything else.

So after fifty something years of great restaurants, how am I supposed to pick a favorite?

Peace Valley

I used to go to Peace Valley park for guided walks. A ranger would explain what was happening in the woods at that point in time and why. A friend heard I was going on these walks and introduced me to the Peace Valley Winery, a pleasant little winery just outside the park. I rather liked their “Spring Fling”, a Spring wine with a touch of woodruff. In a stunning sign that I am no longer in tune with the seasons, I thought it would be nice to take Lieve for a visit to the winery and a walk in the woods. It hadn’t crossed my mind that Spring wine wouldn’t be available on the Autumnal Equinox.

Wine tasting with Susan Gross

We had the good fortune of finding Susan Gross behind the tasting counter. Susan founded the vineyard in 1968, and we have several mutual friends and acquaintances. There was a fair amount of laughter about “the good old days”. Susan had been mentored by Dr. Konstantin Frank, and the story of their meeting is in many ways the story of American vinifera wine making. Dr. Frank initially rebuffed her, but when she strongly stated her credentials and her German heritage, he warmed to her, eventually considering her his star student.

You will hear me say from time to time that winemakers are lazy. It is a self depreciating comment. Winemakers harness natural processes, and whenever possible let nature do the hard work. Susan feels that she very well may have lost her business long ago, when an abundance of Fredonia had given her more root stock to graft than she could keep up with, and more fruit than she could market. She decided to open the vineyard to a “pick your own grapes” day, and housewives from the area picked a few hundred pounds of grapes, leaving her with just a few tons more than she could use. At the end of the day, an elderly Korean man showed up, and carrying as many grapes as he could said “Why do you grow Korean grapes?”. Apparently, American scientists studying China had introduced Concord grapes, and they had flourished and worked their way though the peninsula, picking up local names. There had been an influx of Korean immigrants in the area, looking for a taste of home. The next day, the entire congregation of the man’s church showed up with buckets, and the local Korean influence has caused Susan to now grow Korean vegetables in her garden. This is what makes winemakers successful, working with the local environment in every way.

The Autumnal equinox

After packing half a case of wine into the car, Lieve and I proceeded to the park, and actually found some leaves that had turned, although we will have to return in a few weeks when the colours are more vibrant. It was very peaceful, now with a paved jogging trail around the lake, and a number of cyclists who have no idea of riding etiquette. I hadn’t brought any drumsticks, so they will never learn the importance of announcing yourself when approaching pedestrians from behind.

Off the beaten path

Sometimes I forget that even in my solitude, I’m staying on the beaten path. It was rejuvenating to walk in the woods.

Growing up

Last week I spent some time with a group from high school. Some of them had known each other since grade school, I had only spent my last two years there, and I was asked more than once “Where did you grow up?”. The answer that came to mind first was “Who said I grew up?” but the one I vocalized was “America”.

I was born in a hospital in Corsicana TX, my parents lived in Trinidad (1), in a company community serving the power station of Texas Power and Light, for whom my father was a chemist. I have several distinct memories of these years. My parents other son was born while we lived there, on reflection I realize that I could tell the that he wasn’t of this world. Many years later he told me the community no longer existed and had been flooded. A check of Google satellite shows that the homes are gone but the island is still there.

In another year we moved to Dallas TX, my father taking a job with Beckman Instruments. At first we lived in an apartment(2), where I managed to experience all the childhood diseases, among my memories are house calls by the doctor for my chicken pox. Then we moved to a house on Flaxley Dr.(3) not far from my maternal grandparents. Loads of memories from there, Kindergarten, first grade, half of second. Getting in trouble doing kid stuff, family, friends and church. Oddly, when you click on that link, it brings you to the exact house. one of those trees I had planted as a pecan from my paternal grandparents farm.

Christmas of 1966 we moved to Walnut Creek, CA,(4) the first of many moves caused by my father’s rise through his company. We lived in the shadow of Mt. Diablo, in an odd little community of British ex pats. Some of my friends parents still observed afternoon tea. We lived there for eight months. The most interesting eight months possible, including the “Summer of Love“, visiting relatives first tourist stop was the Haight.

In August we moved to what is now Tustin CA,(5) but was actually an unincorporated area at the time. Because of that, I ended up going to two different elementary schools, neither of which still exist. In fact, looking at Google Earth, the house I lived in has changed so much it may have been demolished and rebuilt. My parents divorced while we lived there, I had my first kiss, took piano lessons, leared saxophone and started on drums. After the divorce my mother and I, along with the alien, moved to an apartment(6) and I started junior high, then Mom got married and we moved to Ventura CA on Halloween. At first we lived in an apartment(7) just two blocks from the beach. I attended the same junior high as Kevin Costner. Mom and her new husband bought a house in Saticoy the summer before ninth grade, and for a few months we lived in a different apartment(8) in the keys, but Saticoy(9) was still in an area where I was bussed to the same junior high. I ended up at a different high school than my beach friends, oddly so had Kevin Costner. When I look at the google satellite of Saticoy it’s kind of sad, most of those neighborhoods were orange groves when I lived there, they were a great place to party.

My sister was born while I lived there, but my step father was getting to be more than I could handle, so I moved in with my father in Murray Hill, NJ.(10) I liked the east coast accent on girls, so even though I had a driver’s license in California but was too young in New Jersey, I’d get to drinking age first in New Jersey. This is the way a kid’s mind works, measuring benefits that never occur to their parents. I experienced all the “first” that young people experience during those years. I formed friendships that have lasted through now. After graduation, my father moved to Perth Amboy(11). I pretty much stayed in the house in Murray Hill, which hadn’t yet sold, and then one snowy morning decided to move back to California. I left the next day.

