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September 28, 2005
Stoop Night
Last night was stoop night.
Stoop night is a night, any night, people get together and drink forties on my stoop. Stoop night happens a lot, though I'm not involved all that often. Last night I was.
Emma and I ran out -- sauntered down, actually -- to the corner bar to get some forties, got back to the stoop and plopped down waiting for Rachel, her non-boyfriend and random junkies to stop by.
Rachel usually comes to the stoop nights I do. Teh random junkies, they always come.
Last winter stoop night was on a cold night. Some junkie came by and yelled at Rachel and me for not knowing what was in a long island iced tea (she was wrong) then went off mumbling about how it felt like someone left the fridge door open.
Last night we didn't have any especially memorable characters come by, aside from the white-haired midget junkie, still I'm sure it'll be remembered for some time to come.
See, things got a little out of hand. And we ended up changing the look of the street by pressing bottle caps into the still soft asphalt :
Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:08 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
September 27, 2005
Decide Already pt 3
About two months after my dad first told my mom he wanted a divorce - the first in a series announcements - I got a call from my mom. "Brian, I just wanted you to know that your father has been involuntarily committed."
"What? Committed?"
"Yes. He's been committed. He's at the psychiatric hospital for at least three days."
"What the hell? What happened?"
"Well, your father spoke to a doctor and that doctor determined that your father was in danger and they needed to watch him."
"Hey. I get it. He's committed. But why?" I never figured that my dad would be committed. I asked which parent of mine was most likely to be committed I'd have told you it was my mother.
"First of all, I want to say that it's not my fault. There's nothing I could have done to get your father committed. It's something he did -- what he said to the doctors that were there to help him."
"Mom. What did you do?"
"You know how your father has been so depressed lately? Well, he was at the hospital for surgery and ..."
"Wait. Dad was in the hospital for what surgery?" I'm a bad son and since my mother told me my dad wants to divorce her (without announcing that they will get divorced) I hadn't called them very much, if at all.
"Your father was in the hospital for a colonoscopy surgery."
"Is that the one where they cut out your ass and put in a shit-bag?"
"No, that's...I don't know. A colonoscopy is where they."
"Colonectomy. That's the one."
"No. He was there for a colonoscopy. They were looking inside him for cancer."
"Why, do they think he has cancer?"
"No. It's just part of his new thing. He's got to look good for his new girlfriends, you know. He's jogging. He's down to 160 pounds."
"So, he's losing weight fast and they were checking for cancer?"
"No. He's just on a health kick."
"So this is nothing serious? Why was he committed?"
"They asked him if he was depressed and he said a little. So I said,'It's more than a little.' And I told them about him putting a loaded, cocked shotgun to his head."
"And..."
"I don't know he asked me to leave. I don't know what they asked him after that, but they decided he was enough of a danger to himself to commit him."
"Ok. First off. You guys are getting divorced, right?"
"Well we are now. You father will think of this as the ultimate betrayal."
"So, you don't want a divorce but you do something like this knowing that he'll think it's the 'ultimate betrayal' and want a divorce?"
"Brian, it's nothing I did."
"But, why were you even there? I mean, I thought you're supposed to be getting a divorce. Why were you in the room? Second. Why did you bring that shit up then?"
"I was scared for him."
"Scared? It happened over a month ago. You didn't say anything then. But then you bring it up when he's getting preventative surgery? Like, so he won't, you know, die."
"Brian, it's just the first chance I got to bring it up. I wanted to help him. It's not my fault he was committed."
"I'm not saying it is. I'm not blaming you. I don't know the whole story, but it sounds like you bringing that up was a little out of place."
"That's what your father thinks too. He thinks I planned it."
"Did you?"
"How could I have known what would happen?"
"Didn't you work for the crisis center that did this sort of stuff?"
Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:53 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 22, 2005
My Skills
I never claimed to be the best photographer. I heaven't quite learned the art of using a camera just yet.
I know on most there is a little button you need to push to take the picture. I fairly clear on that. What I'm less clear on is what the picture will look like once taken.
I think I know. I mean I know what I see in front of me. I know what I see through the view-finder (or whatever it's called). But when the picture comes out it often looks a lot different.
I finally gave in and bought a digital camera and now I can see almost immediately how wrong I was about what my picture would look like. I used to have to wait for my un-gratification, but now it's instant.
