Z.F. Lively's

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Profiles In Caricature, Carlton Ficus

2012-02-10T22:18:00.000-08:00

A typical Saturday in a typical summer - Carlton Ficus could be found sitting on his bed, listening to "Don Trennick's Cross Country Countdown" of the top 60 songs in the nation, and reading his favorite comic book "The Mysterious Journeys of Captain Thunder." This particular Saturday, however, his sanctuary was broken by a Grandfather's knock on the door...

As a young lad, Carlton would spend the late Spring and entire Summer at the home of his Grandpa and Gramma Yune. The adoptive parents of Carlton's mother, the Yunes never minded taking care of the corpulent but sprightly lad during his annual recess from the Yorba Linda Military Academy. His parents of course, were cruise ship entertainers on the Verdant Sparrow line - performing their cabaret magic act 3 times a day (except Tuesdays) for 9 months out of every year. The "Hocus Ficus" team loved their son, but knew the Yunes provided a much better environment for a child than the confines and conspicuous consumption of a high seas tin can.

On this Mid-July day, Grandpa and Grandma Yune, were feeling a bit randy, and in the mood to sow each others wild oats. So Grandpa came up with a plan - thus he knocked on his young housemates door.

"I got 9 jars full of coins in the den," he stated "I'd like you to take 'em down to the bank to be rolled and cashed in. I already phoned the bank to let them know you were coming."

After a long, hesitant look from the boy who had been engrossed in music and pictures just seconds earlier - Grandpa added "You can keep half of what we get."

Reluctantly, but with a glimmer of possible minor luxury in his immediate future, Carlton agreed.

"Use the red wagon from the basement, then you can walk 'em all over at once. The cars in the shop, and I can't walk that far on account of my foot."

Grandpa Yune had fought in a war a while back, and still carried shrapnel in a few of his toes.

"You think you can do it, without any trouble?"

Carlton grumbled, but quickly rose up from the bed.

"I'm twelve, Grandpa, I'm pretty smart about a few things."

One thing he knew was that it would be a three mile walk into town, meaning that he'd probably have to stay up late tonight to catch the re-broadcast of the Countdown. The offer of cash, however, was certainly appealing to the 7th-soon-to-be-8th-Grader, so he embraced the challenge, and the exercise that such a trip would bring to his stout frame. Grandpa became especially enthusiastic after his grandson's agreeance, figuring that the chore would get Carlton out of the house for a couple hours so that he and Gramma Yune could get in a little exercise of their own.

The diligent grandson loaded the wagon with 8 of the jars, as the 9th wouldn't fit. Being a smart child, he distributed that jar's coins among the 8 and left the empty on a shelf by the front door. Noting a rickety right front wheel, Carlton reminded himself that he'd have to guide the wagon a bit more carefully than usual. He opened the door and started his trek, pulling the wagon behind.

A perceptive tyke, Carlton passed the time by observing the sights along the walk; His Grandparents house being only two blocks from a local cinema, he admired the posters for "The Hounds Of Freedom" - Now Showing. He witnessed the ice cream parlour signs beckoning to try two new flavors, ads for said ice cream parlour on the side of Parkin's Sandwich Shop, Coupons for Parkin's littering the street and clogging the rivulets leading from the highway underpass to Lake Beriberi. Across the lake, Carlton noticed a tiny skiff skimming through the water, perception making him believe the boat and it's passengers looked a lot smaller than they actually were.

[Side Note: While this would normally be an apt perception for such a bright child, Young Ficus' eyes had tricked him: Petite Lula Macanally and Wendel Perpell were, in fact, each only 11 inches tall and on one of their many maritime adventures. This is life in Escalatorville, folks.]

Forty five minutes, and about 20 blocks later, the bank was at last in sight. Feeling a bit tired, Carlton decided to take a short cut, he'd cross the gravel parking lot of Sooty's Scrap Metal And Recycling Company ("Established 1937"). Although convenient, there were a few bumps along the way. Not metaphorical, mind you, actual bumps - divots in the gravel left by spun-out pickup truck tires, and tiny remnants of dropped cargo.

"Holy Cow," Carlton exhaled as he reached the curb, "Finally."

The door to his destination within yards of his grasp, the jovial juveniles anxiety got the best of him. He sped up his approach, the little wagon striking the bank buildings sidewalk pretty hard. Already weakened by Sooty's lot, the right front wheel gave up the ghost. It crumbled on the sidewalk, as expired as a wagon wheel gets. Axel bolt rust coated the cement like suicidal blood spatter across the wall of a decaying hotel room.

Carlton dove to the pavement to stop the jars from falling out of the wagon bed and shattering at the bank entrance. Amazingly, he blocked the majority from toppling out - but because they had all slammed into each other, all 8 jars had a few cracks or chips. Terminal glass - they'd hold no more coins after this day.

It took a bit of balance, and all the remaining strength he could muster, but Carlton jostled the jars back into position, tossed the broken wheel into the wagon bed, and then lifted the transport with both hands.

He was greeted at the banks front door by Prudence Baddger, a teller whom had heard the crash - and would be Carlton's favorite bank employee for years to come. Inside the building, Prudence pointed to a table where our protagonist could lay his burden down.

"We're glad you came in today," the bottle blond and beskirted Prudence purred - "You can help us break in our new coin counting machine, would you like to watch it work?"

In between a few heavy breaths came a mumbled but emphatic "Yes."

As he watched the coins dance around in what resembled a spinning washtub, Prudence explained how the machine separated and added up the coins. She pointed to the readout as Carlton's fortune slowly grew.

When the 8th jarful began to spin through the hopper, young Mister Ficus found the banks water fountain. Upon his return, he was met by a smiling Prudence with a handful of cash.

"That was a pretty good haul," she said, making Carlton blush with pride, "You got $31.72 today!"

She handed him six Five Dollar Bills, a One Dollar bill, and a smattering of change.
Carlton took three of the Fives and shoved them in his back pocket -"Grandpa's Take" he thought. Then he imagined how to spend the remaining $15.72.

He muttered a quick thank you to Prudence and turned to walk out the door.

"Carlton?" he heard Miss Baddger call "We're glad you came in today - but aren't you forgetting something?"

That's right - a broken down wagon and 8 cracked, useless jars that now had to be dealt with. He pushed his portion of the fortune into his shirt pocket, and carefully balanced, then lifted the wagon full of jars and headed to the exit. His head sunk upon realizing that those 3 miles home would be along way to carry a bunch of junk.

Midway across the bank parking lot, however, Carlton raised his head to the glow of the mid-day sun. A grand idea traversed his mind like a sled across a snow covered suburban driveway. His eyes focused on the solution not 100 yards from where he stood - Sooty's!

It had been a couple years since the elder Mr. Yune had taken his grandson to cash in some scrap metal from the house ("Wasn't it a water heater, or maybe a couple bicycle frames?" the boy struggled to remember) - but Carlton had always been fond of the multi-colored signs that proclaimed "Cash Paid."

Tony the clerk (or so read the patch on his shirt) recalled the young lad and knew exactly what he'd come in for, before Carlton could even ask.

"Hey, long time no see - Carlsie!" he cried out (Although Carlton Ficus would forever correct those whom used that particular appellation to address him, Tony was a fast talker whom didn't leave time for anyone else to get any words in, edgewise or otherwise).

"I can't use those jars, man," he continued, uninterrupted "but, I can give ya three bucks for the wagon. Heck, I'll throw in a buck for the jars too, maybe they ain't too broke to hold some nuts and bolts or somethin'. That looks like a heavy wagon, man! Put that down and I'll grab your money."

Carlton, lazily obedient, lay the wreckage atop the sales counter and peeked around a corner toward the back of the shop. There he saw the furnace that would soon meld the old wagon with silverware sets, garden spades, tea kettles, and a couple shot guns which had long ago said goodbye to their fox hunting days.

Tony's outstretched hand held four singles to Carlton's face.

"Here ya go, man. Four buckaroos, like I promised. Don't spend it all in one place, heh heh. Tell your Grandpa to drop by sometime. See you later, O.K. man?!"

The boy felt as if the sheer force of Tony's words had whisked him through that big metal door and back into the parking lot - for there he was, counting his share of the days riches. A total of Nineteen Dollars and Seventy Two Cents. He was elated, he was wealthy. He was also tired and hungry.

That smidge of energy he'd gained from the banks water fountain had withered, however, Master Ficus knew there was a nice restaurant about five blocks from where he stood. Thirteen minutes later, he took his seat at a table for one in The Happy Tapper.

The Happy Tapper is a Bar and Grill, with the emphasis on the Bar - but they also had the best french fries in town. A fact Carlton knew from accompanying his Grandparents to this very place for their weekly Friday night ritual. He ordered two servings of those fries, as well as a double decker ham sandwich and slice of apple pie for dessert.

His waitress, "Minnie," jokingly asked what type of beer the young man would like.

"I'd rather have a gin and tonic with a root beer chaser - hold the gin, hold the tonic" He joked back.

With a slight guffaw, Minnie headed to the kitchen to put the order in.

The boy wolfed down his food within minutes of it's arrival. This had been his first solo trip to the Happy Tapper - no grandfolks urging to him to slow down and chew. After two more root beers, he asked for his check. Twelve dollars and fifteen cents later (plus a two dollar tip), the satiated lad headed toward the outside world once more.

During his meal, unfortunately, it had begun to rain. A lot. Outside the restaurant, it was a gully washer, a toad strangler, a lake-maker of a storm. Carlton wouldn't be walking home in that.

An observant kid, he had seen a phone booth next to the bars jukebox. He put two quarters in the slot and dialed the number for Trixie's Cab Service, whose business card had been taped, and taped again to the back "wall" of the booth.

Minnie offered Carlton a few mints to nibble on while he waited. Carlton declined. He stood and glanced through the window at the rain, the reflections of the Happy Tapper's neon signs appearing to give those drops on the glass a glow like a string of free flowing Christmas lights. Within moments a cab pulled up.

Carlton Ficus entered the cab, giving his grandparents address as he took his seat - even before the driver could ask. He'd seen enough people in motion pictures do as such, and thought expedience was key.

"You got it friend," mumbled the cabbie. "Right away."

It was a fairly straight shot, directly back on that long road to the Yune residence, but Carlton enjoyed how the precipitation changed his perception of the world he'd walked not that long before: the reversed trees viewed in puddles, the color change to pastel storefronts, cowering and drenched pets hiding in doorways until the weather lessened.

After a short bit, Carlton saw the familiar steps leading to the front door of the Yune household. The cab ride cost four dollars - after giving his driver the fare and a one dollar tip - Carlton headed into the house with his Grandfathers share of the cash - and seven cents of his own.

Grandpa Yune greeted Carlton in the front hallway -

"How'd we do?" he asked

Carlton handed the old man 15 dollars, then slipped the remaining seven cents into the jar he'd left behind.

"A good start for your next trip to the bank." Carlton stated.

"My next...What? You don't want to make that run anymore?" Grandpa queried. He'd noticed the wagon was missing but decided not to be too inquisitive toward the exhausted child.

"Well, to be honest," Carlton responded, "If you and Grandma want me to leave the house so that you can have sex, I'd rather you just send me to the movies."

Flabbergasted, slightly embarrassed - Grandpa Yune stammered and uttered a slow "er..um...uhh" - but couldn't find a decent response to his accurately deductive progeny.

"I'm twelve, Grandpa," Carlton spoke, "I'm pretty smart about a few things"

With that, he sauntered back into his room - he'd returned just in time to hear the Top 9 on "Don Trennick's Cross Country Countdown." Carlton Ficus shut the door, turned up the volume, and resumed reading "The Mysterious Journey of Captain Thunder..."
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The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Change-Gamer
escalatorville@yahoo.com

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Revisionist History

2012-02-06T20:57:00.000-08:00

"If these weren't 50% off, what would they go for?"
-Random retail customer, Fall 2011
-----
I live in a town replete with biographic antiquity. A lot of folks around here pay the bills either portraying or retelling stories of iconic (and not so iconic) personages from the towns past.

On occasion, however, the modern world will intercede and create some interesting juxtapositions...

I strolled past an archaeological dig the other day. (Before something can new can be constructed in the old city, someone has to check the grounds to make sure no primitive treasures have gone previously undiscovered). Looking up from a ditch, one of this burgs diligent dirt sifters had engaged in conversation with the 18th century come to life - a re-enactor clad in full colonial regalia: buckled shoes, wool stockings, breeches, ruffled shirt, waistcoat - and motorcycle helmet.

Two minutes down the road, I was passed by the single whirring steed of a Continental Moped Regiment.

That instance brought to mind a similar sight from a few weeks prior. Heading past the college auditorium one evening, I witnessed a fully bedecked/photo ready "Pedro Menendez De Aviles" - a founder of our fair town. He stood broad shouldered, mustachioed face lit by the moon as he uttered a hearty "Adios y Buenas Noches" to his fellow costumed amigos - then hopped into his waiting Sport Utility Vehicle.

I can only assume he placed his Espada in the gun rack.
------

Of course, every once in a while brings an encounter with someone who completely rewrites the accumulation of human events inside their own head. An example follows:

In the gift shop that employs me, we sell engraved paperweights. These soapstone talismen feature random, interesting, and irrelevant symbols. Nonetheless, an enamored yet historically misaligned shopper picked one up with the pronouncement -

"This was probably carved back when the Aztecs were kicking the Pilgrims asses!"

For a buck ninety five, plus tax, I highly doubt it.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Ghost Wrangler
escalatorville@yahoo.com

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Car Talk

2012-02-04T20:06:00.000-08:00

This weekends Dispatch is a volume from the "Rerun til the New One" series. I'm working on a brand new story for ya, but it needs another day or two to steep. In the meantime, I'd like to present a couple older stories from the road...
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Pull Up If I Pull Up
I believe I may have mentioned my good friend Dave to you at some point in the past. I bring this up because Dave plays a key role in the following tale. However, as my memory fades with age (and, being self-centered as I am means I am apt to dis-include any element of a story that doesn't directly pertain to ME) - I have invited Dave to corroborate and fill-in some details.

Dave and I used to have a band, called Powhite Trash. We pronounced it "Pow-Hite" as an inside joke that only residents of Richmond, Virginia might get. A fact that, I realize, makes even less sense to my current international readership, but there you go.

The two of us, as a band, decided to work on/record some tunes up at a cabin that Dave's folk owned about 90 miles north of Richmond. For the trip Dave offered to drive, and his family had a choice of vehicles.

Dave: My parents had such a crazy assemblage of cars, didn't they? At that time, there were seven of them (there are now just a scant four, and only one of those original seven is also in the four). The stable included:
-a shit-brown Audi which was sold to my mom by some Russian mob-types for cold hard cash
-a 1965 VW Karman-Ghia (which, in high school, could occasionally squeeze my lanky frame into the back seat -albeit painfully - for a trip to Kings Dominion, or a ride home from Richmond Community High School - Z.)
-a mid-80s Honda Civic (very depressing to think that this car got 45 MPG even then)
-a 1969 Cutlass Olds with absurdly little rust for its age
-a mid-80s Buick Century with very bad steering problems
-an indestructible Datsun (before they became Nissan) 1981 hatchback that managed 195K miles before it was sold to a very happy woman for $100 in 1991.

But you came here to hear about the Impala. The army-green, widest-car-ever, 356cc engine block 1976 Chevrolet Impala, with its truly awful/incredible 9 MPG city, 15 MPG hwy (yes, rilly).

Now, Dave thinks this story takes place in the Winter, while I believe it was Spring. Nonetheless, due to either a dousing of rain or a semi-frost, the roads were slick - and the earth was muddy. We took no notice of this on the way to the cabin, but after a few hours of Rockin' Out - we needed a break, so we hopped back in the Impala.

Dave: The feeling of driving a 1976 Impala is the feeling of
driving a boat, truly. The seats are so sproingy that you glide around
on a surface of hovercraft-like cushion. And because of the severe weight of the
car, they had to equip it with the most responsive power steering I have ever seen anywhere. Turn the wheel a degree, and the tires moved 10-15 degrees, it seemed. God help you if the power steering failed. (Yes, at some point this did
happen to me, and I will tell you that wrestling a kangaroo to the ground would be easier than changing lanes.)

We managed to find, as I recall, a Chinese place called (no lie) Fuking Gourmet. I don't recall the food, but I do recall being fairly glad we found it, since we were running out of places to look for food, and we'd nearly died five minutes earlier.

Ah yes, those of you waiting for the story to get interesting have arrived at your destination (and I'm not strictly speaking of the Fuking Gourmet). I refer to the 'near-death' part - oh, had we not mentioned that yet? As I'm pretty certain that it was Dave's driving that keeps this as a "near" death experience, I'll allow him to continue -

Dave: Well, the road back out to Route 17 is still very narrow, not designed for vehicles traveling more than 45 miles an hour. Of course, this means that locals travel a bit faster than that, on the average, which tends not to be a problem until you actually meet someone or something going the other direction. In those days, you had only a scant probability of that happening.

But you wanted to hear about the dump truck. We were headed north on the road, back to Route 17, so that we could head south (Yeah, that makes no sense, but that's how you had to get back to the interstate). That truck was headed back toward our little street in one of the turns where there is a pretty
good hill. We were going a normalish speed of maybe 45 when this truck came over the crest, going at a similar pace. So - two vehicles maxing out the safe, both very wide characters.

The Impala just fits in the lane, and a dump truck only
fits if you take a kind of "tennis approach" whereby "fitting in the
lane" includes being on the center line. It does NOT help matters when said truck
decides to travel the turn without regard to lanes at all, making the generally-safe assumption that you can drive half in the other lane. That would be MY lane.

With nowhere to go, we went off the shoulder. Now, this would be
messy anyway, but the particular spot we went off the shoulder was a steep drop from pavement to grass. That would only have been concern for the paint job and
suspension if it had not been for the fact of the ditch.

The "ditch" he says. The Impala had stopped, certainly, we were unhurt and safe, I assumed (I'll state this for the record - as this was a pre-airbag vehicle, it is a credit to Dave's driving/swerving skills that we had no bruises or abrasions - there were many occasions in our youth wherein Dave saved my neck in different respects, but none so literal as this day). It was then we looked straight out the windshield and into what Dave calls a ditch. I would call it a massive ravine.

Reverse. The one gear we desperately needed was the one that didn't want to work. I feared that if we spun the wheels backward too much, that we'd alter the cars center of gravity and send the Impala -and us- over the edge. Slowly, carefully, we scrambled out of the vehicle. Once we were a couple yards away, and calmed down slightly, we realized that the situation itself was sticky, but not as dangerous as the view from the Impala's front seat would imply. Treacherous, definitely, but only slightly life threatening.

"Y'all all right over there?" we heard from the road.

Momentarily, we'd all but forgotten the dump truck. Forgotten that, indeed, there was someone else on this lonesome road - and as we turned toward the pavement we saw him.

Walking towards us was a massive chunk of a man - about 6'4'' or so with the darkest five-o'clock shadow I've ever seen in the mid-day sun. He wore a grubby green jacket, with a tattered ball-cap, and hair to match.

"Y'all wait here 'bout 20 minutes, I'll go dump my load, come back, and use my chains to pull y'all out."

A nice and kindly gesture, from the man who had just nearly killed us - and one that I almost didn't hear. Sure, we were still a bit shaken up from the accident, but I couldn't concentrate because I was staring at this man's face. His words were coming from a mouth so mangled that he resembled, to me, a horror film antagonist.

I mean no disrespect to our new acquaintance, however, his face was shocking. His mouth, you see, was disfigured. It looked as if his lips had been ripped or bitten off, in pieces - and then badly rearranged and sewn back on. That description is as accurate as I can get, it could have been worse for all I know, but this is the one detail of that day that has consistently stuck in my brain these many years. He was kind enough, but extremely frightening at the same time.

I didn't have much time to process that at the site of the accident, as he was soon off to dump his load. So, by the road Dave and I sat, waiting to be rescued by our tormentor.

The entire time I wondered if maybe the accident was just the beginning of our troubles. Perhaps he wouldn't come back after all - and we'd be stuck for hours in the mud. Or worse, perhaps he would come back, and then kill or kidnap us as he was "helping" to pull the Impala back to the road. Perhaps, I was right about the lips - maybe those weren't his lips at all, maybe they were the cobbled together lip parts of his many victims - and maybe we were next.

As the truck made it's slow return down the road back to us, I silently shuddered at the thought.

I was also totally and completely wrong.

I can now assume that the driver was as shocked as we were in those moments after the incident - and that his initial terse commentary was simply his gut reaction to offer a fix to a situation he had helped to cause. Within minutes of seeing his truck heading toward us again, we had helped attach the hook and chains from his truck to the car, and managed to yank the Impala from its perch above the ravine. In a few more minutes, we had gotten back on the road, and were headed for food (although, had I been the man then that I am today, Chinese food would not have been the first thing I inhaled after the incident).

I never caught the truckers name, and neither did Dave. I would like to thank him, if he's still around, for helping us out of what could have been a long, long day slogging through mud and calling tow companies who might be willing to donate their services to two out of work musicians.

So, if you happen to be in northern Virginia, and run into our monstrous, malformed Savior - please give him my regards, but make sure your running shoes are tied, just in case

Me, Myself, and I-95 (Volume 1)
In my 24th year, I purchased my very first car. I bought it mainly out of convenience, and for a fairly lengthy Christmastime road trip that I would be taking a couple months after its purchase. However, if this experience wasn't humorously anomalous, I probably wouldn't be telling it. The tale of my first owned vehicle - and it's brief history in my universe - is one that left me weary and wary of vehicle ownership. In the 15 years since the advent of this story, my history of travel has improved a bit, yet to this day - each adventure arrives with a hint of trepidation.

At the time of this tale, I was employed by a local museum - where a co-worker hipped me to his friend the mechanic, who happened to be letting go of a car. After a couple meetings with said "friend," I checked out the car and test drove it. $1300 later, it was mine.

The 1983 Honda Accord Hatchback was imported from Japan - as Honda's production facility in Ohio wasn't running at 100% capacity yet. It featured a four-speed automatic transmission, as opposed to the three-speed which had been standard until then. What it did not include was an Idiot Trigger -a fictional light/sound device I just made up that would begin to glow/buzz with increasing frequency as one begins making bad automotive decisions. 'Coulda used one of those.

A month to go before the trip, I began to get the car updated, upgraded, and generally combed over by a fix-it shop in my neighborhood. I took it in for an overall inspection and to see if there were any other peccadilloes that I may have overlooked.

After having the car in the shop for a couple days, I called to check on it's progress. Like every decent automotive inspector/repairman would, they had found quite a few things that needed to get fixed. I asked;

"What would be the best things to do for the car?"

Then the mechanic said (and this is an exact quote, folks):

"The best thing you could do for this car is to drive it into the river and then piss on it."

Instead of taking him up on this advice (which, in retrospect, would probably have been more entertaining), I authorized his team to make the repairs necessary. All tolled, the amount I spent on fixes and repairs for this vehicle in the first two and a half months of ownership equaled the amount I had paid for the car in the first place, $1300.

In the meantime, the guy whom sold me the car had split town with his girlfriend, and left no forwarding address.

Again, where was that Idiot Trigger?

After depleting the bank account for repairs, the day of the trip came into focus. I had been lucky enough to attend the wedding of two good friends a few days earlier, and the night before my journey, I joined them for dinner along with some other close friends of the bride and groom.

We finished our meals, then said our goodbyes around 10PM. I drove home, took a quick nap, and made preparations to leave. I gassed up the Honda at around 3AM, and headed off for the adventure.

Driving from St. Augustine to Richmond isn't really that difficult. You simply turn onto Interstate 95, drive north for about ten hours, then turn off interstate 95. Simple. I thought I might make it home in time for lunch.

The first trip to the filling station went fine, I even checked all the cars fluids just to be safe. "Hunky Dory," I thought, and I was on my way again.

My plan to head out early worked, I was making great time, as there was almost no traffic. Then, about 730AM - the car made a sound. A discomforting sound. A sound which resembled a coughing competition between a room of octogenarian smokers and a German Shepherd.

As we are taught in Drivers Ed, I did what anyone in this position should rightly do: I cursed. Loudly.

Next, I noticed the smoke. Pouring out from under the hood, thick and Grey - puffing up into my face to laugh at me for buying the joke of a car from whence it came. I managed to pull over safely to the side of the road and let the car come to a complete stop.

Then I cursed some more.

Moments later, as I paced beside the billowing, belching vehicle, I tried to put ideas together in my head as to how this situation could be resolved (hopefully, before lunch). Still fairly early, the traffic wasn't heavy - but there were a few rubberneckers straining to see where the plumes of smoke were escaping from - yet no one willing to stop and help.

That is, until an odd little camper van type vehicle slowed down, and pulled up behind the Accord. A man and his young son emerged, carrying two bottles full of water. As they approached, I recognized them. The day before, they had been visitors to the museum at which I worked. Austrian, I remembered, as we had had a bit of language difficulty at the ticket counter.

The man spoke very little. His son spoke less. The man offered water to cool things off, and I opened the hood to spill the H2O in whatever way would have been the most helpful. Alas, the water, though a very polite gesture, didn't cure anything.

The man and son went back to their camper van after indicating to me that they would try to alert any police or sheriff that might be patrolling. They hopped back in their vehicle and puttered off, vanishing like ghosts into the off-ramps and exits that laid before us on the highway.

10 minutes later, a proud member of the South Carolina Sheriff's department stood at the side of my car. This being the days before everyone was was constantly telephonic, the officer indicated the pay phone was available one exit away. Looking toward an upcoming highway mile marker - I was just outside the towns of Turbeville and Florence, South Carolina - about half way through my journey home.

The officer offered to drive up to the next exit for me, as he knew of the only garage open in town on Saturday morning. Desperate and thankful, (although in retrospect, this seemed like sketchy behavior on behalf of the cop - didn't it?) I watched the officer drive off - and return 15 minutes later, tow truck close behind.

Apparently the only garage in town open on a Saturday morning was, as it turns out, a one truck establishment which I can only remember as being named something similar to "Old Man and Sons." It was run by one Old Man, a very nice but tired and quickly aging gent; and his two sons, both in their mid-30s, still acting as though they were in their mid-teens - the type of fellows who only string together a sentence or two at a time, half of which are sex or fart jokes..

We all piled into the cab of the tow truck and drove my sorrowful vehicle back to their garage. Now when I say "garage" here, what I'm actually talking about is the barn located behind their double-wide trailer - in the suburbs of Outskirt Village. I sat on a doorstep made from a railroad tie, in front of an AstroTurf welcome mat, while the Old Man inspected the damage.

After a few moments, the Old Man's wife (herewith called "Old Lady") came out and asked me if I wanted some water or to use the phone. Both please, I requested, and I was let into the house to make a collect call, letting my folks know what was going on at this point, and also to let them know that they would be expecting more collect calls from me throughout the day.

In the mean time, the Old Man had inspected the car - and determined the damage. A split engine block, cracked head gasket - major damage. That car would not be running again that day. After he made numerous phone calls to parts reps/dealers/service centers, etc - the man came back with a few answers. It would take at least 7 days to get everything - and the cost, you guessed it: $1300.

