#okay i am going to go eat my pastrami sandwich now ::)

[here-comes-the-idiotbox]

hiiii so. ive been planning on moving sites bc of the (HUGE) problems ao3 has, and since a new sites popped up with similar functionality i can finally move like. properly. so i am!

ik a lotta folks liked Negative Space, so i thought i’d garner attention to that by reposting it there!

ill be posting new chapters of TD and my other stuff there as well, gradually, so keep an eye out ig.

[nicolinocolino]

ciao sarah! i'm about to move to rome for some months and i'm a bit anxious. the city is so big and full of history and people i don't know if i'll be able to make it feel "mine" because i only know it as a tourist. so i was wondering if you could rec places/museums/churches that are a bit less known and experiences/things to do/places to eat. you can make it as long as detailed as you want, go off really! thank you in advance

Ciao!! 😍gosh, lucky you!! I won’t lie, I’m so jealous! I could ramble about Rome forever, I’m so honored you want my advice 💛 I’ll put this under a cut because surprise surprise, it got long haha.

(I’m going to apologize in advance that a lot of these things are located in Trastevere — that’s where I lived and spent the majority of my time.)

I tried to keep this list low-key. There are tons of things I love about Rome that are definitely “must sees” on my list that are, ya know, still touristy. Like Piazza Navona and the Pantheon and Piazza di Spagna blah blah blah. So! I kept those off, but if you’re till curious to know my favorites just ask :)

I’ll start with the food, because duh.

Restaurants/bars/bakeries/gelato/etc.:

Carlo Mente — super cheap restaurant in Trastevere that’s also very good. I happened to go here a lot because of how cheap it was… I think like, 3 euro pizzas and 5 euro plates of pasta. That’s very good for a sit down place you can spend all night at in Rome unless you wander far on the outskirts hahaha. They have a nice outside sitting area too, and they heat it up in the fall/winter so you can even sit outside then!!

La Botticella — another restaurant in Trastevere if you want something intimate and casual. It’s soooo small, it only has like 10 or less tables and the woman who runs the place was our waitress and our chef and I think she only had one other person helping her. But GOD it was good. I had one of the best dinners of my life there.

Il Portico — located in the Jewish ghetto (just north of Tiber Island) has some damn good carbonara. Also the best greek salad I’ve ever had. AND the ravioli con zucchine crema is to dieeeeee for. (I like pasta, lol.)

Kosher Cakes — same area, right by Il Portico. Suuuuuuper good Jewish bakery.

Chakra — my favorite nighttime bar. (Also in Trastevere lol.) It has a great selection of craft beers, the music is awesome and the interior is soooooooo cozy!! It’s a very chill atmosphere. I couldn’t recommend this place highly enough, I love it so much and it’s where my friends and I always ended our nights out.

8 Millimetri — another good place to go at night (in Trastevere, sorry!). It’s kind of expensive but their aperitivo is a steal for 5/6 euros. (So I’d only go then if I were you) AND they have tons of vegetarian options. The atmosphere is really cool, too.

Bar del Cappuccino — okay so I only tried a few places to get coffee before I found this place and made it my regular but DAMN. SO GOOD. Please do yourself a favor and have the best cappuccino freddo of your life here. They also make delicious pastrami sandwiches… I would seriously cut off my thumb for one right now they are so good.

Corono — Gelato!! Along Via Arenula, very small and tucked away amongst the shops, you’ll blink and miss it but SO GOOD. All homemade (which can be so hit or miss in Rome because half of the places are just trying to make some tourist money, I don’t blame them) and they have super unique flavors I didn’t see anywhere else like lemon basil and orange chili.

Frigidarium — more gelato. They dip your whole cone in chocolate and it’s so good. Next to Piazza Navona.

Quieter/maybe less known/less touristy things to do/see?:

The Porta Portese market — happens on Sunday and is an excellent thing to do if you can restrain yourself from spending any money. Idk where you will be located but the #8 tram headed south should drop you off right in front of it. It’s HUGE and you can literally walk up and down the streets of it for hours and hours just looking at all the junk.

Janiculum hill — I feel like I never shut up about this place but it is magical. And I still stand by it being the best free view of Rome you can get. It’s rarely ever crowded and I think most tourists don’t know about it or don’t want to hike up it (because it is kind of a trek). Get to the piazza on top and treat yourself with something from the little snack cart up there, and on your way up visit the Fontana dell'Acqua Paola which was actually the muse/inspiration for the Trevi Fountain! Enjoy the view!! It took my breath away the first time I saw it, and it a great place to just chill.

Torre Argentina — If you’re an animal lover like I am and am missing some furry friends, you can visit Torre Argentina, aka the cat sanctuary. Fun fact: you can actually go down the stairs into the ruins and go inside the sanctuary building they’ve built into the side to see more cats and pet them and love them free of charge 💛💛💛💛💛

Testaccio market — lots of good, cheap, and local food!!!

Museums/churches/art:

*Just a note that I 10000% didn’t make it into every church in Rome. There are....... so many. You can stand in one and spit into another istg. But honestly every one I did go in was breathtaking. If you are an architecture/art nerd like I am church wandering is such a nice, free thing to do. (Free!!!! Literally you can walk into San Luigi dei Francesi and see some beautiful Caravaggios for FREE!!!)

Chiesa del Gesù — the most beautiful ceiling I ever did see. It uses the trompe l'oeil technique and is impossible to describe. You just have to see it in person. I still don’t know how it works lol.

Villa Borghese Gallery — this isn’t an unknown place, obviously, but is hands down the best museum (subjective, but whatever) in Rome. The palace is gorgeous, the art is phenomenal and it’s located in a beautiful park with a beautiful garden outside. Love love love love love this place with all my heart. I want to live in here. The history is really neat, too.

One of the best things to do, honestly, is just explore. It’s such a great city and you will just bump into everything. The first time I saw the Pantheon I wasn’t even looking for it. I just turned a corner and it was there. I think that’s one of my favorite things about Rome — masterpieces are just tucked into everyday life. It’s also such a low city, you won’t find skyscrapers or tons of modern buildings. And it’s hilly, so you can always find a nice view. I think that’s how I made Rome feel “mine” when I was living there. Just explore! I hope you have the best time ever 💛

[turtle-steverogers]

Fugitives- Chap 2

Oooof the plots starting.

Ship: Eventual Ralbert

Warnings: Depictions of injuries, mentions of drugs, mentions of vomit and burns

Albert and Race entered Jacobi’s about twenty minutes later, both slightly out of breath from rushing there. The had lost track of the police after a few blocks, but were still wary as they continued along the busy streets. As Albert had predicted, there were only a couple other patrons milling about inside. Jacobi, the manager and head cook of the establishment, waved to Albert as he walked in, who in turn waved back with a smile. Race pulled his hood up, pointedly keeping his head bowed as they took a seat in the booth furthest to the back of the restaurant.

“You do realize that makes you look even more suspicious, right?” Albert said, taking a menu out of its holder and scanning the options.

Race took a menu as well, “Yeah, but I can’t have anyone recognize me.”

“I understand that,” Albert said, “But having your hood up basically screams criminal.”

Race snorted, “You seem oddly at peace with the fact that you’re having lunch with someone who quite literally dragged you along with him as he ran from fucking police officers.”

Albert shrugged, “You’re intriguing and my life’s boring. You seemed like a good opportunity for some excitement.”

Race looked up from his menu and searched Albert’s eyes before saying, “I don’t understand you.”

Albert smirked, “I could say the same about you.”