This morning I was walking my dogs through the neighborhood park - the one littered with broken forty bottles and spray painted from top to bottom where the Hondurans stage their 24/7 summer volleyball tournaments - and someone popped out of nowhere. I recognized him from around the neighborhood, so I wasn't too alarmed. Still I had no idea where he could have come from. He just appeared.
There was nothing around the jungle gym, and then there was this guy doing his junkie version of walking right under it. Sure, he was wobbling back and forth and could barely stand up, but I was pretty confident it was because he was "geeking out" -- a term the neighborhood junkies introduced me to -- and not because of the stress on his body from teleporting or soemthing like that.
I was wondering what he was doing, or more accurately what was going on -- were my eyes deceiving me? -- so I kept an eye on him. I watched him climb up and stand precariously on the swing, near the bottom, by the "e" in "T-Bone." What the hell is he doing? I thought to myself.
Then I noticed two people sleeping at the top of the slide. Then a second person appeared. I recognized the guy, standing at the top of the slide, as another junkie from the neighborhood.
The slide was a newer one, a big fat, happy, bright red slide with a covered top. Apparently two junkies slept overnight in it while I thrid roughed it sleeping on the slide itself. I was just lucky enough to walk by as they stirred. One was still asleep, wrapped in a blanket, inside the slide.
I decided I needed to take a picture as some sort of documentation. Maybe someone will believe me if I have pictures. Luckily I had my camera with me.
I ran into the bushes and snapped this shot.
What the hell is that? That is no proof!
The picture is awful. You can't make anything out. I thought. Then it came to me that maybe I just couldn't tell because the lcd screen was so small; that I'd be able to tell when I uploaded them.
Sure. I could tell.
Because I was there.
This is the guy stumbling around.
This is where the other two are sleeping
Now I'm sure you can see why I don't claim to be the best photographer. My pictures look like bigfoot sighting pictures.
Still I'm taking pictures when Emma and I kayak out to the island fort Carrol.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:47 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
September 20, 2005
Decide Already pt 2
My dad asked my mom for a divorce after a fight about his prolific berry gathering. For some reason they together decided to call my sister in Miami to tell her this and cry a bit on the phone. After their strange call to my sister they seemed to hover on the edge of divorce, but decided not to mention it to either me or my brother. When we called everything seemed normal. "do you want to talk to your mother?"
"Sure, I guess."
"I don't know where she is. I know she's not cleaning the house, though."
"Well, if you find her let her know I called."
After a recent talk with my mom it seems she was frequently unable to find my dad at times, either. She claims she "knew" he was in the house, but couldn't find him anywhere inside. She says she looked around the house, even going into his private lair in the basement, a room filled with disassembled computers, movies, piles of empty wine bottles, a small "herb" garden aided by a grow-light and any number of other things. She apparently never went into the closet back behind the room where she only recently found a bed made of rolled up carpets and some old sheets. That find, however, was after my dad's second divorce demand. That one coming two weeks after the first and an hour or so after my dad sought my brother's advice.
To that demand, and the other turmoil in her life - becoming unemployed one of the others - my mother claims to have acted calmly and reasonably. I have reason to doubt that.
My first reason is, I know the woman, and she doesn't react calmly to anything. (Example - During a trip to Washington DC in the late 80s I found a police baton on the street and wanted to keep it as a souvenier. After touching it she screamed and visibly wrung her hands for hours -- "Brian, you probably have AIDS now!" -- before returning to her more subdued, usual, freaking out.) The second reason is that I've talked to them about fights they had in the ensuing weeks. "Your dad was so drunk..."
"Then your mother started bithcing about something."
"He just had this crazed look on his face."
"She doesn't listen to a god damned thing."
"He took a gun out."
"You know how she is."
"It was loaded and he cocked it. I saw."
"Fuck. If she would just get out and do something instead of sit around at home she might be happier."
"How can you not be depressed and put a loaded, cocked shotgun to your head?"
"How else am I supposed to get your mother to listen to me? I've got to do something drastic. It's theater."
"He's been telling me for weeks about how I'll have to clean his blood off the ceiling."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:39 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 14, 2005
Decide Already pt 1
As long as I can remember my parents haven't gotten along. Sure, there were times when they seemed not to detest each other's presence, but on a whole I'd have to say they acted more like people that hate each other than two people madly in love. My mom claims the antimocity between them started when, on the eve of my brother's baptism, my dad threw a knife at her.
