insomnia is a gift

post christmas, pre new year's thoughts (written post-new yearsly, of course)

2011-01-06T14:56:00.001-05:00

On the Tuesday after Christmas, I made my way over to Park City Mall in Lancaster, PA in search of a new winter cap (which was never to be found), nevertheless, some thoughts:

Is it a more grievous sin to shop at American Eagle and spend $52 on two flannel shirts or to buy something from the "Christian" bookseller across the parking lot which features titles by guys named Osteen and Hagee which are borderline, if not outright heresy? (Not to mention the two aisles of mind porn they sell to young Christian girls under the guise of Christian Romance; mind you, this would be the equivalent of selling Naughty Girls of the Bible swimsuit-style calendars to 13 year old boys).
Tweens give me anxiety. High School teachers have my utmost respect.
I love seeing Mennonites at the mall.
Mall parking lots are constructed with the intent to confuse.
How telling is it that I went to the Christian bookseller with the intent to purchase a commentary on Jeremiah and the only Old Testament commentaries they had were on Genesis, Psalms, Proverbs, Isaiah and Daniel. This says alot about evangelical theology -- they love to argue creation/evolution (Genesis), talk about the end times (Isaiah/Daniel) and the Psalms/Proverbs are the easiest OT books to actually read. Sad.

a wedding image

2009-07-12T20:45:00.001-04:00

norman + lorraine take a holiday at the beach

2009-06-24T09:28:00.006-04:00

images from 22 June 2009.
styling: melissachoi.
photos: davidschrott.
the entire series here (follow norman+lorraine link): davidschrott.com

The Beautiful Highway (Thank You Dwight D. Eisenhower)

2009-06-11T23:50:00.007-04:00

Your color is black and gold (with white trim); the perfect colour combination as anyone with any sort of intelligence knows. Most lust after women in short skirts, I desire your satin asphalt and smooth curves taken at seventy-five miles per hour.

They say that smell is the sense most tied to memory, but two nights ago those twelve ounces of Wawa coffee (coupled with free literature in the restroom) with hazelnut creamer put these thoughts back to I-70 West (circa 2006). Substitute the Zero for a Six and those fifteen miles at midnight aren't so bad. In fact, they move rather fast and soon another Six is added to the sentence.

Columbus (not Ohio). Almost home.

It's been five seasons since a pass through the 614 has been made. Damn, it's got a pretty skyline, especially in the rearview at the golden hour. Jason Lytle would be proud. He's making music again, you know, but without the Grandaddy moniker.

He was the soundtrack of October Oh-Five as the Volkswagen and I glided across the red Kansas flat-hills; this time at one hundred plus, though it only felt like fifty-five. They say the fines aren't as bad out there. We weren't worried because points don't carry over to Pennsylvania.

You know, there's a Manhattan out here too?

You don't say?

516 days ago, I left for Pittsburgh (2.17.07-8.17.08)

2008-08-18T12:30:00.003-04:00

From a Hotel Room in Springfield, VA

2008-08-15T19:49:00.004-04:00

Pittsburgh. Washington D.C. Richmond.

Pgh. DC. RVA.

The Interstates with odd numbers go North-South. The Interstates with even numbers go East-West.

279, 79, 70, 70/76, 70, 270, 495, 95.

327 cigarettes for the year, none on this trip, none in a long time.

On the third trip to Bloomington (East) we left early. It was the Friday after the breakup, the first Friday of that September, it was cold out, American Idiot thumped thru the speakers and the sun was yet to rise. It snuck up sometime before Exit 31 on I-70 West where we got off and found a Sheetz. The sweatpants were blue and the hoodie was Ferret. A pack of Camel Silvers, Please.

This is so disgusting. I know. Why do we do it? I don't know. Me either.

Near 312, on College Ave, at the corner of 15th there's a place called Big Red. The brews are from all over. How about Red Stripe? Sounds good. How many can we put down before the game? Who cares; Let's go.

It's 5am on Saturday morning, the 10th. Up already? Yeah, if we leave now, we can make it to Sarah's game in Pittsburgh.

There's the sun, slow down a bit, I'm gonna pop outta the sunroof and take a shot of it. Look at it, it's a pink disc, just floating... Crap, there's a cop; We were flying.... We'll never make it to Pittsburgh on time now.

Salinger kept us company on the final leg as we wound thru the soon-to-be-orange-yellow-and-red-tipped mountains of Western Pennsylvania. It was hot but as the Pink Disc continued it's west-ward nose-dive the temperature fell with it and the heater was on before dark.

Tim called. Call him back; you should go over to his house to-night....