They broke eye contact when Jacobi came over to give them glasses of water and take their orders. Race ordered a Reuben with a side of fries and Albert settled for a pastrami sandwich. Albert stacked their menus and put them back, then pulled his water glass towards him and fiddled with the straw.

“So,” He said, surveying Race who had since taken down his hood, “That explanation you owe me.”

Race’s eyes darted to the side slightly, something Albert observed he did a lot, “First off, I don’t owe you anything. You chose to question me,” Race picked up his straw wrapper, crumpling it between his fingers. He was nervous, “But, if you must know, I got caught with some heroin on me,” by the tone of his voice, Albert could tell there was more to the story. He waited for Race to continue, but the other man remained silent.

“So...you’re a druggie?” Albert asked slowly.

Race shook his head, “No. The heroin’s not mine, nor is it for me directly.”

“Oh,” Albert said, “Who’s it for then?”

Race flicked the straw wrapper at Albert, who dodged it, “You ask a lot of questions,” he stated, “Is seriously none of this putting you off?”

Albert raised a shoulder, “I mean, it is. But like I said- you’re intriguing.”

Jacobi came back with their food and the two boys dug in. Race devoured his sandwich before Albert could finish even half of his own.

“I take it you were hungry?” Albert asked, popping a fry in his mouth.

Race drank some of his water, then took a bite of his pickle, “I don’t always have time to eat.”

Albert knit his eyebrows together, “Why?”

Race groaned and put his head in his hands, “Dude, oh my god.”

“Fine, okay,” Albert said, resignation in his voice, “I’ll stop asking questions.”

“Thank you,” Race breathed, “God today’s been weird.”

“You can say that again,” Albert waved Jacobi over and asked for the check, which the older man brought back a moment later, “I take it I’m paying?”

Race grimaced, “Uh, could you? I’m sorry. I was serious earlier when I said I don’t have money right now.”

Albert reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, placing his credit card on top of the bill, “No problem.”

Jacobi took the credit card and went to put the transaction through. When he brought it back, Albert took it, then got up, Race following suit.

“Okay well, this has been interesting for a multitude of reasons,” Albert said, slipping his gloves back on his hands, “But I’m guessing we’re done-”

“I don’t know your name,” Race blurted out suddenly, “I just realized that you literally bought me lunch and I don’t know your name.”

Albert frowned, “Oh, well, can I trust you to know it?”

Race considered this, “No, but you know mine.”

“That’s unsettling,” Albert deadpanned, “But ya know what? Fuck it. My name’s Albert.”

“Albert what?”

“Uhh,” Albert shifted from foot to foot, “I only know your first name, so you only get to know mine.”

Race’s eye twitched slightly, but he didn’t push. They walked towards the exit and paused once they got outside, standing awkwardly for a moment, then Race extended his hand, which Albert shook.

“Thank you for hiding me for a bit,” Race said, “And for lunch.”

“You gonna be okay?” Albert asked, letting go of Race’s hand.

Race shrugged, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Bye, Albert.”

“Bye, Race,” Race offered him a half-smile, then pulled up his hood again and began to walk away briskly, leaving Albert alone in front of Jacobi’s wondering what the hell just happened.

XXX

Albert sat alone in his apartment, eating some leftover pizza he had found in the fridge. His roommate, Elmer, was at his girlfriend’s place for the night, giving Albert some time to himself. He pulled up Netflix and sorted through his recommended list, looking for a new TV series to binge. When he found nothing, he impulsively searched for Phineas and Ferb and clicked on the first episode. The apartment was his for the night, why not indulge himself a little?

He dipped his cold pizza in some ranch- a tradition he’d had for as long as he could remember- and took a satisfied bite as the theme song for Phineas and Ferb played. He was just getting comfortable when he heard rapid knocking at his apartment door. He allowed himself a moment to be annoyed that someone interrupting his alone time, then paused the show and went to answer the door, pizza still in hand.

He opened the door expecting to see Elmer on the other side, claiming he forgot something. But when he saw the person in front of him, he quickly found he was wrong.

“What the fuck,” He said, taking a step back, “How’d you find my place?”

Race was standing in front of him, looking a little more than worse for wear. His jacket was gone and there were several visible rips on his shirt. He had a black eye and cuts were littered across his arms and face. He was looking at the ground and Albert could see some dried vomit surrounding his mouth.

“Uh, I have sources,” Race mumbled, “Can I please come in?”

Albert was speechless for a moment, “What the fuck,” He repeated.

Race met his gaze for the first time since he’d arrived, “Please? I literally have nowhere else I can go. I swear I’ll be out of your hair after this. I just need to use your first aid kit.”

Albert shook his head and began to close the door, but Race held out a hand to stop him, “You inserted yourself into my life,” Race whispered, frantically, “You insisted to know who I am and why I’m running. You owe me this.”

Albert couldn’t argue with that, so he opened the door wider and stood back to let Race in, “Thank you,” Race said, pushing past Albert, “Uh, where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, first door on your left,” Albert said, gesturing in that direction, “Go ahead and wash up, I’ll go grab the first aid kit.”

Race nodded and walked towards the bathroom. Albert remained in the entrance hallway for a moment, still stunned. He forced himself to go to his kitchen and placed his pizza on a paper towel before retrieving the first aid kit from the top of the fridge. Then he took an ice pack out of the freezer. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door open and Race entered the kitchen.

“Let’s go to the living room,” Albert said, leading them out of the kitchen, “Go ahead and sit down.”

Race sat wordlessly on the couch and Albert sat facing him on the coffee table. His face, while still bruised, was less bloody than it had been when he first entered and the vomit that had been there previously was gone.

Race huffed out a choked laugh when he looked at the TV, “Are you watching Phineas and Ferb?”

“Shut up, it’s a good show,” Albert handed him the ice pack, which he held up to his eye gingerly, “Drug deal gone wrong?” Albert asked, unzipping the first aid kit and taking out some alcohol pads.

“Something like that,” Race said, taking one of the alcohol pads Albert was holding out for him. He placed the ice pack on the couch next to him and began cleaning the cuts on his arm. Albert didn’t say anything further and watched as Race took a bandage out of the first aid kit and lifted his shirt to wrap his torso, which had several gashes in it. Albert frowned when he spotted what looked like a burn on Race’s side.

“Whoa, hey,” He murmured, reaching out to stop Race’s hand so he could get a better look, “You’re burned.”

“Wait, Albert-” Race tried to pull away, but it was too late. Albert already had a good view of the injury. It looked more like a brandish than a burn and Albert recognized it immediately. It was a small picture of the Brooklyn Bridge, surrounded by the outline of flames. The letter ‘P’ was printed in bold on the middle pillar. The symbol belonged to the Prospect Gang of Brooklyn. One of the two biggest and most dangerous gangs in New York City, only rivaled by the Empire Gang, which was mainly based in Manhattan. The two gangs were notorious for their competition- constantly at war over drug dealing territory and who would hold control over the other three boroughs. Albert had seen more than a few news stories about pedestrians who were killed at the hands of the two gangs after finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The burn looked fresh, like it had been done within the last hour. It was starting to blister and Albert could already tell it’d leave a scar. He swallowed, feeling cold fear run down his spine. He slowly looked up at Race, who was staring at the burn with wide eyes.

“So I take it you’re not just a drug dealer?” He asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Race flinched at his words and flicked his eyes over to Alberts, “No.”