I haven't asked my dad about it to, you know, verify it happened. But if I did and he denies it ever happened I'm supposed to ask my uncle, whom the kflying knife narrowly missed.
I have no idea what sparked the argument -- I assume there was one -- leading up to the knife throwing, and neither does my mom, the more forthcoming of the two when it comes to such things. I have been told, however, that an argument about the amount of black berries in the house prompted the first mention -- or demand as it were -- of "divorce."
The summer had apparently been hotter than usual in Southern Wisconsin, and that's apparently good news to black berry harvesters. Since I don't live in Wisconsin nor do I harvest blackberries I can only go off what I'm told.
Since those supposed facts work well with the rest of the supposed facts I'm going to treat them as bon-a-fide facts. The other "facts," well, they're still supposed, and they are:
My dad had been picking berries like crazy all summer. He had a pretty good harvest, already more than the previous year, but the berries were still coming. Afraid of losing even part of the crop in the public park to some thief, like he had the year before, he set aside his entire weekend for blackberry gathering. After working all day Saturday and bringing home several 5 quart buckets of berries he went out again on Sunday.
My dad spent all day Sunday - 8 hours - gathering berries and returned to a happy house smelling of sweet blackberry pies and jams. While he was out picking the berries my mother was at home baking pies and otherwise turning the raw berries into scrumptuous treats.
She turned to see my dad with more berries than the day before and with only the most innocent intentions said, "Are you planning on selling these berries?"
To this my dad responded with an explosion of anger. "I want a fucking divorce."
The number of quarts of berries and the attitude with which the question was asked, even whether the reply was indeed the reply, is no longer important. The fact is, my dad did demand a divorce.
Then for some reason they called my sister. "Your father and I are fighting."
"About what?"
"I...I...I can't talk right now. Talk to him."
"I told your mother I want a fucking divorce. She's driving me crazy."
Two weeks later I got a call from my brother. "Did you get the crying call yet?"
"What?"
"Did mom call you yet?"
"No. Why?"
"Dad asked her for a divorce today."
"Shut up."
"No. Seriously. Dad came over here crying and shit and asked me if he and mom should get divorced."
"You're kidding."
"No. I swear. He asked and I told him yes. So he asked her."
"He just drove home and asked her?"
"No. She was at her sister's house -- watching their horse or something -- and he called her and told her."
"He called her up and asked her for a divorce?"
"Yeah. And he must have done it right away. She called me up and told me less than an hour and a half after he left my house."
"Well, she didn't call here."
"She will, Dude. I'm just warning you."
She didn't call that day, or the next, so I called up my brother. "Dude. You're so full of shit. Neither of them called me."
"I'm not lying."
"Well, they didn't call me."
He told me he had talked to my sister. She hadn't gotten a call that weekend, she had gotten the call two weeks prior on the night of the blackberry incident.
"So Dad demanded a divorce a couple weeks ago. They called up our sister to let us know. None of them let us know. Then this weekend dad asked you if he should ask for a divorce again. You said 'yes' and then he asked mom. Again."
"I guess. He told mom that I told him he should get a divorce."
"That's why she called you?"
"I guess. She's been calling my wife too. Crying on the phone with her."
"Well, I only know what you told me."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:38 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
September 13, 2005
No Caption
Posted by calculatoronfire at 06:45 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Baltimore v Annapolis pt 2
This past weekend I went with Emma to a party at her uncles' house. With digital pictures being snapped left and right of the drunken party-goers -- and honestly the flashes were blinding me -- I decided I need to get a digital camera of my own. So last night we went out and got me a camera.
I haven't had a great opportunity to use the camera yet, as I got it late last night, but I think I've been able to take enough pictures to illustrate, at least a little bit, the difference between the
neighborhood in which I live and the one where I work.
First off, in my neighborhood the kids have taken some of the trash dropped off by people from around the city and turned it into quite a cozy little fort:
There is no place for the kids to even find refuse, much less build a fort, outside my office. Really. It would sink.
And where would all the oil go after the neighborhood kids pry open a 55-gallon drum of used motor oil that appeared over night?
Not that oil drums are the only kind around the neighborhood. There have been some plastic drums filled with a mysterious brown liquid around the neighborhood for quite some time. You can tell they've been there for a while because they're sort of "trashed-in" by a pile of small things and a pile of dirt.