More People Got Married

2008-08-10T14:25:00.002-04:00

It Looks Better Without You

2008-05-20T19:37:00.003-04:00

Iowa 08 (The Long Road Home {Minonk, IL and Dunkin' Donuts})

2008-04-30T15:12:00.002-04:00

Every town should have a Dunkin' Donuts (Pittsburgh closed their downtown location and Richmond doesn't even have one -- WHAT?!). If you don't have the luxury of a Prince Street Cafe (and there is only one), Dunkin' Donuts (hereafter DD), is your next best option (sorry Southern friends, Krispy Kreme doesn't quite cut it and is one K short of offensive).

From Bloomington-Normal (once you've gathered your morning coffee) the Veterans Parkway, I-55 South and, I-39 North take you to Minonk, home of the Patriot Diner and all-things small-town-middle-America. Jeri-Lynn keeps the history books (at least in her own mind) and Mr. Jacick keeps you company. One is amenable to being photographed and the other, not-so-much.

The Land of Lincoln is an interesting (poor word choice) place and even two days from May, sleet and snow might fall. The old men grow restless as premium-planting season is seemingly passed by a second year in a row. No one will be taking 66-west though; this is not the dust bowl, it is quite the opposite: precipitation prevails.

The Regulars sit around the Round-Table in the Patriot and Russ prepares meals in mere minutes, keeping his customers happy (all but Jerri-Lynn, of course) and in-and-out in under thirty. There's a new place opening down the street and Russ is a little more than peeved; "It won't last a week", he says. No one really knows quite yet, let's hope for his sake he's right.

The sun is out and up and down again, bringing more sleet, rain and snow which finally give way to cottony-blue clouds and whipping winds along the now sun-splashed plains of central-Illinois. The green is out and as we all know, green is the colour of life, and no matter what these blustery late-April temperatures tell us, spring is here.

Iowa 08 (Day 5 {The Mother Road})

2008-04-24T22:52:00.010-04:00

McLean. Atlanta. Lawndale. Lincoln.

These are the dots that are connected by the line that is Route 66; just south of Bloomington-Normal, home of State Farm Insurance, and a Dunkin Donuts, complete with a man named Gene, right around the corner. In Thirty-Eight, it was the very first completely-paved US Highway while it stretched (and still does) from Chicago to Los Angeles. To-day, it is overcast, mostly barren and still paved, but replaced by the Eisenhower Interstate System of '56 which I-55 bears witness to as it runs parallel to much of the Mother Road through Central-Illinois.

Bloomington-Normal is a funny place, there is so much history here (and nearby) but much of it is by-passed for manufactured strip after strip of stores and identical house after identical house, plopped right down in the heart of the Illinois farm-country; a city raised out of nothing. There is no surrounding body of water that would facilitate life in days gone by, yet the need to settle here was clearly of utmost importance.

"Subdue the Earth", God said. Even the American Midwest and a town called ~~Perfect~~ Normal.

Hope is a beautiful thing. So beautiful that just a few chapters of it read out loud can bring (mostly) grown men to tears. On that day, when all is made new, when we really do finally get that everything was made for our losing, and for no reason other than that, on that day there will be the justice that we all scream at different volumes for, on that day, on that very day the sharp focus that is reality will veil Itself no more. It is on that day that we bank.

Literally and figuratively. Let us smile in that.

Coffee Count: Week: 112 + To-day (40) = 152oz.

Iowa 08 (Days 3 + 4 {Tom Raper, I miss you}).

2008-04-23T23:36:00.005-04:00

There's something bizarrely therapeutic about waking up on spring and summer mornings in a big city - that blue morning light pouring itself all over the cool concrete masses is a wonder to wake up to. Waking up in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia is a distinctly different experience than waking up Richmond; size matters.

A major critique of Richmond (thus far) is the lack of quality coffeeshops and diners. Captain Buzzy's pours the best cup in the River City but anything else is a distant second, and all over the city, coffeeshop atmosphere is severely lacking. On the corner of Buena Vista and Jacksonia, in the beautiful War Streets (on Pittsburgh's North Side) sits Beleza. Most of my free time in Pittsburgh is spent there - pouring over photographs or the deep nuances of Christian doctrine. The coffee has slowly grown on me and ever since Wednesday, October Tenth of last year, I cannot help but buy one of the stunning cinnamon rolls for a scant two dollars; it's pastry perfection.

The Pittsburgh Pirates have not won more than 79 games since the 1992 season and we (foolishly) thought that perhaps this was the year that they'd arise victorious in just 82 of the 162 total contests, but, even though the season is young, this trend does not appear to be in any danger and soon the Pittsburgh base-ball club will have set a record for seasonal futility (16 losing seasons and counting). Instead of handing over hard-earned currency to see the beloved Buccos finally win for the first time in a week, we opted to stay in, eat vegetarian and sip some of the best Pennsylvania micro-brew. A better decision could not have been made.

There is Bloomington (east) and Bloomington-Normal. One lies at the heart of Hoosier-land and the other just south of Chicago-land. The latter lies 546.8 miles from Pittsburgh and despite stops in Farmer City to re-photograph old landmarks of past trips through the land of the Illini, one can reach the first home of Photography Legend Ralph Meatyard at an average speed of sixty-two-point-five miles-per-hour.