I took this as an omen, and really wanted to get to something that resembled "home" at this point in time - so I struck up a deal with the man. Take me to the nearest airport, let me get back to Virginia. Then, I would call him within two days - if I wanted him to fix the vehicle, I'd figure out how to get the money to him, and pick it up on my way back through. Or, I would mail him the cars title, allowing him to do with the car as he pleased, with a promise to send me a bit of the profits should he see an monetary benefit.

He agreed, and then offered his sons services in escorting me to the Florence airport, 40 miles away- via their own pickup truck.
"Thank you," I said, and started grabbing my things.

It was no problem, they replied, and it would only cost me 40 bucks!
(Strange as it is; sometimes, when your caught between a rock and a hard place - it actually helps to be kind to the rock.)

Grabbing the belated Christmas presents I had loaded the car with, I made space within my luggage and said goodbye to a favorite blanket which remained in the hatchback of the Accord (not to mention a glove box full of totally awesome cassettes, damn!).

We clambered into the cab of the brothers pickup truck, and I knew immediately that I was in for a "fun" ride. I sat in between the two brothers, and could see a couple freshly opened beer bottles sitting in the floorboards - which would be emptied and replaced by the time of our airport arrival. I glanced at the dashboard clock, it was 10 AM.

Now, I will veer off-topic here for just a moment to say this: I have always enjoyed the music of AC/DC - however, I much prefer their earlier works, as opposed to the stuff they've been cranking out since, say, the "Thunderstruck" era. That's may own personal opinion, make of it what you will.

That said, the only music these brothers had on hand, was the cassingle (yup, another "C" word from the land of the '80s) of AC/DC's "Ball Breaker" - which was played in its entirety, repeatedly, for the entire 30 minute drive. Yes - we drove the 40 miles in 30 minutes. [Just for the record, I am against this type of offensive or reckless driving. As the lovely Bess can attest, I drive like the really old people in public safety films of the post WW2 era (however, in this particular case; I felt that asking them to slow down was akin to a man faced with a firing squad asking for sunblock).]

Nonetheless, we arrived safely - and I stumbled out of the truck, head still rumbling with the sound of Angus Young's guitar.

I had asked to be taken to an airport - not because I love to fly - but I figured that's where one could rent a car. It would be cheaper, and - since I may be returning to this very town in a matter of days to retrieve my soon to be miraculously fixed vehicle, why not rent a car that I could return to this very place? A simple plan, which worked marvelously - until I got to the rental counter. I produced my ID when I was asked, only to be rebuffed by the clerk:

"We can't rent to you." the voice (whose face may or may not have been an actual blur) stated.

In my head, I went through a litany of reasons why I should be allowed to rent a car; no traffic violations, no criminal record, finances relatively secure (I had one paid-up, until that point, credit card), and was having a not great day. So why shouldn't they rent me a car?

Alas, at 24, I was told, for probably the last time, something that I have only wished I could hear more often in the intervening years: "You're Too Young."

Too young to rent a car, eh? I looked into my wallet and grabbed the credit card. I went up to the nearest ticket agent, and asked for a seat on the next, cheapest flight from Florence, South Carolina to Richmond, Virginia - a distance of 343 miles.

At approximately 1040 AM, after being awake all night, leaving a trashed car 40 miles away on a lonesome morning highway, and having to endure a ride from hell with the brothers goof-nut; I was told that I could easily make the next flight- in 7 hours.

I bought the ticket, and made the calls to folks back home, letting them know the new plan for my arrival . My Dad would meet me at the Richmond airport later that night. Everything was worked out. Now, there was time to kill.

A lot of time to kill.

The Florence, South Carolina airport is about as big as a kittens paw and had, at that time, more Christmas bows on the walls than paying customers in the halls. There were a couple of televisions, playing local news, followed by whatever the Saturday Matinee B-Movie may have been that week. There were a few benches, and I believe a food/coffee cart - which sold three magazines, 'People,' Newsweek,' and 'People En Espanol'.

I wanted out.

Coming onto the airport property, I had noticed a sign for a museum near the airport grounds. After I had stepped outside for a breath of slightly different air, I saw another sign leading from the airport parking lot .

The museum was a couple hundred yards away - I could easily walk to it, lose myself inside a museum for a while and make it back to the airport proper with plenty of time to make my flight. So, I started walking. The museum wasn't that far at all, but had plenty of advertising on the short distance along the dirt road leading from the airport to the museum. I filled my head with the many time-wasting and interesting exhibits that lay ahead, hoping I could spend at least a couple hours filling my brain with things that didn't involve expenses, cars, or any combination of the two. I got to the the museum grounds, turned a corner and headed directly toward the front door, where was posted the following:

'Closed On Saturdays'

Dejected, I turned around - and since there were no windows low enough to peak into, I started the walk back to the airport. Slowly.

I made it back in time to watch the end of the Saturday Matinee from a bench next to my departure gate. I started doing a crossword puzzle - and then must have either succumbed to the demons of slumber, or just faded into oblivion, for the next thing I knew, I was within an hour of flight time.

Excited, I was finally headed homeward. I had neglected to check the details of my ticket. I was indeed traveling toward Richmond - however, I'd be taking three separate flights.

At this point, I simply didn't care. I hate to fly, but I desperately wanted out of Florence.

I boarded the plane - a simple 60 seater, which transported 15 of us from Florence, South Carolina to Atlanta, Georgia - where I had a brief layover before boarding a 24 seater which flew me to Raleigh, North Carolina - there, I boarded a 12 seater, which carried me from Raleigh to Richmond . If you want to compare mileage flown to the amount I paid for the ticket, I suppose I got a bargain.

Finally, somewhere around 11PM, I stepped into the final airport I would see for quite a while - and sat enjoying the ride as my father drove me to his house, where I knew a meal and sleep were finally going to make their appearance.

As it turns out, I chose to rid myself of the car. Upon returning to Florida, I sent Old Man & Sons the title to the Accord, and wished them well. I hold no grudge against the town of Florence, however - I do get more anxious any time I have to travel through that area. There's a strange vibe in the air, I guess, and it causes things to happen. In the years since, I've had radio stations change themselves, cars suddenly backfire, momentary gas pedal failure, but no more breakdowns. I call it the "Florence Shudder" - and sure enough, it's there nearly every time I am.

Perhaps, however, it's my old vehicle calling out to me across the woods and back roads of South Carolina - trying to draw my attention once more. I wouldn't doubt it's carcass is still there, somewhere, slowly rusting it's way to the netherworld.

Plus, it's been a decade and a half now, that Old Man hasn't sent me a dime.

-------
Returning to new quite soon. Thanks for reading!

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Slowhand
escalatorville@yahoo.com

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Rings And Things

2012-01-28T11:14:00.001-08:00

A man goes to a doctor for a rash on his arm.
"What do you do for a living?" the doctor asks him.
"I work at the circus, giving enemas to the elephants," the guy says.
"Quit doing that and the rash will clear up," the doctor says.
The guy replies, horrified, "What? And get out of show business?"
-------

Step Right Up
Bess and I attended the circus last week. Invited by friends who had the good fortune to win tickets, we were excited to take a peek under the big top; even if the "big top" itself was no longer a large tent, but an amassed assemblage of wire, steel, pulleys and rigging. Though our admission was gratuitous, and the trip to the arena relatively simple - we did have to leave the planet for a little bit. From the moment we entered the parking lot, we were entirely inside the circus universe.

Strange for the Greatest Show On Earth to leave one feeling so otherworldly. I imagined a trapeze artist hundreds of feet above us viewing our journey through the realm of wonder, amazement, sequins, and commerce that attract us satellites to the warmth at the heart of such an age old curiosity.

As we approached the venue we breached the first ring of the entertainment entity - "The Perimeter of Don't Do It." Truth be told, there were more elephant activist protesters than actual elephants at this show. Both groups - pachyderms and their protectors- it should be noted, did their tasks more admirably, quiet, and calm than one might expect - without creating too much of a mess for those that followed in their footsteps. Once past their polite yet blatant posters and kindly offers of pamphlets on cruelty - we marched into the arena.

We had now entered ring #2 - "The Chamber of Forever Souvenirs." From "collectible" hats filled with cotton candy to flashing plastic glassware brimming with futuristic desert - no opportunity for thematic marketing was wasted. Every inch of every lobby portal was replete with dragon-faced squirt guns, day glow t-shirts, green screen photo booths, and electric mohawks. It took a little while, and a few tasty yet filling mementos, but we eventually escaped to the inner sanctum of the circus orbit.

We took our seats within the inner ring - "The 'I can see most of it as long as no one stands up' Corner" - and began to enjoy the spectacle. Shaolin Ninjas bending steel with their necks, manic/depressive Lions, bouncing Beefcake doing back flips, girls descending from bubbles, dwarves on wires, an over exuberant ringmaster (in suits that I may just have to steal) - and, of course, the Metal Globe of Death.

At the center of the arena, motorcycle after motorcycle entered a giant steel sphere. Risking life and limb, swirling at high speeds inches away from each other, the finale of the evening cast their engine's roar loudly into the night - directly from the hub of this target formed by those three concentric rings.

From that imagined trapezeist viewpoint - I'm sure it resembled a kind of cosmic bulls eye.

The Process
Many of you may wonder (and then quickly ignore this thought) what it takes to put the Dispatch together every time I do it. Well, not many authors will give you a glimpse into their secrets - but I'm special, and so are you. Here's a quick look at the steps that bring this all together:

1. I rouse myself out of bed. Fighting myself all the way. Even though I know that eventually, I'll sleep forever - I still can't resist trying to sock away a few extra moments of slumber here and there.

2. Make coffee. Drink coffee. Drink coffee. Make coffee. Drink coffee. Repeat.

3. I gather my notes. Sounds simple, I know - but I've got notes everywhere. In pockets to jeans I haven't worn in three days, on sticky paper that had found its way inside my wallet, on back pages of magazines which have re-circulated themselves throughout the house. My lack of organization is a real chore, folks.

4. I create a loose organization of my ideas, notes, and sketches for the piece. Then I usually throw out half of them, either because they just won't work, or I've already used that bit in something else.

5. I take a walk. For exercise, and to clear my head of all the thoughts that say "You're wasting time, you should take a few more blocks to ponder that."

6. Next, I write a first draft, editing my self along the way. Then a second draft, editing myself along the way. (I've tried do a third draft, but after all the editing along the way, the piece in it's entirety is about 5 words. Easy, yes, but not entertaining.)

7. Make Coffee. Drink Coffee. Take Walk. Drink Coffee.

8. Finally, I panic and rush to finish. Then I brag about my brilliance in the online forums as I wait for my minions to send fan mail and ask to do my bidding.

Minions, I'm still waiting.
I guess that means I get to do this all again soon.
-----
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Clown Car Stuffer
escalatorville@yahoo.com

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Placeholder Edition

2012-01-27T12:30:00.000-08:00

The muses and I are co-operating, but slowly. Alas, schedules have to be kept. Thus, A brand new Dispatch From Escalatorville will be released later than planned, possibly later Friday or even Saturday morning - but for folks who tune in regularly, I wanted to at least give ya something.

Herewith, a bit of a writers rehash. Posted below are many previous "This one's gonna be late" excuses and quotes I've used to justify tardiness. Enjoy?

February 2009:
"I have noticed that the people who are late are often so much jollier than the people who have to wait for them" E.V. Lucas

"Tardiness in literature can make me nervous." - Manuel Puig

"Good counsel never comes too late." - German Proverb

"There is, by God's grace, an immeasurable difference between late and too late." - Mme. Swetchine

"Life is a race, where some succeed,While others are beginning;
'Tis luck, at times, at others, speed,That gives an early winning.
But, if you chance to fall behind,Ne'er slacken your endeavor;
Just keep this wholesome truth in mind: 'Tis better late than never!" - John Dyer

Classic. from Early 2008:
"I Don't Feel Tardy" - D.L. Roth, Esq.

Believe it or not ( to coin a copyrighted phrase), my New Years Resolution was to write more often. Well, that and to listen to more Otis Redding. So, my brain awakens today determined to stop the word "failure" from riding in on the first breath of Spring.

Finally, a winner from July of that same year:
We apologize that our latest flight to Escalatorville's Vacation Paradise has been delayed. Rest assured, a full travelogue of our recent Vermont excursion will surface next week. In the meanwhile, please enjoy these complimentary snacks. We realize that you have a choice in semi-humorous reading materials, and thank you for laughing with us - and at everyone else.

Oh the hilarity, we never did publish that Vermont piece. How droll we are.

More later - "I promise..."

the Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Nitwit/Procrastination something or other

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: My Miniscule Menagerie

2012-01-20T09:09:00.000-08:00

"Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms." -George Eliot

"Also, they can't read." - Me

Amorres Perros
I was distracted at work the other day by the sight of a woman mistreating her dog.

I certainly understand the use of talking to animals with short phrases and commands for training, entertaining 'tricks,' and loving offers of emotional expression. However, dog owners should realize that English is not a canines native tongue. A dog is not going to "get" a basic conversation, no matter what the motion pictures and cartoons may indicate.

Thus, I was incensed when I heard and saw a woman viciously yanking her dogs chain, producing painful yelps from the poor mutt, while yelling at the creature for it's mis-comprehension of her directives:

"I told you not to pull ahead of me! (Yank)"
"I asked you to back up! (Yank)"
"Why don't you pay attention!? (Yank)"

Thankfully, a few passerby on the street gawked, then called out and reprimanded the insensitive woman. I personally felt the need to have her leashed and muzzled. What a bitch.

O Theseus, Where Art Thou?
I haven't spent as much time as usual keeping up with our country's current political shenanigans. From my sidelong viewpoint, all the backstabbing, sexual peccadillory, and blood lust on display makes the whole thing look like a Greek tragedy in the works.

Politicians, I feel, in many ways resemble that mythic beast - the Minotaur. Sure, they may walk and act like a man, but everything out of their mouths is pure bull.

Paging Frau Blucher
Friends and I used to toss around the euphemism of the "horse girl." A term not meant as a direct insult, for the most part; the phrase merely described those middle school and younger high school gals whom spent their free time obsessing over ponies, drawing horses on notebook covers, and collecting figurines and plush dolls of equine inspiration. Boys had our dirtbikes and skateboards, and some girls had horse culture.

A vast generalization - of course, but for pre-teens in the early 1980's, these were the obsessions of our youth.

Strange now that the term has come around again. However, these modern "horse girls" are so-called mainly due to the stallion-esque gait and attitude one sees as they parade themselves down city streets. Impeccably groomed, these women painfully walk in their finest hoofgear, each foot kicked out in front of the leg, moving their heads and necks in a slight up and down motion - facing forward, looking down at anyone in their path.

This girl gives a good, and humorous example:

She's poking fun, but I'm sure you've seen them in your town. It's best not to approach "horse girls" about their stance, however - any question you could pose will be answered with either a whinny or an outspoken "Neigh!"
-----

Apologies for a short report this week, I'm headed to the circus!
As a spectator folks, not an act - much to the chagrin of Dr. Moreau, I'm sure.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/ Stalker of Multiple Organisms
escalatorville@yahoo.com - for folks who type.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Nothing About Druids Edition.

2012-01-13T14:59:00.000-08:00

I tend to drag my feet when chasing after the modern world. After all, I spend more time looking for my phone than I do actually using it.

When I do pick it up, I'm amazed at what the thing can do.
Beyond calling; I can send a text message across the planet via instantaneous connections to outer space satellites, play minuscule games that my 10 year old self would have required a millionaire Santa Claus to obtain, even take notes via keyboard or voice recording to use for future editions of this Dispatch. Yet, I'm still occasionally chided because I haven't upgraded to a "smart" phone.

A Quick Meditation
Very recently, I started doing light Yoga. I've never been too unhealthy, mind you, but I am kinda lazy when it comes to regular exercise. Now, I haven't been gone whole hog into the practice, yet. I'm not going to a class or workshop, or anything in front of other people - not until I'm a bit more bendy.

I'm starting slow, via video on the Internet. I can sift through a dozen methods that way and find one that's good for me - also, there's a pause button.

A few sessions in, and I've come to some basic conclusions:

A)My body has it's own mathematical system.
20 minutes of morning yoga = (90 minutes of random aches/ random muscles)
X (85% of remaining daylight hours)

B) Breathing is underrated.

C) At times, my body can sound like a Rice Krispies factory.

I do, however, feel better after doing it and, though I may never be a specialist in "Downward Facing Dog" or "Mutating Pachyderm" - I'll be happy just to be the "More Comfortable Tall Guy."

Life In A Fish Bowel
At the shop where I work, we sell ceramic, lizard-esque statuary.
--And here is when we gaze upon the power of modern marketing:

More than twice in the past couple months, I have been asked the price of a colorful "Geico."

None of the affected have purchased any Geckos either.

That's not the only language lesson in recent weeks. Soon after Christmas, a small girl asked her Dad if she could get a "Humbug Whale" - and just this past week, a boy ran in squealing - "Mom, we gotta find some of those "Sea Urgings!"

Boo. Etc.
I don't wanna bust up anyone's mythology or anything, but see if you catch my Orlok-ian drift on this one:

Dracula seems to be a fairly imposing, initially kind mannered, and probably well educated being. He's impervious to anything but sunlight, wooden stakes, and - the power of the cross. Be it the charm on someones necklace, or an ornamentation ripped from the walls of a church - in popular portrayals and retellings of the Dracula legend - a cross held to the face of the protagonist generally stops the attack mid-fanging.

This being the case - why doesn't Nosferatu (or whatever he's calling himself these days) make more appearances in non-Christian circles? He's always looking to score in America and Europe, areas wherein lay the greatest concentration of the worlds Christian believers.

Don't you think a truly smart Vampire would embrace something like the Buddhist culture? After all, their bloods just as good as anyone elses, there's a hell of a lot more of them than Christians, and they're also the least likeliest to have access to the very crosses which stop him in his night stalking tracks. It's just a thought.

If that don't work Drac, what about Atheists? Tasty, tasty Atheists.

Druids? I said nothing about Druids.
but he did (Not Safe For Work):

and so did they (Not Safe For Drummers):

My favorite time of day is right now.
--------
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F Lively, Proprietor/Disco Survivor
Escalatorville@yahoo.com (Accepting applications for Application Acceptor)

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Confessions

2012-01-06T10:01:00.000-08:00

"My parents didn't raise no fools - I earned that distinction on my own."

Happy New Year all! The end of the year holidays always bring grand memories for yours truly - Christmas Eve marked the anniversary of the first gig for The Wobbly Toms (we are now 8 - in age and number of band members) - and New Year's Eve holds even more fantastic remembrances; I had my first date with the Lovely Bess on that night, and exactly one year after that beautiful evening - she accepted my marriage proposal. My heart is never so giddy as it is when we exchange a kiss at midnight on the last day of every subsequent year. I always look back fondly at those times - even though that episode of life begins this Dispatch's couplet of confession...

Confession #1 - Fates Flubbed The Proposal
Originally, I'd planned a Christmas Day Engagement. A couple days prior, I got a call from the jeweler from whom I was purchasing the ring - a blue diamond had become available. Bess being a fan that particular gem, and things cerulean in nature - "Fantastic. Get it!" was my response. I'd pop the question on New Year's Eve instead. Thus, I could arrange a nice proposal without the worry of embarrassingly asking in the midst of family, or losing that pricey bauble in a flurry of wrapping paper, gifts, coffee and pastries.

Then, I planned it out (For the record, Bess has never known my original intent - until she reads what you are about to): We'd go to our favorite Sushi restaurant, but on the way to dinner, I would pull over at the local library branch along the way. As it was a festive night, I'd suggest a ride on the carousel which shared the library grounds. In the midst of the ride, I'd step down from my "horse", drop to one knee, pull the ring from my pocket - and Voila!

Pretty cool plan, eh? I certainly thought so. Mother Nature, however, had other plans.

It rained. A lot. Downfrikkinpour. Thus the carousel plan was scrapped. Even if it had still been operational during the storm - we were dressed to the nines (or at least the 8 1/2s) - and I wasn't going to ask Bess to ruin her dress in the name of sheer whimsy. Pressing on, I drove past the Merry-Go-Round and onward to the restaurant. Figuring I could work my proposal into the dinner experience, I'd ask just as we ordered dessert. Perfect!

Alas, anxiety had already set in. As we pulled into the restaurant parking lot, it was still raining - and inside my head, the clouds of nervous excitement created their own weather system. We'd have to dash from the car to the front door. I couldn't risk dropping that precious package on the asphalt and I was too nervous to eat. It would be quite strange to go for a fancy dinner and have Bess be the only one of us able to place an order.

I had to do it right there. Right then.

Before we exited the car, I turned to her:

"Don't you want your Date-iversary present?" I asked (we'd been an official couple for a full year that night, so the question wasn't exactly bewildering).

I pulled a tiny pirate's chest from my pocket. I think Bess instantly knew what was inside. As she opened it to see the sparkling gem, I asked THE question. She said Yes. Then, after a minute or ten of smooching, hugging, and a few barbaric yawps - we sauntered inside.

It was undeniably one of the best meals ever - yet I cannot tell you what I ate that night. My memory recalls only my elation and the exquisite glow of my now fiance's beautiful face.

Marriage in it's very essence is a roller coaster ride, but for all the joyful moments that our togetherness has brought me - Bess is due about a million trips on that carousel.

Confession #2 - I stole a brick.
A few months ago, ambling past a construction site, I walked directly across a corner of the lot to grab a small pink brick. That lone brick was all that remained of the sites previous structure.

Though some may view a pink brick as a subtle tribute to a great conceptual psychedelic rock band - I knew where it had come from and took it to preserve a tiny piece of my neighborhoods history.

That construction site used to house a church. Not a grand evangelical palace, mind you - not even a church with any organized congregation - but a church nonetheless. A church which took it's form in an abandoned and decrepit shell of a building; no glass in the "windows," an open space where a door may have once stood, and an open air roof wherein Heavens detritus could fall right in (perhaps making an easier trip for prayers to find their way upward).

There had once been faux flowers dotting the fence surrounding the lot, the edifice itself painted the pale crimson of technicolor cotton candy. Within it, a smattering of folding chairs serving as the pews, and a ragtag lectern for an altar. A hand painted sign nailed to a nearby tree gave times for the weekly "service" and the invocation "All Are Welcome."

On that lot now is an ugly, half-assed house. A screened-in deck from which one can presumably view the lake a half block away. The Ground floor consisting solely of two garage bays. The house has been occupied for a couple months now, so there's no more traipsing across that lot - even though it still looks as if it's under construction. The grass surrounding the building covered in a mix of dirty sand, and sandy dirt. random piles of unused construction materials spittled about the property of a structure that doesn't fit the style of it's surroundings. Yet another modern beach house dropped into a rustic, historic neighborhood.

Don't get me wrong - whomever now owns that property has the right to do with it as they see fit. If they want the entirety of their holiday decoration to consist of a single strand of lights lazily draped across one quarter of the deck, mingled with the eerie glow of what must be a massive television - then so be it. One has the authority to uglify ones own home if they choose.

I wonder, however, if it occurs to this family that their land was once a place where denizens of the neighborhood could gather, to rejoice in one anothers company, to catch up with old friends, to join together singing and lifting praise to the lord.

I wonder if they realize that they've replaced an unconventional holy site with a typical contemporary eyesore.

I stole a brick which holds the memory of what once was there. Though doing so may violate the 8th commandment, I think the neighborhood will forgive me.

Finishing off with a short spin from the retail jungle:
"What's Incense?" asked the daughter, as she puttered near the front of the store.
Her father ushered her out with the simplest, perfect, answer,
"When you light it on fire, it starts to smell funny."

Then again, don't most things?

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively: Proprietor/Literate Recidivist
escalatorville@yahoo.com (Now accepting deposits of electronic communication)

EscalatorYule: Stave 5 - "X" Games, Flavored Nuts, and The Fabbest Christmas Yet

2011-12-23T09:19:00.000-08:00

I gotta admit folks, I simply don't get how "Xmas" is taking the Christ out of Christmas. Sure, sure - there's an obvious grammatical difference - but if you actually believe that it's going to change the meaning of the holiday, then you might have other things to worry about.

Look, I'm not the most devout of the folks I know, I've always been of a more spiritual mindset than one felt bound by religious tactility. However, I love Christmas. Keep loving Christmas. Will always love Christmas. I know where it comes from, I know the story behind it, and always acknowledge from whence Christmas got its name. You can't not acknowledge that - no matter how commercial the holiday gets, even when it seems overrun by overnight sales and keeping up with the Joneses - all this flurry and fuss began because we remember the birthday of a man whom did great things and brought joy to many people worldwide. I'm not talking about Santa Claus here.

No matter what your belief in the Jesus story happens to be (and, as we've read "judge not, lest ye be...") - I don't think anyone can ignore where the traditions of the modern holiday originate. Over 2000 years, of course, every story gets mangled, manipulated, expanded, redacted and re-circulated - it becomes an evolving tale.

The use of the letter X in place of the name Christ has it's origins over ten centuries ago. In Greece, X is the symbol for "Chi" - the first letter in the Greek word for Christ. According to Wikipedia (because Encyclopedias, even online ones - are pretty good about knowing stuff):

"Around 1100 the term was written as "Xp̄es mæsse" in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle"

Also, a slightly different version, one of my favorites - "X'temmas" - is popularized around 1551.

All I'm saying is that faith, history, and guidance are not something that can be altered by an advertising sign or cardboard decoration. Everyone knows, even Santa, that of all the traditional celebrations that occur throughout so many different religions and cultures at this time of year - Christmas is the headline grabbing show-stopper. Do we really think that it's origins will be forgotten through an alternate spelling?

Many folks even tend to see the X itself as a symbol of the cross on which the story of Jesus life ends. Doesn't that seem like the perfect way to close a circle?

(And it should give you pause to think about that other group of rebels with supernatural powers - the X-Men...Merry Christmas, comic geek.)
-----------------
I'm a fan of Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker". I think a lot of people are; unless you are one of the unfortunate children whom had to be in the chorus of a play or ballet version of the show - in which case you spent a lot of time backstage being hot in your costume that would almost always get wrinkled by the time to got to have your 30 seconds in the light while dancing across stage during a costume change for Drosselmeyer or something, in which case I feel sympathy for your very soul.

Where was I? Oh yes. The Nutcracker. Man, did that Pyotr know how to write or what? For me, the strength of a song is not only how good the original sounds, but also how malleable the music tends to be. A great song can lend itself to all genres of music. The Nutcracker Suite is proof of this. Even though it was written at a time when there were very few genres to actually lend to.

Thank goodness, technology allows us to examine some of the differences and similarities that make music so cool. This piece has always been a holiday favorite of mine - and I always enjoy finding new versions of bits from Tchakovskys amazing musical. Here are a few:

I want to start with Duke Ellington, not only one of the coolest cats ever to record, but with a great "behind the scenes" promo clip for his record company -

But, you say you're more of a traditionalist? Well, how about a classical version, with visual accompaniment by Walt and Company-

Of course, I'm a fan of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer's Christmas pieces (they have a few). I really dig their take on B. Bumble and The Stinger's "Nut Rocker" -

I also enjoy the Brian Setzer Orchestras take on the Les Brown arrangement. All the greatest hits of The Nutcracker rolled into one:

These sweet Nutcracker clips could go on and on, but I know you've got things to do - so here's just one more from the Duke-

That should fill your eyes and ears for the day. Ahhh, but this is the holidays - why not have a little extra? Herewith: we end this installment of EscalatorYule with a hefty dessert of Beatle Christmas Pudding - Bon Appetit!

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively - North Pole A/V Squad
Professor Hinkle - Bad Magician
Burgermeister - Meisterburger

EscalatorYule: Stave 4 - It Dickens Me To Say It...

2011-12-22T08:37:00.000-08:00

"I will honour Christmas in my heart - and try to keep it all the year."

So said Ebeneezer Scrooge, in his posh and Britishly-spelled way. I like to think that I do as well, some years with more "honour" than others - most folks I know are the same way. I, however, also honor Christmas all the year on my clothing.

It gets hot in Florida - a man needs t-shirts. So what if one of mine has a bright carnivorous Santa Claus face chomping on a rack of ribs (And I'm wearing it in July)? If that image offends, I could change into my t-shirt with the picture of a sheep in a yuletide bow, exclaiming "Fleece Navidad!"

Christmas Neckties? Got 'em. Santa Hats? At least 3. Holiday Themed Shoes? Candy Cane Red Velvet-Striped Converse All-Stars Circa 2005.

You'll notice - no socks. I don't need any Christmassy socks with holiday greetings and pictures of presents on 'em. Although I do enjoy socks as a fashion accessory, mainly they are there just to keep my shoes from being too offended by my feet.

Christmas morning, I will be wearing socks (as well as my robe, a pair of flannel holiday boxer shorts, and most likely, one of the aforementioned Santa Hats) as I pop one of my favorite holiday movies into the player.

Most likely, it will be 'It's A Wonderful Life'. I love that movie. It's one of the only films that consistently makes me tear up in certain scenes. It's probably my favorite film of all time: despite the fact that - as one of the world's most famous "Christmas" movies - it's not really about the holiday itself - that's just when the film takes place. The storyline could just have easily been set, with few script changes, in the heat of Summer or in the week after Easter. The point of the film is given point blank, however - "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends"

These Holiday Seasons give us all a reason to find and spend more time with those friends that we love, time is allowed to stop for a while, to let us all re-group - and remind each other that we do, each and every one of us, truly have a wonderful life of our own.
---------

As I said, it's hot in Florida - for all but a few days a year. Thus, we hardly ever get any snow. Yet, around the neighborhood. I've seen a few "snowpeople" mixed in with the holiday decorations. All with the same iconic face. If yer kids ever wonder how those came to be - maybe tell 'em this story:

Noel, The Snowman's Santa Claus (Copyright Fruitless Lust Songs 2005/Escalatorville Tunes 2011)

'Twas getting late on Christmas Eve, when we heard from the great North Pole-
"All the kids were Nice," said St. Nicholas - "Now, I've got too much coal."

"The Elves had worked so very hard, so I've sent 'em on vacation.
There's no need to stoke a fireplace, at their Tropic celebration."

"Now, Wait one minute, old Saint Nick," squeaked a voice with Yuletide style
"I've got pals the whole world through, this could bring them quite a smile!"

He's Noel, the Snowman's Santa Claus - with a very special job to do.
He keeps the Snowfolk smiling bright, so they'll enjoy the holiday too.

Now, every Christmas Eve - Noel drifts across the Milky Way
Giving Snowfolk brighter eyes and grins, to show to you on Christmas Day!

St. Nick's barn is stocked up on carrots for Rudolph to eat,
but the nose that glows knows that Snows need noses, to make a happy face complete.

So, if you check each Wintertime, on each Snowy face you'll find-
The happy miles found in the smiles that Noel left behind.

He's Noel, the Snowman's Santa Claus - with a very special job to do.
He keeps the Snowfolk smiling bright, so they'll enjoy the holiday too.

-----------------------

Next time in EscalatorYule, Sweet Nutcrackers and Keeping the X in Christmas

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively - Jingler/Jangler
George Bailey - Advisor/Unofficial Mayor, Bedford Falls
Hermey Elf - Staff Dentist

EscalatorYule 2011: Stave Three - Tidbits and Morsels for Christmas Ears

2011-12-21T06:29:00.000-08:00

Once, in the mid-1980's - I had the opportunity to meet and talk briefly with Albert Hague. Mr. Hague was a composer and lyricist who had won a Tony for the Gwen Verdon show Redhead in 1959. At the time of our meeting, he was experiencing a bit of renewed notoriety for having played "Professor Shorofsky" in the film and telelvision series Fame. I was fortunate enough to meet Mr. Hague after a concert he had given for some local schools in my hometown.

Why bring this up in EscalatorYule, you ask? Well - my love of Holiday music goes way back in my memories, to my earliest days. Part of that love is due to the work of Mr. Hague. In 1966, he was responsible for many of the tunes featured in the original animated film How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Dr. Seuss himself came up with most of the lyrics, Mr. Hague - the music.

So, now - even though our conversation was extremely short, just enough to recognize our mutual appreciation of music - every time I hear someone whistling/humming along to 'Fahoo Foraze' or 'You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch,' I think - "hey , I met that guy!"

It may not be the coolest holiday memory, but it was significant for me - and I've been keeping a whimsical eye on holiday entertainment since.

I've been collecting Christmas Music - via LP, cassette, CD, or (as it happens in this day and age) Internet download - since about the same time in my personal history. In 1987, I compiled a mixed tape of some favorite Holiday songs and made copies to give to friends and family. In the intervening years, I've made nearly two dozen different mixes, each featuring some of the neatest, most interesting, and original versions of both classic tracks and whatever intriguing pieces I can find that many folk may not have already heard. I start putting them together every year about July. My wife has the tolerance of a Saint.

There are tunes that we hear ad nauseum every Yuletide Season on radio, satellite, and on various and sundry "in-store play" compilations that litter the retail market from Thanksgiving through New Years, and for the most part - I try to avoid those. Recently, however, I've heard and re-heard a few songs that I've convinced myself I shouldn't enjoy - and started to actually fancy them, either through interesting re-interpretations or just their likable novelty. A few to reconsider for your Xmas mix:

'Santa Baby' - Eartha Kitt nailed it the first time out in 1953, and it was played into the ground for 30 years thereafter. Then, on the first 'Very Special Christmas' LP, Madonna up and ruined it for the ages. Or at least for me. For a time, it was hard to even listen to the original without being reminded of the sub par material girl rehash. Then, earlier this holiday season, I was surprised to find a newer arrangement that I really kind of like. I was even more surprised when I realized that this new, improved version was done by Taylor Swift.

'Don't Be A Jerk, It's Christmas' - I'm not a Spongebob Squarepants fan, never really have been. However, this original song should definitely be the mantra of the holidays. Good advice all around for surviving the Yule.

All I Want For Christmas Is You" - Yeah, I know - Mariah Carey. Well, while she may have the most famous version of the song - there are plenty of covers around. I'm not a Mariah fan, but the song itself is well written; and a well written song can be decently performed by just about anyone with a modicum of talent. One of the newest versions I've heard (because, believe it or not, Ms. Carey's version is nearly 20 years old) is by a band named This Providence. I haven't heard anything else by that particular group, but I dig their version of what has become a modern addition to the canon of "Classic" holiday tunes.

There's many good ole Christmas songs that get a new treatment every year. Many by bands who either couldn't care about the song and are trying to make a quick holiday buck, or maybe just haven't heard the originals. It's easy enough to ignore the dreck - but some songs just shouldn't be touched.

Case in point: I've yet to hear a version of 'This Christmas' which even comes close to Donny Hathaway's riveting original ("shake a hand, shake a hand, now..."). The same can be said for The Waitresses 'Christmas Wrapping' which both laments some of the trials and tribulations of the season while becoming a traditional classic all it's own. It's had a few covers as well, but nothing beats the original. Plus, it does have a happy ending - with horns!

I continue to seek out new and original songs every year for the holidays, but like to settle in with some time-honored audio as well. I know I have my favorites, I'm sure you do as well. I hope that you'll get to hear them all this season.
-----------------

More EscalatorYule coming soon!

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, List Checker/Bell Ringer
Yukon Cornelius, Chief Pick-Licker

EscalatorYule 2011: Stave Two.

2011-12-19T21:45:00.000-08:00

Santa Claus should never arrive via Fire Truck.

There, I've said it. Someone had to. So often in these modern times, holiday parades and shopping mall arrivals of children's red suited redeemer fail miserably in their presentation of The Man With The Bag. Think on it - every year, this is kid's first real exposure to the figure whom most of the hype of the season is about - at least if you're between the ages of two and twelve.

How cruel is it then, to have a child's memory of the great mans appearance be associated with a vehicle affiliated with screeching sirens, burning destruction, and smoky death? It's especially cruel when, for a kid "going to see Santa" means waiting in a line at the middle of a grotesquely decorated mall, awaiting the opportunity to head up onto a ramshackle platform cobbled together amidst the "Sale Now!"signs and fluorescent "come hither" glow of kitschy/trendy stores and fast food lunch buckets.

He arrives on an emergency vehicle - and sits on a garish throne amid the plastic greenery and over sized glitter balls, all in order to sell eager parents a snapshot of their crying child on a strangers lap.

I get it, I do. Retail establishments host "Santa" in order to bring folks to the stores. It's a decent plot, but is completely lacking in class.

I hate to be one of those "When I was a kid..." guys - but...

When I was a kid - the excursion to visit St. Nick was not just a quick jaunt to the local shopping super center - it was an hours-long Santa Claus Experience.

Yes, of course the retail aspect was still there. It has been since Thomas Nast created the modern image of Father Christmas for Harper's Weekly in 1862. The mythos is grounded in money - but there used to be more to it.

I recall my sister and I heading into downtown Richmond, Virginia to see the store windows, gaily decorated and thematically arranged - usually telling a Holiday story throughout. Sometimes there were animatronic figures, occasinally a massive train set, or a simple yet classy retelling of an age old Christmas fable.

Then, we would enter those heavy doors - and the marvel would begin. As we rode the escalators between the floors of a massive department store (in my childhood, it would have been Thalheimer's - your town may have had a Macy's, Nordstrom's, Goldblatt's, Higbee's, or something equally ethno-pecuniary) - the decorations would slowly come into view. Massive toy replicas dotting each floor, rustic or vintage looking signs pointing "This Way To Santa's Wonderland - - - ->"

Santa was never on the first or second floor, making the search for his territory all the more exciting. The ride on each subsequent, seemingly thinner, older, escalator, another thrilling move in the search. Then, at the top of one of those creaky old moving staircases - we could turn a corner and "Voila!" - you had entered the realm of St. Nick!

He'd be just around a few more corners - and - after a snaking line, which caravan-ed past ornate decor; be it a snowy land of winter fairies, a path through the living plot lines of The Nutcracker, or even a forest filled with life size versions of those creepishly cute Anna Lee dolls - we entered the chamber of the almighty, reindeer wrangling gift giver.

Oh, there was a line - there was always a line - no matter how early our folks brought us to the store (I think those first kids in the queue were probably paid actors, who clocked in every day just to stand at the front of the crowd for a few hours to add to the illusion of anticipation). But, in that line - we'd hear Christmas Carols all around, maybe even be greeted by an Elf with a Candy Cane. If we hit the room at the right time, we might even catch Santa himself arriving via a giant chimney on the stage astride his chair.

All of the sudden, we were in Santa's living room!

There he was - motioning to the Ice Princess who greeted us as the kids directly ahead in line were scrambling to tell Him what they wanted. Then, it was our turn - gliding across the stage, Santa greeted us by name (methinks the tiny microphone worn by the Ice Princess had a part in this) - and gladly welcomed us into his world for a brief moment. He sat there, listening intently to our material wishes, and then - as soon as we'd arrived, a quick smile, twinkle of flashbulbs, and hearty "HO HO HO" would escort us off the stage and into the decorated egress which led us back into the department store, down the garland and holly lined escalators to the ground floor - our flight of fancy taking a halt until the big night when we'd stay up late, but still fall asleep before seeing Santa in our living room.

This was Christmas perfection. We'd met with Santa's minions, held Santa's hand - just days after watching him arrive atop his caribou enhanced sleigh (albeit one powered by hidden motors underneath) during the annual Christmas Parade!

He was real! He was here!

And he never arrived on the back of a Fire Truck.
-----------------

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively - Admiral of Tinsel
King Moonracer - Ruler, Island Of Misfit Toys

EscalatorYule; Stave the Third, coming soon!

EscalatorYule 2011: Stave One...

2011-12-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

...Escalatorville was dead to begin with.

This part is actually slightly true. I had written a piece to kick off this years EscalatorYule Extravaganza, put down a good 3/4 of it over the weekend and figured, "Hey, I get home from work early on Sunday, I'll just finish it up and put it right on out."

Trust and the Holidays don't always mix well. I'm not used to "backing up" my work to a "disk" or a "file" on the "hard drive" (these are terms I'm not really familiar with. Who am I, Bill Gates?). Instead, I relied on the "Auto-Save" feature on this very website: only to be betrayed like the child whom wishes only for an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle - and ends up with pink rabbit footie pajamas.

That said, I'll attempt to re-write and successfully post, at a later time, what I had initially wanted you to read here today.

In the meanwhile, however, a little seasonal poetic distraction to enthrall and arouse your Jubilation:

First, I must include that I am quite thankful to be a member of a band known as The Wobbly Toms. On our album 'Everybody Happy' - we have a song I wrote entitled 'Where The Hell's My Coffee?". We like to play it a lot, and folks seem to like hearing it when we do. That's pretty cool.

If you'd like, your ears can peruse the original version here.

About a year ago, I decided to re-craft the song for the holiday crowd. Herewith, the lyrics to my "Safe To Sing In Front Of Kids" version:

Where The Heck Is Santa? (copyright 2010/11 - Escalatorville Tunes/Wobbly Songs)

I haven't seen that fat man yet,
To tell him things I'd like to get,
Like black socks and a new drum set!
Where The Heck Is Santa?

I thought I'd find him at the mall
(He'd been there since the First of Fall)
The food court echoes back my call:
"Where The Heck Is Santa!?"

You must be quick, to catch St. Nick
On his supersonic flight
I hope that it's my house he'll pick
As he travels through the night.

I rode up to the cold North Pole,
I found an Elf stuck in the snow,
"That sleigh took off some time ago..."
Where The Heck Is Santa?

You must be quick to catch St. Nick,
On his supersonic flight
I hope that it's my house he'll pick
As he travels through the night.
Who's that superhero
Bending nature's laws?
Who's a pal to everyone?
That's Good Ole Santa Claus!

Now, somewhere out there in the world,
He gives his thick mustache a twirl,
And drops gifts for good Boys and Girls!
Where The Heck Is Santa?
-------------------------------------------------

This next one is in a more adult in vein, but I picture it's eventual recording being as heartwarming and beautifully arranged as something by Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians. If only someone could wake up Fred and get this to him...

The Reindeer's Christmas Party (copyright 2011, Escalatorville Tunes)

Christmas evening at the North Pole.
All the Elves are getting dressed
For the biggest gala of the year,
Where everyone's a special guest!
It's the Reindeer Christmas Party...

Yes, the Reindeer Christmas Party!
The whole workshop's gettin' down!
That pole will be a 'rockin'
When the gang gets back to town!

It's been a long long Christmas, hauling tons of toys.
Time for furry skinned sleigh pullers to act like girls and boys.
At this special Christmas party, they play grown-up Reindeer games.
Dancer, Prancer, Vixen - all start to live up to their names.

Yes, the Reindeer Christmas Party!
The whole workshop's gettin' down!
That pole will be a 'rockin'
When the gang gets back to town!

With tinsel on their antlers, and holly round their hooves,
They'll down a few Oat Sodas after carousing on your roofs!
It's easy to spot Rudolph, his nose rosy and bright -
But after "hay" and eggnog, we're all the same later that night!

Yes, the Reindeer Christmas Party!
The whole workshop's gettin' down!
That pole will be a 'rockin'
When the gang gets back to town!

Oh a Reindeer Christmas Party
Where we all can rest our paws,
And raise a glass of Christmas Spirit
to the best boss, Santa Claus!
At the Reindeer Christmas Party!
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-Should be a chart topper sometime in the next quarter-century. Hell, if those damn barking dogs can do it, I think anyone probably can.

Tomorrow evening - Santa and Fire Trucks don't mix...

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively - Head Ornamentalist.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Amped up for the wind down.

2011-12-07T04:50:00.000-08:00

I got a notice in the mail the other day, a brochure on pre-paid cremation services. Normally, I'd just throw junk ads into the recycle bin, but I wonder if if it's more apropos to burn this one.

Retail Rehash
The old joke about the town in which we live is that it's a tourist trap for "Newlyweds and Nearly Deads."

Tourists of the geriatric and/or bridal ilk still flock to town, but we find ourselves catering more to those "Romantic Getaway" couples - two night visitors who blow their wads on accommodations, and nothing on merchandise. We have now become a haven for "Weekend Boffing and Window Shopping."

Such was the case with a young couple recently overheard while entering the shop in which I am employed. As the man pointed to a carved wooden dragon statue displayed near the cash register, his gal pal hooted;

"Ugh - that's not real!"

She continued, " It reminds me of dinosaurs - they're not real either!"

The look on his face, and the roll of his eyes, alerted me to the realization that he hadn't entered this relationship for the intellectual stimulation.

Nature > Nurture
Some behaviors never change. Not long ago, an older woman came into the store looking to replace a missing necklace.

"My Grandson's coming to visit, and I don't want him to think I lost it."

Also, a newer mom recently sauntered through the store - consistently shushing the infant child in her arms. Then, upon seeing friends on the street outside, cleared her throat to attract their attention.

"WE'RE IN HERE, Y'ALL!" She bellowed at top volume.

"Is that a dagger..." or are you just happy to see me?
I don't think I'm much a fan of the "Emo" genre of popular arts. Hell, I'm not sure I even know what it is. From what I gather, it's a semi-Gothic, angst ridden, "I wear my heart of darkness on my sleeve" type thing.

I bring it up , however, because I saw a gent in a t-shirt which offered the snarky phrase - "Shakespeare doesn't like your Emo poems."

"Really?" I thought.

After all, ole Billy Shakes came up with these lines:

"O, that this too too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew...how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!"

I think he'd be perfectly fine with the plaintive wail of the downtrodden hipster.

"Not your average fish wrapper" is still a fish wrapper...
Given equal importance on the same dates front page, our local "newspaper" featured the following headlines a while back:

"Hernandez Gets 12 Years"
coupled with
"Gazebo Gets Steel Legs"

You can guess which was the more detailed article.

Eurotits and the Ingénue: a story in all parts.
In southern Georgia, there lies an Oasis in the middle of a forest. Not a traditional "Oasis" as portrayed in fantasy novels or the desert based hallucinations from cartoon characters of yore; it's simply a spot of land ensconced among trees where the lovely Bess and I have been know to "vacate" for a day or so every once in a while. There are tiny rooms nestled among the arbors, frequently barefoot staff members, walking paths through the flora, and a serene, open air, freshwater lake.

At the center of the lake is a small floating dock of sorts. It's a nice spot for sunbathing, reading, or just chilling out with fellow visitors. On one of our excursions to this oasis, Bess an I opted to swim out to the dock for a bit of conversation, to soak in a few of the suns rays, and to generally enjoy each others company.

After a brief swim - in the midst of which your author had a slight panic attack, momentarily forgot how to tread water, and feared he might drown - we scrambled up onto the wooden structure, taking proud comfort in the fact that, for a t least a little while, we had the little lakepad to ourselves.

We sat side by side, feet dangling in the water, When not looking at each other, we glimpsed the occasional fish (whom I imagine eyed our heel/toe combination as either weapon or feast). Following a bit of talking and a few kisses, we each staked out our own corner of the dock. Bess doffed her swimsuit to take full advantage of that days solar generosity. Keeping my own swim trunks on, being afflicted with a case of modesty and still a bit unnerved by my assumed near-death experience, I laid back to rest.

A short time later, a blond woman in a canoe paddled up and, with a notably Germanic/Austrian accent, asked to join us on the dock. Through brief conversation we learned that she had indeed come from Europe, was taking a tour through America, and would soon be concluding her extended stay in the forest. Kind and pleasant company is most always welcome in any communal area, so we had no qualms about a new acquaintance sharing our sun, or catching up on the book which she unloaded from the canoe.

Having been on my back, I decided to re-position myself in such a way so that I could converse with Bess and our visitor, while evening out the tan across my dorsal region. as I slowly rolled onto my stomach, I glanced across the planks in time to see our new dock sitter completely remove her top.

Although personally shy in regards to my own epidermis, I'm no stranger to public nudity (aah, those whimsical college parties of yesteryear...). Yet, my psyche was quick to jump to its built in anti-gawking instruction manual [ "A)When speaking, always look a naked woman in the eyes. B)Remember that her eyes are located on her face"].

After a few moments of polite, concentrated, conversation with our fellow guest - whom, forgive my brain, will forever be referred to in my noggin by the nickname 'Eurotits' - she picked up her book, and I resumed roasting my spinal column.

Three mostly bare individuals mid-lake on a floating dock is apparently, the first sign of an outdoor social gathering. That, or the opening scene of a bad horror flick. Within five, perhaps ten, minutes we heard the splish-splash of another couple headed our way.

Accents floating with them across the water gave me the foreknowledge that they might be French. A fact confirmed with a friendly "Bonjour" and some light conversation as they climbed aboard the dock.

Both had long, dark hair. He - a rather average build and average looks, age broaching that late 20's/early 30's timeline. She was about a decade younger - and absolutely gorgeous. An Ingenue with the face of a starlet and the body of a model, yet perfectly proportionate. A faint scent in the air indicated that their swim was post-coital.

These new additions to our now global Radiation Intake Squadron sat on the boards for a few moments and, while I couldn't comprehend the words, I understood their Tete-a-Tete. He wanted to cavort in the water ("L'Eau"), she wished to rest on the dock ("Le Dock"). Each of them proceeded to do just as they indicated - after removing every stitch of fabric from their beings.

Leaving me as the only "clothed" one on our tiny island, they stood completely nude - talking for a few seconds before he took a tall arcing dive into the lake. Perhaps he simply jumped? Or possibly just walked off the dock? I don't rightly know, at this point, he was not the focus of my concentration.

The Ingenue exhaled a sigh and positioned herself in a relaxed recline so that she too could soak up the rays of the late afternoon sun. The three of us remaining on the platform watched as she got comfortable - while my stomach fluttered in the manner it had when, as a juvenile, I'd stumbled upon late night television soft core erotica while attending a sleepover at someone else's house.

Any potential conversation dried up, as Bess began a light snooze and Eurotits became engrossed in her reading. Having never learned any French phrases one could use to talk to a naked Ingenue basking in the glow and glisten of a south Georgia lake - I followed Bess' lead and took a quick nap.

I awoke upon the boyfriend's return, over hearing the robust chatter betwixt the Frenchies. Rolling my head slightly, eyes squinting to assess the situation, I found two reasons to remain with my back to the sky:

1) In that prone position, sitting up directly would have placed my eyes in the immediate vicinity of the Frenchman's, uh, little Frenchman. Now, don't get me wrong - there are plenty of folk who would pay no mind to this scenario (and yes, some who would indeed embrace the idea), and more power to 'em - however, it is personally not in my nature to find enjoyment in arising with the prospect of a penis inn my peripheral.

2) The lovely Bess on her own is far more than sexy enough to stir my libido; though I can be fairly good at harnessing the occasional autonomous physical reaction to such stirring - an issue to which any male called to a chalkboard in from of his 8th grade classroom can attest - the addition of supplemental, attractive, unshy, naked overseas gifts to the eyes of the world, coupled with the sight of my own gorgeous and unclothed spouse - convinced me that uncontrollable embarrassment might be nigh.

Thus, I chose to remain face down on the dock.

Within a few minutes, both the Frenchman and his Ingenue departed, swimming back towards the forest. Soon after, Eurotits also took her leave, paddling back to the Rhine - or wherever. A short bit later, Bess and I headed back to our treehouse, dinner was in the near future.

Back in the cabin, Bess and I dressed for the remainder of the evening, both refreshed from our swim, rested from our naps, and slightly tan all around.

Except for my back, which now boasted the least regrettable sunburn I ever had.

----

Thanks for reading!
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Z.F. Lively, Proprietor/Gadfly
escalatorville@yahoo.com

EscalatorYule coming soon - watch this space.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Talk About The Passion

2011-09-23T14:15:00.000-07:00

"Calling out...in transit - calling out...in transit..."

Those garbled words coming out of a garbled car stereo speaker were the first time I heard them. That year marked the first time a lot of people heard them. I was ten.

My dad and I were exiting the parking lot of the Carytown plaza in Richmond, Virginia.

"Who is it?" I wanted to know, glaring at the radio dial, tuned to a local college station.

"I don't know," said my Dad "One of those new bands like The Clash or something."

I listened closely to the rest of the song, the jangly guitar, the rocking beat, and "What was he saying?" - greatly enjoying the tune, but also eagerly awaiting its end, so that the DJ would tell me the name of my newest favorite thing.

Radio Free Europe - by R.E.M.

Again, I was ten. These names made no sense to me, but they were unique - and that sound was really cool!

It would be a couple of years before I started buying cassettes of my own, but I still paid attention. This was the early 1980s after all, and I was a radio freak. I listened to most of the local stations; pop, top 40, some R&B, the newly emerging "classic rock" format - and often I would be subversive enough to turn my bedroom radio down really low when I went to bed at night and tune it to the university station. I knew what R.E.M. was up to - and wondered if this "Athens" place was in a different Georgia than I was familiar with.

When the paper route money stated rolling in (I was netting a fortune - about 20 bucks a week), I started collecting tapes. Murmur, Reckoning, Fables Of The Reconstruction, Lifes Rich Pageant - these got me through middle and the first part of high school. I didn't know who The Smiths were, and had barely listened to U2, but I knew R.E.M.

Then, in 1987 - Document.

That was the one that got most of the world interested. Of course, by then, I was an aficionado: "Well, of course 'The One I Love' is a great song, but it's not actually a love song if you pay attention to the lyrics. Also, if you like 'It's The End Of The World And We Know It (And I Feel Fine)' - you should listen to 'Can't Get There From Here'. Oh, and they put out a compilation album earlier this year called Dead Letter Office that's really neat too - Pete Buck wrote the liner notes and everything..."

I didn't drink or do drugs at all in high school. I listened to music.
It was only later in life that I learned to multi-task.

The night of Friday, October 9th, 1987 left me feeling quite inebriated, however. I saw them live for the first time, at William and Mary Hall in Williamsburg. There would be more R.E.M. concerts through the years - all amazing, from Richmond to Tampa to Seattle - but that first one, in '87 left me utterly flabbergasted and eternally inspired.

In '87, I started my first real band.

There were two major influences that led me to pick up a guitar and learn to play; one was my Mom, who also played a bit - the other was R.E.M.

As the years passed, my relationship with my Mother became a bit scatter-shot, while my admiration for R.E.M. was steadfast. I was at the record store the day the albums came out, picking up magazines featuring interviews, and finding friends who would dance along to 'Orange Crush' or 'Near Wild Heaven' at parties.

When my Mom died in 1993, I rode a Greyhound Bus from St. Augustine, Florida to Richmond, Virginia for the funeral. Blocking out the remainder of my fellow passengers, I listened to a cassette I had recorded from my LP of Automatic For The People about 2 dozen times during the trip there and back. I took comfort in the easiness of that record, nothing too flashy, just good, emotional music. It was if my mourning was absorbed within the songs themselves - I would have erupted without that album.

I barely cried at my Mother's memorial service. Upon playing that record again in my apartment a few months later - I bawled my eyes out and my throat sore.

As years went by, I still paid attention. I formed other bands. I worried when Bill Berry got ill and left. I was relieved to see the remaining 3 continue to be vibrant; adding stellar musicians to their live shows and on subsequent albums. As I grew older, their music changed as well. At times, it took some getting used to - variations in relationships always do. Despite the alterations, their new sounds became welcome to my ears and heart.

Some bands are just bands. Some music is just music. Sometimes though, a band's music grabs you in such a way that it becomes a part of your life, a friend that gets you when no one else does, invigorating and molding you into whom you become in life.

I'm a record collector who first heard of the Velvet Underground, Sonic Youth, Robyn Hitchcock, Lightnin' Hopkins, and Radiohead because of R.E.M.

More importantly, I'm a musician. A singer, songwriter, guitar slinger. Playing music is the thrill of my life - there is no pleasure comparable to channeling ones spirit through song. A small band from Georgia taught me that, and I can never thank them enough.

-Z.F. Lively
The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Find the river, Sweetness follows

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Exit The Dragon Edition

2011-08-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

If one should find oneself strolling past an official-looking, yet semi-gruff gent working on the innards of a city parking meter; resist the urge to put on your best Edward G. Robinson impersonation while exclaiming "Ah Ha! So that's how they do it!"

Trust me on this one.

Stories From The Retail Wasteland
A gal in a cobalt colored frock sauntered about the store at which I work, as we listened to the "60's" station on the satellite radio. Mitch Ryder's 'Devil In A Blue Dress' began to egress from the speakers, causing said girl to egress herself from the shop with exuberance.

Admiring some replica oriental coinage for sale, a child in the shop turned to his father-
"Ooh! Can I get some? Then we can go to China and buy things!"

Working in a tourist heavy industry as I do - I often hear these plaintive cries from sons and daughters trying to gain momentary/monetary attention from their vacationing parents. Some pleas sound a little too well-rehearsed (It's a long drive to Florida). My favorite of late:

"But I even washed my hands for in case we get fudge!"

Good Luck, kids.

Semantic Antics
What follows is an actual quote, from a woman whose lack of depth and/or perception provided an odd statement regarding the science of depth perception:

"Horses act that way because they think we're bigger than they are."

I can't recall my exact reaction to that one. I think I probably gave up the look that the Lovely Bess describes thusly:

"You look like you just got your teeth worked on - and then punched."

Paging Edgar Allan...
If you're a cinefile, or just a curiosity seeker, and happen to be near the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle - I recommend perusing the grounds of Lakeview Cemetery. Therein, you can find the concurrent resting places of martial arts superstar Bruce Lee and his son, tragic, cult-classic hero, Brandon.

The graves themselves are relatively easy to find, but, if you are slightly oblique and prone to rambling - as I was during my first visit - you may find yourself with an unexpected guide.

I'd certainly admired, but hadn't ever fixated, on Bruce Lees works - the way some have, and I think I'd watched Brandon's star-making turn in 'The Crow' only once - at our local second run theater - a little while after it's initial release. Despite the films overwhelming popularity at the time, I was not ( and never became) engulfed in the intrigue surrounding the film or the supernatural sheen its story lent to its lead actor.

{Brandon Lee's premature and brutal death during the filming of a role in which his character also dies a premature and brutal death -and is subsequently "resurrected" with the guidance of a mysterious crow, has brought the movie a fair share of its cult and occult following}

Having spent nearly 30 minutes wandering the parameters of that massive boneyard (which, admittedly, does have a time-stealing view) - I had yet to find the sites I sought. I decided that meeting the Lees could wait for another day.

My eyes headed toward the gate, my footsteps followed. Then, it happened. I heard a berating "Caw! Caw! and glanced upward to see a silky, blue/black bird skim the sky inches above my head. A crow - an honest to goodness crow - the namesake of the younger Lees leash to eternity - had appeared out of nowhere, catching my attention while nearly scraping my scalp. My gaze followed as it sped past me and onward another 20 yards or so before taking it's rest - on the dark granite headstone of Brandon Lee.

Bewildered, I followed the crow to the resting place of "The Crow" - reading the inscriptions at both graves, noting the mementos left by adoring, and still mourning, fans.

I stood in awe for a few moments, until a carload of admirers pulled along the road beside the dual memorial markers. I wanted to share my story with them - but they exited the vehicle with such glee ( as much glee as gothically dressed fanboys can muster), that I thought they would either be too gobsmacked to speak- or would ridicule me for what reads as a fairly unbelievable story.

It wouldn't be the last time I paid a visit to the Lee Family's home of eternal repose, but it certainly provided one of the strangest first impressions I'd ever received - from either the living or the dead.

The List
This edition: 'Average Occurrences Which Brighten The Disposition'
-Finding new remembrances in a film one hasn't seen in years.
("Ah! That's right, She's in this too!")
Realising that, upon returning long overdue borrowed items to a friend, that they have something of yours as well.
(Ah! So that's where that went!)
-Sleeping in on a day off. Then, in mid-afternoon, taking a nap.
(Ah! Tha...ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!)

The Age Of Embarrassment
I caught a glimpse of my reflection from the corner of my eye, Good thing too, I appeared to have a "booger" lodged in my mustache. I swiped once to remove the thing from my face. No Dice. The mirror still flaunted my entangled nostrillic asteroid. a repeated swipe. It remained. It wouldn't go.

Grasping for a paper towel - I took a closer look. the "booger" had disappeared, replaced in my mustache with an exact replica made of tiny grey and white hairs...

Don't Go There, I Already Went
I had written a piece for the finale wherein I related that "America" was an anagram of "I, Camera." This led to a disjointed ramble about our country's current state, told via various unconnected scribblings and other negligible notations.

It didn't work, came out sounding forced and relatively meaningless. I cashed out my commentary. Rolled away those remarks and burned up the babble. In short - I smoked the marginalia.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
Proprietor, Thinker, Chief Scrawler - Z.F. Lively
Darling Editrix and Advisor - The Lovely Bess
Scooter and Bell Maintenance - Kwan C. Moto
Make-Up Artist and Sartorial Wizardry - Rosa Mungthornes
Email and Whatnot - escalatorville@yahoo.com

The Dispatch From Escalatorville; This Water's On Fire Edition

2011-07-01T07:38:00.000-07:00

Working with the public, I've hit upon a Communication Revelation, which may or may not correspond with your own observations, depending on where you're from.

It seems to me that folks from the South and Southwest want immediate responses to questions that require lengthy answers. Meanwhile, Northerners tend to ask questions that are three times longer than any logical response should possibly be.

Something Something Responsibili-huh?
The Gift/Novelty shop in which I spend a decent portion of my waking hours will frequently find itself infested with (Can I get some more reverb in these monitors?): SCHOOL GROUPS.

Kids rush to and fro, cash at the ready, to see what tsouvenirs can bve taken home for the pittance they've saved after purchasing lunch. Lunch consisting, one assumes, of Soda, Fudge, Caramel Apples, and a few packs of sugar.

Most sprint inside, look around a bit, scream their findings in the direction of friends, then
A) Decide they cannot afford the thing they really want, or
B)Try to buy it anyway without realizing that they cannot afford it.

This is where the "Chaperone" is traditionally supposed to step in to solve or soothe matters. In the modern era - 'tradition' sucks the big one.

Current definition of "Chaperone" (According to the Dic(k)tionary of Escalatorville): Indifferent Adult whom stands around smoking/gossiping while expecting respect for unused authority.

On rare occasions a chaperone will actually meander through the shop - sometimes keeping track of the charges in their care when not trying to hit on every fellow tourist or store employee under age 50.

Oft times, these guardians are downright rude. For instance, take the Mother and Father whom looked after their own two progeny as well as one school chum, buying lavishly for their children whilst complaining about the extra one they "got stuck with." (Actual quote, folks - said in front of the bewildered grade-schooler. I'd have cursed out these parental assholes if I hadn't feared retribution toward their suffering surrogate.)

I also witness those that try to be helpful, but just don't care enough to put in a valiant effort. Another real life example:
A child came up to the counter, handler attending, to make a purchase totalling two dollars and thirty five cents. The kid handed me three one dollar bills.
"Now," said the guardian "if you gave him three dollars, but only spent $2.35 - how much change should you get back?"
"Thirty Cents?" asked the enthusiastic child.
"Nope." uttered the chaperone.
"Fifty Cents?" spake innocentia.
"No, try again." said the instantaneously exasperated woman.
"Seventy Five Cents?" chirped the kid, quixotically.

Then came the ignorant adults indignant reply-
"Yeah sure, you got it, whatever."

Finding the shiniest change the cash register coudl muster, I passed it to the kid.

"Here you are," I said directly to the child "Sixty five cents. Thank you for dropping in."

The youngster had to hurry out the door to catch up to their fleeing escort - who'd turned to leave immediately upon my correction. However, here rushed exit and cold stare had combined to stir up one of the years most refreshing breezes to date.

For The Record, They Were Both Wearing "The Pants"
Seen in town - a young, married duo - both with trendy haircuts and bejeweled faces. Her T-Shirt read "Evil, Wicked, Nasty and Mean."
His? "Lamb Of God."

Apparently, he's also hiding a time machine...
I happen to like our current Commander In Chief. Some folks don't- and that's O.K. Without differences of opinion, our country would not have grown into the amazing land that it is today.

However, If you are going to criticize the President, please have a legitimate complaint.

In recent weeks I've heard that Barack Obama is directly responsible for our states sales tax - a concept only moments younger than money itself. I also encountered a regional woman apparently unfamiliar with the redesign of our national currency over the past dozen or so years.
Upon seeing an updated 5-cent piece, shje too blamed Mr. O.

"I didn't even know that was a nickel! He's going to make them all look like European coins."

She left the scene before I could point out that her particular coin was dated four years before He took the Oath Of Office.

Hello Again, Stranger.
While working the overnight shift at a local hotel (a position since vacated in pursuit of more happiness and sanity), I became briefly familiar with odd and strange characters. Sometimes, though, the weirdest encounters happened when approached by people I actually knew.

Once, at 4AM, an ambling figure lurched up the sidewalk of US Highway 1 - his dirtied face recognizable aas he approached the lobby. An acquaintance of mine.

Although not a close friend, I'd spent hours in conversation with this fellow through the years at parties and local watering holes. He'd even once woo'd the Lovely Bess before divine providence pointed us toward each other.

He'd been out of town and out of sorts for a short time, but graciously accepted my hello and handshake, asked for a cheap room. I was happy to oblige.

Waiting for the credit card and computer system to do the waltz of mutual acceptance, I started conversation with the routine "How're Things?"

"Oh, I'm fine. It's just that..."

Thus began a litany of troubles; he'd come back to town to visit a friend, gotten himself arrested, re-pissed off folks he'd skipped town to avoid in the first place - and had arrived at my hotel after a claimed 2 hour walk, having been kicked out of his second resting place in as many days. Also, he didn't have much money.

I sympathized with him, having been pretty low myself at times (A while back, for a year or so, I carried an old ATM receipt in my wallet, reminding me that I'd once had a bank balance of exactly one dime).

I was able to garner a room at a massive discount, and arranged for a later checkout time.

Speaking to him by name, I handed over his room key. I wished him good night and pointed him toward his room, stating ( if a bit dishonestly) that it was good to see him.

He thanked me, and headed out of the lobby. As he got to the door, he turned, looked me square in the face, then innocently inquired,

"And your name is...?"

Thunderbolt and Lightning (Very, Very Frightening)
Radio stations favored by retail establishments generally play familiar, easy to sing along with tunes. Case in point; Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody"

I think most of the civilized world has heard the song, and are familiar with at least a tidbit of the particular tune.

As it began playing through the overhead speakers, customers began to sway their heads in time, some "conducting" the air, in a quasi-zombie-like fashion. But, no singing. Until, for some reason, they all started in unison.

I would have thought this really neat or really planned - but it was neither. It was creepish.
All started singing along at the line:

"Sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all..."

Just as quickly as they'd started - realizing teh eerieness of the moment - all stopped. People looked around the room wide-eyed at one another and, as collective goose pimples covred summer-clothed skin, half the customers began to slowly, but assuredly, move toward the exits.

Queen continued, unaccompanied, for the remainder of the song.

Consult Your Local Whale Biologist
Perhaps the heat was playing with my eyes.
Or, perhaps the letters on the stores plastic sign were pushed uncomfortably together. That first "E" squinching up too close (giving a backrub?) to the second "B". Nonetheless, I chose to bypass our local grocers whom advertised their "FRESH BLUBBERRY PIES"

The Dispatch From Escalatorville
"I've got fisters on my blingers" write us -> escalatorville@yahoo.com
Proprietor - Z.F. Lively
Time Management Trainee - Ina Baudenauer
Head Of Security - Nunya B. Swacks

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Allegation, Allegory, and Alliteration

2011-05-09T16:12:00.000-07:00

Upon viewing a Colonial soldier cavorting down the road with his mistress of historically comparable attire - a Visitor to Our Faire Citie (Americanid Vacatium Spendthrifticus, Circa 1957) loudly remarked:

"There They Go - Pirates!"

The way some of these tourists drink, you'd think they lived here.

A Fairly Fanciful Feat For Even The Fastest Of Fingers
I'd like to see the creation of a "Retro-Phone" App. The App would enable any "smart" device to operate with the same ring sounds, dial tones, and circumnavigation speed of an old Rotary Telephone. The idea may seem whimsical as you're reading this, I know. The day it debuts, however, I bet it cuts Drunk Dialing Your Ex's by at least 30%.

Inconsequential Index, Ingredients:Inane Ideologies, Ironclad Insight
This Dispatch's List: Recent Likes/Dislikes of your humble (ha!) narrator...

Like - Owl Themed Artwork, posters, tattoos, pottery, etc.
Dislike - Actual Owls - they're creepy, man.

Like - Walking into the stores second room to talk to a cute female customer - hey, interaction with potential spenders is part of the job, folks.
Dislike - Her giggles as she walks out, my nose being the first to discover why she was there alone in the first place.

Like - the convenience of the internet for perusing my personal interests and research.
Dislike - the convenience of the internet for everyone else.

Frazzled Fashion (Go Figure!)
Now, I'm no fashionista - but even I gather that the leather jacket - dyed silver- accented by humongous needleworked paisleys - probably didn't debut on the runways of New York or Paris. Yet, its owner pranced around as if she'd stepped directly out of a space portal from whatever alternate universe in which that used to be cool.

The sartorial snob in me has also noted a rising use of the "this fedora makes me sexy" look. Except that, in 4 out of 5 cases, any promised sexiness fails to appear with the addition of said hat. Thus, trendsters, if you see someone on the street really rocking your new style; chances are it's not you.

On a final fashion note - what's this deal with resting ones sunglasses atop the chin, people? Did your forehead start charging rent, or are you trying to give the impression that your own cheeks are staring at your chest?

Again, please regale me with explanation, fad mavens*, the post office keeps stealing my Vogue.

*p.s. "The Fad Mavens" would be a wicked cool name for a rock band. Contact me if you want to use it (genius ain't cheap, my friend).

The DiMucci Dichotomy
Everyone should already know who the singer, Dion, is. Even those not encyclopedic in pop music of the latter half of the 20th century know his biggest hits -

"Runaround Sue"
and "The Wanderer."

What I've always wondered is how ballsy Mister D. has to be, in order to chastise the namesake of the former for espousing the same traits he himself claims to exploit in the latter?

Also, why such a lackluster Christmas album? You could have kept it cool and raw (hey, you're Dion), but you really headed toward Steve and Eydie territory there.

Lively's Limerick Lounge

Wholesome (to be read in a Bronx or Irish dialect, please)
There once was a gal from Calcutta,
Who developed two gallon-sized "udders"
Said she, with a shrug,
"You think these are jugs?
Take a look at the ones on me mother!"

Drama
I once played a role rather spritely.
Costume gal gave me tights that fit, (ahem) tightly.
Seems she was obsessed with
What I was possessed with,
Yet was too shy to ask me politely.

The Slippery Slope Of Subliminal Suggestion http://thewobblytoms.bandcamp.com/
The bell tower chimes at my Alma Mater always seem to be ringing when I walk by. Usually, I inwardly giggle (one of those "Jeesh, I can't believe they're playing this" awkward feeling giggles) when I hear the sounds falling out of the towers - for instance, listening to a version of the Carpenter's "We've Only Just Begun" that segues directly into "The Impossible Dream."

Once last Autumn, however, I caught a bit of the players dark humor; rain clouds had closed in around the city, winds were whipping the trees around downtown - as I walked past the school, I couldn't help but hum along to the hilariously sinister tones chortling out-

"Blue Skies, Smilin' at me, Nothing but blue skies..."

Lifetime Lovers, Weekend Warriors
Standing behind a wall in an Orlando warehouse, my feet in sawdust, my finger on a trigger. As the nose of my rifle peaked over a window ledge, my thoughts turned back to the events of the week prior. Bess and I had celebrated our 6th Anniversary in pretty grand style - from string quartets and French Opera lithographs to dinner with loved ones, boomerang overnight road trips to Savannah, overpriced coffee, second winds, and birthday cake - enjoying each others company and sharing cute looks along the way.

Now, here I stood, gun in hand, waiting for the enemy. Paintball novice that I am, I was just happy to be "alive" that far into the round. I caught a flash in the corner of my eye. A green sash atop the targets face mask - Enemy. I turned, fired, and watched with growing pride as my "bullet" went through a window, a hallway, a door frame and -POP- right between the eyes!

Holy Cow, it was thrilling!
Holy Crap! It was Bess.

All of the above took place in about 20 seconds. Within 15 more, I was out too. Blasted in the right eye, paint on my tongue. I ran outside and found my beloved bride, admitting that it was I who had been her assassin. She laughed.

Forgiveness granted, it was War after all, I grabbed a soda and chuckled to myself. Many folks anniversaries end with one partner putting the other to bed, and preparing for the next days routines.

During our celebration, I shot my wife in the face.

She is so cool.

This is the Dispatch from Escalatorville,
Z.F. Lively, formatted to fit your screen
escalatorville@yahoo.com

Oh yeah, you don't want to forget this - I am in a band, we are called the Wobbly Toms, we have an album out called 'Everybody Happy! which you can check out and/or purchase here, as well as at our shows. We're playing an acoustic show this coming May the 27th at Ann O'Malleys Pub, St. Augustine. Come on out, you'll like it.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Awkward Thought Clearing House

2011-02-15T01:01:00.000-08:00

Hi. Welcome back! I'm about 100 days late and a million bucks short with this Dispatch, so let's jump on in...

The ole "Cell Phones as Walkie Talkies" ploy worked well on Bess and I's recent drive back from Virginia. As part of our trip involved the pickup and delivery of another vehicle - our journey involved driving one car up, but driving two back. Using the "speaker phone" option so as not to break laws or kill other road warriors, we were able to sporadically inform each other as to when we were stopping for gas, food, and lodging. More importantly, we could let one another know what cool radio stations we found throughout the ride.

One frequency the wife hipped me too was a small station in the Carolinas playing some mighty fine "mountain" music. Upon the conclusion of a song entitled 'Trail Of Tears' a disc jockey spoke about the sorrows of that lamentable forced relocation which erased not only the lives, but much heritage, of many Native Americans - along the sad path of the songs title. The DJ concluded that "it just seems that every time one people tries to decide what's best for another people, it always ends in tragedy."

He then paused, and informed us that we were listening to the "Good Times Bluegrass Program."

Now sir, please explain how TV went from Black & White to Color...
Overheard in the downtown area, two middle aged men discussing Mega-Sharks and other ancient dinosaurs of historical and sci-fi horror flick fame. One man was happy to explain to the other that-
"The reason those creatures could get so big and still move around is because Gravity was different then."

How to make enemies, part one - create a list.

The List: People who just won't get off my radar, no matter how much I'd like them too:

-Pregnant women who dress not in a style that flatters their burgeoning motherhood, but whom choose to dress in the now ill-fitting and inappropriate Skank-Wear that got them to this position in the first place. (Please note, I DO NOT refer to ALL pregnant women in this manner; the vast majority of them, and women in general, are NOT of the "skank" variety -I merely reference the ones whom are trying to embarrass their own children before they are even born.)

-Prison-eligible Politicians who continuously state that they were "never convicted," yet refuse to announce that they are innocent.

-Men of minuscule penile accomplishment whom make up for this fact by blasting songs they'd never let their parents hear from stereos in cars that they cannot afford.

-Families that smell like burnt ham.

-Persons who refer to the digits at the end of their hands as "Fangers." I suspect they're from the same family as folks who root for local football squad, the Jacksonville "Jag-Wires."

-Tourists happily guiding their aging parents, despite elder hesitations, into decor purchases they know they will someday inherit.

-Whomever thought that the increasingly unnecessary annual delivery of those environmentally unfriendly phone books could be enhanced by wrapping them with individual plastic bags. Seriously, we got three of them this year - and the only people I actually call are already listed in my phone. Get with the 90's, phone book people.

Next up, 'Walkin' On Sunshine'
The song took on an entirely different contextual meaning when- after years of hearing it used by contented political campaigns and uplifting sitcoms - it's chorus blared out, cracking with static, from the antiquated boom box in the homeless shelter parking lot:
"Don't. Stop. Thinkin' About Tomorrow..."

A town running on fumes is still running, right?
Overheard while walking past city offices in the downtown area; two colleagues in nearly matching tailored suits exiting a meeting: "Those are some great questions, I'm glad no one asked them."

How to make enemies, part two - infest the web.
If you're ever watching television and the spiteful vindictive pundits drive you to the point of disbelief wherein you think, "How much more callous could human beings get?" - then I suggest you avoid any Internet message boards. God bless free speech. God help those who make an art of turning it ugly.

"Ich habe eine Krankheit? BulleScheiße! Ich heilte sie mit meinem Gehirn!"
I still work part time at the front desk of a local hotel. Whenever guests from Germany or Austria check in, I sometimes try to eavesdrop on their conversations to see what,if any, of my high school language lessons remain (with much apologies to Frau Hefty that my brain was more sieve than sponge at that point in life). However, listening to a recent conversation, I determined that this practice must stop. It wasn't due to frustration at only recognizing the occasional guttural utterance or crash of consonants that construct their language; my new found disdain for the art of overhearing is rooted in the fact that the phrase that I identified most often in their conversation repeatedly contained the words "Charlie Sheen."

Cue the Rim shot, please.
I had an online conversation in the near past regarding the current state of modern comedy. It's still my belief that no comedian should be content enough in their career to rest on their laurels. Unless that comedian is Oliver Hardy, of course.

"Pool-ogy," or "Fin-eral"?
Some folks are still wondering about the magic, gill-adorned wonder that lived forever in a pond in our backyard, and has made a couple of appearances in past Dispatches for his near death experiences and awkward diet. Well, I'm sad to report that Fish is no longer with us. He was found, in typical "dead fish" pose, one morning earlier this year.

After giving up the ghost (or whatever spirit our water-logged pals have that haunts their dreams and provides impetus for their Merry Fishmas movies), the most stouthearted fish we'd ever seen was removed from his aquatic home and buried in the backyard. No service was held, for how is one to eulogize such an odds-defying creature?

Not that it would have sufficed; for merely one day later, I returned to the burial mound to find that the pounds of dirt which had covered our finful friend had been pushed away - with no trace of Fish, or any fish parts, to be found nearby. One could speculate that he'd been dug up by one of the neighborhood cats, or torn from the earth by an erstwhile hawk circling above. However, I like to think he escaped after catching his breath - and is now terrorizing smaller beings throughout the marsh waters that retreat from our yard towards the San Sebastian River.

Don't page Robin Leach just yet (look him up, youngsters).
I am fortunate enough to play in a pretty cool band. As a band, we are fortunate enough to have recently released an album* and played in a pretty cool festival. Now, despite occasional delusions of grandeur, we are taking it all in stride and for what it is - a great time playing music for great people. However, if you haven't experienced what it's like to have people you've never even met singing along to your words - or to walk into a bar and hear your song playing on the house sound system - I cannot accurately describe the thrill of having even a small bit of localized fame. But, I can totally understand how actual rock stars gain those super-egos that we "real" musicians often hate them for. In the meantime, I'll keep doing what I'm doing, until the Limo gets here.

Thank you, little people.

Z.F. Lively
Chief Escalatorvillian

*Purchase info for 'Everybody Happy!' by The Wobbly Toms will be available soon - write to Escalatorville@yahoo.com for further details, or just to harass me for this blatant plug.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Every Mother's Child Is Gonna Spy...

2010-12-21T23:17:00.000-08:00

Later on, we'll conspire -as we dream by the fire...
It's been a bit chillier in the Nation's Oldest City of late. We're not immune to low temperatures here, but it always seems to come as a shock to most residents, and especially visitors. The complaints start as soon as the wind chill brings us down to the mid-50s - as if the Tourism Board advertised that Florida would have its own privatized weather system. C'mon people, not all of Florida has Disney money...

The chill does serve to remind us once again what time of year it is. The blast of cold bringing to mind the winds and snows of Christmases past, thoughts of fireplaces, Santa Claus, and lengthy journeys devised to bring gifts to kids. The cold air and our frigid fingers should also serve to remind us that it's the time of year to warm our hearts as well.

No matter what celebration you espouse at this time of the year, chances are - its roots are in kindness and joy. It's a time to share a smile with a stranger, to share grade-school jokes with co-workers, and time to remember that- yes, if you are able to read the words I've posted here - you are more privileged than the majority of humanity.

In hard times, so called, we tend to be a bit more selfish - especially in the financial department. Yet, we should hold fast to the memory that this is not the season of getting. It is indeed the season of giving. Remember, please, that the notion of giving highlights the advent of, and crowning moments within, our existence - and it's a notion far far older than money.

Deck The Halls, Hit The Decks
I went to the local Christmas Parade this year, it's always an odd juxtaposition of the segments of this little burg's community. This year, the Pirates Ship immediately preceded a unit comprised of WW2 veterans. I wonder if the planning committee thought that out. Did it occur to them that parade spectators would get to see overly made up drama geeks firing cannons directly at the few remainders of the greatest generation that still exist in our town?

And Caroling out in the Snow...
Anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes knows that I am a fiend for Christmas Music. Yet another reason why this is my favorite time of year. Whether it's a 1950's "novelty" record from Augie Rios to Mannheim Steamroller, I have a special place in my heart for Yuletide themed musical wonders (with the exception of that damned "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" drek.)

In my mental cataloging of Christmas hits and ephemera, I have noted something similar in all of the following "Christmas" songs:

Jingle Bells
Jingle Bell Rock
Winter Wonderland
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Let It Snow
I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm
Sleigh Ride

Y'see, these rumored "Christmas" Songs have no mention whatsoever of anything specifically related to Christmas. No Jesus, No Santa, No Rudolph, No Shopping. Nada. (Check Out Lyrics if you don't believe me).
Bewildering, huh? Well, you know what this means.

We can now sing them all year long.

Holidays In The Video Age: Betamaxmas.com and Beyond
It wouldn't be the holiday's without another list, so here is some noteworthy entertainment for you. Click on the links and enjoy:

One of the best of the Rock N' Roll Christmas Songs, especially of the 1980's, was a gem from the always underrated Billy Squier. See how many early MTV Veejays you can find in the video for Christmas Is the Time to Say I Love You

Also a favorite is the Royal Guardsman's Snoopy's Christmas, someone put together some footage from a Charles Schultz show, and it looks like this

It's Christmas all over the world, although I'm not sure I know what anyone in Japan is actually doing.

In other parts of the world however, Christmas goes way beyond what we know of it here. Mr. Steve's is always very informative.

Finally, a Christmas rarity - it's a Pink Floyd Christmas, no really - a Christmas Song By Pink Floyd

I hope that brings some Yuletide Cheer, have a great holiday and a happy new year!
-The Gang At Escalatorville
"De-Humbugging Since 1971"
escalatorville@yahoo.com for letters to/from Santa

The Dispatch From Escalatorville; Turn On The Positron

2010-11-09T21:06:00.000-08:00

A Louse-y Start
In every touristy, beach adjacent area, you are likely to find a store that may sell tiny crustaceans as pets. My daylight employer used to be one of those stores, but stopped this practice for a variety of reasons long before I started working there.

We do, however, get return customers eager to view or purchase from our "pets" section. However, no matter how many times we deny that we sell them, and as routine as the response has become, I was caught unawares the other day.

A young girl ran in, jogged up to the counter - and in a voice loud enough to cause everyone in the store to turn and look in my direction asked:

"Do You Still Have Crabs?!?"

In the seconds it took for me to comprehend the actual intent of this question, I turned beet red. Then, I answered in a slightly raised and perfectly clear voice - so that I too could be heard by the entirety of our customer populous:

"No. We No Longer Sell Those Creatures Here."

Having realized that he has now begun two separate, yet sequential Dispatch's with obtuse references to the order Brachyura - our author attempts to change the subject:

Me, Myself, and I-95 (Volume 1)
In my 24th year, I purchased my very first car. I bought it mainly out of convenience, and for a fairly lengthy Christmastime road trip that I would be taking a couple months after its purchase. However, if this experience wasn't humorously anomalous, I probably wouldn't be telling it. The tale of my first owned vehicle - and it's brief history in my universe - is one that left me weary and wary of vehicle ownership. In the 15 years since the advent of this story, my history of travel has improved a bit, yet to this day - each adventure arrives with a hint of trepidation.

At the time of this tale, I was employed by a local museum - where a co-worker hipped me to his friend the mechanic, who happened to be letting go of a car. After a couple meetings with said "friend," I checked out the car and test drove it. $1300 later, it was mine.

The 1983 Honda Accord Hatchback was imported from Japan - as Honda's production facility in Ohio wasn't running at 100% capacity yet. It featured a four-speed automatic transmission, as opposed to the three-speed which had been standard until then. What it did not include was an Idiot Trigger -a fictional light/sound device I just made up that would begin to glow/buzz with increasing frequency as one begins making bad automotive decisions. 'Coulda used one of those.

A month to go before the trip, I began to get the car updated, upgraded, and generally combed over by a fix-it shop in my neighborhood. I took it in for an overall inspection and to see if there were any other peccadilloes that I may have overlooked.

After having the car in the shop for a couple days, I called to check on it's progress. Like every decent automotive inspector/repairman would, they had found quite a few things that needed to get fixed. I asked;

"What would be the best things to do for the car?"

Then the mechanic said (and this is an exact quote, folks):

"The best thing you could do for this car is to drive it into the river and then piss on it."

Instead of taking him up on this advice (which, in retrospect, would probably have been more entertaining), I authorized his team to make the repairs necessary. All tolled, the amount I spent on fixes and repairs for this vehicle in the first two and a half months of ownership equaled the amount I had paid for the car in the first place, $1300.

In the meantime, the guy whom sold me the car had split town with his girlfriend, and left no forwarding address.

Again, where was that Idiot Trigger?

After depleting the bank account for repairs, the day of the trip came into focus. I had been lucky enough to attend the wedding of two good friends a few days earlier, and the night before my journey, I joined them for dinner along with some other close friends of the bride and groom.

We finished our meals, then said our goodbyes around 10PM. I drove home, took a quick nap, and made preparations to leave. I gassed up the Honda at around 3AM, and headed off for the adventure.

Driving from St. Augustine to Richmond isn't really that difficult. You simply turn onto Interstate 95, drive north for about ten hours, then turn off interstate 95. Simple. I thought I might make it home in time for lunch.

The first trip to the filling station went fine, I even checked all the cars fluids just to be safe. "Hunky Dory," I thought, and I was on my way again.

My plan to head out early worked, I was making great time, as there was almost no traffic. Then, about 730AM - the car made a sound. A discomforting sound. A sound which resembled a coughing competition between a room of octogenarian smokers and a German Shepherd.

As we are taught in Drivers Ed, I did what anyone in this position should rightly do: I cursed. Loudly.

Next, I noticed the smoke. Pouring out from under the hood, thick and Grey - puffing up into my face to laugh at me for buying the joke of a car from whence it came. I managed to pull over safely to the side of the road and let the car come to a complete stop.

Then I cursed some more.

Moments later, as I paced beside the billowing, belching vehicle, I tried to put ideas together in my head as to how this situation could be resolved (hopefully, before lunch). Still fairly early, the traffic wasn't heavy - but there were a few rubberneckers straining to see where the plumes of smoke were escaping from - yet no one willing to stop and help.

That is, until an odd little camper van type vehicle slowed down, and pulled up behind the Accord. A man and his young son emerged, carrying two bottles full of water. As they approached, I recognized them. The day before, they had been visitors to the museum at which I worked. Austrian, I remembered, as we had had a bit of language difficulty at the ticket counter.

The man spoke very little. His son spoke less. The man offered water to cool things off, and I opened the hood to spill the H2O in whatever way would have been the most helpful. Alas, the water, though a very polite gesture, didn't cure anything.

The man and son went back to their camper van after indicating to me that they would try to alert any police or sheriff that might be patrolling. They hopped back in their vehicle and puttered off, vanishing like ghosts into the off-ramps and exits that laid before us on the highway.

10 minutes later, a proud member of the South Carolina Sheriff's department stood at the side of my car. This being the days before everyone was was constantly telephonic, the officer indicated the pay phone was available one exit away. Looking toward an upcoming highway mile marker - I was just outside the towns of Turbeville and Florence, South Carolina - about half way through my journey home.

The officer offered to drive up to the next exit for me, as he knew of the only garage open in town on Saturday morning. Desperate and thankful, (although in retrospect, this seemed like sketchy behavior on behalf of the cop - didn't it?) I watched the officer drive off - and return 15 minutes later, tow truck close behind.

Apparently the only garage in town open on a Saturday morning was, as it turns out, a one truck establishment which I can only remember as being named something similar to "Old Man and Sons." It was run by one Old Man, a very nice but tired and quickly aging gent; and his two sons, both in their mid-30s, still acting as though they were in their mid-teens - the type of fellows who only string together a sentence or two at a time, half of which are sex or fart jokes..

We all piled into the cab of the tow truck and drove my sorrowful vehicle back to their garage. Now when I say "garage" here, what I'm actually talking about is the barn located behind their double-wide trailer - in the suburbs of Outskirt Village. I sat on a doorstep made from a railroad tie, in front of an AstroTurf welcome mat, while the Old Man inspected the damage.

After a few moments, the Old Man's wife (herewith called "Old Lady") came out and asked me if I wanted some water or to use the phone. Both please, I requested, and I was let into the house to make a collect call, letting my folks know what was going on at this point, and also to let them know that they would be expecting more collect calls from me throughout the day.

In the mean time, the Old Man had inspected the car - and determined the damage. A split engine block, cracked head gasket - major damage. That car would not be running again that day. After he made numerous phone calls to parts reps/dealers/service centers, etc - the man came back with a few answers. It would take at least 7 days to get everything - and the cost, you guessed it: $1300.

I took this as an omen, and really wanted to get to something that resembled "home" at this point in time - so I struck up a deal with the man. Take me to the nearest airport, let me get back to Virginia. Then, I would call him within two days - if I wanted him to fix the vehicle, I'd figure out how to get the money to him, and pick it up on my way back through. Or, I would mail him the cars title, allowing him to do with the car as he pleased, with a promise to send me a bit of the profits should he see an monetary benefit.

He agreed, and then offered his sons services in escorting me to the Florence airport, 40 miles away- via their own pickup truck.
"Thank you," I said, and started grabbing my things.

It was no problem, they replied, and it would only cost me 40 bucks!
(Strange as it is; sometimes, when your caught between a rock and a hard place - it actually helps to be kind to the rock.)

Grabbing the belated Christmas presents I had loaded the car with, I made space within my luggage and said goodbye to a favorite blanket which remained in the hatchback of the Accord (not to mention a glove box full of totally awesome cassettes, damn!).

We clambered into the cab of the brothers pickup truck, and I knew immediately that I was in for a "fun" ride. I sat in between the two brothers, and could see a couple freshly opened beer bottles sitting in the floorboards - which would be emptied and replaced by the time of our airport arrival. I glanced at the dashboard clock, it was 10 AM.

Now, I will veer off-topic here for just a moment to say this: I have always enjoyed the music of AC/DC - however, I much prefer their earlier works, as opposed to the stuff they've been cranking out since, say, the "Thunderstruck" era. That's may own personal opinion, make of it what you will.

That said, the only music these brothers had on hand, was the cassingle (yup, another "C" word from the land of the '80s) of AC/DC's "Ball Breaker" - which was played in its entirety, repeatedly, for the entire 30 minute drive. Yes - we drove the 40 miles in 30 minutes. [Just for the record, I am against this type of offensive or reckless driving. As the lovely Bess can attest, I drive like the really old people in public safety films of the post WW2 era (however, in this particular case; I felt that asking them to slow down was akin to a man faced with a firing squad asking for sunblock).]

Nonetheless, we arrived safely - and I stumbled out of the truck, head still rumbling with the sound of Angus Young's guitar.

I had asked to be taken to an airport - not because I love to fly - but I figured that's where one could rent a car. It would be cheaper, and - since I may be returning to this very town in a matter of days to retrieve my soon to be miraculously fixed vehicle, why not rent a car that I could return to this very place? A simple plan, which worked marvelously - until I got to the rental counter. I produced my ID when I was asked, only to be rebuffed by the clerk:

"We can't rent to you." the voice (whose face may or may not have been an actual blur) stated.

In my head, I went through a litany of reasons why I should be allowed to rent a car; no traffic violations, no criminal record, finances relatively secure (I had one paid-up, until that point, credit card), and was having a not great day. So why shouldn't they rent me a car?

Alas, at 24, I was told, for probably the last time, something that I have only wished I could hear more often in the intervening years: "You're Too Young."

Too young to rent a car, eh? I looked into my wallet and grabbed the credit card. I went up to the nearest ticket agent, and asked for a seat on the next, cheapest flight from Florence, South Carolina to Richmond, Virginia - a distance of 343 miles.

At approximately 1040 AM, after being awake all night, leaving a trashed car 40 miles away on a lonesome morning highway, and having to endure a ride from hell with the brothers goof-nut; I was told that I could easily make the next flight- in 7 hours.

I bought the ticket, and made the calls to folks back home, letting them know the new plan for my arrival . My Dad would meet me at the Richmond airport later that night. Everything was worked out. Now, there was time to kill.

A lot of time to kill.

The Florence, South Carolina airport is about as big as a kittens paw and had, at that time, more Christmas bows on the walls than paying customers in the halls. There were a couple of televisions, playing local news, followed by whatever the Saturday Matinee B-Movie may have been that week. There were a few benches, and I believe a food/coffee cart - which sold three magazines, 'People,' Newsweek,' and 'People En Espanol'.

I wanted out.

Coming onto the airport property, I had noticed a sign for a museum near the airport grounds. After I had stepped outside for a breath of slightly different air, I saw another sign leading from the airport parking lot .

The museum was a couple hundred yards away - I could easily walk to it, lose myself inside a museum for a while and make it back to the airport proper with plenty of time to make my flight. So, I started walking. The museum wasn't that far at all, but had plenty of advertising on the short distance along the dirt road leading from the airport to the museum. I filled my head with the many time-wasting and interesting exhibits that lay ahead, hoping I could spend at least a couple hours filling my brain with things that didn't involve expenses, cars, or any combination of the two. I got to the the museum grounds, turned a corner and headed directly toward the front door, where was posted the following:

'Closed On Saturdays'

Dejected, I turned around - and since there were no windows low enough to peak into, I started the walk back to the airport. Slowly.

I made it back in time to watch the end of the Saturday Matinee from a bench next to my departure gate. I started doing a crossword puzzle - and then must have either succumbed to the demons of slumber, or just faded into oblivion, for the next thing I knew, I was within an hour of flight time.

Excited, I was finally headed homeward. I had neglected to check the details of my ticket. I was indeed traveling toward Richmond - however, I'd be taking three separate flights.

At this point, I simply didn't care. I hate to fly, but I desperately wanted out of Florence.

I boarded the plane - a simple 60 seater, which transported 15 of us from Florence, South Carolina to Atlanta, Georgia - where I had a brief layover before boarding a 24 seater which flew me to Raleigh, North Carolina - there, I boarded a 12 seater, which carried me from Raleigh to Richmond . If you want to compare mileage flown to the amount I paid for the ticket, I suppose I got a bargain.

Finally, somewhere around 11PM, I stepped into the final airport I would see for quite a while - and sat enjoying the ride as my father drove me to his house, where I knew a meal and sleep were finally going to make their appearance.

As it turns out, I chose to rid myself of the car. Upon returning to Florida, I sent Old Man & Sons the title to the Accord, and wished them well. I hold no grudge against the town of Florence, however - I do get more anxious any time I have to travel through that area. There's a strange vibe in the air, I guess, and it causes things to happen. In the years since, I've had radio stations change themselves, cars suddenly backfire, momentary gas pedal failure, but no more breakdowns. I call it the "Florence Shudder" - and sure enough, it's there nearly every time I am.

Perhaps, however, it's my old vehicle calling out to me across the woods and back roads of South Carolina - trying to draw my attention once more. I wouldn't doubt it's carcass is still there, somewhere, slowly rusting it's way to the netherworld.

Plus, it's been a decade and a half now, that Old Man hasn't sent me a dime.

A Not-So-Secret Recipe
On a trudge to find material goods, I saw a man ambling along the sidewalk in my direction. The gentleman stopped in his tracks and flared his nostrils, taking a whiff of the mid-day air. His eyes then scoured the street. After a couple seconds, I saw him point, and call out:

"Hey man! Hey! How you doing?"

Targeting an assumed friend riding a bike on the opposite side of the street, the man darted across the road. I could see where his attention lay - a fast food To-Go container in hispals right hand.

"Hey Man, lemme get some of that!" He cried out.

"Some of What?" I heard his friend reply - before tuning them out...

I had allowed myself to become distracted. At the moment that fellow pedestrian with the healthy sniffer hopped over the curb, my attention was grabbed by a sight in a recently opened confectionery. Through the shop window I could see the cashier standing, bored, dejected at a counter in the empty room. In the window itself, just below the level of her slumped shoulders, was posted a sign with the exuberant exultation:

"Shop With Us Online!"

Half a block later, I was passed by a man on a bicycle, a rigid grip still holding his lunch.

Ah, Escalatorville - it's like a sandwich made of words.

Z.F. "My hands have two left feet."Lively,
Man Of Letters
escalatorville@yahoo.com (it's for email)

Dispatch From Escalatorville: Grieving, Reprieving, Pet Peeving

2010-09-25T21:01:00.000-07:00

About mid-August, during one of my evening walks, I was approached by a drunken bicyclist who stopped to offer me a warning:

"Those College Girls are making it rough tonight, man - but you don't want them anyway, don't go get crabs from one of them (Insert Name Of Local College Here) girls!"

After acknowledging that I had no intent of such a thing, I walked on.

However, as an Alumni ["Class of Blah-blah-Four" - I think (give me a break, I drank A LOT that summer)] - I felt for a second that perhaps I should report the incident to my Alma Mater. Goodness knows what might happen to the good name of the college if it became a habitat for those parasitic poachers of pedantic privates.

Less Steam, More Punk.
Folks that see me on a regular basis can attest to the fact that I am not exactly up to date on modern gadget trends and popular devices. I'm what you'd call a retro techie. I still play records on a near daily basis, and the only electronic gaming system in the house is an Atari 2600 (circa the year my wife was born).

However, the lovely Bess and I do have cellular telephonic communicators, which we will soon have to get upgraded. As a technophobe, of course I am wary of this. I do like having the ability to text and to talk to friends/family/government agency switchboard operators - but that's really all I desire in such a unit. I don't need to access the net from elevators or parking lots. Nor have I the urge to "update my status" constantly or broadcast when I've just walked into Schmengies House of Big and Tall Falafel*. I'm just not programmed for that type of living. I needmore apps in my normal life before I get them on my phone.

*On a side note about modern tech - Spell Check thinks this word should be either "Falwell," " Falstaff," or" Faulkner"

Eaves Dropped
Working in tourism retail, as I do, I get to listen in on snippets of conversations that occur between family members. Most often, what I hear are folks arguing whether Uncle BoBo deserves the three dollar or seven dollar charm bracelet. However, the ones I enjoy the most are the disjointed rejoinders spoken by folks, such as grandmothers or friends of parents, whom have volunteered to journey into the store with youngsters - while giving "a break" to the childs progenitors.

"Oh, you wanna find Mommy? I'll. Take. You. To. Mommy..." I heard one woman state, creeping me out more than the kid - after the childs relatively subdued (yet still loud) objection to their company.

However, I recently heard possibly the most disturbing phrase uttered from the lips of a woman stating to her baby, in that baby-talk that we all adopt when confronting anyone under the age of four:

"Ooh, you could take that apart, eat the pieces, and it would choke you, yes it would."

At least we're teaching our children honesty at an early age.

Alternate Tune-ings
Sometimes songs have to be played at the right time - after all, don't you too think it's a bit odd when you're listening to The Who's "5:15" and you realize that its only 4:42?

Also, I'm all for the occasional "re-interpretation" of classic songs, but I think we need to police ourselves a bit better. It's only a matter of time before someone comes up with a Drum N Bass remix of "Abraham, Martin, and John."

Ex-Static
I always enjoy when the radio announcer reads that a highway report is sponsored by a fast food entity or donut shop, then has to begrudgingly tell us that traffic is indeed HEAVY.

"The idea is to die young as late as possible." ~Ashley Montagu
The house we rent is located directly beside a baptist church. On Sundays (and on Wednesday nights when they rehearse) we love to hear the church band. Since the church itself is literally 10 feet from where I write this, the sounds of their services carry quite well. Joyful and boisterous gospel accompanies the Fire and Brimstone preaching during typical weekly services, among other events.

Of course, there is also an occasional funeral. On crowded church days, it's not unusual for overflow parking to occur directly in front of our house. It's a bit unsettling on funeral days however, as I've opened the front door to greet a hearse just sitting there, waiting. Quite an ominous message, if I do say so myself.

I don't mind the funerals so much, as they are generally a celebration of life and are imbued with the jolly spirit that flows during the churches regular service. A few months ago, however, there was a funeral for a younger parishioner. the funeral was proceeding as they usually do, until suddenly, a heart-stopping wail came from inside the church. I believe that it also came from deep within this poor woman's soul - for days I could not unhear her cries of "My Child! My Baby! Why, Jesus Lord God, Why?!?"

The memory still haunts me. The sounds of her anguish and loss has made me reluctant to ever attend another memorial service. Not if I ever have to witness this in person, instead of simply being an ear-stretching neighbor.

Thus, I offer this precursory request to my friends and family: stay healthy. My heart nearly breaks at the mere telling of this story, and brings back memories of those I have already lost. I cannot imagine how I will survive should this occur to any more people I actually know and love. Now, I expect you to all outlive me - and I plan on making it to at least 98 or so.

Go to B-Deck immediately! I repeat: Go to C-Deck immediately!
It's well known that Abraham Lincoln was loved by everyone [Not everyone. He was assassinated, remember? Ed.], thus, he remains the source of great party quotes. For example, in his Gettysburg Address, he decreed that government should be "of the people, by the people and for the people."

I wonder if Congress and the Senate have a smudged copy. A lot of them seem to be reading it as "F the People, Buy the people, Abhor the people."

Watching all the infighting and playground bullying in Washington D.C., I think we might take heed of another ripper from Honest Abe: "Can we all just get along?"

Very Interesting, Your Papers, Please.
I think a lot of folks would agree with me that there seems to be decline in traditional, respectful, honest journalism. Unfortunately, there don't seem to be any reporters willing to write about it. Then again, I live in a city where the local paper is printed 40 miles outside of town. A paper which advertised itself as "Not your average mullet wrapper." At least they admit to being a mullet wrapper.

However, the mindset is such that the paper will still mark any female citizens accomplishments by emphasizing that the achievement was made by a woman. Then again, this is a city in which the tour-tram drivers speed up a little as they pass through the historic African-American neighborhoods where M.L.K. walked and spoke - all the while touting the towns importance in the struggle for equal rights, as if it were actually over.

Also, A nice place to visit.
Despite my consistent criticism, however, I do love living in this coastal burg (i.e. I love to go camping, knowing there's a great chance of snakes and/or poison oak). I'll leave you this time with a couple more snapshots of my adopted hometown:

Seen on the street, through a monster truck window, around 9PM on a recent weeknight - a clearly exhausted middle aged man handing over a fistful of cash to a half naked woman. Of course, I assume he was reimbursing her for Surfing lessons, but why take care of that payment so far from the actual beach?

Also seen on the street, at 1045AM on a Sunday- a college age bicyclist heading back into the neighborhood balancing an 18 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon on his handlebars. That's a definite Augustinian weekend.

Escalatorville loves you, hang in there.

Z.F. Lively,
Linguistic Recidivist
escalatorville@yahoo.com
(we write back)

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: There Ain't No Cure For The Summertime

2010-07-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

Howdy, thanks for coming back. We've been away for longer than we had hoped, due to various reasons other than whimsical slackery (honest). I'll tell ya a bit about the Tar Ball Jamboree towards the end, but there's also been an overwhelming heat this summer which has slowed everyone I know at least slightly.

Yes, although we Floridians can handle the annual sweltering piss-hewn mugginess of these robust months that makes lingering fingers of steam and stench grasp upward from crackled pavement in praise to their devilish master-the sun; this year it's been hot. We like our weather to stay "average" here, a variation of five degrees in any direction is far too extreme (a definition which kinda suits the well-staked political vibe here as well). Thus, this year the papers will report that we experienced a "chilling" winter followed by a "blistering" summer - and folks in Vermont or Baja can laugh accordingly.

Another in the long line of excuses? I was almost demolished by a car on my way to bring this Dispatch to you...

Wipeout
It was an average evening following an average day - and I was headed to my night job (a term I can now use in earnest, having obtained daylight employ as well ). I crossed May street with the light; a light that I had just waited 5 minutes for, constantly pressing the "Cross Street" button in the hopes that I may trick the button itself into thinking that there are indeed 79 people waiting, and not just me..

As I wandered through the crosswalk, I saw a vehicle out of the corner of my eye. I'm not sure that I've ever 'hurtled', or seen anything 'hurtled' for that matter - but that car was hurtling toward me, I'm fairly certain. In as many moments as a split second can handle, I watched in cliched slow motion as the car continued it's turn and through the very lane I was currently crossing.

It was obvious that the driver didn't see me until the last second, what could have been THE last second. However, at that second (the almost last one, remember?), I spewed forth an utterance that for what my ears can tell came out as the great and resounding "HarHeaaeaeaeaeaiyyauaugh!!"

Apparently, my less than onomatopoeiac chortle is also universally understood through some hidden translator in automobile windshields and driver doors - as the pilot of the hurtling car screeched to a halt. I only saw his passengers agape face in blur, however. During my yawp, I had jumped to my destination curb - allowing the driver to see that I was physically unharmed before he sped off into the dark.

It's Summertime, U.S.A.
Based upon what's been making the "charts" lately, I've decided that we need at least one new aural description. "Newsic" - sound made by pop artists of the modern era which, although apparently popular to listen to, doesn't showcase any musical talent whatsoever. Now you have a place to file all your Ke$ha LPs.

Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days Of Summer
About 6:45 A.M. a recent morning, I was in the hotel lobby at the end of my shift chatting with my follow-up shifter when a little old lady (of the stereotypical little old lady club) came in with a query.

"Do you know if there's any jewelry stores in town?" she asked. Well, of course, there are a plethora of them in and around town. In a retiree rich community, they are a near necessity. I have friends that work for them, and the lovely Bess has also done time in the jewelry market. Unremarkably, there are none open at 7 AM, holiday sale days notwithstanding. This woman was urgent, however, and when we told her that there were none open that early on a Tuesday - she became slightly confused and concerned.

Then came her admission. It seems her friend had hurt a ring finger the previous day, and had gone to the hospital to get it fixed. Having bandaged up the finger, the woman had put back on her rings. Overnight, here had been a bit of swelling, now complicated by the rings tightness on the woman's finger - causing the finger itself to turn colors, and meaning that the ring could no longer be removed by traditional methods.

What bewildered me slightly was the concern about the ring seemed to outweigh the concern over the woman's finger. I can understand not wanting to damage a pricey ring, but didn't they realize that once teh woman's finger falls off, there's no place left to put it?

Another trip to the hospital was simply out of the question, as we were so indignantly told. So, we dialed the local firehouse - the man who answered my co-workers call stated that they could, in fact, cut through the ring in order to remove it.

After giving the old woman directions to the firehouse, she exited the lobby. A few moments later, we saw their car leave the parking lot, presumably on it's way to the fire station. I left work about the same time, and as I watched them down the road a piece, I hoped that after the ring situation was under control, our fair ladies wouldn't hassle the firemen with any of their other troubles - like turning off their cars blinker.

Daydream Believer
I mentioned that I had recently begun a day job to compliment my night job (hey, bills gotta be paid, and since when is sleep ever important on a Monday?). As our section of the state is a pathway towards both beaches and theme parks, I found fiscal refuge in a souvenir shop. Observing the world that passes through the spectrum of retail, I get to view quite an array of humanity, and more hilariously the outfits that folks think they can get away with in public. I saw one tourista [I assume she was a tourist because she spoke in broken English and was spending money (it was the spending money part that convinced me)] wearing a T-shirt which read in all it's glittered glory:
"Ghetto Fabulous"
This is ironic because she was neither.

Summer in the City
On the most recent Fourth of July, I headed over to a friends casa after work, along with the bourgeoisie and banalities that cover our little cities streets. As I turned a street corner, I noticed the following site; A family, headed to stake their claim at a firework viewing area, no doubt - emerged a dozen or so strong from an illegally parked RV - with hands full of lawn chairs and packed plates still steaming with their meal. How American is that?

California Sun
Some folks have asked for an update on a recent Escalatorville character: Everyone, the Fish is still good, still alive, and thoroughly enjoying his 9 cubic feet of space all to himself. The lack of rain has kept his hidden among the depths, but I saw him while replenishing his home with water the other day. I fed him the remainder of some tortilla chips - then he disappeared. Perhaps I should have included some salsa?

I also want to bring your attention to the Tar Ball Jamboree. If you live in the St. Augustine area - or can visit between August 6th and 7th, be sure to join me at the Fraternal Order of Orioles Nest. we're hosting a benefit for workers affected by the Gulf Oil Spill that won't be getting money from BP. Efforts will support two different organizations: The Greater New Orleans Foundation and Pensacola's 399 South Project. The performance schedule looks like this:

Friday, August 6th:
8:15 PM-Joe Moody
9:15 PM-Jeremy Rogers
10:15 PM-Z.F. Lively

Saturday, August 7th:
8:15 PM-Amy Hendrickson
9:15 PM-Chelsea Saddler
10:15 PM-Z.F. Lively's Open Jam

Yup, I realize I'm on there twice. I'm an egocentric bastard, so what? Show up anyway, and you'll hear some fun music and support a good cause.

Until then, even when life throws you a curve, take the escalator anyway,
Z.F. Lively
CAOO(Chief and Only Officer), Escalatorville Studios
Escalatorville@yahoo.com
Christmas is coming, send recipes!

Slowly...

2010-07-20T03:10:00.000-07:00

...but surely.

New Dispatch on it's way soon.

The Dispatch from Escalatorville: Shaman, Showman, or Sham,man?

2010-06-12T08:43:00.000-07:00

I really need to mow the lawn. Honestly, I do. Alas, it is that time of the year when the heat outside makes one want to stay in the kitchen, or bedroom - or wherever there's a couple of fans and an A/C unit. The grass, though, will be mowed - if I don't do it, then we will be overtaken by nature, and human beings just don't allow that to happen.

I fantasize that somehow, these blades of grass will bloom into marvelously whimsical flowers - emerging as if in an old cartoon; beautiful frolicking blooms, splayed with wonderful colors, singing show tunes from the 1920's - only to collectively commit suicide in about three weeks - never to be seen again. Unfortunately, my reality doesn't have a special effects department.

Writing is a beast of a slightly different nature. Occasionally, there are blades of wit that need time to grow roots, expand, and blossom. There are others that need to be put down before they fester and become ugly, unrecognizable, and eventually ossify into banality (because let's face it, Z.F., no one will ever look forward to a screenplay based on the lyrics of "A Tisket A Tasket").

So, here are a few small, furiously cut weeds of ideas, put out to pasture while we allow the more ornate and lavish ones to germinate for a bit longer.

Zip it.
Even with the surge in electronic communication the past few years, we still get junk mail through the door slot every week. Of course, all of it is advertising of some sort, no matter how official it look (thanks for the confusion, Bank Of YouKnowWho). Stuff addressed directly to us is usually read and recycled, however we also get a lot of mail addressed simply to "occupant." I deal with this detritus simply by writing "not at this address" or "deceased" on the mail itself and then dropping it right back into the postal system. I think I may switch to "return to sender," however, if only to put more of a burden on the jerks that sent it in the first place.

Recently, we've gotten some junk mail for a former resident - promoting rebates for pre-paid cremation services. Now, I know it's been at least 10 and probably 20 years since this particular person lived in our house. I'm sure they don't want to hear about that service now - hell, they may have already used it.

On Luck: Tails
Side note to the scratch off lottery players in line at the corner convenience station - one win after 10 tickets does not, in fact, mean that you are now "on a roll..."

On Luck: Heads
I walked by a man the other day as he was taking out his garbage. When he opened the curb can, he looked down in amazement, reached in, and - having retrieved his treasure - exuberantly turned to me stating: "Dude, I just found a dollar in the trash!"

My immediate response was that we should start checking every receptacle in town.

In retrospect, I wish I had told him to spend the dollar on something recyclable.

Cute met Creepy, and they created this...
New Candidate for the Oddest Conversation Starter Ever: walking past an octogenarian just before a slight smattering of rain, the old man looked me in the eye and asked-
"Are you in the mood for a little sprinkle?"

Since local government is usually a freak show anyway...
I'm a firm believer that theme park technology should be employed throughout our cities as a means to not only increase tourism, but also to add more excitement in our everyday lives. Consider the Roller Coaster as an efficient, fun, and speedy form of mass transportation. Or, how about animatronic "jumpers" placed on drawbridge railings to give the tourists schooning below a bit of a thrill?

I'm just spitballin' here, but I think if it's dollars and civic enjoyment that your town is after, this is the way to go.

Here we are, now entertain us.
I wonder if all the folks upset about privacy issues on social network sites would be as aflutter if you could convince them that they're info was actually being sent to various talent and modeling agencies instead.
Are you paying attention, Friendster? This could be your 'comeback" plan.

I feel stupid AND contagious.
We must be headed to the end times. I keep finding proof. Such as Paul Anka's interpretation of Nirvana.

It's really a shame that Sinatra didn't live long enough to cover Lady Ga Ga, isn't it?

There's a reason Garrison doesn't return my calls...
No matter where you are, within a few months it will be pledge time for your local public radio station. Herewith, I propose slight modifications to current programs that will all but guarantee new donations:

"This American Afterlife"
"All Thongs Considered"
"The World Of Oprah"
"Diane Rehm's 'Glee'"
"Fresh Air and Cheeseburgers"
"Las Vegas Home Companion"
"Fart of The Nation" (to be broadcast directly before "Wait Wait, Don't Smell Me!")

No Life Guard on Duty.
In the middle of my overnight shift, I usually patrol the hotel grounds, just to make sure all is safe and well in the world of overpriced comfort. One night recently, as I walked past the pool area; I noticed a man sleeping, possibly just passed out, with his feet in the jacuzzi - a beer can and small plastic container at his side. Now, we've had guests pass out in that section before, St. Augustine's boats wouldn't float if not for streams of alcohol. However, this man was NOT a guest - and he was completely unclothed. So, how does one approach a naked trespasser?

The obvious answer is - cautiously. Having encountered various characters in my hotel tenure, I was uncertain if the man might be concealing any type of weaponry or agenda. It seemed that all his cards were on the table, so to speak, but I didn't want to risk it.

I raised my voice slightly, as it was 4:30 AM, and I didn't want to wake any of our actual guests, nor alert them to the presence of our drunken nudist.

"Excuse me, sir.." I began from across the pool grounds. Apparently that was all it took to rouse the fellow back to consciousness. He awoke, apparently still inebriated, yet also unashamed. I told him that as he was not a guest that he'd have to leave the property immediately.

He seemed startled, but began to gather his accouterments. Holding up the plastic container, he told me "I have my toothbrush" - twice - then he grabbed the beer can, along with the pants and shirt he had left crumpled in a corner. After asking him to put on his clothing, I repeated that he would have to leave the property, and to please take his belongings with him. He started to put his shirt back on, and walk toward the exit. I let him know that it would be advisable for him to also put on his pants, and he did so. Still, he was ridiculously slow about vacating the property. As quietly threatening as I can muster at that time of morning; I gave him 30 seconds to get off the property and started a vocal countdown, "Thirty...Twenty-Nine..." thinking that might expedite his egress.

The pool area is literally 20 paces from the street - a ten second jaunt at most. Our obstinate exhibitionist wanted to head out the long way, through the parking lot and out the back exit of the hotel property. As such, my countdown got down to "...Three..." before he was gone. As he left however, he wanted me to remember one thing - holding up his toothbrush and beer can he continued to remind me that, no matter what transgressions he may have committed (public intoxication, public nudity, trespassing), "I am not a litterbug."

And this...
I'm sure someone other than me has said it, but I think it always seems darkest while you're looking for the light switch. It's also good to remember that in life, we do need some time of quiet, so that we might further appreciate the noise.

Now, off to make the lawn a little shorter...

Z.F. Lively, Grass Monkey
Contact us: Escalatorville@yahoo.com, It gives a keyboard something to hope for.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Lost Victims Of Her Hellcat Parade

2010-05-21T20:58:00.000-07:00

I spent part of a recent Sunday enjoying the soon to be oily sands of a local beach with a few of my best pals and their kids. The lovely Bess and I took the opportunity to ride bicycles the few miles to the park where we all met up. As Bess and I are the palest people on the planet, we opted to buy sunblock on our way to the sunny shore. In order to obtain the most optimum sunblockage (damn you, paleness!), we decided on the surf store near the beach itself. I have to say, the sunblock worked great (it better have - it cost the equivalent of a down payment on a cabana). However, I was on a borrowed bike with a poorly adjusted seat and wearing shorts; this meant that the area directly above my knees was exposed to intense tentacles of heat with every pedal rotation. As such, for about three days after, the tops of my legs were two glowing vermilion patches which ached every time I moved. Their blatant and belligerent redness resembled the shell of a lobster. I took it in stride, albeit a painful stride; I've had that coloring before...

Cooking Failures of the Pacific Northwest, Part Two (AKA The Lobster Boy Chronicles; Part One)
In my early Seattle days, my then roommate and I welcomed a visit from two friends from back east. To celebrate their visit, we had planned a weekend jaunt up to Vancouver, Canada. It's a quick car trip and we thought it might be neat to explore another country for a couple of days. On the morning before we were to leave, I was scheduled to work. Thus, as my pals left to experience the culinary thrills of breakfast in the Emerald City, I opted to stay at home and cook my own. In retrospect, I should have gone out to eat.

As I finished prepping my bacon and eggs, I did the environmentally conscious thing and pulled out the canister in which we kept the remaining fatty oils left over by our kitchen experiments. I began to pour the excess bacon grease from the frying pan directly into the canister. My aim was stellar, although I absentmindedly let a drop spill onto the still hot burner. The resulting flame was slightly startling - causing me to jump back with a fright.

It was this jump-back that provides the impetus for the remainder of our tale. I remember this part in slow motion - during my awkward regress, I managed to spill the remaining, boiling, bacon grease across the entire back of my left hand. While I cannot recall the exact sound I made as I felt the searing of flesh, I remember losing my mind a little bit as I headed to the bathroom in an attempt to rinse the evil from my skin. I watched in terror as the epidermic layering of my hand literally flopped around, falling from the hand itself, some of it hurtfully grafting onto other parts of the same appendage.

Instantly, I knew I would never write or play guitar ever again. I can't accurately describe my brains backflip as it juggled my deformed future with the agony of destruction enveloping what was quickly becoming the throbbing stump of a forelimb. I "washed" the hand a best I could and - after making sure fires were out and all kitchen knobs turned to 'off' - flitted with a quickness out the apartment door.

Luckily, this occurred in Seattle, where there are decent hospitals in every neighborhood. I recall counting backwards the 7 blocks I hastily walked up Capitol Hill to the nearest medical center. I didn't have much of a wait in the reception area - it could be that the center wasn't busy that morning, or perhaps the staff decided to rush me through once I removed the washcloth covering my hand to reveal why I had come to visit.

I must report; this was also a time when I had decent insurance coverage and made a fair wage, so my attitude was one of "Damn the expense, just save my friggin hand!"

A medical assistant arrived and, with a surprising calm, noted the severity of my situation. I won't get into more graphic details, but suffice it to say, there was trouble deciphering where in fact the back of my hand stopped and where fingers began. In a flash of time, the medical personnel applied soothing ointment to the hand itself, and began to remove the bits of charred and faltering flesh. This miracle ointment caused some of the swelling to go down - after a time, my hand began to at least resemble a hand again.

I knew I'd live, but the day and upcoming trip to Vancouver were in jeopardy. Given a lesson in how to change the bandages and apply a salve everyday - with a dash of confidence thrown in for good measure, the staff sent me on my way - my hand wrapped in a massive bandage to cover the grotesquerie beneath.

I was late for work at this point, but I had to let my supervisors know that I wasn't coming in. This being the early years of the cell phone era, I didn't have one, so I strolled the short distance to my ofice downtown. Finding my "team leader," I explained that because of my deformed stump, I wouldn't be able to either answer phones or type for the next few days ("but since I'm going out of town this weekend, could I pick up my paycheck?").

In the meantime, my roommate and friends arrived back at the apartment to a very strange scene.

Apartment door - unlocked. Television - still on. A frying pan lay in the bathroom sink while a full plate of breakfast remained on the kitchen counter, tantalizing yet untouched.

They had assumed that perhaps I had been abducted. I would have thought the same thing.

I was, however, able to phone home before I left the office - we decided to go forth with the planned excursion. When I did arrive home, it was with the query "Y'all wanna see my hand?"

As I unwrapped the bandages, the pulsating mass of gore made itself - and its relative safety at that point - known. At that moment, I was given the nickname I would hold throughout our entire trip throughout Vancouver, from GasTown to the aquarium. Whenever anyone needed to get my attention in all of lower west Canada, one only had to shout "Hey, Lobster Boy" and I knew they were talking to me.

Spoiler Alert
If there's anything that watching television for uncountable decades (o.k., about 3 and half) has taught me, it's this:

When you're watching any of those procedural crime dramas or forensic shows - if there's an Oscar recipient or other high profile, big name, actor listed as a 'special guest' in the opening credits; 9 times out of 10, they're the one who did it. You can almost count on the final shot of the show consisting of their character, led off in handcuffs, showing an award baiting scowl toward the camera and the programs central character. Bet on it.

You could always vacation in Hookersville, West Virginia
Let us now play a fun game with words! Which of the following are venereal diseases, and which are merely towns in New England?
-Assinippi
-Quonochontaug
-Candida Albicans
-Mashpee
-Trichomoniasis
-Mianus
-Quidnick
-Treponema Pallidum
-Chancroid
-Woonsocket

Merely insensitive, or just hamming it up?
Recently, a City Councilman in Jacksonville got himself into the news when he requested that a Muslim nominee to the towns Human Rights Council "say a prayer to your god" during a public discussion of the man's nomination. Now, why would this elected official (who has already announced his intent to run for re-election in 2011) corner this man, a board member of a respected interfaith organization, with such a religiously divisive and seemingly intolerant query? Knowing Jacksonville, I'm guessing Job Security.

Victory Dances/Concession Stands
Every election night during speeches from the winners AND also-rans, the news programs always frame the participants in front of giant pennants and posters plastered with the names and slogans of candidates. I think we should buy stock in banner manufacturing, because no matter the elections outcome, that's gotta be a win win.

Stamp = 'Like' button
You know, if we spent half as much time writing/addressing/sending actual cards and letters as we all do on facebook, we might be able to save the Postal Service.

Then again, Apollo was an Ancient Greek...
So, we're all used to hearing the Iggy Pop song 'Lust For Life' used to advertise Cruise Ships, despite the fact that song itself contains lyrics such as:

"Here comes Johnny Yen again,
With the liquor and drugs,
And the flesh machine."

I have no problem with this. When pondering a vacation on the high seas - thoughts of booze, pharmaceuticals, and miscreant sex with men named after currency often spring to mind.

Even so, I recently heard that NASA was using the Rolling Stones 'Start Me Up' to awaken the astronauts on the International Space Station. As we're now upon the final missions of the Space Shuttle fleet that made the station possible, I wonder if anyone gave thought to the creepish irony in the lyric

"If you start me up I'll never stop.
I've been running hot. You got me ticking gonna blow my top."

Or, perhaps they just fast forwarded to the end of the song -
"You make a grown man cry.
You make a dead man come."

Who knew NASA was really an acronym for Negatively Aberrant Sound Alerts?

I Loves Me Some Interwebs
Funny. I typed the word 'anagram' into a Google search, it came back with the response 'Did you mean 'Nag A Ram'
Nice one, 'Ego Log,' nice one.

Remember kids, Escalators don't stop, even if you do.
-Z.F. Lively, Spaced out, beach-y keen.
Escalatorville@yahoo.com, now with E-mail!

Dispatch From Escalatorville: Pogo Possum Wuz Right!

2010-05-05T04:46:00.000-07:00

At the founding of Escalatorville, the lovely Bess and I lived in Seattle. During my stroll to and from work, during lunch breaks, or simply on a walk around town, I would inhabit the many escalators in the downtown area.

Thoughts and ideas would come to me as I rode, and I compared the process to what transpired in my noggin during brainstorms and such - ideas go up, come down, occasionally resting or moving to some other level.

Eventually, we moved back to St. Augustine - a town with only a few buildings over one or two stories - and, in the ironiest of ironies - no escalators. At least not to my knowledge, and I've been through about all the public buildings this city has to offer.

Nowadays I take daily walks around neighborhoods, and spend more time avoiding those public buildings than I do meandering about in them. However, I couldn't just rename the blog - because calling it "The Dispatch from The Nation's Oldest dusty, litter covered streets" just doesn't have that familiar ring to it.

So here we are, three and a half years along, still tossing ideas up and down throughout my brain, crawling up the creaky staircase of imagination, one ancient step at a time.

In tribute to the origins of Escalatorville, however, we start with a tale from the bank of Jet City memories...

Cooking Failures of the Pacific Northwest
Once, my wife and I owned a toaster oven. It served us well, reheating meals, crafting crescent rolls alongside other breakfast and dessert snackables.

Then, with one teeny little kitchen experiment, I murdered it.

Sitting in our shoebox of an apartment, I decided I'd fix a treat for us as a reward for a hard days work. I took what we had on hand; some little round crackers with a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese on each one - gently placed them in the toaster oven, heated at the "Low" setting, and awaited deliciousness.

Three minutes into cooking, the faint smell of smoke crept into the living room. Figuring the crackers cooked a bit quicker than expected, I sauntered into the kitchen, thinking that maybe a little burning at the edges might enhance the taste.

I glanced through the window/door (windoor?) of our beloved toaster oven to see that not only were the cracker edges crispy, but they'd burst into flame.

Before my eyes, havoc spread - within seconds the entire inside of the oven was scorched. I yanked the electrical cord out of it's socket, and threw our overheated friend into the sink, blue fire still running round its innards. Water was no help, the fatal damage had been done.

Smoke wafted throughout the entire apartment. Then, the entire apartment building. It was strong. Strong enough that we felt the need to contact the maintenance supervisor, letting him know of my idiocy - should he have to field calls or queries from other tenants.

Bess and I began to air out the apartment, but the scent lingered for hours. Later that evening, with my head hung low; I carried the cooled defunct device through the basement, into the garage, saying sorry and goodbye before depositing the spent fella into the dumpster.

The next time I attempted to make a snack at home, I did so using the actual oven, at a temperature slightly above frigid - and it took forever. I enjoyed every bite, however, knowing that at least this time, I had not killed anything in my quest for tasty treats.

Golden Slumbers
Given the state of the economy, combined with how those thieves of Wall Street are running that game lately - I wonder if any moderately wealthy folks are in need of someone to stuff their money into mattresses? I have my resume at the ready...

Garbage In, Garbage Out (or 'Why do they call it an "office" if they never do any work?')
I keep seeing these new campaign ads which start with some candidate declaring "I'm not a Politician, but..."

They go on to describe how electing them will make all of our lives grander and more fulfilling, because they aren't a politician and don't do that "politician" stuff.

Well, here's a news flash - if you're running for political office, yer a damned politician. Merriam Webster even concludes that a Politician is "a person primarily interested in political office for selfish or other narrow, usually short-sighted reasons." If only the Politicians themselves would be as honest as the dictionary.

It's funny isn't it? The way that politicians, when seeking to get into office, will stop at nothing to prove themselves to be the most upstanding and responsible men and women - only to get the job and behave like absolute children.

Take a lesson, politicos; the guys who so nobly haul away my refuse twice a week - they call themselves trash men - and frankly, they seem a lot more dedicated to getting junk out of our lives than you ever have.

It's coming right for us!
Call me old fashioned if you will, but I prefer my reality to be in 3D, and my movies to be on a screen. In actual life, I can put on or take off my glasses anytime I like, and I don't have to pay double to do it.

If you can peel yourself away from the booktube...
Every so often (an by "so often," I mean "day"), I peruse the WorldNetInterHighway, like everyone else.
Here's a recent batch of coolness;
-Ruminations and other ephemera by one of my multi-instrumentalist/recording engineer pals, featuring a picture of Dr. Fleischman's office.
-A blog belonging to the coolest mom I know in Atlanta.
-And, a memory hole that will steal hours of your life away.

What the Folk?
Our town recently held the 15th annual Gamble Rogers Folk Festival. Walking past a local parking lot on the Saturday afternoon of this nationally known event, I overheard a man ask a parking lot attendant:

"Do y'all have any reserved spots for performers at the Gamble Rogers Festival?"

To which the parking attendant replied: "Um, the what? I don't know what that is."

As happens too often in our mini-burg; half the town is always excited about something, while the other half has no clue what's going on.

Rules of Consumerism
A)If the spokesperson can't pronounce the name of the business or product correctly, its probably best not to trust that business. I'm looking at you, 1-800-"Axe"-Smitty.

B)In adverts for medicine, when the warnings about side effects take longer to explain than what the medicine actually does, you probably don't need that either. You shouldn't have to get a doctors permission just to take a pill for indigestion.

How To Be A Player
I'm the resident harmonicist for my band, The Wobbly Toms (no charge for that plug, fellas). I'm getting better, but the great lesson of Harmonica is this:
No matter how good you become, the pre-requisites of that instrument require one to both suck AND blow.

Escalatorally yours,
Z.F. Lively, Taste Tester
escalatorville@yahoo.com - Concerns Addressed, Fan Letters Accepted.

Dispatch From Escalatorville: Gimcrack and Snicklefritz

2010-04-14T12:39:00.001-07:00

Tall Drip To Go? That’s Me.

Recently, we lost a treasured member of our family. I refer, of course, to our dear, beloved coffee maker. After 3 1/2 years, the old brewer has given up the ghost; sputtering, hiccuping, and belching out it’s last drops within the past couple weeks. As we did with it's brother, Toaster Oven (2005-2007, now buried somewhere outside Seattle – perhaps), we will observe an appropriate time of mourning before finding a replacement.

This means that, while I’ve not been able to drink my usual tub of coffee each day - I have had the opportunity to visit a few of downtown’s java purveyors:

I entered one establishment and asked for a "regular" - after waiting a moment for the brew to, well, brew - I was given a cup and a total, to which I replied-

"Oh, that's probably the cheapest deal in town."

Having enjoyed that particular beverage, I went back to that shop the very next day and, Ta-Da; they’d raised the price.

I was at another shop, when one of my audiological pet peeves come to life. I dislike when quirky and modern idioms/phrases suddenly blast their way into the everyday language before time, poet, or playwright has tested them. The situation becomes slightly depressing for snarky English majors; by which I refer to those of us who believe in the rule of
"If it ain't broke, don't… oh damn, you just broke it, didn't you?"

Anyhow, the exchange was as follows:

TeenUnit1: "I thought you were bringing me the bread and the ice?"

TeenUnit2; "I brought up the bread..."

TeenUnit1: "Well, yeah, but - Total FAIL on the ice."

Then again, I still use terms like “gewgaws” and “strumpet,” so what do I know?

A while ago, I bought a book of those stamps that you can use anytime, regardless of rate increases. They are non-denominational. I laughed when I noticed the stamps edge, next to a picture of the Liberty Bell (“With it’s crack hanging out, for all to see!”), it reads "USA. First-Class. Forever."

Profiles In Circumference
The staff of Escalatorville would like to note the recent passing of Fred Morrison, the inventor of the Frisbee. While I have enjoyed this product for the majority of my life, I do have to acknowledge that I hold Morrison personally responsible for half of the beach sunburns I ever got.

Giving Indexes The Finger
Every now and again, I take delight in thumbing through the phone book to find those odd headers at the top of the page. You know, the ones that give the alphabetical span of that section according to names or business description. Funny couplings often show up, such as:

Abortion - Accountants

Handicapped - Hats

Truck - Uniform

I haven't checked in a while, but luckily, Escalatorville has eyes everywhere.

The following came from an associate we shall refer to only as El Capitan:

"On page 398 of the current ATT "Real Yellow Pages"

(as opposed to the 'Unreal' ones), you will find "Septic - Sex". I think that to be just a tad too Yellow for my tastes."

I agree sir; no one should ever have to read that.

Tales Of The Nagged, Part 4 (in a seemingly never ending series)

Occasionally, when I work at the hotel, the batteries in a rooms TV clicker will expire. We have a few extra’s available at the front desk - instead of handing out single batteries left and right. What surprises me, however, is the amount of people whom are too lazy to get up and simply change the channel on the machine itself - but will frantically send their spouse down a flight of stairs, across the parking lot, and into the lobby to request a new remote.

Or Maybe The Spinning Lights Remind Them Of Disco…

Previously, I commented on the abundance of sirens caused by emergency vehicles racing around this old (and aging) town daily. On a recent morning, I hit upon a theory:

I walked through town, noticing ambient sounds; the buzz-hum of scooter motors, the “WHA-PAP! WHA-PAP!” of a nail gun signifying "home improvement" on every block, air tour helicopters hovering low, and the constant “Rat-A-Tat-Chung! Rat-A-Tat-Chung!” of giant jackhammers ripping up the old bridge.

Imagine a combat veteran - having witnessed the worst of humanity – now retired, and relaxing in this old beach town. Then, during scrambled eggs it starts…

Choppers flutter overhead, motor transports whizz past, and just yards away - that consistent, ear-shattering

“WHA-PAP! WHA-PAP!” “Rat-A-Tat-Chung! Rat-A-Tat-Chung!” “WHA-PAP! WHA-PAP!” “Rat-A-Tat-Chung! Rat-A-Tat-Chung!”

I wouldn't be surprised if half the retirees in town awoke to flashbacks and heart attacks every morning. Sometimes it makes my pacemaker skip a beat, and I don’t even have one.

This Isn’t Anything. Although, 30 Seconds After We Passed, I Was Swatting Like Crazy.
Oddest conversation starter I've heard from a stranger this week:
"You got a lot of flies attackin' yer head?"

Notes From A Long Pig
Let me state this first and foremost: I have a lot of vegetarian and vegan friends. I whole-heartedly respect their decisions and reasoning for choosing the diets they have. I've even been known to go that route once in a while myself.

However, I don't really have any qualms about the eating of meat.

Boars and Hogs have been said, like Dolphin, to be fairly intelligent beings – and I have no doubt that if Swine had thought of bacon first, they'd have done it to us.

Of course, pigs have also been known to experience a 30-minute orgasm - and jealousy does wonders for the appetite of the carnivore.

Deck The Hall Or Hit The Deck
It’s only 8 months until Christmas, folks. Now, thanks to thorough research by the lovely Bess - we have footage of Santa keeping in shape during the off months, using the patented “Blitzen Workout."

Profiles In Circus Tents
We at Escalatorville would also like to recognize the recent passing of Joe Rollino. From the late 1920's to his last day - Joe performed amazing fitness tests on Coney Island as the "worlds strongest man"- exhibiting an amazing physical prowess into his 11th decade on the planet. He once lifted over 3200 pounds, he bent nails with his teeth, swam every day for 8 years straight, and died at 104 years old while on his daily 5-mile morning walk - after being hit by a van. Too much exercise will kill you.

”Even Death Is Not To Be Feared By One Who Has Lived Wisely.”
We have a fishpond in our back yard, with exactly one fish. This big ole goldfish, however, is not afraid of anything - having withstood attacks from cats, hawks, raccoons and vicious thunderstorms.

Sitting at the edge of the pond, a statue of Buddha. That doesn't faze him either. I think Fishy is a Protestant.

A while ago, I placed a naked fishing pole in the vicinity (no line, no hook, etc.) at an angle, so it looks like Buddha has gone fishing in the pond.

Fish is still un-scared. Of course, I think he probably should be. It seems quite Buddhist to me that one could catch fish with no bait.