I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining about strangers driving into the neighborhood in the middle of the night and dropping off all their trash. I think in some ways its a good thing. What would the flowers have to grow on if there was no trash?
See, in my neighborhood we really like our greenery. Whenever I plant anything in front of the house the neighobor kids come right behind me and dig the stuff up to bring back home and give to their parents. There are some plants, however, that we all share. Share and respect. Notice the space everyone has given the beautiful tree provided by the City of Baltimore.
They just don't have that kind of respect for trees in Annapolis. Trees are a dime a dozen there:
We do, of course, have some things in common. Graffiti is one that comes to mind immediately.
From my office window you can see how the midshipmen at the Naval Academy graffiti the buildings with "Beat Army." There, however the graffiti is immediately painted over even if everything is spelled correctly.
That's not the case around my house where I'm still waiting (after several months) for the kids to spell "zone" on a building down the street correctly.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:33 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
September 07, 2005
Back in School
I'm back in school. I thought I'd never be back, but now here I am -- sort of.
I walk into the classroom on Mondays and before class starts I once again hear stories about the excitement of underage drinking. The stories are relayed with a novelty only a month ago I though I'd never hear again, "Dude, it was so awesome! We all went to Baltimore and hit these bars and got so wasted."
Yesterday I made the mistake of joining in on the conversation.
"I didn't know you were 21. How old are you?"
"umm...20."
"Oh." I stopped for a second. "I went to a bar this weekend too, but I'm over 21."
"You don't look a day over 19" was the reply.
The reply to that from the classroom full of 19 and 20 year olds was laughter and agreement.
So I guess I look a little innocent. I didn't when I was 19. Not to my professor, at least.
I was taking a calculus class - Calculus 2, I believe - with a professor from Russia. She had a strong accent and all I could realy understand well was that she was upset the class didn't stand up when she entered the room. I was able to understand that because repeated it so often. She told us at least twice a week.
Though not everything she said was crystal clear to me I got by. I think it was because I had a lot more experience with accents than the other students. They would constantly put on puzzled looks ask her to repeat what she had said. She would complain that the students interrupted her "recitation," but would reluctantly repeat herself.
The guy that sat next to me grew weary of constantly asking her for clarification and seeing that I wasn't totally lost started asking me what she said. "What the fuck is she saying?"
If I remembered anything about calculus at this point I'd tell you something that she could have said, but since I remember nothing I hope your satisfied knowing I would just repeat what she said. Only I would use a Wisconsonian accent instead of Russian. Wisconsonian being totally acceptable at the school since it was in Chicago.
"I can't understand a fucking word this bitch is saying. What the hell is delta?"
Something calculus related I'd lean over and whisper back.
Once in a while the teacher would see me. She would stare at me until I stopped at which point she'd often go into some story about Russian schools. "If you were in a Russian school right now you'd be wearing uniforms and working out every morning before class. You would have to stand up every time I entered the room..." then she'd go on with the class.
I didn't think anything of it until she asked me to stay after class one day. She had me wait until all the other students were gone then she calmly asked me to drop her class.
"What? Why?"
"I would like you to quit this class. I can't handle teaching the class with you in it."
"What?"
"I walk into the room and I see you and my heart just sinks. I want to turn around and leave the classroom."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"umm... No I don't."
"You are constantly calling me obscene names when I turn around to give my recitation. I hear you calling me 'bitch,' 'fucking bitch' and these things."
"No, I don't. Why would I do that?"
"I have no idea; and this is why I have such a sad feeling when I see that you are in class."
"Well, I don't say anything like that."
"Yes, you do. I know it is you."
"I don't even talk in class." I said.
"I see you. I see you when I turn around and I want to kick you out of my class right then. I don't know how you can be so rude. So mean."
"Oh, that. Once in a while I tell the guy next to me what you said. He can't understand your accent."
"No. He is good boy. He says nothing in class."
"What?"
"You. You are the bad one. I know I cannot make you, but I urge you to drop this class. Ok?"
"Whatever."
I didn't drop the class and she never spoke to me again. Until the final.
She called me up to her desk in the middle of the final. "Where are you from?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Where do you live. Your parents. Where do they live?"
"Wisconsin."
"where in Wisconsin? Milwaukee? A big city?"
"Stevens Point."
"I've nevere heard of it."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to know where such a rude boy came from."