That's 7.50pm central time.

Iowa 08 (Day 2, Monday)

2008-04-22T11:29:00.003-04:00

Spring mornings in Pittsburgh are new-earthly (when the new Jerusalem comes, I swear it will be a mix of {mostly}-Lancaster and Pittsburgh). As the golden sunlight crisply streaks through the morning fog and lands on the Allegheny, then the Ohio, then the Mon, the city hums to life. It's not too cold, not too hot and the green is beginning to show its shy face on the newly budded trees. Spirits are high and not because the Pirates' season has just gotten underway - the city has awoken from its grey slumber.

There is even more excitement in the city this spring, for this is the first time in anyone's memory that a Presidential Primary has actually meant something in the state of Pennsylvania. Bill and Hilary were in Market Square at lunch-time; Obama held a rally here. Obama seems to be everywhere, even on Sara Buss' bumper-sticker.

Sara Buss is a lawyer from downtown who spent a month in Latvia earlier this year teaching Latvian students the basics of the American Law System. During her month there, she kept a journal which is being published in Pittsburgh Professional Magazine (accompanied by my photographs of her). The weather was typical Pittsburgh-April: beautiful, streaky sun in the morning followed by a mostly cloudy afternoon; a little chilly. All things were go until we were reprimanded for attempting to make her Portrait in the Rotunda of the Amtrak station (that wouldn't have happened in Lancaster). Fortunately, the garden on the corner of 11th and Liberty and the thick layer of clouds provided us with their own photographic-covenant of blessing.

Coffee Count: 32oz/64 cumulative/12 on the floor of my car.

Iowa 08 (1)

2008-04-21T09:24:00.008-04:00

4.37 pm, Richmond, Virginia.
Trip: 0.0 Miles.

It had been raining off and on all day, so hard, in fact, that it woke me up at 7.26 - thirty-four minutes before my alarm was set to go off. From under my pillow the text message alert goes off. "Robert Greene", I thought to myself. I pull the phone out from under the pillow, check the time (7.41) and click the SHOW button: "Thanks...as soon as you can would be great". That means most of our core members are already (or will be soon) at Holton, setting up, even though the service doesn't start til ten.

"Why'd I go to Third Street last night? I'd be less tired if I didn't go. Stupid Third Street. I don't even like that place and I always get talked into going....".

Thirty-Eight minutes later, I was out the door and into the driving April rain.

Gas seems to go up about a nickel every other day or so. Remember back in the 90s when a penny every two weeks was a big deal? Remember when gas was eighty-eight cents? Remember when you could fill up for under ten dollars? In college we complained because a dollar-forty-nine was pricey and seventeen dollars was way too much to pay for gas. Three-thirty-nine-and-nine-tenths. That's what gas was on the corner of 17th and East Broad yesterday. That's $33.75 for just about 9.9 gallons. Nine-point-nine gallons won't even get you to Pittsburgh, a scant 352.0 miles away. Good thing I got a fourteen gallon tank.

At 7.45 pm I-270 merges into I-70 West to the tune of Mr. Brightside. On August 24, 2007 I made the opposite merge (and for the very first time) to something Smashing Pumpkins. This was new territory: I-270, I-495. I felt like Magellan.

Interstate 70 is my home. It merges with the Pennsylvania Turn Pike at exit 162 and from there you can go all the way to Cove Fort, Utah. It's 220 miles through Ohio and 156 through Indiana. At exit 90 in Indiana you can catch the Indianapolis Beltway (465) and connect to Indiana Route 37 at Harding Street. Follow 37-South for about forty-five miles and you've just landed in Bloomington - the home of Big Red and John Cougar. On 15th street there is a little white house with the number 312 on it. All Midwestern adventures are locus here.

Seven dollars and just about two hours gets you from Breezewood to Allegheny Valley. The Pittsburgh skyline never ceases to be so stunning, just as I wrote several years ago. Take 28-South along the Allegheny and you'll nestle through the hills of Blawnox, Fox Chapel, Sharpsburg (home of Pittsburgh's Top Chef) and Millvale. To the left, across the 40th Street Bridge, is Lawrenceville and just beyond that, Bloomfield, hipster-haven. Twenty-Eight winds its way into the North Shore; Beautiful PNC Park and Heinz Field (home of everyone's favorite football team) lie to the left. Look for 19/65-North and take the Marshall Street Exit. Here you'll find Marshall-Shadeland: three-hundred-fifty-two miles and thirty-two ounces of coffee from Church Hill.