TAG LIST:

@bencookisagod

@we-dont-sell-papes

@suddenly-im-respecsable

@aw-jus-let-em-spook

@well-the-kids-do-too

@spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn

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@newsies-of-nyc

@andthewoildwillknow

[jtblogs]

Q&A w/ Tyler Eresian

It’s Saturday afternoon. The sun is beginning to crack through the clouds as a glorious 60 degree day is upon the town of Beverly. What better time is there to grab a world class sub from a legendary establishment? Stepping inside, one can see several employee’s hard at work, piecing together arguably the best sandwich that someone is going to eat that day. In a normal year, the line is wrapping around the building, stacked with eager patrons. This envelops exactly what SuperSub brings to the table.

Throughout SuperSub’s 50 year lifespan, the team is dedicated to recruiting and hiring the best fit for the atmosphere and reputation that is upheld within the establishment. Tyler Eriesian is a longtime employee and a great representation of what the SuperSub family expects out of their workers. Tyler brings a personable and welcoming attitude to every customer that walks through their doors. On top of that, he also helps Paul Guanci, SuperSub’s owner, with their catering service: Casual Catering. This has been a great secondary revenue stream for the SuperSub team and plays as a big part of their success.

Eriesian brings that extra leap towards relatability as a home town man. He graduated from Beverly High School in 2007. Shortly after, he acquired his associates degree at North Shore Community College in Danvers, Massachusetts and carries along as a key member of the SuperSub and Casual Catering team. He plays a significant role in the everyday operations of the restaurant. 

Q (Jackson): How did you get started with SuperSub?

A (Tyler): I got started here in about 2004 because my step-dad was working for Paul on Sundays and he introduced me to Paul’s dad, who owned the store at the time. And then I ended up getting a job that way. I started in around high school

Q: I have some experience in the food industry as well and I know that it is a tough task to handle sometimes. What about SuperSub makes it seem like more of a family?

A: Paul is like a dad, father figure, you name it for me. He has really taken care of me my whole life. I had a bunch of personal struggles that I was going through at the time and Paul really stepped up and he made sure that I got the help that I needed. The whole store rallied around me to help make sure that I was healthy and able to work here long term. Everyone else has always supported me and they’ve done well by me. They are awesome people and I would totally go out of my way to help them.

Q: That is so awesome. I wanted to ask you, what is your favorite part about working for SuperSub?

A: Most times I come in here, my main objective is to make peoples food. That’s what makes me happy. And when someone comes back in and says “That was the best food I’ve ever had,” that is definitely the most rewarding thing for me, especially coming from a place like this. I do a lot of other things, usually in the back, but ultimately my favorite thing is to make food for people. Like, I come in every day and all I wanna do is make peoples food.

Q: What is your favorite menu item?

A: I love the pastrami. Really good pastrami. Especially if you get it chopped fine so it’s like a cheesesteak in a sense. It’s made so good that way. My second favorite thing I would say is the chicken cutlets with sauce and cheese, especially if they are cooked perfectly. Such juicy chicken, if made right. It’s so good.

Q: Are you also involved in Casual Catering? What are some of the things you do?

A: Yes I am involved. A lot of the catering trays, Paul makes all by himself. If he’s not here I’ll obviously take over. The thing he is most concerned about is our chicken and broccoli ziti because it is our most popular catering entree. What these guys do is we’ll sometimes make subs or cheesesteaks for a tray. But most of all we do the larger batches that Paul or I make.

Q: Have you had any notable experiences with customers?

A: Some guests I have taken care of personally I have become long term friends with over the years. A number of them that I have created the connection here and then went and hung out away from the restaurant. Certain people come in you know, and they just make you smile. They walk in and you’re like “heyheyyy!” That’s a good feeling for us, as well as them where people know your name and what you order. Those bonds, I think they’re long term honestly I mean there are people who have been coming in here since the 80’s. Because of the environment we provide for people, we generally do not have many negative responses if someone dislikes our food.

Q: How well were you able to handle the weight of working with a pandemic on our hands?

A: We at SuperSub were fortunate enough to stay open during the entire pandemic. With having a bunch of new rules, it was definitely much harder to continue with our usual flow. I was perfectly okay with wearing a mask. At the very beginning, like before it became the law, I was totally okay with it. I believe that we at SuperSub are the cleanest in Beverly. We already wore gloves and regularly kept the store tidy, so we were at an advantage from the start. Like regularly, we are rated ten out of ten for cleanliness and that just went up with COVID-19. Right now, we don’t have inside dining. I mean it’s obvious it’s a bit small inside. Like, it would be very cluttered and everything, so I’m glad that we are able to still provide outside dining. In this time, we probably only took off like three or four days for employee breaks or days to sanitize everything.

Q: What do you see in the future of SuperSub?

A: Well, the ultimate goal is to be here long term. And honestly, I just want to help Paul do less. Right now he does so much. He does literally everything. He’s here at lunch and dinner, doing most of the catering. He’s doing all the paperwork and the ordering. So much… And like, I’m trying to get him to do less. Like “hey, we can help you do this stuff if you let us.” That’s like the ultimate goal long term is to take some weight off of his shoulders and I can do more so he can rest for once. He’s very tired a lot and always working. I want him to do less and me do more to help him out. That’s the goal.

A: That’s awesome... 

[raitchparker]

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Nothing quite builds the desire to write creatively than being paid to write about power tools. So, here I am.

I spent the better part of yesterday in a room full of people as gripped by fear, anxiety, and a deep desire for change as I am. Two organizers, named Scott and Michelle signed onto the Indivisible project within seconds of the inauguration and have been pulling a bunch of us en masse to demonstrations and meetings. There is so much happening every day, to list it out is a litany of science fiction. I can’t list any of it right now. Maybe some day, I will. It’s hard to fathom what history will say about this era. 

What I have to say is that I do not share much passion for my activism. I never really have. To me, it is on par with exercise or eating a mostly low fat diet. I don’t really want to do it, but I know the painful results that await me if I don’t. Also: just like I prefer to hang out with stable and healthy people, so do I prefer the company of people who are awake. I always, always have. I’ve always run to places where awake people gather, like the coasts, the mountains, and parts of the dessert. Now, I’m tucked away in a corner of a small city, reaching out and finding my people. 

One of them, Anne, I had lunch with this week. Another colleague of ours, Debbie, sat with us through a sobering lunch where we stammered our concern, fear, privilege, and resolve. We are thankfully motivated. I am thankfully not alone. 

I felt like complete emotional shit all week. Honestly, I don’t think it’s fair to have to menstruate during the era of T****. Especially with the sick husband and a body of lawmakers who are using the health insurance on which he is so dependent as the most irresponsible political wedge in the history of my lifetime (just this side of abortion, voting rights, and all the other horrible racist shit Congress has done in our name since the founding of the Republic). There were too many days of tears last week. I was wiping them away like an angry child attacks her sadness from the unwanted pain of a scabbed knee. They shouldn’t be there, not this much. 

But they are there, quite a lot. It is not easy, starting over. I heard a voice, the voice of the yogi, to be sure, who in the midst of that turmoil, that grief, that blistering anger that spoke to me in the form of torrents of sobs. It said: “You just started over. Your friends are far away. Your husband is sick. It’s okay to feel alone. It’s okay to be scared.”

Sometimes, you turn into the skid. It’s the only way to stop. It’s also the only way to forgive yourself for moments when it feels like everything is about to fall apart. And so, even in all the spinning, I stopped. I saw the world and remembered that it’s always, always been a place of unfettered cruelty and hatred. To believe I could escape the brunt of it is to see myself as something spectacularly lucky. We have been lazying ourselves through a modestly participatory democracy for a century now. 

So, I listened to the yogi voice, because she’s the smart one. She always knows what’s up. “Please,” she said, “the world is in turmoil. Please, be soft with yourself. Be quiet. Be mindful. Be kind.”

To me, a horrid epoch started with the death of Bowie and was capped with an orange-faced monster’s inauguration. I’d never equivocate the former with the latter, but they both broke my heart, so it matters to me. I’m listening to “Space Oddity” right now, because I need that David, the David who had only recently turned away from being David Jones. I haven’t listed to that album for years, and rediscovering it is lovely.

My friend N--- was the roommate who had this album. We stopped speaking over a decade ago, and she is as self-destructive and messy as they come, but this album ties me to her and a house we shared together. I’ve had a couple of dreams lately where she floats in and is nicer, younger, and friendlier than she would be if I saw her now. It was the version of her I met in the 90s and it was like spending time with her. 

She was one of the first warriors who taught me how to be a real fighter. She led me to yoga and other esoteric practices, she gave me the instinct to chant, which I still contend saved me. So, “Oddity” is a bridge to her, and that time, the girl I think of when Ani DrFranco sings about her “starstruck girl.” I love the way the soul pulls you to the albums you need, because it knows, somewhere buried in its lyrics, in its swells and lush orchestration you’ll find the moment, a bullet, that sends you armed, ready, steaming, and flaming for the fight the next day. 

Because, FUCK. That’s the only word for it, this period. Every headline is worthy of its own new curse word. We are all armpit deep in potential losses. Everyone is scrambling looking for anything to grab so we can all have a hand free to hold onto our very humanity. These are rough waters. We are all exhausted and gasping. 

Bowie buried the shimmery, glossy, very 60s and folky (”Oddity” is his folkiest album by a mile) “Cygnet Committee,” and on it, he sings like a man whose just lost his religion. I’d always assumed it was about war, but I read in the Mojo Bowie edition that it was about the dissolution of an art collective Bowie had helped create. Or something like that. The thing is in storage and I haven’t putted together the damned book cases yet. 

The song structure belies the epic rock drama of other long Bowie movements, like the “Sweet Thing” trio on Diamond Dogs and, of course, “Station to Station.” It is a character song, and, so, no one probably really knows exactly what the song is about unless Bowie specifically said. The orchestration is demanding and remarkable. There is Dylan-influenced guitar laced within it, as well as a direct shout out to Detroit (”kick out the jams”). You can hear him pulling at the boundaries of analogue instruments, with what sounds like a spinet (but could be a Hammond) tinkling in the background. 

I need my fight songs right now, and I forgot this one existed until it spoke to me today. It raised its hands and said “I’m the song. I’m what you needed. I was right here.” I did need it. It reached out from over 40 years ago and clobbered me on the head with its history. 

Who am I to think this is the worst of times anyway? How could this be worse than an era when black and white people couldn’t legally marry? How can I know what it was like to have friends drafted into a war? I would have, had I been a young woman, a woman Bowie’s age, then. Friends of mine would have been dragged, helpless and alone, to Vietnam. 

Who am I, a Jew, to think that my life is harder than my great grandfather, a man so scarred by his own heritage that he wouldn’t tell my grandfather, his own son, his true last name. Who am I to feel suffocated when my own husband can’t take an uncompromised breath?  

I dove into the song and let it take over my sadness. I’d been writing about power tools off and on all day. I’d already taken my husband to lunch at Unioin Loafers, a remarkable bakery and lunch spot that Cassidy has been preaching about since we moved to the neighborhood. We had great food and I drank strong coffee because I knew I’d need it. (I’ve been drinking coffee again regularly for the first time in nearly 15 years. I felt about that for about 8 seconds; there are far worse fucking things I could be drinking too much of at a time like this). 

Herbert at a messy chicken salad sandwich and I had maybe some of the best pastrami I’ve ever had. it was feathery, light, very lean and perfectly seasoned, piled onto their fresh baked caraway, piled to the ceiling. It’s an elegant little spot and I could see sharing a bottle of wine with a sister or four there soon (their wine list is great and super reasonably priced). I sipped on the hot coffee and watched Herbert pick his way through his messy sandwich. (Herbert has a pet peeve about oozy sandwiches; there was a restaurant in our old neighborhood that became his sandwich nemesis for this reason.) 

To know your husband’s sandwich preferences is the normalcy of marriage. Happily married people love that kind of intimacy. I suppose unhappily married people are tortured by them. To one, it’s a reminder of love and companionship, to the other, a sort of torture.  

“When I go to a place like this,” Herbert at one point said, referencing the hip urban crowd (a very diverse one to be clear), the relatively loud music, the crowded dining room, “it occurs to me how wiped out I am.”

I shared with him that the night before, when I was networking with local activists, that I knew it would have been more than he could handle. Walking from parked cars to crowded rooms, backed to more cars, onto another restaurant, where there was more walking. I recognize so many times where he should be with me, and probably wants to, and last night was surely one of those. He’d have been with me at the Women’s March. But I’m doing all of this alone. He’s spending his time alone, in our (albeit fully beautiful and comfortable) house. 

And that’s how you normalize illness. That’s how you come back together when an ideological war is raging around you. You eat sandwiches and you talk about the disease that destroyed your husband’s lungs. You embrace all of it. When you can, you remember how lucky you are to be able to eat a nice $40 lunch with your husband, as heartbreaking as it is that he’s taking medicine that requires he wear 50 SPF sunscreen, even on an overcast day (it was drizzling when we left).

As soon as we got home from the restaurant, I clicked on the space heater and sat down to write about tools. It’s work that’s easy to get distracted from. And so I tend to Facebook and then get back to writing. Writers are experts in killing time. 

Somewhere in there I felt a yearning for the right piece of music that would remind me how to live through all this. I started with Prince’s (lest I remember how crushed I am that he’s fucking dead, too) “Around the World in a Day” which is ridiculous and got me through a blog about dust collection equipment. I went right to Kate Bush’s “The Kick Inside” with her wee, 19-year old voice and her quaint arrangements, belting out tunes on what I’d still argue is one of the most staggering debut albums ever. 

I kept going back to Spotify, until I went back to an old Bowie. I felt the young person who first heard those songs, the 20-something who lived in Tucson, kick at me. It was my kick inside. And I started crying. 

Not right away. I let the opening tracks wash over me. I drifted over to Facebook and posted a link to the song “Unwashed and Slightly Dazed” and I reminded everyone who reads my posts that I still miss Bowie. I got through about 1k words about demolition hammers and portable flashlights with “Letter to Hermione.” 

Then the lyrics of “Cygnet Committee” clobbered me in the face with their relevance, their nowness. I listed to the song two times in a row. I sat in my desk chair and let myself get rocked with deep, deep sadness. I turned into the skid. I let Bowie be my lullaby, as he has been so, so, so many times in my life. I felt possessed by hope, by the sweet knowledge that men like Bowie always matter, too. He mattered.

This is a fighting song. Whatever it’s really about it is, in every way, a 60s song. It’s got a battle march beat at the end, and it’s in the final moments of Bowie crying “I Want to Live” that kept sending me back to the beginning. Mostly, though, it was because I needed to hear this sequence more than anything. Over and over again, as this operative folk rock song churns over on itself, an ambitious 9 minutes of as well-crafted pop as has ever existed on earth, this moment felt like its heart. It pounded its way into me, and out of me, as I just let it bring me into a little pool of sobs, sobs I knew would wring their way out of me until the ship stopped spinning. This is what you listen to when you slide into a skid during the era of T****:

“And We Know the Flag of Love is from Above And We Can Force You to Be Free And We Can Force You to Believe"And I close my eyes and tighten up my brain For I once read a book in which the lovers were slain For they knew not the words of the Free States' refrain It said: I believe in the Power of Good I Believe in the State of Love I Will Fight For the Right to be Right I Will Kill for the Good of the Fight for the Right to be Right.”

Thank you, David. Thank you so much for teaching me that language. I need it right now. I need to remember that I will kill for the good of the fight for the right to be right. I don’t think it will come to that, but that’s what I need tattooed on the inside of my fucking eyes right now. I believe in the power of good. I believe in the state of love. I will fight for the right to be right. I will kill for the good of the fight for the right to be right.

You get through a traumatic childhood like mine by finding the right guideposts from the outside world. Bowie was more than a guidepost. He was a searchlight mixed with a billboard. This way, he said. He helped me name my tribe. I have to be grateful for being someone who loves music right now. Because I can’t give up. None of us can give up. This is a lousy time for giving up. 

About a week ago, I went over to Cass’s sister-in-law’s house for an event she (her name is Rachel) hosted for a friend who has just written a book. Her name is Steph Jagger and her memoir, “Unbound” is about quitting her job and taking a long ski trip. She’s lovely and some of the women there had read her book. I’d meant to, but of president T****, so I only read terrifying headlines right now. My brother-in-law’s brother’s wife, Kris, was there with her two sisters, one of whom is a theater artist and both are lovely. 

It turns out that Dot’s other aunt Rachel happens to live about a block from where this Aunt Rachel grew up. Rachel lives on a street that was literally on my way home from school. About two blocks from her sits the community theater where I did children’s theater when I was a kid. The most tender and loving moments I have of my childhood happened there. 

We got a bit giggly about that when I walked in the door and I drank too much rose. I knew I was a little depressed (heavy and soggy with a horrifically painful and heavy menstrual cycle that would dragged me down even during the relatively restful Obama era). If I could have gotten my hands on fresh doughnuts, I would have walked into her house with three dozen and a bag of sherry to wash them down. That’s how I felt before I got there. 

I spoke to the theater sister about local theater and drank a little too much rose and luxuriated in the simple joy that, yes, this is a part of my new life, too. As hard as things go, I came home at the right time. These were all perfectly charming, smart and accepting people. Kris’s sister Ellie knows a lot about the local scene, has a theater company, and is curious to read some of my writing. It felt like a gift, that night, a reminder of the smart choice I made to come back here, of the world I’m defending, of these nice people who work hard and have the right to raise their lovely children. They loved me and talked me into some well-needed joy. 

I’ll keep stumbling along like this until I can’t. I’ll keep showing up at meetings until I die. I know that now. I’ll never not be involved for the rest of my days. I get it. I did a lot, but it was never enough. I have the gift of extra time now and I will use to show my ass up as long as I can. 

Here we are, facing the dragon of our age. To this, to this epoch, to Herbert’s disease, to the threat of losing our healthcare, to the pain of growing up the child of an alcoholic, to my loneliness, to racism, misogyny, bigotry and ignorance, to the trolls I shall not name who spew venom on behalf of 45, I have this to say:

I will die for the good of the fight for the right to be right...especially if I die right after eating that pastrami at Urban Loafers. 

[rohitkkumar]

Ashwin replies to Manjrekar's remark with a hilarious meme from Tamil movie

Jeez, people are pigs!” Sam said from behind me.

“You can say that again,” I replied, looking at a dirty diaper that was stuck in a bush. “Christ, I’m glad I’m wearing gloves!”

Gingerly pulling the diaper from between the branches, I dropped it in one of the two large green trash bags I was dragging along with me. The first was for cans and bottles, the second for any other garbage I found.

“What was it?” Sam asked. “Was it grosser than the nasty sandwich I found that almost made me puke?”

“It was a diaper.” Turning to her, I grinned. “With nasty clumps of shit, so I think I’m ahead in the gross competition.”

Sam straightened up from the bush she was behind and shrugged. “Okay, I’ll give you that one, but only because we’re not done yet and I have a feeling I’ll find worse.”

“We’ll see.” I pointed. “Remember, winner pays for the next horror movie we check out.”

“Then save your money. There’s a new crappy-looking zombie thing out next week.” Sam laughed. “And this time I want a large popcorn, no cheaping out, Justin.”

“If that’s the case, I won’t go easy on you. I want a slushy and a box of duds.”

“You’re dating a dud, why would you want a box of them?” Sam grinned, waiting for me to take the bait.

Unable to help it, I said, “At least I’m dating someone. When was your last date?”

“I’d rather be alone than with a bitch,” she replied, removing her Red Sox cap and wiping the sweat from her forehead.

“Jen’s not a bitch. Why do you always call her that?”

“Because she is. Maybe you’d see it of you’d stop thinking about her tits.”

“What can I say?” I laughed. “She has nice tits.”

“I know. In fact, everyone knows. It’s not like she doesn’t flaunt them.”

“If you had them, you’d flaunt them.” I smirked, knowing it was a touchy subject.

“I have tits!” Sam snapped, biting on my joke. “I just don’t strut around showing them off.”

“I know,” I said, pointing to the pink Red Sox T-shirt she was wearing. “Is that your brother’s? It looks too big.”

“I dress comfortable, okay?” She walked around the bush, dragging her trash bag behind her along with the backpack she’d brought. “I don’t need to show what I have.” She gave her head a toss, sending her long brown braid whipping around. “If a guy wants to go out with me, I want it to be because he likes me, not because he likes my ass.”

“You have an ass in those jeans? I could have sworn you left it at home.”

Sam looked at the back of the baggy black jeans she was wearing.

I laughed. “What are you doing, looking for it?”

“Why are you being a dick to me today?” she asked, her dark brown eyes flashing. “I’m spending my Saturday helping you score brownie points for that little snot, and you’re making fun of me!”

“Whoa!” I put my hands up defensively. “Hey, Sam, I’m only busting your chops. Since when did you get so sensitive?”

“I am not defensive.” She stopped in front of me and dropped the bag “But I get a little tired of the jokes sometimes, and not just from you.” She sighed. “At least you don’t call me a dyke.”

“I’d never say that,” I told her, coming around the bush. “Who said that about you?”

“Those idiots, Joe and Dave.” Sam waved her hand. “I should just look at the source and let it go.”

“I work with Dave. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him to cut the shit or I’ll kick his scrawny ass.”

“I don’t need you sticking up for me,” she told me. “Those two idiots are like Beavis and Butthead. They don’t matter.”

“Matters if you’re mad.”

“I’m just in a mood, I guess, but what matters is you’d stick up for me.” She rolled her eyes. “God knows my brother wouldn’t.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

“Right.” Sam looked around the stand of trees in Carson’s Park I had volunteered to clean as part of Jen’s Earth Day weekend. “And I guess they’re for helping to pick up bottles and skeezy trash, too.”

“Yeah.” Removing my sunglasses, I pulled my shirt up and wiped my face. “I appreciate it, Sam. Tell you what, I’ll treat next movie.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Large popcorn?”

“Large popcorn, and I’ll even splurge for two drinks instead of two straws.”

“Ohhh, treat me like that and this girl will get spoiled!” Batting her long lashes at me, she widened her big brown eyes. “Thank you for my own personal soda, Justin! Can I have snowcaps, too?”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Please?” She pushed her lips out in a pout.

“That’s not fair,” I told her.

“Please, oh, please?” She then made her lower lip tremble, and I sighed dramatically.

“Yes, you can have snowcaps, but we share those.”

“Deal!” She clapped her gloved hands and jumped up and down like a little kid.

I laughed. “You’re too cute.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you remind me of my little cousin when you do that.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “I guess there’s worse things.”

“Well” — I put my hand up, knowing I’d made a mistake — “you’re cute in other ways, too. You’re pretty.”

“Think so?” She looked at me dubiously.

“Oh, yeah. You’re real cute. You know, like girl-next-door cute.”

“I’ll take that.” She smiled.

“Yeah, and a lot of guys like that — not hot, but cute.”

“You need to learn when to shut up, Justin.”

“Sorry, I meant — “

“Want to take a break?” interrupting me. “We’re about halfway through. The playground will be a lot quicker, so how about lunch and we finish up in one shot from here?”

I slapped my forehead. “Lunch? Shit, I didn’t think of that! You want to take a run down to the — “

“I figured you would.” Walking past me, Sam sat underneath a large tree and unzipped the backpack, pulling out a yellow can and tossing it to me. “Yoo-hoo?”

“My favorite!” I caught the can and popped the top as I sat facing Sam under the tree.

“I know,” she said, producing a plastic container with two sandwiches in it. “Just like I know Pastrami and cheese is your favorite.”

“Spicy mustard?” My mouth watered as I took the container.

“But of course!”

As Sam pulled out a bottle of Mountain Dew and a banana, I removed my work gloves and chugged half the Yoo-hoo.

“Wow, these go down too easy,” I said.

“Kind of like Jen,” Sam replied, kicking her sneakers off and stretching her long legs out in front of me. “And go ahead and finish it. I brought you two.”

“Jen’s not a slut, Sam. I told you we’ve been dating six months and we haven’t done anything but make out.”

“Didn’t say she went down on you,” Sam said, just loud enough for me to catch it.

“Really, Sam?”

“Really, Justin.” She paused, peeled the banana, and shoved it in her mouth, bobbing her head up and down as if she were blowing it. Then she winked. “Just like that to anyone that pays attention to her.”

I didn’t answer right away. The sight of Sam easily slipping most of the banana down her throat had caught me by surprise. Not that it should have. Sam not only dressed like a guy, but also had a dirtier mouth and mind then most of the ones I knew. She ruined the image by biting the tip off.

Collecting myself, I went on the defensive. “Look, Jen’s like me. She was raised to take sex seriously and that’s why we haven’t done anything yet. She thinks you should only have sex once you really care about the other person.”

“She’s a very caring person.”

“Knock it off, Samantha!” She was pissing me off at this point.

“Samantha?” She grinned. “You never call me that. Truth hurt?”

“Why do you care? You’ve done nothing but rag on Jen since I started going out with her. You say she’s stuck up and slutty and you barely know her. What’s your problem?”

“That I care about you and think you’re getting used.” Sam took the last bite of the banana and tossed the peel into her backpack. “Look at today. She’s this big green freak and says Earth Day is such a big deal, but you’re here and where is she?”

“She’s in Jamestown cleaning up the cove. She doesn’t have a lot of people helping, so she spread us out.”

“Yeah, she’s spreading all right. My sister says her ex-boyfriend is part of the cleanup. I think he’s …” She snapped her fingers. “At the beach. You can think what you want, but there’s no way in hell she isn’t fucking Rob and who knows who else. She’s using you, Justin, but I guess you’ll have to find that out yourself.”

I stared at her and frowned. I had heard Jen’s ex, Rob, was sniffing around, but whenever I mentioned it she got mad and said I was acting jealous and shouldn’t worry. When I’d pushed, Jen had brought up Sam and how much time I spent with her and how she wasn’t jealous.

Watching Sam unwrap a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and begin eating, I recalled how I had told Jen that Sam and I had been best friends since middle school, and that we’d never been more.

Jen had insisted that was because that’s how I saw it, claiming Sam had a thing for me, that I was too naïve to see it. Just like Sam was telling me I was naïve thinking Jen was waiting for the right time with me.

I was well aware I tended to take people at face value and was a little too trusting; but in these cases I was right. Sam was a good friend and had zero interest in being anything but, just as I had no interest in her as a girl.

I was also sure Jen wasn’t fucking around. Unlike me, Jen had been with someone before, and most likely more than just Ron. Then again, I was the only person my age I knew who hadn’t been with anyone.

But after my mother had discovered my asshole father had been fucking anything in sight for years, she raised me to believe that sex should be special the first time, with someone who meant something.

I not only agreed with her, but swore to her that I would be a better man than my father and would wait until I met someone special. Not that it had been easy. Although I’d never met anyone who I had a serious interest in until Jen, there had been a few girls who’d made it more than clear we could have some fun.

Sometimes I wondered if I wasn’t being an idiot waiting, passing up on some chances for a good time. But my mother was thrilled with my promise to make my first time meaningful and that had pretty much trapped me into keeping my word. There were times I thought I could just fool around and she would never know, but that would make me a lying dog no better than my father.

How many women you screwed didn’t make you a man; keeping your word to someone you loved did. And I swore to keep my vow and not be a dog in heat. I did, however, know enough not to tell anyone. That didn’t mean I had to advertise the fact I was a virgin, though. Any girl who had been interested in just a good time, I made up the excuse I was dating someone. And I was way too smart to tell any of the guys.

Sam knew because Sam pretty much knew everything about me, just as I knew more about her than her own brother and sister. We’d met in fifth grade when we’d been put together as lab partners and had immediately become good friends. We both enjoyed the same books, movies, and video games, and had the same laid-back personalities. Where we were different was when it came to what people thought about us.

Sam pretty much marched to the beat of her own drummer dressing like a tomboy and watching football and bad horror movies while spending more time around me and my friends than the other girls.

I, on the other hand, wore brand name clothes and took a lot of care with my appearance. Enough for Sam, along with my mother, to teasingly refer to me as a ‘pretty boy’ who generally tried to put myself out there as cool.

I looked down at Sam’s legs stretched out in front of me. Her feet were bare, and my eyes lingered on the butterfly tattoo on the top of her left foot. I let my gaze wander up her long legs, which I had to assume were under the baggy jeans. While she looked to her left watching the kids who were running around the small playground, I focused on her chest.

There was nothing visible in the loose shirt. Not for the first time, I wondered what she had under there. I wasn’t interested in the sense that I wanted her, but in the years I’d known her I’d never seen Sam wear anything tight or even slightly revealing.

She never attended any school dances and even when we went swimming a few times she wore shorts and a T-shirt. That was pretty much the only time I’d seen her legs, which although on the slender side, looked pretty good.

I went back to looking at the tattoo. It was colorful and in what I considered a sexy spot, yet she rarely even wore sandals to show it off. Her toenails were painted black, and I noticed a silver ring around her middle toe.

Sam had once commented she had a boyfriend who liked her feet. I idly wondered if that was why she had gotten the tattoo and wore the ring. Not wanting to look like I was staring, I glanced up.

Sam had finished eating and was resting her head against the tree with her eyes closed. I’d meant what I said; she was cute. Sam never wore makeup but didn’t seem to need to. Her skin was smooth and her cheeks had a natural color to them, and she had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen.

Those lashes, along with her huge brown eyes, she used to good effect on me, as well as her older siblings and her father. Her mother had the same eyes and would always tell Sam to knock it off, that she had created that look and was immune to it.

The use of her big eyes was usually coupled with her pushing her lips into a little-girl pout. Sam’s lips were full, and I’d once overheard a couple of guys saying she had blow-job lips. I flashed back to a couple of minutes ago when she made a show of blowing the banana and how her lips had looked wrapped around it. I shook my head.

Taking a bite of the sandwich, I looked back down at her foot, wondering what the hell a guy would do with her feet. I moved away from that image, thinking things were getting bad when I was starting to think about Sam’s sexual escapades.

But all that would change, and soon. A smile crossed my face at the thought of what I had planned for tomorrow night. Mom and her boyfriend Bill were leaving this afternoon to go visit friends in New Hampshire and wouldn’t be home until Monday.

Jen had been hinting that she was getting comfortable enough to want to sleep together, and when I mentioned my mom would be away for the weekend, she asked if I wanted company.

Jen, who was pretty much Sam’s opposite was blonde with baby-blue eyes. Whereas Sam was tall and a little on the skinny side, Jen was short with a pair of huge tits that, as Sam had said, she did flaunt. Her ass was damn fine too and she wasn’t shy about showing it off.

I couldn’t wait to get a look at those tits, to feel them, suck on them, and maybe even get my cock between them like in the dirty movies I got off to every night.

Well, tomorrow night I’d be getting off with the real thing. The idea of having Jen naked in my bed caused my cock to swell. At the same time, a twinge of nerves fluttered though my stomach. Jen didn’t know it was my first time.

I supposed I should have mentioned it, but she had experience and I didn’t want to look like an idiot. But now that it seemed the time had finally arrived, I was going to be nervous with only porn videos to go by and with a girl who’d done it before. What if I went off quick or didn’t get her off quick enough? What if — 

“Why are you staring at my foot?”

I looked up. “Huh?”

“You keep looking at my feet.” Sam wiggled her toes. “Something wrong with them?”

“No, they look fine.”

“You think my feet are fine?” She laughed. “You have a foot fetish?”

“Of course not!” Not wanting to be teased, I turned the conversation in another direction. “So why do you do that?”

“What?” She frowned, looking at her feet. “The tattoo?”

“Yeah, that and the nails and the ring. You hardly ever wear sandals, even when it’s hot, so what’s the point?”

“The point is I know it’s there and I like how the ring looks.” Sam shrugged. “I do it for me, not anyone else.”

I grinned at her. “What about foot boy?”

“I didn’t get the tattoo for him. I had just gotten it when I met him.” She winked. “But he said it made a hell of a bull’s-eye.”

“Eww!” I scrunched my face up. “TMI!”

Sam giggled. “But anyway, it’s about what’s on the inside, Justin — not the outside.”

“I get that with feelings and stuff, but why does it matter with looks?”

“Because vain people are shallow people.” Sam reached out and put her hand on my leg. “But you’re different, though. You dress like the cool jerk, but you’re a great guy.”

“I don’t dress like — “

“Bullshit!” She pointed at my sunglasses. “How much were those things?”

“A hundred, but they’re Foster — “

“Mine came from the dollar store and they do the trick.” She pulled on my shorts. “What brand are these?”

“They’re — “ I started, but she continued.

“And that’s an Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt you’re wiping your sweaty face on. What was that, thirty dollars? And you’re wearing it to clean up a park.” Pointing at her shirt, she said, “This shirt was ten dollars and the jeans were the same on sale. My whole outfit with my sneakers is less than your damn shorts.”

“It shows.” I smirked.

The look on Sam’s face told me I’d made a mistake, and she quickly made me pay for it. “You would never have made that crack before you started going with Jen.”

“Oh, come on! I’m just busting your chops.”

“Oh, that’s all? Okay, how about this one? I dress like a poor tomboy and you’re mister GQ, pretty boy, but which one of us is still a virgin?”

“What the hell kind of crack is that?” I put the sandwich down. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, you think I’m so plain and dress so crappy, but I’ve had a couple of guys who had no problem wanting to get to know me better.”

“So what? I’ve had chances, but I promised my mother I’d try to do it the right way. You decided to spread your legs when you had the chance.”

“Are you saying I’m a slut?”

“Of course not! You know better than that. But you know that’s a touchy subject with me.”

“But you never think anything bothers me.” Sam waved her hand disgustedly at me. “You really do treat me like a guy.”

“I … I treat you like a friend. Since when do I need to treat you all girly?”

“You don’t, but then again you’ve never treated a girly have you?” She raised her eyebrows after that one, as if daring me to top it.

“Guess you got me on that one,” I said with a casual shrug. “But tell you what, how about you ask me again after this weekend?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I just might…”

My phone went off and I couldn’t help smiling when “You don’t know You’re Beautiful” blared from it. It was Jen. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“Like she doesn’t think she’s beautiful.” Sam muttered

“Hey, sweetie.” I bit my lip not to laugh at the disgusted look on her face.

“Hey, hot stuff!” Jen chirped in my ear. “How goes park detail?”

“Halfway,” I told her. “It’ll be done in a couple hours.”

“Wow! That was quick!”

Hopefully she wouldn’t be saying that in my ear in bed, I thought, but said, “I have some help.”

“That’s great! More the merrier! I’m surprised you could rope any of your friends into getting up on Saturday morning.”

“They didn’t. Sam’s helping me out.” Even as I said it, I wondered why I brought her up.

[tombaragwanath]

138 Haiku for Ahm-Ree-Kah

Said Whitman one time: “America: that great poem.” The greatest, even.

In this tradition, let me present most humbly a Whitman’s sampler.

Only with fewer Cashew Clusters™ and slightly more facetiousness.

Los Angeles

Who has ever seen such strong light hitting green hills? And highways, highways.

A smiling man in a green and white food truck hands me three tacos.

Golden, delicious, they go well with the soda people keep on hand.

Big Sur

Mountains roll sharply into angry green-white surf. Bridges span chasms.

Where did Kerouac sleep, as a local? Was it in this log cabin?

Likely not. This spot is muddy, expensive, and less than fully Zen.

Cannery Row

Rattlesnakes, dusty- eyed and serene, fill my thoughts of this dream-like place.

In reality, Mac & co have moved on. The hotel looks nice, though.

Steinbeck and Ricketts: dudes sharing their many loves. Got to commend that.

I think I buy this book for people because it is short and punchy.

In that it punches the reader in the heart with warm contemplations.

Look, just go buy a copy for yourself. Hell, send me your damn address.

San Francisco

Orange steel stretches impossibly across churn and wash of green salt.

How could you not love the city of Al Ginsberg? Rain falls in warm streets.

I run up to the big red radio tower. A glorious view.

This one other dude was running close behind me. I felt I knew him.

Amtrak: San Francisco to Chicago

The furnishings may be dated, but the burgers? Salty. Prepared weekly.

Who cares? This train goes through snowy mountains, deserts, and seven (eight?) states.

The viewing car is full of folks taking it in with icy cold drinks.

Everyone wants to talk at lunch. Wrestling, birds, democracy, Trump.

Good thing every one of these passengers is well over sixty.

Plenty of time to gather esoteric facts for polite strangers.

There’s a kindness, a lulling passivity of wheels over tracks.

We share a “roomette”. Lordy, to be paid to come up with product names.

Seventy hours on the train. I could have stayed on no problem at all.

Chicago

Where can we find Jeff Tweedy? I guess I thought he would just be around.

Those cake stand towers are right outside our hotel. Black against blue sky.

The freezing wind lifts from Lake Michigan like a swift kick in the teeth.

The lines in the grey city stay sharp as night falls over the water.

In the donut shop a young kid clutches pastry tight in his fingers.

If we lived here I’d likely revert back to him. They were that damn good.

“Fire Cakes”. Hell of a name for sugar, pastry, cream. Better than DD.

Detroit

I keep a lookout for ambiguous danger, but I need not fret.

Once shrines to commerce, now dusty car garages. I guess it happens.

Some dude is buying up city blocks and hiring his own police force.

How do locals feel? Is the cash grab members-only? Who is invited?

Our Uber driver has a kind face. He tutors math on Monday nights.

He drives us to Grosse Pointe. “Old-school rich Detroiters.” He knows a few souls.

A bored waiter feeds us some gourmet duck fried rice. We talk past closing.

New York City (Vol. 1)

Hello again, dear friend. I see your street vendors are still hustling dosas.

We walk in Central Park under light snow. Who keeps knitting dog sweaters?

Bowling, falafel, Animal Collective, beers. Sleepy subway home.

Montreal

We walk a mastiff cross named Mischa. The sidewalk salt hurts her paw pads.

The temperature? Negative butthole degrees. Still kids play hockey.

Poutine, coffee, sleep. When wearing two coats just isn’t enough.

Boston

A guy selling ham sandwiches knows about home. “Mate! Bro!”, he exclaims.

We walk the brick lane of Paul Revere’s freedom trail to get cannoli.

Can one highway off- ramp cleave itself into four? In Boston, it might.

Brattleboro, Vt.

Sweet land of Bernie! Syrup, pie, cider, pecans. Anarchist bookstores.

We find a brewery serving solely sour brews with faux-Catholic names.

“The Angry Bishop.” “Cardinal’s Peach Party Ale.” You get the idea.

Who knew a maple latte could actually be good? Fuck Starbucks™.

Our dear friends have a small human baby! We read Hairy MacLary.

Boston (again)

So much brotherhood present tonight at the men’s candlestick bowling.

They let Dianny rent shoes, but keep an eye out for any girl stuff.

Philadelphia

City of the Roots! Of Federal Fried Chicken! Of Kurt Vile’s soft drawl!

Isaiah Zagar. His name is colour, movement; a poem in itself.

We visit all the historical stuff. Highlight? Hot cheese steaks. No shame.

Washington D.C.

We stand hemmed in with a million other people. And yet, no ruckus.

Except the ruckus of a giant yarn uterus. That’s dedication.

On the bus homeward passengers doze against each other, smiling, spent.

Baltimore

Four-storey spiral shark tank. Kindly swim clockwise, or you’ll be gnawed at.

Aquarium, then Shake Shack™. Penguins, tortoises, wee sloth family.

They have these fishes that aim spit at bugs, knocking them into the stream.

Our Uber driver is a chicken connoisseur. He suggests Popeye’s.

Our burgers make him peckish. We offer to share. He laughs. He’s all good.

We spend the morning with Bloody Marys and some crab cake Benedict.

And the afternoon sharing cheesecake, fudge blocks, and enjoying Face / Off.

Blue Ridge Parkway

It is my birthday. And our anniversary. Waffle House™ it is.

Two lovely old chaps man the lonely tourism centre. It’s winter.

We’re likely the sole visitors for the day. They seem just fine with that.

The long drive rewards us with thick stands of fir trees dripping with winter.

A recreated length of train tracks shows us where commerce once began.

Are the bears sleeping? Unclear. Better keep any Snyder’s™ in the car.

We come upon an abandoned farm house. Trees grow clear through the iron roof.

Grizzled red cattle stand in the shade of an old leaning wooden barn.

Dianny takes a bunch of photos. I prepare myself for locals.

The parkway sometimes seems to run itself purely into the blue sky.

The precise hue of the blue hills evades capture   in these meagre words.

Suffice to tell you: the breath quickens, the heart swells, and everything stops.

Asheville

We wind up stopping in Asheville. They have a sweet pinball museum.

Murakami would thoroughly lose his shit with the range of machines.

We eat salty fried green tomatoes, cheese grits, and Madras chilli fries.

Nashville

Yo La Tengo are fans of Prince’s Hot Chicken. Take their word for it.

Did you ever eat chicken so hot you had to avoid touching…parts?

Trust me, dearest friends. Do not mess about with these rocks of pure hellspice.

The old Drake Hotel. “Stay where the stars stay!” In the seventies, perhaps.

We meet a couple from Carolina outside the Bluebird Café.

They have one ticket between them. She goes in. He peers through the glass door.

We continue to eat the kind of barbeque one might brag about.

Charleston

A sign outside a bar proclaims the presence of Bill Murray. Cheap trick.

Doesn’t stop us from pulling off the road in a cloud of gravel dust.

What a pair of chumps. We practice our lines in case he needs two more friends.

An anti-climax, but we still enjoy foaming ale (and more pinball).

Our BNB host has framed pictures of Xena, Warrior Princess.

She is thrilled to hear where we’re from. Less thrilled to hear we don’t know Lucy.

Savannah

Tickets for Moonlight. Two other people in the cinema. Both leave.

More great barbeque. Cornbread, sticky ribs, collards. One meal for the day.

St. Augustine

A diamond-shaped stone fortress keeps the harbour safe from the English hordes.

Portly volunteers fire the neutered guns hourly just to scare tourists.

Orlando

Okay, we did it. We went to Universal™. We have few regrets.

Di got to pretend to be a wizard for a time. Wand included.

Turns out Butter Beer is a kind of ginger fizz with marshmallow foam.

My younger stomach was far better at dealing with roller coasters.

Still, I ride them all. Because I am a tightwad. And also, reals tough.

Two days of this stuff is enough for me to crave a quiet darkened room.

Miami

Will Smith was correct. Miami certainly does bring the heat, for real.

We sneak in to some hotel lounge chairs and disguise ourselves as ballers.

No one is convinced, but the waiters humour us. I get lobster burnt.

I get to practice my toddler-grade español with real life toddlers.

Donde es Tomas? El es aqui! El es muy fuerte, y tonto!

Es peligroso para tocar los…raccoons...  (I don’t know “raccoons”).

New Orleans

There is a riot of big band horns lifting through the hot fragrant air.

Carry your open drink anywhere you like, friend. Just be nice, or leave.

We rent bicycles and spend long warm afternoons avoiding pot holes.

A boisterous young dude yells to us through a broken window as we pass.

Stay off Bourbon Street. It’s like Courtenay Place, but somehow even worse.

We stumble upon an impossibly raucous Mardi Gras parade.

One float shows paper mache Putin gleefully rogering Donald.

Another Donald is roped above a sharp-toothed  sarlacc vagina.

Elsewhere, Donalds endure a colourful range of brutal torture.

All of the craft stores must have sold out of his shade of neon orange.

The vile bloat of his maniac features seems a popular float choice.

Just not popular enough for the popular vote. Can’t help myself.

Our cab driver is most delighted to hear us use the term “had beef”.

He tells us he has always wanted to travel to Australia.

New York City (Vol. 2)

NYC round two! It’s so nice to be back in your cathedral streets.

We create habits: Morning run, bagel, coffee, then museums.

A couple of films, a trip to Katz’s deli for pastrami on rye.

An afternoon in Bushwick, fossicking about in the vintage aisles.

Time is running out in a nice way. Three months is likely sufficient.

Last day. JFK. John Mayer sings with great breath in duty-free aisles.

A table of young Russians pick hot pineapple from pizza slices.

Soon I will not speak the language. I think I was alright at charades.

Thank you, Ahm-Ree-Kah. Your people have been a trip. All the best with Trump.