When I arrived in Ventura, where my mother had moved to a condominium, I lived with her(12) for a few months before getting an apartment(13) on “The Avenue”. This was far from the nicest section of town, a welfare housing project was across the street, but we had wonderful old hippie neighbors on our side of the street. After I was assaulted we decided to move anyway, this time to El Rio,(14) for an exceptionally earthy experience. We had a cute little house on a deep property with two other houses. I drove a converted mail truck, friends from New Jersey could visit safely.

Me and my van in El Rio

My mom had moved to Las Vegas with her husband and my sister, things weren’t working out for them so Cindy and I found a larger place(15), just a few houses down from where I had first lived in the keys. It was nice being so close to the beach again, I finally decided to start college, and things looked stable for a few minutes. Then one day Cindy called me and said “I’m pregnant, I’m going home (Pennsylvania). My aunt has already arranged airline tickets, I’m leaving day after tomorrow”. I’m an old fashioned kind of guy, the idea of my child being born and living three thousand miles away was not an option, so I hooked up with a friend who was also moving East and we dragged our stuff across the country.

When I first arrived we lived with Cindy’s mother(16) until we could afford a little place(17) in Bloomsburg. College wasn’t going to happen, I found a decent job for the area and we saved enough to buy a little house overlooking the river(18). Bloomsburg is rural enough that there are no street views available on Google satellite. After a couple of years Cindy was pregnant again, and as nice as my job was, there was no way to support a family of four with a new house on it. The best choice available was the military, so I enlisted in the Air Force.

Basic Training was in San Antomio TX(19), and Technical school was at Lowry AFB(20) in CO. Cindy decided to rent out the house and join me in Colorado, so we rented a place in Aurora(21) while I finished school. We received our orders, and a couple of us ended up stationed at Offutt AFB, SAC HQ. We arrived at Offutt in time for our second child to be born there, after we had moved out of temporary quarters(22) and into base housing(23).

My story takes a fork here, there is the official version and the classified version. You’ll be getting the official version, with a bit of the other to kick it off. I was approached with an opportunity that would involve a little travel and no uniforms. I would receive an honorable discharge but it would be recorded that I lost my security clearance.

Cindy and I moved off base(24) to a nice house in a neighborhood that was rebuilding. Then we moved to Dallas TX, living with my aunts (first one(25), then the other(26)) until we determined we would stay in the Dallas area after our third child was born. We moved into an apartment complex(27), where Cindy was able to take the position of manager after a few months, and we moved into the management apartment(28). There are few things worse than moving your entire household one hundred yards. I worked for the City of Dallas, and spent a lot of time away from home. Cindy got bored and decided to have an affair with one of the tenants, so I moved in with a coworker(29) (who happened to be female, but we had separate bedrooms) while Cindy and I figured out what we were going to do. It appeared it was going to take a while, so my coworker and I decided to rent a nicer condo(30).

I got another call from Cindy. She was taking the kids to live in Pennsylvania, her aunt had already purchased the airline tickets. Certain things never change, I helped pack everything and moved up to Pennsylvania with her. We lived with her mother at first(31), until we were able to find a place in town(32). At that point, she basically said “Thanks for the ride and all your money and credit, you can go now”. That was over twenty five years ago, I’ve gotten over it, but for some reason she’s still angry. I moved into a long term hotel (33), but there was nothing to work out, so I followed a coworker to Wildwood NJ where there were plentiful summer jobs. I took an apartment(34) and stayed the summer, then moved to Bryn Mawr PA with the woman who had been a coworker, became a girlfriend, and later became my wife. She was living in the dorms of Combs College of Music, and for a while I assumed a female persona so I could live there(35). After a few months I found an apartment(36) in Lansdowne PA, and I took a job at the SPCA and then the police department. After a few years Paula became pregnant, so we moved to another apartment in the building (37) (I hadn’t learned the lesson in Dallas, now I had a piano) and then about a year later we took an apartment(38) in Aldan. Paula wasn’t crazy about the neighbors, so we ended up moving again, this time to a house(39) in Prospect Park.

Paula and I were decreasingly happy with each other, so I moved to an apartment(40) in nearby Wilmington DE just off the shore of the Delaware river. I met a woman from Bensalem PA and rented an apartment(41) there. We eventually moved in together (42), and found yet another apartment (43) before we broke up. I shared an apartment in Warminster, PA (44) before moving in with an old friend in Lansdowne (45). When my friend realized that we were just friend and I was not going to marry her, I moved to South Philadelphia (46).

Shortly after that I met Emma. I moved to her apartment(47) in Crum Lynne, PA where we lived for a few years, until an unfortunate incident which caused us to move back to South Philly, first living with her brother (48) and then to an apartment on Tenth and Wolf(49).

That was supposed to be it, but Emma died. I had intended to finish my days in that apartment, but then I met Lieve, and moved to Princeton(50). A couple of things made us decide that we wanted to have a place we could call “ours”, with no ghosts of our pasts, so we currently live next door to the Governor(51). It’s a nice place, he doesn’t invite us to any parties, but we can sit in the yard and listen to the music. Eventually, we’ll move again, Belgium is certainly in our future, and as long as I can keep the number of my addresses lower than the number of my years. I’m comfortable.