11.09 pm, Pittsburgh, Pennsyvlvania.
Trip: 352.o Miles.
Tolls: $7.
Coffee: 32oz.

pittsburgh, then lancaster (my reprieve)

2008-03-18T09:38:00.006-04:00

life is so strange. i'm here. i'm there. i'm not quite everywhere.

richmond. pittsburgh. lancaster. richmond.

there are those places in life that you go and you always feel like you've never quite left and the coffeeshop on the corner of buena vista and jacksonia in the war streets is one of them. everything rushes into your head and it wasn't so long ago that i prepared for richmond trip number three by coming in here on a wednesday night in october and ordered my very first cinnamon roll. it's rare to come in here now and not order one. my sticky, empty plate would concur.

the bloomington bagel company is one of those other places and, quite sadly, i do not know if that is a place we'll ever return to...

your face is looking long (9.7.2007)

2008-03-07T08:40:00.007-05:00

These shadows from Sarah are taking a toll on me.
These shadows from Sarah are getting a hold of me.
When I look into ya' you're just like another human being -
without paint or walls - let's just forget about it -
yeah, baby - let's just forget about it

two weeks ago it was so damn hot; ninety-plus while we built the bleachers and one-hundred-and-four in richmond. but it's september now, you can feel the chill in the air and the sickness in your bones (here comes a cold). it's still summer but it feels like fall and the days are getting noticeably shorter. snow will be arriving here in pittsburgh before you can...

"there's a house party to-night in mars, are you coming?"

Sarah - what's taking you so long?
Oh Sarah - did we go somewhere wrong?
Oh Sarah - the years drag on and on -
without paint or walls - let's just forget about it -
yeah, baby - let's just forget about it

Let's forget about it all

"yeah, i'll be there, do you wanna go to-gether?"

"sure. i'll pick you up at your place, what's your address again?"

"one-oh-one forty-fourth street. i'm not feeling well though, i'm pretty medicated but i may wanna dip out early, is that okay?"

"yeah, i'm a little tired myself."

These shadows from Sarah are taking a toll on me.
These shadows from Sarah are starting to roll all over me
When I look into ya' - it's like you're drowning in a sea -
full of paint and walls - let's just forget about it -
yeah, baby - let's just forget about it

"i can't believe you know my grandmother. my great-grandmother. this is insane. and she babysat you!"

"small world isn't it?"

"sure is. this just blows me away. we had to have hung out when we were kids. i'm sure of it."

"i wouldn't be surprised..."

Sarah - what's taking you so long?
Oh Sarah - we can't tell right from wrong
Oh Sarah - these nights are getting long
without paint or walls - let's just forget about it -
yeah, baby - let's just forget about it

you know, a couple a weeks ago, i wasn't so sure about her. it was hot out and she was kinda sweaty, i didn't figure i'd see her much after that day but after fourteen and a half hours something kinda changed, you know? you don't spend that much time with someone you're completely indifferent about, but even now it's a few weeks later and my summer crush on jessica is still lingering and it seems like her little crush on gabe is a little more than she once claimed it was. but this one, she's something else. i think i could really really like her. how often do you have conversation that is that electric...?

i wonder what she's doing right now? i bet she'd like this basement show....

Sarah - did we go somewhere wrong?

Oh Sarah - your face is looking long
Oh Sarah - these years drag on and on-
without paint or walls - let's just forget about it -
yeah, baby - let's just forget about it all

why do i feel so awful? i can't be getting sick now, the first steelers game is on sunday. and and and and and. ugh. stacy, let's go home. i'm sorry to ask you so early but i feel like total crap. i thought i could stick it out a little longer but it doesn't look that way now...

yeah, baby - let's just forget about it all...

the natural is on demand to-night. i've not seen that movie since i was ten or eleven. it'd be a good one to fall asleep to.

where's my nyquill?

Chapter One: Made in the 80s (part a)

2008-02-24T19:55:00.002-05:00

I wear this shirt that I bought in Bloomington (I told you, the world revolves around this place!) in October of 2005 (the 9^th to be precise) that says “MADE IN THE 80S”; [To be fair, I should note that there are two Bloomingtons that I am familiar with – one in Indiana, home of the Hoosiers and John Mellencamp, and the other in central-Illinois, hereafter referred to as Bloomington-West, B-town-West, Bloomington-Normal, or simply B-N; birthplace of legendary Zen-Photographer Ralph Eugene Meatyard. Any other mention of Bloomington will always refer to the former home of Bobby Knight and Big Red]. Tim Hoiland (hereafter referred to as Mr. H, TJH, or Timmy J) calls me a liar when I wear this shirt. He is right. I was born in 1980 (June) thereby placing my conception at sometime around late August or early September of 1979, clearly the 70s, but this reasoning can be taken much, much further.

1980 is technically the last year of the Seventies. Before you fight me on this let me explain. Remember in 1999 when everyone (it seemed) was questioning whether it was 2000 or 2001 that began the new Millennium? Well, most decided that since counting numbers begin with one and end with zero that it was 2001 that was the official beginning of the 21^st Century. So, if we are to follow this logic then we must accept 1980 as the last year of the 70s, 70 of the 60s, 60 of the 50s and by now you clearly get the point: I should probably stop wearing that shirt.

1979 was a great year for Pittsburgh sports and as western Pennsylvanians we take great pride in our Steelers and (sometimes) our Pirates - but not since at least 1992 (and yes, Steroid-Freak Barry Bonds is to blame for not throwing out Sid Bream at home). To know that I was floating around in my mother’s womb while the “We Are A Fam-I-Leee” Pirates were popping the champagne on their second World Series of the decade and the Steelers were pummeling the American Football Conference on their way to a 14-2 mark and a then-record fourth Super Bowl victory makes me giggle with glee. Honestly, who could ask for more? Well, other than to actually witness these events, I can’t think of anyone born into a more royal heritage, unless you could perhaps claim to be a direct descendant of William the Conqueror, something else I can lay claim to (at least according to the sketchy research of a White-Supremacist-Now-Deceased-Uncle).

Schrott, as I found out during my Senior year in high school, is German meaning ‘scrap metal’. Do a google image search and you’ll find countless images of all sorts of different metal items from various junkyards and a few images of the most famous Schrott, Erwin. I really have not been able to pin-point the exact origin of our last name (though I’ve never really looked) but a friend of mine in college told me that it probably meant we were blacksmiths that made armor and swords (furthering the William the Conqueror legend, at least in my own mind) and so for now, we’ll leave it at that. There’s also a bit of legend floating around (that I am guilty of starting) that we are of some Jewish descent (I really want to tap into this idea of Royal Lineage).

I’ve lost the emails by now, but sometime in late 2006 or early 2007 I received an email from a man by the name of Ivan Roth. Ivan lives in Los Angeles, but grew up in Philadelphia and his grandfather emigrated through Ellis Island and to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Well so what?, You might be asking. Well, Ivan’s grandfather’s original last name was Schrott and for some reason was changed when he emigrated into the States. They were of eastern European descent (I want to say Russia, but I don’t have the email to verify) and were Jewish potato farmers. I/we think there’s a loose connection to his family and mine, and though I/we cannot verify it, I still tell people we have some blood of Father Abraham in us.

On Good Friday of 2007, two of my sisters and I paid a visit to our grandfather-Schrott and for the first time in my almost twenty-seven years I got a bit of a family history lesson. Sometime around 1890 Frank Schrott came to the United States from Austria and settled in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. He married Bertha Heinrich (also of Austrian descent) and in 1906, they had a son named Francis Ernest Schrott who married the German-American Catherine Almelda Bettes (b. 1909) who to-gether produced my grandfather, Francis Karl Schrott, on December 1, 1928. My grandfather married Anna Ramach, a Czechoslovakian through and through (she literally came over on a boat as a child), thereby making my four siblings and me twenty-five-percent Czech. We talk this up like it’s a big deal (at least I do). We’re/I’m not sure why – perhaps I am prone to making bold statements about nothing.

My parents have quite interesting stories themselves (probably much more so than the two paragraphs you just read) and I wonder about the worth of even including stories of car-chases, gun-fights, and six-foot marijuana plants that grew in our backyard. For now I’ll leave those very stories to rest, you wouldn’t believe them anyways. And if you are really that curious and want further details I’ll leave you to contacting my father (and you’re very much on your own in finding his contact info).

who will deliver me from this body of death?

2008-01-01T20:31:00.000-05:00

"hi dave. john esh. meadowbrook builders..."

11.53am | 1.1.08 | strasburg, pennsylvania

"is dad here yet? no. call him. i don't know what to do at an amish funeral. we should wait til he gets here and all go in to-gether."

"he's just over the hill. he'll be here in a minute or two."

"...i've got a house that needs drywalled..."

we were greeted at the back door by levi -- dressed to the nines. he looked good, especially for an amish-man. they sure can do it up when they wanna. he shook dad's hand first, then me, then seth. i've never seen him so serious.

they exchanged a few words about john. dad said something about john and about this being the third friend he's had die since the twenty-third. the conversation felt hollow. what can you say to those currently walking in a shadow that that sweeps out the sun?

death sure can render words damn near useless.

"...do you think you can start that job next week...?"

the amish do everything differently. we already knew that, but this was so out of the ordinary (though what do i know of ordinary? the last funeral i'd been to was in nineteen-ninety). the door was shut and we were taken in by a fellow contractor. he did flooring. he said we looked familiar.

the room was cold and the sky blue walls offered color better suited for a baby boy's new bedroom rather than a viewing parlor. the casket was beautifully hand-crafted pine, stained a dark brown and a white cloth covered up the far end. the cloth was pulled back and tears began to well as we all bowed our heads. death does strange things to a body. the builder i ran into from time to time growing up and who put more money in my bank account than i can count lie there looking like an exhibit from a wax museum. there was no color in his face, only a waxy yellow complexion remained. his hair looked like wire and i wondered how this used to be alive.

the rest of the room was mostly empty. there was some dried up mud on the floor and a small end table in the corner with a hair comb and a box of matches sitting on it. the blinds weren't pulled and sunlight streamed in, lighting up the lamp-less room. some birds chirped in the warmish january air just outside while an older amish fellow walked by the window.

"...it's down route thirty, towards downingtown..."

john's eldest son benuel took us into the kitchen and jonas (his younger brother) was there sitting next to susie, now john's widow. i can't remember meeting her before, though i'm sure i had. every fall we attended john's big end of the summer party where we had fried chicken and played volleyball and quaits. the rest of the kitchen and living area was full of friends and family, by this time entirely amish. i'd never seen such a happy people so solemn in all my life. they are typically such a jovial and easy-going people and to see them in a state of mourning felt like a living, breathing oxy-moron.

"...it's a basement with nine-foot ceilings."

susie, benuel and jonas bid us farewell and thanked us for stopping by. only sixteen minutes had passed since we first got out of the car. there is something oddly peculiar about life that i can't quite make sense of; there is something equally peculiar about the finality of death....

my mind wanders and i think back to the middle of the summer. in consecutive weeks i read books both dealing with death (from entirely different perspectives) and now, as i/we inch/race towards it ourselves, i realize that there are five of us -- and two parents. someday not so far in the future, only one will remain, having buried the other six.

i pray hard for the one who will have to bear such a burden alone.

the rocking horse winner (misses you)

2007-12-26T01:47:00.000-05:00

"at one a.m. i am home writing you..."

i should put my sweatpants on. it's really hard to type wearing jeans (unless they're the kind with lots of holes in them; so many holes, in fact, that you have to wear pajama pants underneath just to remain decent). do you think i could ever work in a cube? i fantasize about it. almost daily. would they let me wear my sweatpants in a cube? would they be okay seeing my tattoos? whirl wasn't and i didn't even breathe on, in, or near their cubes.

"with only five hours away from here..."

we saw the rocking horse winner in two-thousand-three. do you remember? it was ninety-plus in the basement of the church and just under fifteen outside and the snow was falling when we came out in our sweat-soaked t-shirts. we shivered (convulsed) the whole way back; at least we found a close parking space, you know? that guy from between the buried and me came along and we didn't know him and it was awkward and we tried to make the best of it even though we knew his motives were everything short of honorable. didn't he come from jersey? figures.

"and a trip i'm looking forward to..."

just a glimpse of that photo starts my head into straight stupidness. have you ever felt a jackhammer pound on your chest, just to the left of center? it'll kill ya if you don't stop it soon enough. too late. union workers are brutal guys and he's not about to shut that thing off; not until his ten o'clock break, at least. my knees have already buckled and it'll take more than dr. andrews to make this right. the blue planet's archeress,...? maybe. but she don't got a scalpel, only a quiver of (bloody) arrows.

"that morning i woke up on sunday...."

it was bright but cold inside. good thing for double fleece blankets, you know? we should bake some cookies to-day. it'll warm the first floor up and it'll pass the sunday afternoon since the steelers have a bye. can you believe it's this cold in october? i think it's gonna snow this afternoon. did you make it back from d.c. okay? you didn't play at the 9:30 club, did you? did you hear? there's an interview with joel osteen on tv to-night. we should probably watch that.

"next to tree tops, off of orange (st.) across the way..."

have you ever had such amazing chocolate in all of your life? this coffee's not bad either. it was cold this morning but it's so lovely out this afternoon. are you ready for fall? i sure am. but middle age turns old man pretty quick, at least in the rust-belt, and he'll be blowing the icy smoke out of his stinky cigar really really soon. we'll definitely see snow before thanksgiving.

but that's okay, we've got plenty of couches to burn.

happy Christ-mas (you just punched Jesus in the face!!!)

2007-12-25T16:10:00.000-05:00

"o holy night, the stars are brightly shining..."

every year begins and ends with christmas (does that last week of the year really even count?). it's funny, you know, how you grow up and get older and move away, and then back, and then away again and the gift ~~giving~~(receiving) is a little less important than in nineteen-ninety-seven when you got that canon rebel and walked across the street and stood in the hay pasture where (and took a photo of the mansion), nine years later, you'd photograph john reuben. that was a long time ago, you know? but it sure doesn't seem like it.

"behold your king! before him, lowly bend..."

to-morrow is christmas. to-morrow is christmas! to-morrow is christmas!!! ohmygoshiwonderwhatigot!?! i really hope it's a sega. i love sega. i love sega! i love sega!!! i think it's a sega; i really really do! we went to the video store to rent a movie and i saw that there were sega games rented out on our account (i was so smart to look at the computer screen!). i can't believe i'm gonna have a sega! a sega!!! but to-morrow is sunday and how can christmas be fun when it's on a sunday? - we'll have to go to church and i won't get to play the sega. i really hope it's a sega. i'm gonna play it allllll day long.

"fall on your knees, o hear the angel voices..."

we can't go that way. if we take that road home, it won't be christmas! we always go the other way. and then we stop at turkey hill and get coffee. remember? we've done it that way since ninety-nine. please turn around and go the other way. i'd really appreciate it. then we'll get coffee and it will be christmas. it will be christmas. then we'll take the tree outta the truck bed and put the colored lights on it and all will be right in the world. orphans will sing and widows will shout in praise of our commitment to our christmas tradition. you know they won't like it if we do it any other way. i promise.

"christ is the lord! o praise his name forever...!"

last night you found it hard acquainting yourself with sleep; even to the soothing sounds of sigur ros. two a.m., already?! i wish i could breathe. why's my nose all stuffed up? i'm not even sick. it's dark and warm down here and christmas number twenty-eight (twenty-nine if you count my time in the womb) is just a few hours away. actually, it's already here, that text message at one a.m. proved it. and why does everyone send out texts on christmas? (and easter and the fourth and thanksgiving and flag day and and and...) that costs me fifteen cents, you know? well, not until i go over two-hundred for the month, but i'm getting close. i can breathe again. there's light streaming in from the basement and i smell coffee. it's morning. it's christmas morning and it's not like nineteen-ninety-seven anymore. that coffee's being made for me.

not the other way around.

happy winter solstice ( spring is only ninety one days away)

2007-12-23T00:22:00.000-05:00

the days are getting longer now, you know. we're creeping up on summer but it's hell and back til we get there. january's rough and february's a rapist. so is the crimson archer, he and all of his arrows dipped in blood. he's no innocent, i'll tell you. march pleads insane and can't seem to make up her mind, seventy one day and snow the next. with april comes the past-time and sunnier skies lie ahead....

you see the daffodils? they always show up in the driveway by easter. doesn't it make you smile? they're the first green of the year. green is the color of life, you know. from death comes life. from death comes life. rejoice, my dear, you have no idea what this means. not even a clue. but smile with me. take my hand. we'll enjoy the warmth and the green to-day. it might not be here to-morrow, you know. fret not for to-morrow, for to-day has enough worries of its own.

enjoy your worries.

you may never have them again.

when snow comes to the angry city, peace resides. everyone slows to a gentile pace and when the fog comes, the city breathes. it's heavy breathing, you know, the kind right before you fall into the coffin of deep slumber but aren't quite there; it's more than sleeping but not quite dying. it's beautiful. in fact, beautiful's not even the word. how about: bella. the angry city is bella to-day. but only for a few hours. soon the dirt from the autos will stain the satin white blanket and, kicked around by restless slumber, wrinkles will form everywhere. you know, the kind of wrinkles you can't iron out. not even with a steamer.

lucy'd be upset.

but to-day is the solstice. we're three days from christmas and the summer sheets still haven't been packed away; you can still see the dead brown dirt. the white satin blanket only comes out when it gets really cold. here we cover up with the summer sheets more than we'd like, even after the solstice. the coal stoves keep us warm and, for now, that is all we need. the green will be here before you know it.

and so will you.

c'mon. take my hand, the grass is soft. so is the sunlight. take off your shoes, we'll go barefoot for a while, but only a little while, i can't stand it longer than that. can you believe it's been ninety-one days already? never thought the old man would die, but he did. just like last year.

sometimes you just have to hold the pillow over his face longer than is comfortable.

the restart: like a nintendo entertainment system (1985)

2007-12-22T16:40:00.000-05:00

blow on it. blow a little softer and a little warmer. click the game in right along the edge. push it softly. it should start now. did it work? try again. make sure the edge of the game fits just inside of the tray. let it catch on the way down. that always works. did it? try blowing again. a little softer this time. keep trying. it'll work eventually. you just gotta be patient. it's frustrating, you know? but keep at it. time spent with mario will be worth it.

"why not? what's a year or two or even three more? two-thousand-three will be here before you know it."

"yeah, but that's so far away. two-thousand-three?! i'll turn tweny-three just after graduation. i can't even fathom three more years. that's a....lifetime."

"almost."

the game was a breeze until sometime in the middle of world three. that last ship and the koopa at the end was absolute murder. it was tough to get at him even with a p-wing. a p-wing! with those things you're practically invincible.

"pittsburgh?! why would you wanna move here? it's a tough market here. i'll give ya as much work as i can, but pittsburgh? i don't know why you'd wanna come here."

"well, it's a long story, but i'll appreciate the work. thanks for your time."

it's impossible to beat this game, you know? been playing it since, what?, '91 and we've never beaten it. the japanese made these games just too damn hard. what were they thinking? they just never realized we were no where near as smart as them, i suppose. it's my favorite nintendo game there is, but, even still, it goes off after about an hour. that might get you thru the sand world. maybe. if you're fast and don't warp at all. those little beetles at the end are really annoying and so are the ghosts.

"wanna play tetris?"

"i once made over two-hundred lines."

madcap masquerade (where was mercutio?)

2007-10-29T09:12:00.000-04:00

bella.

gagging on stale morning air (in praise of the nightmare)

2007-10-20T09:25:00.000-04:00

thank you: the two words you spoke audibly after this morning's nightmare to which you woke up, just as the sun began to rise behind those typical three-rivers clouds.

earlier, it was raining hard, and you got up to shut the window and pull your bible off of the window-sil so that it wouldn't get wet. it was still dark out, but not nighttime dark. you know, the kinda dark that it gets just before it gets light. dark, but not dark. light, but not light. somewhere in between.

it's in that somewhere-in-between that the nightmare broods and is birthed. she knew it was coming and everyone was there (that's why she gathered us). not even the fake blue sky in the fake green landscape lit with the fake gold light from the fake setting sun could prevent it. everything was fake but this. time to say good-bye, you know? good-byes are sad, you know? it's hugs all around and now it's your turn. her breathing becomes more labored and that soon-to-be-ninety-six-year-old pair of lungs are working hard. she crumples in your arms and the words are there, mumbled into her ear "_____ ___".

(that didn't make sense, say it the hell again before it's too late!)

thank you.

(too late, dammit.)

and with that, friday october the nineteenth began.

the sun is up now.

and so are you.

pittsburgh diner review (II)

2007-07-17T13:45:00.000-04:00

Pamela's P&G Diner
60 21st Street
Pittsburgh, Pa 15222 (Strip District)
412.281.6366

A friend of mine once described good coffee as being “like sex in the mouth”; if good coffee is sex in the mouth, then Pamela’s is nothing less than the breakfast-climax. Their business card claims that Pamela’s is the best breakfast in Pittsburgh; I might dispute that, preferring: Best Breakfast in Pennsylvania or Best Breakfast on the East Coast or Best Breakfast in North America or…well, you get the point. Everything about Pamela’s fits neatly into the Utopian breakfast experience: the perfectly rolled Banana and Chocolate Chip Hotcakes, plenty of good, hot coffee, the Lyonaise Potatoes (homefries), the well-lit pink and blue artificial-fifties interior decorated neatly with retro-ish photographs and the pleasant service that rivals that of any diner I’ve ever been to. So, if you’ve yet to venture on down to the Strip for an epic breakfast at the newest Pamela’s location, I plead with you to make your way down there… as fast as humanly possible.

Ratings:
Happy Days (Are Here Again): 9.6
Juan Valdez Says: 4.5
My Money Doesn't Grow on Trees: 9.8
What Would You Like To-night?: 9.1
May I Kneel Before the King?: 9.7

Misc:
(+) outdoor seating; plenty of parking nearby; colorful, easy to read menus
(-) you’ve gotta be kidding

Total Tab:
Banana and Chocolate Chip Hotcakes: $6.95
Coffee: $1.50
Tax: $0.52
Sub-Total: $7.97
Tip: $2.00
Total: $9.97

pittsburgh diner review (I)

2007-07-17T11:51:00.000-04:00

Ritter's Diner
5221 Baum Blvd
Pgh, Pa 15224
412.682.4852

New Jersey is over three hundred miles away but walk into this Shadyside establishment and it instantly feels like you've been transported to the Garden State circa Nineteen-Sixty-Eight. The wait-staff was typical diner-quirky; expressions of the servers' own tastes abound (to-night, ours was proudly donning pink Betty Boop Scrubs). Prices were surprisingly low ($4.80 for an omlette) though the coffee was slightly higher than I'm used to ($1.35) all the while being the only blight of the experience here - few times in my life have I had a weak, flavorless brew this low in quality. Electronic jukeboxes accompany the late sixties/early seventies style booths in the smoking section, which is really the only section worth being seated in; that is, if you want to be absorbed (or transported) into the wonderful vintage atmosphere here (the non- section is a separate room in the back that feels much more like the awkward room at buffet restaurants where resistant patrons stubbornly order from a menu). As mentioned earlier, the omlettes are inexpensive (add-ons are extra: 50 cents for cheese, 25 cents for anything else) yet most surprisingly delightful; neither under nor overcooked and accompanied with homefries and toast (white, wheat or rye).

Ratings:
Oh, It's so Jersey!: 8.6
Juan Valdez Says: 0.5
My Money Doesn't Grow on Trees: 7.4
What Would You Like To-night?: 6.8
May I Kneel Before the King?: 6.0

Misc:
(+) dirty silverware (ask for clean!)
(-) electronic jukebox, no on-table jelly, no strawberry jelly

Total Tab:
Ham Omlette: $4.80; with Cheese (+ .50) and Tomato (+.25)
Coffee: $1.35
Tax: $0.49
Sub-Total: $7.39
Tip: $2.61
Total: $10.00