"Oh, yeah. Wisconsin. The state's full of us."
"And you all do such things with your hair?" My hair was dyed blue. "This is normal there?"
"It's traditional. Yeah."
"Oh, my. Please. Please. Finish your exam."
After that I was off the hook on acount of my upbringing and I got a B+ in the class. The guy that sat next to me got a D-.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 02:04 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 06, 2005
The Great Floods
My mom has been visiting for nearly a week now. So far it hasn't been as bad as expected. She's been pretty well behaved when not flooding my basement.
She got right to that the first day she was left alone in my house and decided to go for a repeat last night. the flooding doesn't bother me too much, however, as uses each new flood as an excuse to scrub the basement floor.
When she told me about the first flood she got me a little scared, though. I walked into my house, cleaned for the first time in months, and immediately she proclaimed, "I think I screwed up."
Putting together the facts:
- 1) the house was cleaned
- 2) My mom claimed she "screwed up"
- 3) Cleaning requires moving things
- 4) While moving things she could have uncovered one of the porno stashes
Like I did when I was 13, I began rehearsing a defense in my head. I only keep them to give to the neighborhood kids probably wouldn't work. They're not mine wouldn't fly either. Especially if she found the weird gay cartoon porno pictures the previous owners left stashed in the basement. Framed pictures I only still have because I get a kick out of trying to send them home with visitors and I've never had a visitor that doesn't think the pictures are too creepy to be hung on their wall.
Only after I decided to own up to the pornos did she tell me, "I flooded the basement."
What a relief.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 02:13 PM | Comments (2)
September 01, 2005
Moving or Not?
I own the rowhouse immediately next to mine. I picked it up at a slum-lord auction. After I made the winning bid of $27,000 all the slumlords stopped comparing notes about how little maintenance work they do on the houses and they took a few moments to congratulate me and welcome me to the club.
"This is a great deal." One slumlord said to me, "It's even got tenants already."
Those tenants were my neighbors and had been since I lived in my house. My plan was to continue to let them living in the house as tenants and neighbors and to gut and rehab the house after they left.
But somewhere around the 100th time I was awoken by the neighbors screaming and fighting at 4am and and the 2 bazillionth time in a row I heard that awful "Sweat drippin' down my balls" song I decided not to renew their lease.
I knew it was going to be hard, they were my neighbors. They must have sensed this. In order to make it easier for me they stopped paying rent.
I gave them just over a month to leave the house and it was as easy as that. The next day I saw them packing up their belongings in 40 oz boxes.
I had written off the money that they owed me figuring I'd never get any of it, but one day they decided to give me some of it. I went inside their living room and surrounded by Bud Ice, King Cobra and Steel Reserve boxes and half a dozen naked children with snot dripping from their noses they gave me $200 of the $1300 owed me.
I took for granted that packing up their belongings in the growing mountain of boxes meant they were moving.
Last night when I came home from work the adults were all lounging, smoking cigarettes on patio chairs they keep out on the sidewalk. They didn't look like they were in any hurry to move anywhere.
And they put a new lock on the front door.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:09 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
Directions
I knew my mom was coming to stay a few days at my house to avoid spending time at home with my dad after he was released from the looney bin. She'd never been to Baltimore before so I told her to call me once she got near the city so I could guide her to my house.
I wasn't surprised to get a call from her, I was expecting it. Still, she did surprise me.
"I'm here."
"Here, where?"
"Baltimore. But I need directions to your house."
"Where are you in Baltimore?"
"I don't know on 40."
"On 40 where?"
"I don't know. I'm in a pretty shady looking area."
"Mom, that could be anywhere in the city. I asked you to call me from outside the city -- like when you knew wherre you were."
"I'm on 40 somewhere. There's a bar on the corner."
"Ok. A shady area of town with a bar on the corner. Take a right to get to my house. -- Mom. You could be anywhere."
"It's Jerry's Bar."
"Oh. Jerry's bar."
"Ok, where do I go from here."
"I have no clue. If you're on 40 did you go through downtown yet?"
"No."
"Ok, well, keep going you need to go through downtown."
"No, I mean I'm not on 40."
"I thought you said you were."
"Yeah, well it just didn't look right."
"So you have no idea where you are or where you're going and your taking random roads?"
I'll have to ask her how one goes about getting someone committed.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:52 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack