Filed under: Humor
I can be a grumpy bastard. Particularly before I’ve had my coffee. Or if I’m otherwise tired due to work or having to put up with too many people (and “too many” usually means “more than four”), or too much bullshit (such as letters from an insurance company, the IRS, or charities spending the money I gave them in asking me for *more* money). Unfortunately, this means that I am grumpy waaaay too much of the time.
And so it is that I usually growl at the computer when someone sends me a slew of links/articles/pictures/jokes/whatever.
Why is it that we bald monkeys do this? We always assume that people are going to share our particular interests – to the same extent and at the same time as we do.
I’m guilty of this. Hell, just blogging is bad enough, thinking that something I have to say will be of interest to others. But at least in this forum people can shut off the RSS feed, and not bother to hit the site. When I send links to others, or even worse, embed images/video in an otherwise normal message, I am imposing my aesthetic and opinions on the recipient. And filling up their inboxes with my crap.
For the last few years I have been trying to impose more discipline on myself in this regard – really trying to ask myself before I send something out whether the recipient will really want to see it, and then only doing so in such a fashion as to minimize the impact and give my friends the biggest option of ignoring the message (by giving a brief explanation of why I think the specific recipient will want to look at the link or read an article). Also, I’ve learned to just limit links/articles/pictures/jokes/whatever to one or two at a time – no one is going to want to plow through a dozen of anything just because I say it’s funny or insightful. Just as I have almost no interest in plowing through a dozen of the “gr8test LOLCATs evah!!” – that stuff is just going to get ignored, and likely will annoy me because it loads up my inbox and slows down my computer.
Yeah, I know – bitch, bitch, bitch. I guess I need another cup of coffee.
Jim Downey
Got my hands full today with a number of other things I need to do, so I won’t get around to posting about several things I’ve been thinking about. For now, here’s a little something to smile about:
More later –
Jim Downey
Filed under: Augmented Reality, Comics, Humor, Paleo-Future, Predictions, Science, Science Fiction, Society, tech
An excellent Three Panel Soul strip.
Another travelogue later.
Jim Downey
*to the tune of Betty Davis Eyes. Apologies to Kim Carnes.
***********************************
She’s in Reagan’s mold
McCain’s big surprise
She won’t be undersold
She’s got Sarah Palin eyes
She’ll turn her bullshit on you
You won’t get to think twice
She’s the Right Wing show
She’s got Sarah Palin eyes
And she’ll sleaze you
She’ll unease you
If you’re left she’ll just displease you
She’s atrocious and she knows
Just what it takes to make the kooks gush
She’ll get a Wingnut Nobel Prize
She’s got Sarah Palin eyes
She’ll let you take her home
It whets her appetite
She wants to sit the throne
She’s got Sarah Palin eyes
She’ll take a tumble on you
Roll you like you were dice
Until you come out blue
She’s got Sarah Palin eyes
She’ll expose you
When she snows you
Hope you’re pleased
With the crumbs she throws you
She’s atrocious and she knows
Just what it takes to make the kooks gush
McCain thought he’d give her a try
She’s got Sarah Palin eyes
And she’ll sleaze you
She’ll unease you
If you’re left she’ll just displease you
She’s atrocious and she knows
Just what it takes to make the kooks gush
McCain thought he’d give her a try
she’s got Sarah Palin eyes
***********************************
Jim Downey
Cross posted to UTI.
Filed under: Comics, Google, Government, Humor, Politics, Predictions, Society
That quote from Havelock Ellis somewhat captures my mood this morning. The Onion‘s take on the election results captures another aspect of how I feel: we had to see things descend to the point where we were ready to make a significant change.
I am too old, too cynical, (and this morning too hungover), to think that the election of Barack Obama means that everything is going to be perfect in the coming months and years. Nor do I believe that our politicians will be able to completely resist the urge to return to type and put their own power above the needs of the nation. The mindset of “screw the other guy” is just too entrenched.
But I have just enough optimism – yes, just enough Hope – to think that we may be lucky enough to see real progress. Obama may be able to get enough pols to do the right thing enough times, even if it isn’t in their immediate self-interest. It will come in fits and starts, and, as the mixed results of yesterday’s elections show, there will be significant setbacks. But building little by little, moving ahead bit by bit, will be like the only solution I know to escaping depression: one step at a time, just putting one foot in front of the other and walking towards the light.
We’ll see. For now, this xkcd strip resonates:
Jim Downey
(Cross posted to UTI.)
Filed under: Artificial Intelligence, Expert systems, Humor, Writing stuff
Quick note . . .
Been very busy the last couple of days doing some major yardwork. I’ll post a picture when it is all done. But due to that, I’ve either been too beat or too sore to do any blogging – hands hurting from running equipment, et cetera.
Anyway, I do plan on getting to the next travelogue soon . . .
But in the meantime, here’s an interesting little site, which purports to analyse any given blog and tell you whether the author is a man or woman. In the ones of mine I’ve tried, it got it right. Which is somewhat comforting. I think.
Later . . .
Jim Downey
Filed under: Argentina, Humor, Mark Twain, N. Am. Welsh Choir, Patagonia, Society, Travel
Part Two: Home, home of the strays.
On Thursday the 16th, Alix was going to be busy with some choir-related rehearsals, so I opted for one of the excursions available to non-choir members of the tour which left at 8:00 local time. As a result, I was up and going early.
Went downstairs into the hotel’s dining area for breakfast (included in the room price). It was actually quite a nice spread, and showed that they cater to Americans and Europeans – in addition to various cereals and breakfast breads, juices and yoghurt, there was was a wide selection of German style cold meats and cheeses, fresh fruits and fruit cocktail, even US style bacon and scrambled eggs. But there were local items as well – something like a quiche or fritatta which was egg-based, with a crusty top and a base of peas – and that was quite good. There was also something like a beef stew – chunks of beef in a brown sauce, a side dish of potatoes and carrots you could add as you wished. This was fantastic. The coffee was also excellent, even though Argentina is not a coffee-producing country, and is available almost everywhere throughout the day, served in small cups similar to (but not as strong as) a Turkish coffee or espresso.
A side note, which I should have mentioned in the previous travelogue: you will hear a lot of hype about the quality of Argentine beef, and of the popularity of both asados and parrilladas. Believe every word of it. Seriously – I lived in Iowa for some 15 years, and thought I knew what top-quality meat was. The Argentine beef we had while on the trip was even better, every single time, without exception. Little wonder that the Argentine diet is very heavy on beef. The stuff is just phenomenal. The Wikipedia article on Argentine Cuisine overall is very accurate from my experience. In fact, I had to make a conscious decision partway through the trip to cut way back on the amount of food I was eating, since I was feeling overly stuffed all the time.
Anyway, I had a nice breakfast, then got on the tour bus for the trip over to La Plata. The bus was nice – all the buses we had were nice – but when you spend about 217 hours a day on one for weeks on end, you get sick of the damned things. And this is was my first experience with the tour guide I shall henceforth call “Ferguson”.
Ferguson was a nice enough sort, but seemingly could not shut up. I don’t mean that he carried on a rambling discription of all the things we saw, and all the places we went. No, he would repeat himself about a dozen times on any given little factoid, each time trying some new formulation to the English which almost but not quite meant the same thing as the previous version, always in a sing-song sort of voice that I came to loathe. And over the course of the dozen permutations he would range from a simple verifiable fact to almost its exact opposite – as though he were a one man game of ‘telephone’. It got to the point where most of the tour members just did their best to ignore whatever he said, which was a tad problematic given that often he was our only source for information as to scheduling, upcoming events we need to prepare for, et cetera. I just got in the habit of listening to the *first* thing he said, which was usually reasonably close to the truth, and then tried to tune out all subsequent “clarifications”. When I say henceforth that Ferguson said this or that, understand that this is what I mean and I am cutting out the 12 to 14 other versions I usually got from the man.
Anyway, we got on the bus to La Plata, located to the east of the Buenos Aires city center about twenty minutes, on the south shore of the Rio La Plata. The ride took us from the concentrated urban area of our hotels through a variety of suburbs, which ranged from American/European style areas to startlingly apocalyptic shanty towns. Seriously – vast swathes of land where the housing consisted of little more than packing materials, boardered by places where it was difficult to discern whether the high rises were going up or coming down. In the merely marginal areas there was some semblence of regular (unpaved) streets and a power grid, with large black plastic tanks of water on the rooftops. In the poorer sections, even this much civilization was undetectable.
Officially, the population of greater Buenos Aires is about 13 million. Unoffiicially, most people estimate it is somewhere between 16 and 18 million. Those who live in the shantytowns are about as unofficial as possible, and the source for the discrepency.
And everywhere – throughout the entire country – there are stray dogs. You don’t notice that many right in the downtown area, though there are some. But you get outside of there, and you see more. Lots more. Dogs who are clearly homeless, who shy away from most humans, but search for kindness, looking from person to person for someone who will notice them. They live off whatever scraps they can find, whatever bits are handed over. They are so prevelant that it has become common custom across the entire country to construct elevated baskets for holding garbarge, some four or five feet off the ground. One of our other tour guides later in the trip said that the Argentines loved dogs, and so were happy to see them everywhere like this. But the haunted and degraded nature of the strays said otherwise to me, as did the signs in many places which warn of feeding the dogs. These are not signs of love, leastways as I understand it.
La Plata was a designed city, not an organic one. It’s nice enough, in the slightly shabby way that seems typical of most of the country. The drivers there, as in Buenos Aires and the other large towns we visited, were universally insane, and considered things like lane markings and traffic signs to be little more than suggestions. I did ask Ferguson how “right of way” is determined in the mix of four-way and six-way intersections, since nothing was obvious. He looked at me like the question made no sense, then shrugged and said that the biggest vehicle went first, of course. But I saw no accidents, so if it works for them and I don’t have to drive in it, more power to them.
It was a beautify, clear and sunny day, a touch cool but not at all bad. We got out of the bus in front of the neogothic Cathedral, which Ferguson explained is the fourth largest in the world by some measure or another. It was impressive, but did not stand up to the great cathedrals in Europe in my mind. Across the large plaza in front of the Cathedral was the City Hall. Ferguson said we could go there for a bathroom break. We did – there seemed to be little else to see there at the time, since the City Council was in session and the bulk of the building off limits to tourists.
Out front of the City Hall there was some kind of demonstration going on. We watched from in front of the building for a while, trying to figure out what it was all about. Ferguson explained that one of the government agencies, responsible for certifying taxes, had set up a roadblock. Seems that they pull in cars, and then search their database to see whether the drivers are current on various taxes due. If not, the driver can settle up right there. Or have their car impounded until arrangements are made. Imagine, if you will, a combination of the IRS and the DMV, with immediate police powers thrown in for good measure. Little wonder that people were objecting. Interesting to watch them at it – a bunch of cars had stopped, blocking access to the roadblock (a roadblock of the roadblock, if you will). Then people poured out of their cars and swamped the tax-checkers. Bullhorns were produced. Radio and TV crews attended. Ferguson said that it was typical.
We left, headed over to the Museo de La Plata – one of the largest Natural History museums in South America, with over 2 million artifacts relating to the continent. It is a classic 19th century style museum, and in its heyday must have been quite the thing. While the collection is still very impressive, it is clear that the exhibits are badly dated and funds for upkeep have been lacking. Even so, it was worth wandering through, and is certainly still a major destination for area schoolchildren, who were thronging the place.
On our way back we took a slight detour through a riverfront/park area which Ferguson called ‘Puerto Sur’. I am not entirely sure where this area actually is, since I have been unable to find it online. Suffice it to say that it is one of the many neighborhoods of the city, not far from the city center and adjacent to the Rio Plata, which serves as something of a park and amusement area.
Got back to the hotel early afternoon. I dropped off my bag, and went out for a bit of a stroll, stopping at one of the little sidewalk places for something akin to an Argentine gyro – a wrap with some delicious strips of beef, a few veggies and a sauce thrown in for good measure. Swung back by the hotel and connected with a friend who was joining the tour a day late, due to airline hassles. Since Alix was not yet back from her rehearsals, the two of us went out again into the madness of the city – she wanted to see a bit of it, I wanted to pick up a small English-Spanish dictionary (I was already gaining some confidence with my survival Spanish, wanted more than the simple phrasebook I had could offer).
On both trips out encountered large, wandering protests – huge things which incorporated sound cars, puppets, kettle drums, banners, and no small number of Federal Police on the sidelines, keeping a close eye on developments. It was unclear exactly what was the focus of the protest was – there were banners and chants about the usual topics of internationalization, native people’s rights, farming, banking. This recent NPR news item talked about recent protests in Buenos Aires, so that may have been the catalyst for what I saw. Such street protests are part of the culture of Buenos Aires, and so long as things are peaceful, not to be missed. Of course, they can turn violent with little warning (to outsiders, anyway), so you take your chances. I kept my eye on the cops, and so long as they seemed calm, I wasn’t too worried.
Again returned to the hotel, and met up with Alix. Our friend ML decided to go clean up a bit, take a nap and unpack, so Alix and I went down to the “English Style Pub” (well, more or less . . .) in the hotel for drinks and to chat with other members of the tour. Discovered that service, as most things related to time/scheduling in Argentina, was very . . . um, casual. Relaxed. Unhurried. As noted on Wikitravel:
Time
Argentinians generally take a relaxed attitude towards time. This can be unsettling to visitors from North America and non-Latin parts of Europe where punctuality is highly valued. You should expect that your Argentine contacts will be at least 10 to 15 minutes late for any appointment. Tardiness of 30 to 45 minutes is not unusual. This is considered normal in Argentina and does not signify any lack of respect for the relationship. Of course, this does not apply to business meetings.
If you are invited to a dinner or party at, say 9 PM, it does not mean that you should be present at 9 PM, but instead that you should not arrive before 9 PM. You’ll be welcomed anytime afterwards. Arriving to a party 2-3 hours late is normally OK and sometimes expected.
This attitude extends to any scheduled activity in Argentina. Plays, concerts usually get going around half an hour after their scheduled times. Long distance buses leave on time. As in any busy city around the world, short-distance public transportation like city buses and the subway do not even bother with time estimates; they arrive when they arrive. Factor these elements into your calculations of how long things will take.
Unannounced bus or train departures ahead of the schedule are not uncommon, especially in big cities. This is normally not a problem, as in general no one will expect you to be on time anyway.
Yup, that’s about right. For someone such as myself who considers punctuality a sign of respect, it took some getting used to.
Eventually, ML joined us again, and we hooked up with another tour member to wander down the street to an Italian place which had a good reputation. As it was only 8:30 when we got there, the place was empty – but they were happy to seat us, and our waiter went out of his way to make us feel welcome. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever had, and we took a full two hours to enjoy it, the Argentina way. Antipasto, main meal, nice dessert, drinks and coffee – an excellent meal. All told, even with a generous gratuity, it came to about $27 per person – a meal I would easily expect to pay $100 per person for in the US, if I could find one of similar quality. Sated, we wandered back to the hotel and crashed.
Jim Downey
Part One: We many, we noisy many, we band of travelers.
In spite of the fact that all the prep went well, I should have known what was in store for me on the trip. Sorry – getting ahead of myself. So to speak.
The trip to Patagonia – my first real vacation in almost three years – was going to be something of a challenge. I knew this from the time I decided that I would go along with my wife on the tour. See, it was put together because of the choir she belongs to – it wasn’t something I particularly had ever wanted to do. But I decided to go. As I put it back in January:
You probably already know about the North American Welsh Choir tour to Patagonia next October. And you may know that in return for my wife coordinating all the reservations and money and whatnot on the Choir’s end, she is getting her cost of the trip offset (in full, it looks like). Just in the last few days I’ve decided that I am going to go along.
Yeah, surprises me a bit, as well. I have no desire to go to South America. I have never had any desire to go to South America.
But my MIL is going to die soon. And late this year I should have decompressed from that, and been working hard for months being a good little book conservator, maybe an author. It will be a good time to challenge myself in a new way, get out of my comfort zone. This tour will be a good opportunity to do that. Plus my wife and I haven’t had anything approaching a real vacation in a couple of years, and we didn’t do anything to celebrate our 20th anniversary last October. So, this will serve that purpose as well.
Boy, did it. You’ll see.
Anyway, as I said, our prep for the trip went well. By the time Tuesday, Oct. 14 rolled around, we were ready to go. We’d scaled back our packing for the trip considerably from previous trips overseas, and each of us had managed to get everything we wanted to take into one suitcase per person, under 13 kilograms (call it 29 pounds). This was necessary because during the tour we’d be flying on an internal Argentine airlines which had a strict weight limit of 15 kilos. We’d gathered together all the necessary documentation, stuff to read on long flights, et cetera, et cetera. Made arrangements to have the pets cared for in our absence, mail and newspapers brought in. Cleaned out the fridge, even washed the dishes so we weren’t faced with a mess when returning home.
So when the shuttle to take us to the airport arrived ten minutes early, it only caused a mild panic. We grabbed our bags, our coats, said goodbye to the dog, and left.
We got to the Kansas City airport, and went to the check-in counter. We had burned a bunch of frequent-flyer miles for an upgrade to business class for our flights, but wanted to see if we could take an earlier flight than originally scheduled from KC to Dallas. The check-in person was very helpful, and we managed it with no problems. Better to waste time in the Admiral’s Club in Dallas than worry about making our flight. This worked as planned.
When it came time for our flight to Buenos Aires that evening, we happily got on board and settled ourselves in the spacious seats in business class (which is effectively First Class on that flight – there’s only the one premium class). Flying in business class makes everything more pleasant, in terms of the space, the food, the entertainment. Too bad I spent a large chunk of the 11 hours in the head.
Yeah, some intestinal grunge. Traveler’s Disease, before I even got out of the country. In one of those itty-bitty aircraft toilets. Actually, in three of those itty-bitty aircraft toilets, depending on which one was available at the time. Almost as much fun as having that kind of problem when confined to a porta-potty.
And that’s what I meant when I said I should have known what was in store for me on this trip. No, I didn’t get another round of TD – I was fortunate in that regard. Rather, that nothing would work out as I had hoped, and too much time would be spent crowded, uncomfortable, in a noisy small space.
So, we got to Buenos Aires. Thanks to my Lonely Planet guide, I had a good idea about the layout of the airport, and where to find an ATM and a taxi to get us to our hotel. Alix (my nickname for my wife – most people know her as Martha) and I retrieved our bags, made the pro-forma pass through customs (it’s easy to get INTO Argentina), and met up with another member of the tour who had come in on the same flight. The three of us shared a taxi. Or, rather, I should say that we shared getting sheared by a couple of the local touts who arranged for a taxi for us.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad. I knew what the official rate was supposed to be (foreigners pay a significantly higher amount for taxis than do locals – they’re wonderfully upfront about how they are screwing you over in this way). The two kids who latched onto us and then “negotiated” with the taxi driver wound up getting about the same rate, with a surcharge for the extra person going to a slightly different location (her hotel was about a dozen blocks from ours). They got a kick-back from the driver, he got the fare in front of some other taxis, and we got to our hotel feeling only slightly fleeced. Everybody was happy.
The hotel is right downtown, in Buenos Aires’ business district. Actually, quite nice. A bit on the swank side. Since it was mid-morning, our rooms wouldn’t be ready for a while, but they were happy to stow our luggage for us until we could check in. Alix and I went for a bit of an exploratory walk around downtown.
OK, we’d been traveling for about 24 hours at that point, having lost a couple of hours due to time-change in going east. And I’d spent way too much time miserable, sitting in an airplane toilet. But still, Buenos Aires struck me as . . . well, alien. Not just “foreign”, as I might describe a large unknown city in Europe. More different than that. Even though porteños consider themselves to be essentially European, this was different than any city I’ve been in. Grungier. Horrid, horrid sidewalks (seriously – you could easily break an ankle if you didn’t pay close attention where you put your feet). A crush of humanity. Touts for every single business out in the streets and pedestrian walkways pushing flyers and business cards on you, trying to grab your attention (and sometimes you, physically) for the business they represented. Loud speakers blaring advertisiments and music. Lots and lots of glitzy, flashing, obnoxious signs. Honestly, it felt like Blade Runner, without the perpetual gritty rain.
I was happy to get back to the hotel after a couple of hours of that.
We sat in the lobby as others arrived. Alix, having helped arrange the trip on the choir side, knew a lot of the people by name at least – many were pleased to meet her in person. There was much chattering and going on back and forth. I mostly smiled and sat off to the side, out of the way.
Finally, we went on a tour of the city, previously arranged. Frankly, most of the people on our bus (myself included) were almost comatose at that point, and could really care less about the various important city monuments we passed – everyone was tired from travel, wanting to get into our rooms and get cleaned up before getting dinner. But we dutifully nodded at each landmark’s history, got off the bus to admire the pink government house and stare at the riot police lining up to stop one of the daily demonstrations in B.A. Best of all, when the bus returned to the hotel, our rooms were ready.
Nice room for us, generous by European standards, moderate by American. A change, a bit of a shower, rest a while. Several stations on cable in English, with Spanish subtitles. Met back downstairs early evening for the big opening night feast.
Our buses – gods, did I spend so much time on buses – were ready, and took the lot of us over to a nice fancy restaurant for dinner. A note on this – the restaurants in Buenos Aires, in all of Argentina in fact, don’t even *think* about opening for dinner until 8:30 or 9:00. No, I am not kidding – it is one of the most significant cultural differences between here and there. Dinner is eaten late, often as late as 11:00 or midnight. And they *always* take a couple of hours for a meal. Seriously. I grew to like the longer, relaxed pace for eating. I never did get used to the idea of eating a heavy meal so late.
Anyway, the restaurant was designed as their version of an “all you can eat” place. But with the twist that everything is made to order. Well, the entrees, anyway. The way it was done was that all around the perimeter were different “stations” – one was a custom pasta station, one a custom pizza station, one an Argentine barbeque/grill, one doing sushi, one doing custom crepes (with a double metric buttload of other desserts already waiting). There was also an established elaborate and extensive salad/antipasto bar. Everything was included in the meal, except for the drinks and tips for the chefs at the individual stations. (Prices are very cheap in Argentina at present – a quart bottle of decent domestic beer is about US $4 in a nice restaurant, and an acceptible tip is AR $2 (two pesos – about US 60 cents.) The domestic wines are quite good, though they tend toward a preponderence of red wines (Merlots in particular – what they call ‘Marbec’ in Argentina). But do not try the local distilled spirits. Really – just don’t.
We ate and drank ourselves stupid over the next couple of hours, and towards the end there were introductions of the various tour leaders, guides, and whatnot. Alix got a very nice round of applause from everyone for her work coordinating things. This made it easy for me to get along with everyone on the tour – all I had to do was explain that I was her husband, and I instantly had a niche. It was towards the end of the evening that two themes emerged in my awareness which were to dominate the entire tour: one, that I was with a large group (about 60) of extrovert musicians – and the other 60 or so people on the tour were likewise gregarious Welsh who love the sound of their own voice; and two, that in addition to the non-stop, high speed conversations taking place around me, these people know and love music. During the course of dinner the din of talking got to the point of almost being painful, making it impossible to hear what people across the table were trying to say to me. Then, at the end after all the introductions were over, they broke into song. Not just a half-hearted verse of “Happy Birthday”, either – this was a full-throated, trained choir which loves to sing, along with a large number of similarly inclined Welsh (who are happy to break into song at just about any excuse). Everyone stood, and they gave their first performance in Argentina to the other patrons and staff at the restaurant – who loved it!
We finally left the restaurant about 11:00 – just when the bulk of other patrons were starting to arrive. Back to the hotel and crash, hard. It’d been a long and eventful day.
Jim Downey
Got back from Patagonia this afternoon, after more than a day’s worth of steady travel. Lots to tell – good and bad, richer and poorer. Though overall very educational. I’ll be doing that over the coming weeks with a series of travelogues.
But for tonight, I need to work some to correct an imbalance in my scotch level – it had dropped to a dangerously low percentage of overall blood content. Scary stuff.
In the meantime, you can get some taste of the trip here.
Back soon.
Jim Downey
Filed under: Humor
While I am on vacation, I’m having some old posts from my archives queued up for your enjoyment. If you’re interested in following the progress of the tour, a friend of mine has set up a blog and the Choir will be posting pix and text as things go.
Jim Downey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim Downey and the Haunted House
We stood there on the corner, looking up at The House. Max, Marty, and me. It sat back from the street on a high corner lot, a classic Midwestern Victorian two-story, with a large porch that ran along two sides. The lot itself was landscaped in such a way that there was a steep hill of perhaps six feet, rising up from where we stood on the sidewalk on the downhill side. A set of concrete stairs cut up through the grass, a sidewalk leading from there to the front door.
“So, um, it’s haunted, right?” asked Max. He was tall and thin, as I was, but he had an athlete’s natural grace. I hated him for that since, at the same age of 14, I was nothing but clumsy. Max played basketball and ran cross-country. I think he still holds some of the school records to this day.
“Yeah, that’s what they say.”
“Someone got murdered in there a couple years ago,” said Marty. Marty, shorter and stockier than Max, had a stoner’s long hair in contrast to the latter’s crew cut. Marty was a little older than we were, and would be one of the first of my gang of friends to get his license. But he didn’t have it yet. He had played football in Junior High, didn’t think it was cool anymore and so wasn’t on the HS team.
It was a few days before Hallowe’en, a crisp Friday night perfect for going out and causing trouble. Which is what we had been up to. After a brief escorted visit to the police station (got picked up, cop thought he’d bring us in on suspicion of setting off fireworks but seeing where we didn’t have any . . .), we made our way to this supposedly haunted house near the old downtown area of our suburb, not too far from the defunct train station. The House had been vacant some years, and though someone kept the grass cut, the rest of the property had been neglected, most of the windows boarded up, the doors half off their hinges.
“Hey kid, c’mere,” I said, gesturing to a kid on a bike on the other side of the street, watching us.
“Uh-uh.”
“Nah, it’s OK, c’mere.”
The blonde-headed kid, about 10 years old, came across the street, but stopped a few yards from us. “Whatcha want?”
“This that house that guy got killed in?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s haunted.”
“What happened?” asked Max.
“They say some bikers cut this guy’s heart out.”
“Bullshit,” said Marty.
“No really. There’s a cold spot right where it happened. It’s back by the kitchen. You can feel it.”
“You been in there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, right,” said Marty. “Bet you’re just tellin’ us what others say.”
“Uh-uh. I been in there,” he said defiantly.
“What, you ain’t scared to go in there?” said Max, looking at The House with some apprehension. “Ain’t scared of ghosts?”
“I ain’t scared of no ghosts! Me and Billy went in there after school one day last week.”
“After school? Ghosts ain’t out durin’ the day. You gotta go at night to see ’em.” Marty laughed. “You are scared of goin’ in there when they ghosts are around.”
“I bet you’re scared t’ go in there right now,” said the kid.
“That’s what we’re here for, kid.” I looked to Max and Marty. “Right?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Max, still looking up at The House.
“Sure,” said Marty, looking at the kid.
I nodded, looked at the kid. “So, what’s it like inside, if you’ve been in there?”
“What’ll you give me?”
“I’ll give you a quarter.” I held up a quarter in the streetlight so he could see it.
He nodded. “It’s all tore up. Them bikers been livin’ in there again. They got mattresses on the floor, there ain’t no other furniture.”
“They in there now?” asked Max.
“I dunno. Ain’ seen no one in there lately.” He glanced up at the house. “But they might be.”
“Nah, there’s no lights on,” I said.
“There ain’ no ‘lectricity,” said the kid.
“Oh,” said Max.
“But they’d have candles or somethin’,” said Marty.
“Yeah, prob’ly,” I said. I turned to the kid. “Thanks, kid. Go on home.”
“Uh-uh. I’m gonna stay and see if you really go in.”
“Get outta here kid, it’s late. Your momma be lookin’ for you.
The kid was slowly backing away on his bike. “Nope. She’s at Bingo. My dad’s s’posed to be watchin’ me, but he’s playing poker with his friends.”
“Well, we don’ want no kid watchin’ us, so get outta here b’fore I give you a fat lip,” said Marty.
The kid kicked the bike into motion, started peddling, hollered “screw you!” over his shoulder as he rode away down the block, then stopped to watch us.
Marty looked up at the house again. “Uh, how’re we gonna look around if there’s no lights?”
I smiled, dug into a pocket, and pulled out a small plastic flashlight. “All set.”
“So, uh, you guys think this is smart?” asked Max. “What if there are still some . . . uh . . . bikers in there now?”
“Kid said there weren’t,” replied Marty. “Not that I believe the little prick.”
“I ain’t worried about bikers,” I said. I reached down and took the small spray can of Mace that I had clipped to the inside of my jeans cuff, held it up. “This’ll fix ’em.”
“Damn, where’d you get that?” asked Marty.
“My uncle. He’s got a bunch of ’em from when he did cable repair outside, for dogs ‘n stuff.”
“Wow,” said Max. “How come the cops didn’t find it?”
“All they asked was for us to turn out our pockets, lookin’ for firecrackers, right?”
“Oh yeah.”
I started up the stairs. When I got to the top I turned to look at the two of them. “You guys comin’, or are ya scared?”
“I ain’t scared,” said Marty, trying to look fierce. He started up the stairs.
Max just nodded & followed, face pale.
We went up the sidewalk slowly, looking around to see if anyone was watching us. Just the kid, from across the street, standing up on his bike to get a better look. As we got to the porch, I turned on the flashlight, shined it at the door. My friends were both just right behind me as I stepped up the couple of steps and crossed the porch to the door. For a moment we just stood there, looking at the old wooden door (the screen door was hanging off to the side, half crumpled and out of the way). I could feel my heart race.
“Um . . . maybe we should knock or something,” whispered Max.
Marty looked at Max like he’d lost his mind. “Knock? You kiddin’? That’ll just give the ghosts more time to get ready for us.”
I took a deep breath and grasped the doorknob, turning it and pushing the door open with a raspy squeal. Sticking my head in first, I shined the flashlight around, then turned to Max and Marty. “C’mon.”
I stepped into the room, flashlight shining dully. First thing I noticed was a strong smell of mustiness, of decay. The room looked the part, too, with pieces of broken furniture scattered about, carpet pulled up here and there, wallpaper sagging off the walls. I heard the sound of my two friends coming in the door behind me, the floor creaking under them. I turned to the left, to where a wide archway lead to another room. “This way.”
Max half-whispered, “Wait for us.”
The flashlight wasn’t very powerful, but as I walked into the second room I pointed it up at the ceiling, and a general illumination almost cut the gloom. This room was about as bad as the first room, with water stains visible on the walls, one window covered from outside with boards, the other obscured by heavy, rotting drapes which hung askew. “I guess who ever’s in here don’t want their lights to shine out.”
“Or they’re afraid of daylight,” said Marty.
“You mean, like vampires?” asked Max glancing into the dark areas nervously.
“No, dipshit, like junkies. Junkies can’t take bright light. Makes their eyes bleed or somethin’. Ever’body knows that,” answered Marty.
“Oh, right.”
“This place is pretty messed up,” I said, pushing a battered old chair out of the way, kicking a bag of trash and scattering its contents. There were several other half broken and abused chairs in the room, presenting an obstacle course we had to wind through.
“Let’s get outta here,” said Max, voice quaking.
“Gettin’ scared?” I turned, my flashlight hitting him and Marty right in the face.
Blinking and shielding his eyes, Marty growled. “Hey idiot, careful with the light.”
“Oh, sorry.” I headed across the room and towards another doorway. “C’mon, looks like the kitchen’s back this way.”
Marty and Max weren’t too far behind me, only a couple of paces, stumbling a bit over the busted chairs and trash as their eyes recovered. As I reached the doorway, a figure suddenly stepped from behind the wall. For a moment my flashlight slid across his chest, revealing wild eyes and long white hair on the hideous, twisted face of an old man. Then I screamed, dropping the flashlight as arms reached from the other side of the doorway grabbing me, pulling me through.
“RUN!” I hollered, as I flipped the cap on the can of Mace and found the spray button. Pointing it at the floor, I cut loose a blast as I saw Max and Marty turning and fleeing. Max, disoriented, the acrid smell of Mace in the air, the flashlight shining weirdly across the floor, only turned halfway and ran straight into the wall between the two windows, hitting it so solidly that the whole room shook. Marty, the former football player, was clearing a path through the chairs and junk, kicking stuff out of the way, body slamming the bigger pieces as though he was charging the line of an opposing team. He was making remarkable time, but even so Max, after having bounced off the wall, caught up with him and passed him before they reached the front door.
I screamed again, this time nothing more than an incoherent yell of fright and pain, and watched as my friends disappeared out the door.
“Man, that was great!” I said, my heart pounding, as I turned to look at my Uncle Don, who was peeling off the latex old-man mask. My Uncle Rich, who had been the one to snatch me into the other room, was leaning against the wall, laughing so hard he could barely stand.
Yeah, it was a scam. I’d set the whole thing up with my two uncles the night before. The kid on the bike was my cousin. Don had this scary mask, and I knew exactly where he and Rich would be stationed. Even being picked up by the cops earlier in the night had been arranged with a buddy who was on the force, in order to keep my two friends off balance and on edge.
I ran to the door, intent on calling Max and Marty back, letting them in on the joke. As I got to the door I saw Max, runner that he was, well in front of Marty, bookin’ for home with such speed that he cleared the limit of the front lawn where it dropped 6′ down to the street level, and didn’t just go down the hill but ran out into empty space like some cartoon character, legs pumping and arms flailing . . .
– 30 –
Communion Of Dreams 