Home is where you wear your hat.

My 11 September story

I live in the Northeast, the events of 11 September 2001 hit very close to home. I knew people who died, I know people who survived, thankfully I was one hundred miles away.

I finished High school in Northern New Jersey, and would take the train into Manhattan often. The World Trade Centers were new then, I did the touristy thing and walked on the rooftops, I took my mother there when she visited from California, I ate and drank at “Windows on the World” a couple of times. Emma’s first husband (who was a good deal older than she) had been a steelworker, and had worked on the construction of the towers. That is the past.

On the morning of 11 September 2001 I was living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. I had stopped driving due to a pesky exacerbation of multiple sclerosis and took the train into Philadelphia each day. My office was in the Philadelphia version of twin towers, “Liberty Place” a matched pair of seventy story buildings.

I was doing some research at my desk when I noticed a crowd down the hall. There were monitors on “junction floors” where you would have to change elevators, and the crowd was silently watching one of the monitors. I walked down to see the initial reports on CNN of a plane striking one of the twin towers.

My friend Brandt was there, he said “they’re not sure if it was an accident”. I knew enough about flight paths and altitudes to know that it wasn’t. Moments later the second plane impacted. I looked at Brandt and said “Still not sure?”. My pager was beeping and my phone was ringing. The fax machine at the FAA office in the airport had failed. Things were happening too fast to consider repair, and my manager wanted to know if I had a spare to send with a technician to the airport. I told him he could have mine.

I was making arrangements with the technician, Anonxai, when we were interrupted by our manager who told us the city was being evacuated and it would be quicker to pick up the machine at the branch due to the traffic. I was a little bummed out, because I was hoping Anonxai would be able to drop me off at home, which was near the airport. A third plane had crashed in Washington DC, early reports were fuzzy about the exact target. I remember saying to my manager “Remember this name, Osama bin Laden. I’m getting out of here.”

I decided to call my mother in California, she was up and watching the news. My buildings were nothing like the World Trade Centers, but I wanted to let her know that I was okay. While we were talking the first tower collapsed. I will never forget the sound of her voice, the hollowness. “Now there’s only one World Trade Center” she said. She has pictures of us standing together atop a building that no longer existed.

I got to the train station and it was packed. Amtrak had already shut down, and it was pretty clear the regional lines would be following before the next train was scheduled. The subway was still running so I took it out to Upper Darby, where I could catch a trolley to Sharon Hill. While I was on the trolley the driver received a message to leave the car at the Sharon Hill station, all rail service was being suspended. From Sharon Hill I was able to catch a bus home. The trip took about three hours, normally it took forty five minutes on the train.

Emma and I watched the news, saw the people trapped in Manhattan, the videos of the people jumping from the towers before they collapsed, some hand in hand. We heard about the fourth plane, that story wasn’t sorted out for days.

All air traffic had been grounded before the first tower had collapsed, before Anonxai reached the airport. Several co workers had been at a conference and had been in the air returning home. They were scattered around the country, one landed in Pittsburgh, and rented a car to finish the trip. Others were stuck for days or took Amtrak before air traffic was restored.

We had about one hundred employees in the towers, four didn’t make it out. My friend Ed decided to get coffee at the last minute, before getting on the elevator. The first plane hit, and he decided to get out. My friend Carl, who was always late, had an interview on the 102nd floor at 0900. He was on the Path train when the first plane hit.

In the two days after the attacks, there were no aircraft flying, and the first few planes were surprising. Odd how quickly we became used to the silence. A friend was in the Caribbean, and apparently his flight back was manned by the military rather than stewardesses. His descriptions of inflight services were funny. Two years later, Emma and I lived on 10th street in South Philly, which was the flight path for a formation of A-10’s flying over the Army Navy game. I found Emma under the bed.

In the years since I have found myself at the Pentagon, and the memorial in Shanksville PA for flight 93. I finally visited Manhattan in 2009, and have been back a few times, but I’m just not ready to see the memorials at the site of the towers yet.

I have a dream too

Something funky with WordPress today, no paragraph breaks.

dream

noun, often attributive \ˈdrēm\

Definition of DREAM

1: a series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring during sleep — compare rem sleep

2: an experience of waking life having the characteristics of a dream: as

 a : a visionary creation of the imagination : daydream

 b : a state of mind marked by abstraction or release from reality : reverie

 c : an object seen in a dreamlike state : vision

3: something notable for its beauty, excellence, or enjoyable quality <the new car is a dream to operate>

4 a : a strongly desired goal or purpose <a dream of becoming president> b : something that fully satisfies a wish : ideal <a meal that was a gourmet’s dream>

I’ve highlighted the pertinent definitions above. Dream describes an idealistic state, most often seen during sleep, in which reality is suspended. Nowhere in the definition does it mention that a dream is something that is promised, or even likely.

A dream works without the constraints of reality, allowing the imagination to work with “what if” (1). It is accessible during waking periods, during which we can use our imaginations to find ways to make reality conform with this dream (2 a&b). It is something beautiful, as opposed to nightmares, that we are motivated to make true (3). That beauty makes it desirable, as a goal or purpose, so that if accomplished will satisfy our desires (4a&b).

My dreams have been fleeting, in that once accomplished, they were difficult and sometimes impossible to sustain. It works better in a group, with a shared dream, until the various members of the group interpret the utilization of the dream in ways that cause it to fail.

Sometimes accomplishing a dream and having it fail can be an inspiration to others, who dream to not make the same mistakes, Sometimes it’s disheartening, but what is not attempted is not achieved.

Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of his dream. A land fulfilling it’s promise of equal opportunity. An audience of three hundred thousand people listened to him that day, respectably gathered and listening to every word. Dr. King wanted the American Dream to be accessible to every citizen of the United States. That everyone would be judged by the content of their character rather than by the color of their skin.

Unfortunately, at about the same time in Oakland, CA, Huey Newton and Bobby Seale had their own dream. Their dream was of the Black Panther Party, a militant group that would take what was not given to them. There’s a reasonable argument that they only took what they deserved, but as we’ve seen repeatedly around the world, when you take something by force, it is not given willingly.

Nonetheless, progress was made. Some well meaning programs didn’t work out so well, and in an attempt to restore equality, some people were found to be less equal than others. Resentment kept racism alive.

Today, you can walk into any office and see Black CEOs where once the only Black employees were janitors. You can also see blocks and blocks of black ghettos, where families tied to welfare have given up. There are also white ghettos, but they don’t make it onto the six o’clock news.

Dr. King dreamed of equal opportunity. That has been achieved. But opportunity is not a measure of outcome, and low income children of all races fail to see the value of working for their dreams. My town is color blind, the only color that they see is green. Wealthy people of all races live side by side, their children play together and will go to the same colleges. In Philadelphia, children of all races fail in school, use drugs, and get into gangs. They do not have jobs waiting for them. They think they have been denied the dream, but they have been denied the ability to understand the dream. They think the dream is to have all that stuff rich folks have. The opportunity denied them is not institutional, but familial. Very few children rise from poverty, and after generations of poverty the dream is lost. They have dreams, but no skills to accomplish them.

My dream is of a world in which family is the most cherished of possessions. Parents who work hard so that their children will be better off than they were. Parents who see the value in a one income family, where one parent cares for the home and the other cares for the bank book, and neither cares about having the newest car, or biggest house, or biggest television sets. Where children are taught the value of education rather than the value of having the newest Iphone. A world in which “want” and “need” are not synonyms.

There are poor parents in the wealthiest neighborhoods. Mom’s out all day at the tennis club, Dad’s gone all weekend playing golf, kids shuffled between activities, and no one sits down together for a meal and discusses their lives. If you don’t teach children the value of family, how are they going to build families of their own?

There will always be people without money. But there doesn’t have to be poor people. “Poor” is a state of mind, “broke” is a state of economics. As long as there is love, no one needs to be poor.

So that’s my dream, a world in which everyone loves each other. Won’t be happening in my lifetime, but I can plant the seeds.

Related articles

• I have a dream too (thetalentmill.wordpress.com
• WE Have a Dream: revisiting Dr. King’s speech, 50 years later (evergreeninstitute.wordpress.com)
• 50th Anniversary of Dr. King’s “I Have A Dream” Speech (thoughtcatalog.com)
• I Still Have a Dream (dashrism.com)
• We Have a Dream (dreamblueblog.wordpress.com)

Economics

I want to start by saying I have never studied economics. By that I mean that I have never possessed a textbook with the word “Economics” on the cover. I have studied in the other schools, “Having a job”, “Supporting a family”, and “Raising children”, as well as the specialized courses “Operating a small business” and  “Putting things back together after a disaster”.

The first rule in economics is “There is no such thing as a free lunch”. Milton Friedman managed to pay for several lunches from the money he earned from his 1975 book by that title, the phrase has been credited to Robert Heinlein in his 1966 book “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress”, and Fiorello La Guardia, in a speech in 1933, although he actually said “È finita la cuccagna!”. Rudyard Kipling made a reference to the concept in 1891, and of course the first law of thermodynamics is essentially the same thing, energy cannot be created or destroyed. So apparently there are free quote attributions in life.

Despite this eternal wisdom, there are still people who believe that free lunches exist. This takes place at every level, from people asking a doctor for medical advice at a cocktail party, to a nation expecting free healthcare. Some of this comes from a lack of education, the failure to understand the meanings of words such as “price”, “cost”, “value”, “worth” and “taxes”.

The practice is widespread in what is often called the artistic community. I used to think this is because most people don’t appreciate artists, and believe there is no effort in creating a photograph, or design, or song. My second wife stopped singing at weddings as a gift, because her friends didn’t recognize that as a professional, her performance was of some meaningful value. My current wife was asked to design an entire promotional campaign for free, because it was a “charity”. It wasn’t a charity to which she was inclined to donate the thousands of dollars her effort was worth, and the firm they eventually hired didn’t think so either. What’s disturbing is when one artist does it to another, as in authors expecting graphic artists to design covers for free.

Everything on the internet is free, right? Downloading songs, copying artwork, if it’s there, it’s yours. Everyone does it, even me, this illustration by Melanie Gillman doesn’t have a © attached, so I took it.

I once thought it was about jealousy, as in the phrase “they have so much, they can afford to give some to me”. This is no different than Gordon Gekko‘s “Greed is good”. Greed is not good, and both thoughts are about greed. Greed is about wanting more than has been earned. Greed not only devalues the work of others, it devalues the greedy person’s self worth and the object of the greed.

Greed is a learned behavior, and it’s contagious. Within a system, if greed is rewarded, other people will not only learn to be greedy, they will justify their behavior by the actions of their teachers. Let this go on long enough and the entire system becomes corrupted. Look at our government, good people go in, and if they make it far they are no longer good people. The system, regardless of its intentions, becomes destructive.

Presently, the School District of the City of Philadelphia may not open for the academic year on schedule. Blame is flying at everyone involved, but the root is greed, the desire for a free lunch. Labor unions, designed to protect the hard working employees, have become corrupted by the lazy employees. The result has been the neglect of the most important of public institutions, education. A lack of academic results resulted in a lack of funding, and the courageous, dedicated teachers who are worth far more than they are paid are used as examples by the lazy babysitters who receive more than they are worth in salary negotiations. Dumping money into the school system has resulted in glistening high tech offices for the school system, and schools without books. Administrators with high six figure salaries ask families with low five figure total incomes for donations to pay operating costs, as if those families weren’t already paying exorbitant taxes for the privilege of a free education.

The schools in Philadelphia have been in trouble for so long that the “School Reform Commission” is a business in itself, where secretaries have larger offices than many high powered attorneys, and may be paid more as well. Meanwhile teachers watch the clock and bolt out of the building right behind their students. Some because they won’t spend a minute longer than their contract requires (I knew a teacher at a High School in Philly who said to me “You’ll need to be finished by 3:12, that’s when I leave”), and some so they can get to their second job, so they’ll have enough money for school supplies. Awards are given to schools for “Adequate Performance”. Excellence is no longer a goal.

Adequate Progress Award, proudly displayed

They stopped serving free lunches for students at schools before my time. The free lunch school administrators have been receiving is costing Philadelphia a generation of poorly educated students.

Finding a job

I am not independently wealthy. Well, not by the measure of most folks, notably my father. I am independent, and I measure my wealth as my ability to remain independent, not in currency or possessions.

As graduation time comes around again, I see everyone asking the young graduates “what do you plan to do?”, so I know I’m not the only one still looking for ideas. There have been times that I have thought that I’ve done it all, but the truth is that would be neither possible nor even desirable.

After Emma died, my initial plan had been to follow her, but she asked that I not, so I respected her request. She must have wanted some time alone anyway. I had a relatively large sum of money, and had I stayed in my little apartment in South Philly, I projected I would not need any additional funds for almost ten years. All my life friends, relatives, and total strangers had suggested I write a book. I love the world of words, more so than photography, in that words direct the reader into a line of thought they had not considered, where a photograph may only do so to those whose minds are open to the possibility.

I remember three distinct “discussions” with my father in the Spring of 1977. One had was centered on the reason my father’s other son (the good one) had moved to California. Obviously it was my fault (it was, but not in the way he thought). He thought it was because I had pierced my ear and tended towards somewhat flamboyant ear rings. I must be gay (actually, the word he used was “faggot”), and he was too embarrassed to live in the same house. The truth was that I had seen a girl’s phone number next to the phone and called her, made a date, and then developed a relationship with her. The girl was one that my father’s other son was pursuing, I thought it had been a message for me. To make matters worse, she had only been talking to him to get close to me. So yes, he was embarrassed by my sexuality, but it wasn’t because of any ambiguous desires.

Another had to do with my yearbook. There was a practice of taking quotes and having them printed under your picture. My quote was “To be successful in a group, one must first be an individual”. I was greeted as I came home with “What the hell is this supposed to mean?”, as my father, a rugged individualist, explained the virtues of conformity, at a volume that shared the information with anyone who might be within one hundred yards. I admit I did not have a proper response, it was only later in life I would learn to ignore fury and remain calm. I explained my meaning, that one’s value to a group is in having a distinct set of experiences and views, but on this day he wasn’t buying it.

The third had to do with what I wanted to be when I grew up. My response was “Happy”. Not good enough, as he spent a great deal of time explaining the intricacies of happiness and how it was not a goal, but the product of reaching one’s goals. Just a note here. If you ever find yourself trying to tell someone how to be happy, you’ll be more convincing if you appear to be happy yourself. Fortunately I decided not to share that jewel of knowledge at that point, and left the conversation with all my teeth.

{To be clear, my father only very rarely struck me, and I love him very much. Many of his lessons were time bombs. When I was nearing forty, I came to understand him much better. From that experience, I learned to be patient with my children, they’re starting to close in on forty now so we’ll see how that works out. Although he said many hurtful things over the years, I know he always meant well. I inherited from my father some wonderful qualities, he is a genuinely good man.}

When Emma died, I found that I was no longer happy. Not much of a shock to anyone. But I knew the path to happiness was in removing myself from society, and writing was a great way to do that. Unfortunately those pesky desires were still alive, so I sought out companionship. For better or worse I met the most incredible woman, and left Philadelphia behind. I altered my budget and still had five years in which to get things going, but I failed to recognize the expense of an ex spouse. My experience had been that the female tends to be on the profitable side. Take notice, that “rule” is not written in stone.

So finances went from black to grey to pink, and I’ve been actively pursuing employment for the last few months. It’s been an enlightening process.

My first application was responded to immediately. An animal shelter was looking for an experienced manager, but they were non profit and couldn’t pay what I was asking. I didn’t care, I took the job anyway because I love working with animals. I could see some obvious problems but was assured I could change anything that would make the shelter run more efficiently. I had never had a prospective employer lie to me before. Not only was I not the manager, nothing was going to change, and even providing appropriate care was not on the agenda. I left after two weeks.

I had a couple of other second interviews, surgical instrument repair, copier technician, and pizza delivery, but nothing really fit. I took the job at the farm, and a week later they told me they were cutting back. I started cold calling companies, and although they were polite, I don’t expect a callback. The most interesting was Chuck E. Cheese, they have a fascinating pre-employment test (really, you should apply just to take the test), and the kid who interviewed me was interesting. I keep trying to explain that I have no expectations of making anything close to my previous salary, but they get a little quiet when they realize your age. As if the twenty year old they hire will stay for twenty years.

A friend recommended me for a position in home care, helping a quadriplegic woman around the house and cooking. Sounded perfect, we liked each other, I completed all the background checks and such, and when I called her back she said “I read your blog, and you didn’t tell me you’re moving to Belgium”. Well, if I can’t find a job I will do so sooner rather than later. I can’t commit for the remainder of my life, that’s something spouses do. She could have least complimented my writing.

At anytime else in my life, I would be perfectly happy to face the possibilities, to play whatever hand is dealt, but for some reason I feel I have more responsibilities today than ever before in my life. I thought I was freer than ever before, but I am far from it. So I am less than happy.
That is not to say I am sad, but a number of disappointments have left me somewhat depressed. That feeling that accompanies the realization that you are finished changing the world. I did what I could do, and felt pretty good about it, but it’s messed up again and I feel left out sometimes.

There remain adventures ahead, and the maturity to appreciate and find the humor and beauty in them. And I have a wonderful companion with which to share them.

Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens

I visited Philadelphia yesterday. We have a visitor, and we wanted her to see the Magic Gardens. I dig Magic Gardens for a variety of reasons. One is because it’s where Lieve and I were married.

Unfortunately, the “third party,” my now ex-wife, decided to have this video pulled weeks before what would have been our tenth anniversary. I cannot explain troubled minds. The video still exists, as real as our marriage was. You can see it here.






Magic Gardens is hard to explain. It’s a gallery for the art of Isaiah Zagar. It is the art of Isaiah Zagar. In some ways, it is Isaiah Zagar.

Isaiah’s presence can be seen throughout the gallery, the ever present derby shows up in figures both recognizable and not. There is a small indoor gallery, in which smaller pieces and work by other artists is displayed, but the marvel is a 3,000 square foot multilevel sculpted space, covered with his signature style mosaics.

You see his work all over Philadelphia, sometimes just little bits, sometimes an entire wall, particularly on South Street. You know South street, even if you’ve never been to Philly.

South street remains “where all the hippies meet”. It has been a counter culture center since the sixties, when Isaiah first arrived. It was the place the punks hung out in the eighties, stores like “Zipperhead” and “Skinz” were the place to find clothes, and clubs like JC Dobbs and Theatre of the Living Arts had the latest music. Music was everywhere, it wasn’t uncommon for a band to plug into a store for power and play on the street. Then came Mayor John Street. There is nothing that I can write about his regime that is both accurate and suitable for all ages other than he made Rizzo look like a flower child. You may not know that Tony Hawk’s video game was based on a real place, because Mayor Street banned skateboarding in the place responsible for bringing the X-Games to Philly. Music in the street was obviously not part of Street’s vision of Philadelphia. Apparently he never met Martha Reese OR The Vandellas.

Isaiah had a studio next to a vacant lot at 1022-1026 South street, and in the nineties used the lot to create a garden. When the owners of the property decided in 2002 to sell it, the community banded together, formed a non profit group, and purchased the land, saving Isaiah’s work and creating Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens.

Isaiah can often be found at the gardens, he was there the day we married. A petal fell from the rose on my lapel, and he handed it to me saying “I think this is yours” with the cutest smile. I invited him to join us, but he was busy with other things. We stopped by the spot where we married, it seemed much smaller than I remember. And warmer. The day of our wedding the air temperature was about thirty five degrees Fahrenheit, with a brisk breeze. There had been other people in the area, and I told them we were performing a wedding ceremony and they were welcome to stay. Our ceremony was in the Quaker tradition, unique to Pennsylvania. No officiator is required other than two adult witnesses, so two of our friends, and Lieve’s children, stood by and took pictures while we made our vows. As you can see in the video, it took just over a minute.

A friend found several of Isaiah’s sculptures in the woods one day. No signs or anything. I recognized the style but he still believes there’s a different kind of magic there, so he won’t reveal the location. Magicians can be like that.

After we visited the gardens, we took our visitor on a tour of South Philly, seeing more of Isaiah’s work scattered about, the neighborhood where I had lived, and lunch at Marra’s to complete the experience. We picked up cheesecake.

Last week, when we went to the Punk Rock Flea Market, I felt a little sad. Some punks haven’t aged well, but they’re keeping the spirit alive. When I came home from Philly, I saw that Courtney Love is playing the Theatre for the Living Arts in June. I bought tickets immediately.

Cheesecakes and cheesesteaks

Philadelphia is famous for many things. It is a center of arts and culture (not the plasticized, marketing idea of arts and culture emanating from Manhattan). Its cultural diversity is masked by its segregation, as it is a city of neighborhoods, there are no gates but a native knows which block belongs to whom. A Laotian friend was able to break it down even farther, pointing out which block was Vietnamese, Cambodian, Thai, and his Laotian neighborhood. One elementary school I worked in had parents who spoke eleven different languages.

All these ethnic groups provide Philadelphia with its greatest claim to fame.  Touching far more lives than the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, The Free Library, the First Zoological Gardens, its numerous art museums or even Rocky, Philadelphia has an incredibly diverse selection of cuisines, and there are many popular dishes that originated in Philadelphia. Philadelphia is a food city.

Philadelphia has some wonderful restaurants, and I’ve eaten at many of them. Lieve and I have been to Panorama a few times,  Le Bec Fin will be closing next month, and Deux Cheminees closed in 2007, but still going strong since 1930 is Pat’s King of Steaks, and their friendly rival, Geno’s (which has only been around since 1966).

These are the official publicity photos of Pat’s and Geno’s. In real life, Pat’s is a little dingier, Geno’s is a little glitzier. You could see the light of Geno’s neon from my apartment, nine blocks away.

Back when I would eat meat, I preferred Pat’s. It’s just more authentic, more South Philly. Joey Vento, the owner of Geno’s, made world news when he posted a sign in the window saying “This is America, order in English” (Pat’s had always had a sign instructing how to properly order a cheesesteak, written in “South Philleese”). He was a great guy, and could usually be found at the restaurant. Regardless of your ethnic background, if you lived in Philly you were either a “Pat’s” or a “Geno’s” person.

Being a largely Italian neighborhood (the Italian newspaper only recently started publishing in English), another great source of controversy was the choice of bakeries. Varallo Brothers had the best cannoli (At Christmas time, a guy in a Santa Suit directed traffic on the corner), Frangelli’s had the best doughnuts, but Termini Brothers has the best cheesecake. Yes, Termini’s makes that fluffy New York style cheesecake, but their pan cheesecake sets them apart. This is an Italian style, with “baking cheese” that is simply amazing. If you visit Philadelphia, Termini Brothers have locations at Reading Terminal, the Comcast Building, and Packer Park, but as long as you’re in South Philly picking up a cheesesteak, you might as well stop in the original bakery on Eighth street for a cheesecake. On a good day, you might get some live music to go along with it.

When I was first dating my wife, I would always have a Termini Brothers cheesecake and a bottle of sparkling wine in the refrigerator for breakfast when she spent the night. Now that we’re an hour away from Philly, I don’t make the trip over to Eighth street as often. I’m told it’s a healthy decision, I was starting to put on weight.

A fair amount of humor was generated in the confusion of cheesecake and cheesesteak, being a devout vegetarian a few eyebrows raised when Lieve would tell her friends I had gone to Philly for cheesesteaks.

Other foods originating in Philadelphia, according to Wikipedia, include:

• German butter cake—A very rich type of pound cake with a buttery, pudding-like center. Not to be confused with the traditional butter cake or the St. Louis version.
• Tomato Pie—Essentially a cheeseless pizza two feet by three feet in size, with extra oregano. Tomato pie is normally served cold or at room temperature. It is more often found in the Northeast section of Philadelphia and at bakeries in South Philadelphia. Joe Villari at Tenth and Winton was the best in the neighborhood, but I think he left the business.
• Cheese sauce —A gooey, orange, dairy condiment carried by many street vendors. In general, Philadelphians often add cheese sauce to inexpensive food items, such as French fries and pretzels. The vast majority of “cheese sauce” served on Philadelphia foods is the nationally recognized brand, Cheez Whiz (“Wiz” in Soft Philly).
• Pork roll, although developed and mostly produced in Trenton, is considered part of the Philadelphia culinary tradition.
• Scrapple, a processed meat loaf made of pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal and flour, is perhaps the most iconic of Pennsylvanian breakfast foods. It’s thou roughly gross, but as long as you don’t think about what’s in it it’s great.
• Peanut Chews, a popular candy produced in Philadelphia since 1917.
• Spiced wafers, a type of cookie traditionally sold in the autumn.
• Stromboli is reported to have originated in 1950 in Essington just outside of Philadelphia. It is a type of turnover made with Italian bread dough filled with various kinds of cheese, Italian charcuterie or vegetables. Panzarotti is a trademark for a type of deep-fried stromboli.
• Tastykake is the most well-known snack brand native to Philadelphia. Since 1914, the Tasty Baking Company has provided the region with its line of pre-packaged baked goods; best-known varieties include Krimpets, cupcakes, Kandy Kakes (wafer-sized chocolate and peanut butter cakes), and Tasty Pies. Emma’s first craving after surgery was for a cherry Tasty Pie.
• Herr’s is also a Philadelphia-area snack brand, maker of such things as potato chips.
• Soda pop. In the early nineteenth century Dr. Philip Syng Physick and John Hart of Philadelphia invented carbonated water in an attempt to simulate water from natural springs. In 1807, Philadelphian pharmacist Townsend Speakman sold fruit juice and carbonated water, inventing the first soft drink. In 1875, Charles Elmer Hires invented root beer by mixing sarsaparilla, sassafras, wild cherry, wintergreen, ginger, and alcohol. He sold it at his drug store in Philadelphia.
• While not listed on Wikipedia, Cream Cheese is so closely associated with Philadelphia that in some countries the words are interchangeable, as in this deli in Leuven selling “Stuffed chicken filet with cream cheese”.

Most of these cause natives to make routine pilgrimages, Tastycake and Termini’s will ship their products, and a couple of independent companies will ship cheesesteaks. “A Taste of Philadelphia” will ship care packages anywhere in the world to Philadelphians who find it hard to exist without real food.

Cats

I grew up with dogs. Big dogs. For the most part they were not terribly intelligent, but I didn’t expect much from an animal with a brain the size of an apple. They were always very affectionate, and that made up for a litany of transgressions. My last dog liked to wake me up, so I needed to move my chessboard farther from the bed as his tail swept it clean. He had no idea what playing fetch meant, he would cock his head and look at me as if to say “So, you don’t want that anymore?”, and even though we lived near the beach, he had no interest in playing in the surf.

My second wife was a “Cat person”, and as I’ve been mostly living in apartments since then I have found some benefits in cats as pets. They certainly take up less space (as do their brains), but they are largely parasitic, giving little to the relationship. They are affectionate, on their terms. That was also the issue with my second wife, but the cats don’t seem to realize the fine line they’re walking.

My cat, “Autumn”, was born feral. She was rescued with her litter off of Interstate 495 near Wilmington Delaware, and clearly taken from her mother too early. Eight years later she is still a kitten in her mind, she tries to nurse from anything soft and warm, usually the shirt I’m wearing. My last wife and I got her as a “mouser“. Emma was deathly afraid of mice. One time she called me at work from atop a chair, where she remained until I arrived hours later, because she had seen a mouse. In Philadelphia, she was convinced that one mouse in particular was taunting her, she said it would come out, look directly at her, and dance in circles before disappearing behind the furniture. Enter Autumn. Autumn was a good mouser, and enjoyed the view from our apartment. She would sit in the window, watching the birds and the traffic on the street below. I had always thought that when we moved to Princeton, she’d want to go outside. Two years later and she is still hesitant.

Autumn has always been a “fraidy cat”. When Emma was alive, Autumn was always by her side, except when we had guest. Then Autumn would hide. Once when a nurse was visiting for my infusions, she sat down on the couch after spending maybe fifteen minutes of setting up the IV and all. It was maybe her third visit, and like everyone else she had never seen Autumn. As she sat down we heard Autumn yell from under the couch. A week after Emma died my neighbor visited, and Autumn came out. It was the first time she had ever been around another person.

My wife has two cats, Leroy and Rascal. Alright, they’re really all my cats, because I take care of them, I’m just describing their origins. Rascal is actually fairly small, but he has long fluffy grey hair so he looks large. He was the dominant, “Alpha-Cat”. When I first moved to Princeton, Rascal was unsociable. He did not care to be petted, he would just stand by the door when he wanted to go out, and stare at you, as if to say “Whatever are you waiting for? Can’t you see I have an appointment?”. I have seen Rascal run across the street in order to confront a dog. The dog backed down. When Autumn first started getting to know “the boys”, Leroy and Autumn would hiss and run and swing at each other. Rascal might be bothered enough to look up to see what was going on.

When we first moved to the new place, we were coming home one night and saw Rascal trotting across the road and down the adjoining street. The “road” is a minor highway. Now he stays at home (he still goes outside, I just don’t think he roams as far). He has mellowed and has become very sociable. When I go outside he follows along, and will sit with me. He’s still the Alpha-Cat, he’s just confident. He doesn’t need to knock the other cats around, he just does as he wishes.

Leroy is actually the largest of the cats. He’s a mostly white short hair and very muscular. I suspect he’s the cat that would bring small animals home, not entirely dead. One day he had brought home a living bird, and strewn the feathers all over the dining room. It’s amazing how many feathers are on a bird. Leroy has always been the “lovey cat”. Particularly when you’re wearing black, which we often do. No matter how much I brush him, he can still shed enough to turn a black shirt grey. He has an odd stomach condition, not hairballs surprisingly, but he just randomly vomits. I have changed his food, tried treats and medicines designed to ease weak stomachs, nothing works. Last week, he threw up the “sensitive stomach treats”. I also think he’s switched sides, and is now a mouse benefactor.

We had gotten tired of finding mice, or pieces of mice, in the hallway, so we decided to get a trap. We didn’t want a traditional mousetrap for a couple of reasons, they can hurt the cats, they’re gross, etc. So we got this live trap, with the intention of letting the mice loose outside in the presence of the cats. The cats still get to chase and kill the mouse, they just wouldn’t do it inside. The first time it worked perfectly. The next time, the mouse got away. The third time, I brought both Rascal and Leroy out together. Rascal had no interest, but when he saw Leroy pouncing on a spot in the ivy he pounced on Leroy. That mouse got away as well. Lately, I’ve found the trap knocked over and the bait gone. At first I thought that the cats were attracted to the sound of the mouse and in trying to get to it had set it free. I’m starting to think that Leroy is just letting the mice go on purpose.

When we moved to the new place, I went out and bought a “Cat Castle”, three beds and a platform connected by a scratching post. I placed it by the window so that the cats could see outside from the beds. They chose their positions. Leroy is usually on top. Rascal tends to take the centre position, because it’s even with the windowsill and he can just walk into it without climbing or jumping. Autumn sleeps under the china cabinet, but occasionally will sleep in the bottom bed. The cats get along reasonably well now, but once in a while when no one is looking, Autumn will take one of the other beds. Leroy won’t attack, he’ll just take a place on the sofa until she comes down. He will, at times, simply lay his head over his bed and vomit on the beds below. His brain might be the size of a peach pit, but he’s doing some of this on purpose.

We may have to make a decision when we move to Belgium. I have no idea what we will do.