Thanks for tuning in, see ya on the flip side!

Z.F. Lively

Proprietor, with cream and sugar

We respond to things: Escalatorville@yahoo.com

Dispatch From Escalatorville: "So I got that goin' for me, which is nice."

2010-03-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about the "follow through" lately. Y'see, while a stagnant pond might be easy and warm to sink into, if you don't start yourself moving, you will drown. You wanna cross that pond? You can't wait in the middle, you have to follow through to the other side. It's a common rule, but one that can be often ignored. One gets to a certain point where you look back at all the ideas that course around your brain within that early part of life, and start to rethink which ones you still should follow through. You also start to understand certain aspects of life: you can appreciate Jazz music more - realizing that most of the best stuff was recorded by musicians who died before they reached the age you are now; you start to actually interpret maps, planning possible future trips based on how soon you can get from Memphis to Detroit if you make a pit stop in Louisville; you start to understand the easygoing coalition of serenity and agitation from whence we get the game of Golf.

Here is where we mark the rejection of stagnation - and start to begin the follow through. A new Dispatch From Escalatorville, which doesn't exactly come out swinging, but brings with it a renewed desire to provide more of what we originally intended with this occasional missive. Like the slow motion limbs of a Tai Chi master or the swing of a club at tee-off, the best results come when you follow through...

Tales Of The Nagged, Volume 1

So, I work the Night Desk at a local hotel a few times a week (when I'm not looking for other avenues of employ). As per the strenuous tenets of my job, we strive to appease every customer, regardless of complaint. At 1:30AM on a recent night, a woman came to the desk a bit flustered, and with her elderly mother in tow.

"My mother has, uh, I mean WE, uh, there is a problem with our room."

I was told the thermostat was broken - and it needed to be fixed. I saw the small gleam of hope on the customers face turn to a look of desperation when I told the women (with verbal expulsions of the "oh my" and "well I'll be" variety from "Mom") that, alas, we don't keep a maintenance man on call at 1:30 on a Tuesday morning.

A relatively slow night, as it was, I simply moved them to another room just a few doors down. I made up a key for them, and sent them on their way. Huzzah, for problem-solver me.

10 minutes later, the woman again arrives at the desk - without Mom - and proceeds to explain how, since her frail and aged mother cannot shut the door properly, that I will have to find them yet another room - on the ground floor please, Mom can't take the stairs.

I explained to her with an empathic semi-frown on my face (and a silent giggle running around my brain), that both of the open rooms on the first floor were currently assigned to her and her mother. Reluctantly, the customer agreed to their original room, handing me the newer key to inspect the faults of room #2.

"I am sorry that WE have been so difficult," she stated, and turned to leave. Within two minutes, I had inspected the perfectly functional door - but as I passed the women's room again, I could feel a certain heat coming through the wall, and it wasn't from the thermostat.

TV Turnoff Week is April 19th - 25th

The local cable company just did some restructuring in the programming it allows in the Nations Oldest City. Ironically, the one network they eliminated - was the History Channel.

I was actually watching the television one day when a lady appeared onscreen extolling the virtues of new digital technology. She described how science was advancing the art of television and the cable system that she was a shill for. In the middle of her pitch, however, her face froze. It then pixilated itself as her voice shorted out and the screen went blank. I laughed. Out Loud.

In the midst of the flabbergasting "News" cycle that we've been through in the past few months, I was delighted when the lovely Bess managed to find this video - it might be a good thing if all the the news makers of the world paid attention.

Tales Of The Nagged, Volume 2
In the back of a downtown pastry shop, I was pouring cream and sugar into my to-go cup when I heard a man in the coffee line get told by the counter clerk:

"I'm sorry Sir, we're not an actual Starbucks - we just serve their regular coffee."

I turned around just in time to hear the man call his wife to confirm a new order, "no, they DON'T have the frappuccino mocha latte. I told you it wasn't a real one..."

Old Town Trudging

I like to take long walks through the neighborhoods of my town. Sometimes for the sights, and sometimes for the sounds. I overhear a lot of conversations, most of which I ignore, but occasionally I will hear something that illustrates the nature of our little town. Recently, I was walking passed a lady and heard the following half of a phone conversation (picture me saying this in the voice of a middle-aged skinny woman from the urban south):

"Hey, you still have that car? Yeah, you should come get me. Pick me up by the Shell station where you got arrested for stealing..."

This is, of course, the convenience station that is located directly across from the police department.

When one walks the streets of my neighborhood in the old town, one can usually see a number of fire engines about. If you can't see them, you certainly hear the sirens, tremendous, overwhelming sirens. This is a direct result of the fact that the average age of the residents/visitors in St. Augustine hovers slightly above 107.

As such, there are a lot of fire squads and emergency teams racing through the city any number of times a day due to an older tourist falling, misstepping, or having a heart attack at the cost of a meal for four in the downtown area.

I, however, am a paranoid sort. I usually hear the sirens as I head out to take my daily walks.

Thus, as an antsy individual, I always imagine that the sirens are headed. directly. toward. my. house.

Sure enough, If I'm only a couple blocks away when I hear one, I'll usually head back to the house just to check. If I'm further away, I figure that the fire will have already gutted our tiny house by the time I could return, so I shelve my worry and walk on...

On a recent sojourn I was a neighborhood or two over, when I believe I saw a frat house in the making (funny since the local Advanced Edutarium in town doesn't officially allow sororities or fraternities). Either that, or these college kids are just trying to scare the residents around them.

I saw a small bundle of collegians cleaning out the garage space between two rental houses on the same lot. I peeked in, as much peeking as you can do from across the street, and saw that they already had a "bar" set up - seats in place, tap at the ready.

Oh, but they weren't done. The coup de grace; a restaurant size grill/broiler - lay in the bed of a pick up truck in the driveway. Kids, once that starts heating up, maybe slide a few burgers to the folks at the houses around you. Nothing mends fences like the delicious warmth of a dead cow.

Just A Few Of The Many Many Ways To Fall Down (circle ones you've completed successfully):

-straight backward

-face forward

-drunk

-like a baby

-in a heap

-sideways

-like a train on a mountaintop in the middle of summer - or a cup of pencils from a teachers desk.

Caligraphy Of The Complacent
In the past few months, there have been a lot of sign writers and sign holders coming out of the woodwork to grace the street corners of our town. Sometimes they work individually, sometimes in groups. I'm sure you've seen the signs before.

Now, when it comes to panhandling, I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground (and no one's ever told me that I was talking out of my ground hole) - however, there are rumors that say some of these folks can pull in $200 or more per day.

If this is so, you'd think they could afford to get a better sign maker. Shoot, I bet if all the sign holders got together and formed a union, they might actually get a better rate.

Tales Of The Nagged, Volume 3

A man checks into the hotel, gives his full credit card info, signs receipt, and takes keys to go to the room. 20 minutes later, he returns to the front desk...

"Um, I'm gonna need to check out and have that not charged to my card please?!?"

I apologize and ask if there's anything wrong with the room.

"No, uh, my wife just wants to meet me at a hotel that's not this one"

Maurice Chevalier, Eat Your Heart Out.
For all the Dirty Old Men In Training (D.O.M.I.T.) like myself,

springtime in the Nations Oldest City is one of the favorite seasons of the year. The scenery turns very pretty, and very retro. The greens, yellows, and light browns that color the flora of the old town directly after a great storm are beautiful and; for those of us that aren't actually perverts, whom can acknowledge the beauty of the female form without becoming too ribald about it - living in the city is like living on one those great southern folk rock album covers. Those post-hippie, pre-valley, simply dressed yet ornately gilded, devilishly innocent girls that you found so crushworthy on those LPs of the late 60's and 70's, they live here. They thrive here. They create here. They cruise here. They are one of the many aspects that beautify the place we sometimes call "St. Uglytowne" - and they make living here all the better.

I should know, I married one of 'em. She's a beaut'!
-----------------------------------------

Thanks for reading, we'll be back later this week. In the meantime, don't do this without a license.

Escalate and follow through,
Z.F. Lively
Proprietor, Fancy Dancer

Happy New Yearish

2010-01-04T02:44:00.000-08:00

We're working on it. Hopefully soon, depending...

thanks for yer patience.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Damn The Torpedoes!

2009-10-15T11:44:00.000-07:00

Southern Accents
Finally Fall, possibly my favorite time of year. At the very least, my favorite time of change. The temperature gets a bit cooler, the leaves alter their color before they dance to the ground, and our town's newest collegians start to wear thin of that "fresh from the vine" scent. Since we last met; we've celebrated birthdays and weddings, endured road trips and absences, witnessed the dalliances and break-ups of folks we care about, and spent too much attention on those folks that we don't. We can't actually rest, of course, as Christmas is waiting to clobber us around the next corner - but I'm definitely in the mood for a bit of "Ahhhh-Tumn."

I hate to sound like an old man -that's an old man's job- but I first came to St. Augustine some 20 Autumns ago. In the intervening years - a lot of changes have come about, although some things about this town (infinite road construction, local govt. ethic stance) forever remain the same. Of course, this is a Ghost town we live in - they are everywhere. After two decades, I have a few of my own following me around.

I am awash in memories every time I take a stroll. Some good ("That's where I found a hundred bucks!"), and some not so good ("That's where SoAndSo Silverton puked on my shoes.") I have, over time, managed to replace a few of the not so good with much better ones (i.e. turning "At this corner I was told by a classmate crush that 'We'd be better off as friends.'" into "That's the intersection where I had a really smokin' makeout session with my wife!").

Ghosts and change walk hand in hand, however, and often the latter begats the former. We recently saw the closing of our favorite local social spot. 'Twas a place where many of those aforementioned ghosts came to life. The first place the Wobbly Toms played a gig, a place where friendships were made and broken, as well as where Bess and I danced on the night we first kissed and the New Year's Eve we got engaged. The place developed it's own little community, where folks came in times of love, loss, and gossip. Many in that community are just ghosts now, some even literally - but change brings a new day, new places, and as always, a few new ghosts for future memories.

Long After Dark
I searched in vain for nearly an hour the other night, trying to find that well known antique- a pencil. Unfortunately, the office at my night job is slightly "modern," dating back to at least the mid 1990s. Therefore, there are no pencils to be found. I didn't need to write per se, but I did need a pencil for the one thing it contains which modern pens do not - an eraser.

Y'see, I had made a sketch earlier in the day and needed to clean it up before having it reproduced. Thus, I needed an eraser.

Alas, no one uses pencils anymore - which poses a number of questions; what happens to the overgrown supply of the worlds lead? If we have no more pencils, why don't we have more trees? And, what new-fangled pokey device are those CSI folks gonna use when they have to move stuff around crime scene evidence?

This is a shameful thing, America. Pencils made this country!
Or at least made it easier to correct.

Full Moon Fever
I don't ever expect much adventure from my night job, it's not too exciting. Heck, we don't even have pencils. We do get odd, bewildering folk or strange instances, once in a while (we're a hotel, not a Motel - those places creep me out). Such is the following:

It's a slow season (if you want to call 2009 a "season"), so we don't expect much on a Sunday night. I got a call at around 2AM, however, asking general questions about the lobby, and the computer we keep there. Standard guest queries, certainly, but odd coming at 2AM - when the lobby is closed.

I was then informed, without my asking, exactly why our guest was in the hotel and how he had come to his current lot in life. It's amazing how much information some people will provide, even unprovoked, isn't it? After 10 minutes of listening to his history of familial and physical troubles (oh, and throw in the terms "PTSD" and "ex-wife" every seventh word)- I began to think he may have some mental troubles as well. I did my best to quickly, graciously get off the phone - assuming that I'd heard the last of him that evening.
What a fool I am.

Four AM. A pounding on the door, locked since my earlier telephone conversation. As I open it, in stumbles a man in a swimsuit with what I perceive to be the glaze of concern over his eyes:

"Dude, you gotta call the cops!"
"What is going on sir?", I asked as I headed back behind the counter.
"Dude, there's a guy out here threatening my friends with a knife and he says he has some guns, and he's freaking us out"
"Has anyone been hurt?" I inquire, heading to the phone while looking for a phone book.
"Uh, no. But he's freaking us out and talking dangerous."

O.K. , I think. It's not a full alert emergency, but I can call the general police line and get someone over to check it out. I start looking for the number to the police station.
Regretfully, I tried to explain this to my panicked lobby guest.

"Dude, don't you know the number to 911?" his voice staggered "It's (loudly now) Nine- One-(pause)One."

Feeling a bit pestered, I picked up the front desk phone and dialed, but no answer. Having forgotten that you need to dial 9 to get out, I ended up using my cell phone out of frustration.
I got the dispatcher and explained that I had a situation at my hotel that needed investigation, or at least an officer to calm down my visitor and figure out the root of the trouble. I then gave my location.

"Oh" said the dispatcher, "You'll need the city department, hold please."

You got that right, I was put on hold by the 911 operator.

A second operator on line, I attempted to explain the situation - as I did so, I was approached by the man who had reported the incident to me. He asked if he could speak the the police dispatcher, and I asked the dispatcher if they would like to speak to him - which they agreed to. Yet another mistake.

It was in the midst of his explanation to the officer on the other end of the line that I realized this man was not exactly bewildered and upset - but drunk. This was displayed by his belligerent phone behavior with the police department. After a quick minute of blathering to the dispatcher - he handed my phone back to me:
"They hung up, dude."

Convinced that we'd just pissed off the police department, and that no officer was coming to check out the situation, I headed to the pool area, with nerves of steel. (ha!)
By this point, one of the other swimsuited guests had taken a seat next to our suspect and appeared to be chatting fairly amicably with him.

I approached and asked the man at the table if there was anything I could do for him, or offer any assistance. As soon as he spoke, I could tell that he was my caller from earlier. I then made a plan to diffuse the situation if I could - as I thought that I could do this peacefully and appease everyone involved.

I began to speak as a police cruiser (in the form of a jacked up SUV) pulled into the parking lot. It was immediately followed by a second. Then a third. As well as a fourth. Four police SUVs, each of which contained exactly 1 police officer.

I attempted to explain the situation to the officers - who were already in the pool area and questioning the suspect. After a few moments of confusion, the officers come to find out that the three reporters were actually interlopers from a hotel next door to the one at which I am employed. The cops themselves were not impressed with this situation in the least. They questioned the man with the knife (which had been sheathed and attached to a belt the entire time, apparently our friends were frightened of the fact that it was merely present).

While I verified that the man at the table was in fact a guest of our hotel, we confirmed that the three others were not and the police instructed them to leave. It was at this point that our actual guest began to exert his inner crazy. He inquired about bizarre legal facts with the officers,
verified the difference between a concealed and an unconcealed weapon, bragged about his extensive home gun collection that he acquired while a member of special forces - you know, the usual. The police began to leave, leaving behind one officer to finish the questioning.

He verified that this man had no ID available, yet, confirmed to me that he was "O.K."

The officer then climbed into his SUV and left.

I attempted to apologize to our guest for any inconvenience - and to explain why the police had been called, due to the other mens "concerns." The man at the pool wasn't having any of it.
He had almost been arrested - and if he had been arrested: he would have had to go to jail and pay a lawyer 5000 dollars and would have certainly been kicked out of his parents house and that it would have been my fault and that the bible says that I should ask for his forgiveness for what I'd done.

Keeping in mind that he still had his knife, I stated that I would like to be forgiven if he felt I had made an error in judgment.
Forgiveness granted, the man headed back to his room.

I headed back into the front desk area, and had been there no longer than 10 minutes when the phone began to ring. Guess who?

He would call me thrice on the front office phone - twice to berate me, yell again about the trouble I could have caused him, and -one final time to apologize for the whole thing and ask if I though it would be O.K. for him to take a walk around the neighborhood. He ended the call stating that the only weapon he would carry on his walk would be a little bit of wire - "in case I get attacked by a pit bull."

I must say that the police officers themselves seemed rather calm and unruffled throughout this ordeal. As they were leaving, I noted the full moon and asked if they had been busy that evening. As one officer simply rolled his eyes - another got back into his vehicle stating "Aw, this guy is nothing - earlier tonight a lady put me under a voodoo curse."

Highway Companion
I was walking down a road the other day and was passed by a station wagon. The car had a number of republican party and "red state" issue bumper stickers slathered across its backside (Cool with me, this is America- please support whichever cause you wish, so long as you respect everyone else who does same).

I caught up to the car at the next stop sign, spotting a glimpse at the inside. The vehicle was of European manufacture, the drivers operative devices being on the opposite side of the standard American models. My general tolerance toward political neutrality was pushed aside by my first thought, which was: "My goodness, is this woman so conservative, that even her gas pedal is to the far right?"

Let Me Up (I've Had Enough)
6 pairs of Converse Sneakers that I have owned (thanks to Bess for suggesting this one - originally posted over on the bookspace):

1-Candy Cane Striped - (Thanks, Dad! These are ultra cool in that, not only are they Christmas themed, but the stripes are actually made from crushed red velvet).

2-Super High Tops - These were created by Converse in the mid-80's, featured extra top length and an inside material so that you could flip down the tops to have a hybrid looking shoe. I had two different pairs at one point. One pair was gray on the outside with pink on the inside, but my favorite were the Denim outer/Flannel inner pair that I wore all the frikkin time.

3-Doubles - I am currently wearing a pair that looks like another pair tried to swallow them. The inside is hunter green, outside is black (with green star logo) - and there's enough lace holes to feed an army, if you were to feed an army with lace holes.

4-Pure Black- Black rubber, black canvas, and black embossed/raised rubber logo. First fashioned to be a semi-retro looking version -about 20 years ago, I think- now kind of a staple in the Converse canon.

5-The Standard - Black canvass with white rubber and logo. When comic strip artists actually have the opportunity to draw the clothed feet of their characters; 8 out of 10 times - they draw a variation on this particular shoe.

6-Christmas Cons - The second pair of Christmas themed Converse I ever had is in a tie with my #1 as a favorite Converse design. Green and red canvas, with a pair of jingle bells attached to the top spine of each - I drove people in my high school crazy with those things, until somewhere around April when - due to wear and tear, the bells popped off.

Hard Promises
There's a house in my neighborhood that has one of those supposedly threatening signs, stating "I can make it to the fence in 3 seconds, can you?" with a picture of a dog above it. The only problem is, the dog that lives at that particular house, is a chihuahua. I've seen it - and I don't care how fast it can get to that fence, it ain't stopping nobody.

I'm going to go and stand out in front of that dog one day wearing a t-shirt that says "I'm 100 times your weight, and could punt you across the bay." Just to taunt that miniscule monster.

Into The Great Wide Open
So, I think we're gonna be doing some changes around Escalatorville as well. You'll start to see postings more often, probably shorter and more direct pieces, with the usual claptrap occasionally thrown in. Then again, as always, time could prove me a liar.
Of course, you can always keep Escalatorville informed of any interesting tidbits, advice, or places that still have double coupon days by writing to escalatorville@yahoo.com!

Thanks for reading, take your Escalator "TO THE EXTREME!" every now and then,
Z.F. Lively, Wildflower
Proprietor,
Escalatorville Ink.

Low Down and Draggin' Edition

2009-08-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Escalatorville. We begin this edition with this sentence of the day (taken from one of them interweb "news" services):
"Scientists don't know why a closely sniffed Ponderosa smells like baking cookies."
Now, since that's out of the way...

Vroom Vroom
The lovely Bess and I have taken to scootering as our main (read: only) method of vehicular transportation. Generally, this works just fine - we don't really need to go too far, and we save a bundle on gasoline. Also, Bess looks pretty cute on the damn thing.
I, on the other hand, must look fairly ridiculous - at least that's the idea I get based on the number of hoots, hollers, at outright guffaws that launch in my direction every time I ride the thing.

Consider the visual - I am six foot three inches tall, bespectacled, and have a robust red and white beard.
The scooter itself is small and pink.

I have also learned a little bit of scooter etiquette in my riding experience;on more major thoroughfares - be sure to stay toward the right side of your lane (it's a bit safer, allows passing space, and eliminates the direct inhalation of exhaust fumes); second, use the less squeaky brakes when tooling around the neighborhood in the early morning hours; and third, if you plan to compliment a fellow rider as you pass by (especially if they are cute and female), it's best to make sure you enunciate the space between the words "Nice Scooter."

Just like she was?
Dear Random SUV Driver; I am sure that your "Dearest Momma" appreciates the mobile memorial that you've turned your car into. She'd probably like it a bit more if the stickers admonishing your love for her departed soul weren't tilted, warped, and off center.

Benefactors Wanted
It’s been said that a million dollars doesn't really go too far these days. Tell you what, if anyone wants to fund the experiment - I’ll happily test that theory…

We see a lot of politicians stating how shameful and unfair it is that the current economic situation will eventually have to be reconciled by future generations. Yet, we don't see any of them opening up their own checkbooks, do we? I did some research.

As of 2006- the U..S. Census Bureau says, the median annual household income was $48,201 (yeah, I laughed openly at that too). However, the current salary for rank-and-file members of the House and Senate is about $174,000 per year. Three and a half times the average - and in 2009, they have about 140 days of work.

Well, I think we just figured out how to solve a bit of this countries money troubles, didn’t we? Of course we’ll have to hide their pay cut within the back pages of an amendment to declare a ‘Celebration of Reality TV Day’ or something equally vapid. The plan won’t work if they actually read what they’re voting on.

Also, any uses of the term ‘Dawg’ in the familiar…
It's come to my realization, and hopefully yours, that the English language is in trouble. Some of our most worthy terms and phrases have been obfuscated to a point beyond recognition.. Yes, obfuscated (you have the internet, look it up). Three examples of terms we need to take back from the brink, or lose forever:

-"Hero" - I'm sick of everyone being a hero all of the sudden. In the wake of 9/11 (another phrase that we need to remove from the discourse, but don't get me started....), it seems that anyone can be a hero for nearly anything. Give money to a charitable cause - "you're a hero." Wear a flag pin on your lapel - "you're a hero." Show up on time and be photographed doing it? "Congratulations, you're a photogenic hero."

I may be a bit antiquated, but I recall when the term would only be applied to someone who committed an actual act of heroism.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am a fan of our police and firefighters, as well as the folks that sign up for our armed forces. However, just putting on a uniform doesn't make you a hero. If Superman never saved people, he’d just be a freak in a cape.

Drowning while attempting to save another from the same fate - That's a hero. Jumping in front of an assassin's bullet to save a child or dignitary - That's heroic. An Army recruit who shoots themselves in the face while goofing off with his/her gun? Sorry, not a hero, just a badluckian.

-"Role Model" - Shouldn't this distinction be determined by ones actions and intelligent decisions instead of notoriety or paycheck? Sports stars are not role models, they are simply good athletes with the skills required to be part of a successful corporation (and sometimes, not even that successful). A father who has to raise two kids on minimum wage and gets them to do homework without joining a gang or wasting too much time on television - that man is a freaking role model. Getting rich just for playing a game? Nice fantasy for most, but no role model status in that.

-"Celebrity" - used to be that you had to have a list of achievements in your field in order to qualify as a celebrity. Now anyone who happens to make it into a television frame or in an internet video thinks they deserve to be let beyond the velvet rope. You should have done enough work to be celebrated for your achievements - thus that 'celeb' portion of the word.
If you are famous just for being famous - that don't count.

You ever notice the hubbub that arises whenever one of those 'entertainment' programs promises to show a celebrities first interview in an extended period of time? If the appearance is a true rarity, then it's probably someone who actually deserved to be called 'celebrity' at one point in time. There should be a distinct line between actual celebrities and attention whores.

A former Beatle, Rolling Stone, or multiple Oscar winner = Celebrity. Nearly anyone who has embraced being on a 'reality TV show' = Fame Gobbler.

Flavoring the melting pot with arsenic
Just a thought, and I don't mean to cast any aspersions, but then again, maybe I do. Would all of those in the "Birther" movement be raising such a fuss if John McCain had been elected? I doubt it.

Even though McCain was born in Panama during a time when that region was still an oligarchy. Now that I think of it, why don't you show me your "long-form" birth certificate...

Some things should stay invisible
News reports indicate that Steven Spielberg is set to do a remake of the classic Jimmy Stewart film 'Harvey,' one of my personal favorites. If that's how you feel about cinematic legends Steven, then I guess you've given up all rights to complain if, 30 years from now, the world is presented with 'Quentin Tarantinos A Color Purple' or 'Schindlers List - A Spike Lee Joint'.

Nothing Up My Sleeve Dept.
Since I was younger, I've been a bit enthralled by Magic acts. I've been intrigued by the art of deception, and how the workings of simple devices can create grand illusion. I always enjoy the 'figuring it out' part - even when I have no clue as to how a trick was done. I also enjoy the element of 'cheese' that envelopes most of the performances in that genre which have come along within the past few decades.

Two self evident truths, however, have altered my thinking, and may make it difficult for me to watch those specials in the future. Truth Number One - Magic Acts are inherently mysterious and/or sexy. Truth Number Two - Magic itself (in the manner expressed herein) is Fake. Thus, Magic acts themselves are simply fake sex. Not exactly a substitute for pornography, mind you, but bearing similar specifics.

Think on it. You have a Magician, impeccably dressed, who can be any age, shape, or size. The magician almost always has two or three partners or assistants who are invariably younger, attractive, and flexible.

At some point in the act a "Magic box" makes its way onto the stage. Once an assistant has assumed a position relevant to the workings of the "magic box" - they are subject to being penetrated by the magicians blade, sword, or set of spikes. If not subject to the magicians dangerous points, an assistant might be contorted or transported to a new position.

The magician provides plenty of show, flourish, and grandeur while the assistant/partner usually gives an expression of either:
A) annoyed bemusement and concern
B) thrill, joy, and amazement
or C )utter boredom or despair

A side note for emphasis - no matter how intense, difficult, or impressive the magician makes it look, those in the know realize that most often, it's the assistant doing most of the work in that trick.

You Can't Spell Roulette without URL:
Now, a collection of random websites that you may wish to check out, or not:

www.genemoonfeather.com

http://newpsalmanazar.wordpress.com/

http://producten.hema.nl/

For Your Sunny Day...
And finally - I've included it before, and may again - possibly the best 7 minutes ever committed to videotape(dedicated to the Lovely Bess on the occasion of her 27th birthday):

Have as good a time as you can, and thanks for visiting Escalatorvile.
Z.F. Lively
Proprietor
escalatorville@yahoo.com

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Mama Say Mama Sa Ma Ma Cu Sa Edition

2009-07-14T22:21:00.000-07:00

Add "In Bed" At The End.
There's an old wish/curse, oft credited to the Chinese, that states "May you live in interesting times". I think we've arrived. Have ya looked around lately?

Andy Warhol must be somewhere laughing, for he blessed us with a prophetic curse as well: "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."

If only someone were keeping a better eye on that clock - it's seems most current celebrities have been hovering over 14:59 for far too long.

Adventures In Channel Flippery
I don't turn to the Weather Channel on a regular basis - but I have noticed that they employ a wide swath of humanity as'WeatherCasters'.

Now, despite what your local news program would indicate, I refuse to believe that half of all TV personalities are degree certified meteorological experts. Heck, I only know one in real life, and I doubt he gives a flying fig about being on the tube.

Back to the Weather Channel. Doesn't it seem that, at any given time, at least one of the personalities on that channel is pregnant? It's got to be a tough gig for any Mom-To-Be to act seriously about upcoming tropical depressions, all the while trying to maneuver your own emerging front.

And Candy Bars Cost A Nickel...
Call me old fashioned, but I liked it better when newscasters simply gave us the news. Here's a message for all those talking heads resting on their swivel pods: give us the info we need, stop pontificating, stop opinionating, stop being snarky, stop emoting like I am supposed to value your insignificant detritus of thought about miniscule and unimportant subjects.

Your job is to read the frikkn' news - if you want to distort the facts of teh story to suit your personal opinion or make yourself a star, then go somewhere else and get off the, supposedly impartial, "News" program.

Also, is it entirely necessary to have 17 different broadcasts throughout the day?. Our parents and grandparents had only 30 minutes per day of televised news (even less in the golden age of radio) - and they lived through much worse times than these.

I still trust Walter Cronkite more than any current teleprompted biscuit head.

From The 'And Take Your Lipstick With You' Dept.
Confidential to S.P. in Anchorage: I looked this up in a Dictionary:
Resign: verb. 1: to give up one's office or position : quit.

So, resigning -by definition- is "quitting". If you don't finish the job you took - that makes you a fucking quitter. My goodness, you've tainted the reputation of your office, your state, your gender, AND the Republican Party. Shut up and go away already.

Before you go, however, let's clarify your sports analogy. As Governor, you would be the teams Coach, not the point guard - and no self respecting coach abandons the team halfway through the second quarter - despite the score, or pending book deal. Stop winking at me.

Specific Solutions For The General Motorist.
I don't know if anyone has thought of this yet, but here's a suggestion:

Lets get all the car manufacturing employees to switch from building new cars to retrofitting all current models with green technology (whether that be bio-fuel or hybrid engines). Then everyone can bring their vehicles to local dealerships for a change over. It couldn't be that difficult to train the workers how to repair and retro-fit any car with more efficient fuel cells.

Next, lets open up trade relations between the United States and Cuba.

Y'see, Cubans have been using the same model cars for close to 50 years now - they obviously have found ways to keep these now vintage vehicles running through the years. Why not organize a swap?

We could simply trade our later model cars (now fitted with green engines) for the vehicles that have been clunking around that island since Fidel took over. We'll bring all those autos back to the factories where the newly trained workers can retro-fit them as well.

What true, road loving American wouldn't want to buy an antique car that runs on new, modern energy?

Tell ya what, as an incentive - for every re-modified classic "renewed" vehicle purchased, we'll throw in a box of authentic Cuban cigars.

The Cubans get new energy efficient cars, Americans get classic and newly energy efficient cars (plus the worlds 2nd best recreational smoke), and the earth gets to keep spinning without us wasting more oil or emitting harmful auto fumes into the ozone. Use the old engines to supplement ocean reefs where the coral is withering. Voila, we just saved the economy, global relations, and the environment. Everybody wins.

More Exciting Than That Pregnant Chick On The Weather Channel
There's a reason I'm not a television executive, yet... However, I bet the following idea would be a huge ratings hit. We will call our program "I Am The Best" - and everyone whom auditions will be selected as a contestant.

The lucky throngs will be flown to Guantanamo (there's got to be a big empty building down there somewhere) and forced to live in the facilities "Recreation Room" with all other contestants.

Every 36 hours the floor will drop out, plunging each and every contestant into a pool of acid.

A pool of acid that is also ON FIRE.

The winner: all of us whom detest the unbiased fame wagon that television has become.

The show could air between ratings champions 'Monkey Ferrets In Bumper Cars' and 'The Man Who Never Stopped Spitting.'
Hold on a sec - I have to take this call from NBC...

'A Single White Glove' Is An Anagram For 'He Lives On Til We Gag'
Some in the media seemed bewildered at the outpouring of emotion toward Michael Jacksons recent death and the way the world kind of slowed down for the days surrounding the memorial.

Well, I don't care what music you listen to now, or what you claim now to have listened to back then - but if you were, as I, between the ages of 10 and 17 when the album was released, you owned a copy of 'Thriller'.

I bought my 'Thriller' on cassette tape at a Sears store a couple weeks after it came out. I used $4.98 of my paper route money to do it - and proceeded to go home and play the hell out of that thing. I dug all the tracks, but I think 'P.Y.T.' and 'Beat It' were my favorites.

At the time, my sister and I lived in a section of town wherein we were the minority. Nowadays, you might hear our neighborhood referred to as 'mid-scale Urban' or something more sell-able in real estate terms. We just knew it as our neighborhood -in the midst of a fully integrated southern city in the early 1980's. I still listened to Top 40 and the local Classic Rock station - but I also got the vibe of what my neighbors, my friends, down the street were picking up on.

Whether it was the opening 'ooh-hoo's of 'Billie Jean' or - a couple years later, Slick Rick's 'La-di-Da-Di' - our musical taste was informed just as much by hearing what the Byrd Park crews were listening too while washing their parents cars on the weekends - as it was by commercial radio and whatever Dick Clark and Casey Kasem were pushing.

However, despite how much I may have enjoyed Frankie Goes To Hollywood or Cyndi Lauper - I wasn't aping their video moves in my bedroom at night. Y'see, that's what influence Michael had.

We didn't have cable television, so no MTV. The only video programs we had access to were Friday Night Videos (on whatever network that was) and a local, only semi-regular, half hour music video jukebox program. Lucky for us, Michael's videos made it everywhere.

Everything the man did back then was something to view in awe - it was beyond "pop music". Hell, my middle school shut down entirely for 5 minutes one day so that they could play 'We Are The World' over the sound system, in compliance with the simultaneous airing of the song on many of the nations radio stations that day.

This was and is the power of Michael Jackson to those of us now staring down our 4th decade and welling up when we fill in the vocal line to John Mayers interpretation of 'Human Nature'. He's not just a music star to us - he in ingrained in our lives.

We missed out on Elvis and the British Invasion - but Jackson's moonwalk on the 'Motown 25' special is our version of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.

Sure, we may have turned to other musical genres as we got older, and we watched as Michaels achievements seemed to become more tabloid than Billboard. We saw MJ eaten alive by an increasingly vicious and voracious media machine;
-He sleeps in a tube they said (actually a rumor said to be fabricated by Mike himself to throw off the press)
-He wants to buy the elephant man (another rumor, spoofed by Michael in his video for 'Leave Me Alone')
-He wants to be Peter Pan (a kid who can fly, defeat pirates, and retain his youthful exuberance - who wouldn't?).

Yes, there was the trial. Charges of Child Molestation. A serious blow to the man-child that we had become obsessed with when we were kids. However, what the critics keep failing to mention is that, in a court of law - Jackson was ACQUITTED of all charges. An innocent man, in the eyes of our justice system, forever persecuted by the hangers on who made (and still make) their living by reporting on his behaviour.

Whether you trust his innocence or not is a personal belief, but some facts we cannot deny - Michael was a great humanitarian who, despite his odd behaviour, gave away millions to help others and founded organizations to assist humanity. Probably a lot more than you have.

Was the memorial a bit much? Of course. For me, it was a bit jarring to see all the Christ-like poses in the images his family chose to project behind those giving tribute (the most eerie being a photo from rehearsals for the new tour just a few days before he passed - Jackson, in mid dance, arms outstretched, in front of a giant neon sign reading 'This Is It'). Yes, I agree, the near sermons from those reading and giving blessings were somewhat over-dramatic( I half expect some merchants to be selling WWMJD? bracelets in the near future).

However, the man does deserve tribute and thanks. Especially if you were one of those kids, like me, who caught the wave at its largest crest. He made you want to dance, he made you want to smile. And I for one, hope he is able to finally Rest In Peace because of it.
---------------------

That's Escalatorville for now. Be swell.
-Z.F. Lively
escalatorville@yahoo.com
Shamon!

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Like Waiting For A Sequel To 'Waiting For Godot'

2009-05-18T01:24:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the latest installment of Escalatorville. You doin' all right? No worries. Relax. Exhale. Inhale. Hold It (no, no, in your lungs - not in your throat, that'll just make you cough). Exhale. Repeat As Needed.

The Circumstance Of Pomp
Now's the time of year for college and high school graduation ceremonies. Throughout the land, millions of enrobed (until the after party) seniors sit in awkward folding chairs and, with a collective glance toward their watches, wonder about their future.

Mainly, "When is this speaker going to shut up?"

I have not been offered the chance to speak at any of this years commencement ceremonies (still available for certain dates - escalatorville@yahoo.com, I also do weddings).

I have, however, composed a brief and general address for any procrastinator looking to plagiarize an educational touchstone:

'Good [Evening/Morning/Gravy!] - Graduates, Faculty, Staff, and the group of boys and girls roaming the aisles selling popcorn and beer;

I thank you again for the Honorary Degree in [Arts/Sciences/Animal Psycho-pharmacology] you've bestowed upon me. It shall be displayed with pride in my [Home/Office/Band Room], adjacent to my [Nobel Prize/Presidential Citation/Woodstock '94 Poster].

Now, most speakers will try to burden you with overwhelming goals and indifferent expectations. I say "nay" to all that. You have relatives whom have driven many miles to be here, sweating out the whole ceremony in this stuffy auditorium - and they're about ready for a goddamn drink!

Therefore, I offer some simple advice to the youth of America:

-Buy more masking tape than you think you might need. Mistakes will happen, trust me on this. Also trust that as time wears on, you'll feel less and less like correcting mistakes than you will in preventing them.

-Stop living your life through soundbites. Stop living your life through soundbites. Stop living your life through soundbites.

And, most importantly;
-Pull up your damn pants, you look ridiculous.

There, that'll get ya through to yer next identity crisis. Oh yeah, expect one of those every 5 to 7 years - chill out, you'll get over it. Try to be kind - and pay attention.

Now, since you'll forget everything I've said the moment you leave the building, we move onward, upward, over, under, sideways, down.'

There's a reason they're called "Previews"
Recently, at a cinema nowhere near near me - I saw trailers for three separate, upcoming, fictional films. A portion of each films plot line revolves around the future possibility that the human race will be forced to go to war against armies of machines.

The special effects in each looked most impressive. It's amazing what super intelligent computers can do - ain't it?

Then Kettle Gave Pot A Mirror
I think anyone still using the phrase "Think outside the box," really needs to take their own advice.

ROFLMAO 2DETH
Am I the only one that's noticed the rapid de-evolution of communication?

Once upon a time, we wrote letters to one another (and used phrases like "once upon a time"). Then we had the quaint, yet artistically inviting, post card. We enjoyed both quite well for many years.

Alas, someone invented the Fax machine, which begat Email and - ahem- Blogs.

In the modern era, much of our citizenry has reduced contact to texting and Tweets. Ever minimizing the amount of actual communicating. I predict that in short time, we will revert back to grunting.

With that in mind, I'd like to unveil my latest invention - just in time for the holidays. It's a device you can download to your computer or phone. A picture of your face responds to each query by either bobbing up and down, or shaking from side to side. It's called the iNod.

Insert Numerous Inappropriate Headlines Here (No Fights)
The two continuing rumors I keep hearing about our new Commander In Chief:
A) He is a fan and proponent of "Pork."
B) He is a Secret Muslim

I just want the theorists to make up their minds - by definition, he CANNOT be both.

Notes on Notes Dept.
If you are reading this, then you partake in the interwebs. Do you ever log-up to the SpaceBook? Well, I do - and a number of folks have tried to convince me to create one of those "25 Albums Of Your Life" lists.

Certainly, I could engage in a Nick Hornsby style list-off with the cast of 'High Fidelity' any day of the week. My life has been inundated with music since day one. Luckily for me, my parents appreciation for music was equally proportionate to the variety of their tastes in it. Oh, I'm a music snob to be sure, but I've always enjoyed a bit of sound from every stop on your radio dial - and many points off the dial as well. Therein lies the trouble, for as I told my good friend (and former band mate) Ross about such a list;

"It's been rattling in my head. I'll have a good rundown of 5, maybe 6 in there, and then I'll walk in while Bess is exploring the iTunes list - end up relating some story from when I first copied someones cassette and photocopied the j-card, even though I didn't really know anything about The Cure. Then 'Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me' makes the list, which leads to 'The Head On The Door' and that 'Rubaiyat' compilation where The Cure covered The Doors. The Doors inevitably make me think of the Cult, and how can I make a life list without 'Electric'?"

With music, new stuff to love could be attached to the next email you read, hidden in the middle of a mix-tape you found at a garage sale, or wafting through the speakers at your local music emporium. So ya see, I would feel ill at ease simply throwing together my "25 Favorites" or "25 Best" because it's not fair to you or me. There's too much.

That said, in no particular order -

25 Albums That Changed How I Listen To Music

1) The Kingsmen - In Person: It's a live album by one of the first full time party bands. Their version of 'Twist and Shout' matches any that you've heard, and the original numbers pack a punch too. this album makes me want to play a gig every time I hear it.

2) Joan Jett & The Blackhearts - I Love Rock N' Roll: Flat out - the album is solid through and through. Catchy, great production, and polished yet raw. I, however, first heard the LP as I was entering puberty - and have had a crush on Joan Jett ever since. I bet you have too.

3) The Platters - Remember When?: Only one of the greatest vocal groups ever. You can pick this one up instead of any "hits" package, it's got most of them anyway. Pure 1959 wonderment embodied by 'Twilight Time,' 'Only You,' 'Good Night, Sweetheart' among many others. I'm not even going to mention 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.'

4) Walt Disney's Fantasia - Original Soundtrack: A near perfect introduction to the classical genre. You know every tune, even if you do sing "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh" during 'Waltz Of The Flowers.'

5) Yardbirds - For Your Love: Pop music by craftsmen who listened to everything but. The entire collection is great, but there's a reason that I've covered the title song in nearly every single live show I've played for two decades. Staying Power.

6) Toots & The Maytalls - Funky Kingston: If you love reggae, you already own it. If you like reggae, you should own it. If you hate reggae, you need to own it. Not only for the title track and 'Pressure Drop,' but exquisite versions of 'Louie Louie' and 'Take Me Home Country Roads' that define the term "Re-make."

7) Derek & The Dominoes - Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs: Forget about 'Layla' - you've already heard it too much (Hell, you've been hearing Clapton's own re-do for almost 20 years already). Concentrate on the rest of the set. That's what separates this 'supergroup' from the rest of that era. The entirety of the album is really, really good. Think I'm joking? Check 'Bell Bottom Blues' or, one of the better Hendrix covers (and there have been plenty) in 'Little Wing.'

8) Hank Williams - 24 of Hank Williams' Greatest Hits: I wouldn't say this about most recordings, but, track down a re-issue of this one if you can. Y'see, the first pressing of the LP had Hank doing overdubs (essentially cover versions) of his own songs. Latter editions use the original recordings. Either way, you'll get an education in song-craft with lessons that have been learned by folks in Country, Rock, Rap, and nearly every other style of Pop music.

9) The Four Amigos - Live At The Hungry i: I know, you've never even heard of these guys. Don't fret, I hadn't either. I did know a little about the Hungry i and own a couple other albums recorded at that nightspot. Although the LP itself is not too remarkable, it is a lot of fun. The group dynamic is quite friendly (as their name would suggest) and quite obvious. It's clear that the performers here really enjoy what they do.

10) Tom Lehrer - An Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer: There's a lot of folks who do musical 'parody' numbers. Lehrer was/is one of the smartest - and this album shows how a solitary performer can enrapture an entire audience with wit. In his jocular manner, Lehrer seems to both enjoy and disdain his pieces. Yet his work is quite evident, and thorough. The smartness of the writing should be enough to enthrall you with the album. Even when a song seems simple enough, listening to the lyrics illuminates the songwriters intelligence and dedication to the craft of parody.

11) Billy Squier - Don't Say No: My favorite Billy Squier song is not even on this album - that would be "Christmas Is The Time To Say 'I Love You'" (quite possibly the greatest Rock N' Roll Yuletide tune - and I would know). Whether you realize it or not, there is a "Classic Rock" radio station in or near your hometown that depends on this album daily. 'Lonely Is The Night?' Check. 'My Kinda Lover?' Check. Then there's track #3 - the immortal 'Stroke' - a song everyone you know has giggled about for 30 years...
"You say you're a winner, but man, you're just a sinner now."

12) Rocky Horror Picture Show - Soundtrack: I didn't see the film until well into high school, but thanks to a couple of cool caretakers, I knew all the songs by age 10. I also learned as much as one can/should learn about transvestites, science fiction, and Meatloaf at that age. Richard O'Brien certainly knew how to craft a memorable tune, but I knew them just as well from ad hoc sing-alongs in the living room after doing my homework. To Jo and Timmi - thank you for being great sitters, and for sharing a then - eclectic taste in music and culture which awakened my aesthetic senses.

13) Single Bullet Theory - Single Bullet Theory: This is an example of a band releasing the perfect album for it's time - and I'll bet dollars to donuts that you've never heard of it. This recording bleeds 1982 and bridges the gap between the new wave synth sounds and guitar pop which featured so prominently on the Top 40 of the day. Great hooks, and songs guaranteed to stick in your head. Also, the band is from my hometown, Richmond, Virginia. My dad knew a couple guys in the group, and as a kid, I got to see them play a few times. Now, nothing is cooler to a pre-teen than watching a band you have a (tenuous at best) personal connection to win the 'Rate A Record' segment of American Bandstand - so perhaps my opinion is slightly biased. The dice rolls and coin flips of record label marketing divisions wreak havoc on the futures of too many great bands. Unfortunately, such was the case with S.B.T. The album never got the promotion it needed, yet so aptly deserved.

14) Radiohead - The Bends: Often overlooked, the 2nd set by music's most innovative group in decades is what began their trek from merely interesting to downright intriguing. With 'Fake Plastic Trees,' 'Just,' 'Street Spirit,'- what more do you need? Oh yeah, 'High and Dry' is on there too.

15) R.E.M. - Automatic For The People: I bought this album as soon as it came out - and immediately recorded it to cassette. A year later, when my mom died, I listened to that cassette more than a dozen times on the bus ride from St. Augustine to Richmond. The songs were recognized touchstones that guided me through unfamiliar territory. It's a fantastic album even if you're not going through a period of sudden mourning - which I hope you aren't (but if you are, pick it up).

16) Velvet Underground - White Light/White Heat: Yeah, it's the easy choice for music snobs like myself. We'll point out the innovative use of sonic dissonance, feedback, and sparse instrumentation. Then we'll toss around terms like "influential," "groundbreaking," or "before it's time" to relay this LPs importance in the scope of modern, and post-modern, "rock" music. Really though, it's simply a unique and cool record.

17) Country Joe & The Fish - Feel Like I'm Fixin' To Die: What exactly is this type of music? Rock? Folk? Vaudeville? A bit of each actually, while mixing some goofy fun with a bit of political messaging. It's got the original version of the the "Fish Cheer" immortalized at Woodstock - plus the album included it's own board game and features a drummer named "Chicken."

18) Prince & The Revolution - Purple Rain: This is one soundtrack that is tainted only by the movie it represents. You know most of the songs by heart - and despite whatever peaks or valleys Prince has traversed since then, there is no more perfect blend of rock, funk, and R&B. Parliament fans, don't hate me for that statement - it's much funner to play air guitar to 'Let's Go Crazy' than it is to, say, 'Night Of The Thumposaurus Peoples.'

19) John Mayall's Blues Breakers Featuring Eric Clapton: B.B. King said "the Blues had a baby, and they called it Rock N' Roll." John Mayall has been introducing mother and child for decades - this album is a springboard for many future meetings. The originals, like 'Key to Love,' are fantastic - but check out Clapton's interpolation of the riff from 'Day Tripper' into Ray Charles' 'What'd I Say.' The entire album opens a window overlooking the vast meadow of the blues.

20) Beatles - A Hard Day's Night Soundtrack: Truthfully, any or all Beatles albums would make this list, but this is one that merits a story. On the day after John Lennon was murdered, our baby sitter Timmi (also a writer - check out www.annesoffee.com or http://www.richmondmagazine.com/family/blogs.php), sat with us in our living room and played all of my parents' Beatle albums. I remember that day distinctly. That afternoon sparked my interest in music. It's why I have shelves full of vinyl records and CDs, it's why I have weeks of tunes on the computer. The page of that day holds a bookmark in the story of Me. This is the first album that I can really recall "getting into." The juxtaposition of the Fab 4's pop tracks interspersed with George Martin's instrumental and orchestral versions drew me into the world of possibilities offered by music.

21) The Who - Tommy: At first listen, this was just a collection of songs to me. Some I had heard on the radio, most I had not. Then, after a couple listens, I got it. I picked up on the story - and found that an 'opera' could actually be unstuffy, enjoyable, and easy to hum along to.

22) Fred Waring And His Pennsylvanians - Twas The Night Before Christmas: Waring's unique re-tooling with the structure and vocal arrangements of typical Yuletide fare are key to understanding how malleable a song can be. Side two features more traditional religious themed holiday pieces - quite well done - but it's the secular side one that will give your next Christmas party a kick in the pants.

23) Rolling Stones - Let It Bleed: I dug the sound of 'Monkey Man' long before I knew what the song was about. This album has that affect. For those whom make the claim that Mick, Keith, and company are indeed the 'world's greatest rock band," this collection should be your main evidence. Skipping over the realms of Rock, Blues, and even Country - the album manages to stay cohesive despite it's varied influences.

24) Love Sculpture - Forms & Feelings: The year is 1970 - on their second LP; the trio of Dave Edmunds, John Williams, and Rob 'Congo' Jones throw together some standard - dipped in the era - original tunes. What really sells the collection for me, though, is the relatively obscure cover of 'Mars' from Holst's 'The Planets'. Even more intriguing is how 'Mars' segues directly into the blistering ear candy comprising a 12 minute rendition of Khachaturian's 'Sabre Dance.' You'll totally dig it.

25) Various Artists - The 1969 Warner Reprise Record Show: In the late 1960's and early 1970's, record companies would circulate inexpensively priced promotional sets containing samples of new recordings by their popular (or poised-to-be popular) artists. Variations of this practice still exist, albeit with less creativity, and lesser artists. This particular compilation happens to be one of the best. The selection of tunes runs the gamut of musical choices available in 1969. Songs by Joni Mitchell or Pentangle can be found canoodling with tracks by Theo Bikel and Frank Zappa's Mothers Of Invention. I'd like to salute the programmer behind this particular collection. All 4 sides flow extremely well, and besides, who could resist closing an album with Fats Domino's rollicking version of 'Everybody's Got Something to Hide (Except Me And My Monkey)?"

Well, that's the list. Some folks out there might be scratching their heads, expecting a bit more variety or more obscure recordings.

"What about the Residents, Soul Coughing, They Might Be Giants?" I hear you cry,"Where is Eno/Byrne's 'My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts?"

Your concerns are warranted, but the above list are titles taken strictly from my vinyl collection - records only.

Oh, I could easily compile another 25 from across all mediums - or get creepily specific (Yes, I do have a Top 25 Christmas Albums list in the works). This is just an introduction to the musical world of Escalatorville. I started on 33 1/3 and 45 RPM records - and that's where my collector's passion lies. I only hope my selections can give a little insight, and perhaps a bit of inspiration for your collection.

Listen. Enjoy. See ya 'round Escalatorville again, let's hope.

Sonically yours,
Z.F. Lively
escalatorville@yahoo.com
Concerns always welcome, answers always hazy.

The 'About Damn Time' Edition

2009-03-22T16:31:00.000-07:00

The History Books And Me
Despite my recidivist absenteeism, I would like to wish one and all a Happy New Year (I used to wish a happy "and prosperous" new year - but the suicide hot line is way too busy right now).

Time does indeed fly, albeit in coach. My goodness, it's already been two months since we attended the inauguration.

I did say WE. Meaning, us.

Even if, like me, you were nowhere near the District of Columbia on that day; didn't it feel, just for a moment, that we were all part of the same neighborhood? Together, we shared not only hope. Collectively, we felt the relief of survival. For an instant, we had climbed back into the sunlight after years of crawling in darkness.

On this occasion, I ambled toward our town square where a swarm of humanity embraced a communal gazebo. As the throng executed a diplomatic pivot toward a large projection screen - I headed toward another area of the plaza.

Feeling more solitary than pretentious (as I was sole occupant of the structure) - I stood in the remains of the old slave market.

In that globally shared snippet of time - I stood proud, relinquishing a tear to those history stained bricks, as Barack Obama placed a hand on Abraham Lincolns bible, and became President of the United States.

Never a country of quitters, we soon went back to blaming each other for everything. God Bless America, please hurry.

And that goes double for 'Axel F'
Have you ever been "followed" by a particular song? Y'know - sometimes it seems that a specific tune always seems to be on the radio in the car, or on a satellite system when you go out for a bite to eat. For a week or so, you might hear that song a couple/few times a day. I'm certain it's happened to you. It must have.

Usually, I'm one to take pleasure in these instances. I celebrate the organizational question marks that the universe lays upon us every now and then. When I am a music target, as pre-described, I'm generally pleased to get re-acquainted with a familiar tune.

However, this months pick is 'Walking In Memphis', which is beginning to make me a little nuts. Because, I fucking hate that song.

Thoughts on change
The state quarter of Montana features, on it's non-George side, a cow skull. Honestly, A Cow Skull. Tough state, that one. It's kind of a threatening declaration, dontcha think? "In God We Trust, but you ain't him, sucker."

Tales from the Homeland, part 657
"Recently, I was at the bank..." is how a number of my tales begin. I wonder why the type of situation I am about to express always happens to me at the bank. Also, why do I always seem to be at the bank? Comparatively, me going to the bank is akin to motoring by the greenhouse to drop off a twig.

So, uh, I was at in line at the bank - it was a Saturday morning - I felt a tug on my arm.

"Well, will you look at that?!?" The middle aged woman spoke, in a husky, non-hushed tone. The wispy tendrils of her free hand pointed out the dread locked hairdo of a gentleman ten foot ahead.

She continued, still clutching, and louder.

"Can you believe it?," she cawed "Lookit that hair!"

It was my chuckle which caused her to release my arm, and to cackle with mis-guided satisfaction; "Looks like he put peanut butter up there!"

I use the term "mis-guided" because, my sleeve stretching friend - that chuckle was not derived from the sight of that doting dad - teaching his child about how a bank works. No ma'am. I chuckled when the aroma of your exhalations forced me to realize what you'd enjoyed for breakfast, rummy.

I detest the future, always have. Don't even mention now to me, ask me later.
Ever since ole Ben Franklin declared taxes and death as life's dual unavoidables - it certainly seems we've spent the most effort trying to dodge both.

Old man reflects on times past
I've staggered around this burg for the better part of 20 years. during one of my inaugural strolls about town, getting acquainted with new friends, I found a bit of the absurdity which continues to enthrall me about this little city.

Window shopping in a retail district one evening, my pals and I had gathered in a storefront, when a figure emerged from the shadows. what direction this ominous creature descended from we had no idea. We did catch a glimpse of moonlight in his palm. Realizing the size of the blade headed toward us, we prepared for the inevitable handing over of wallets, purses, et cetera.

It was then that they mystery of this tiny tourist trap spoke out - in the tired, yet forceful voice of our presumed mugger:

"Uh, any o' you wanna buy a knife?"

Stunned, we offered a stuttered variation of "No, thank you.," but I have no idea what was actually spoken - or by whom.

Our visitor turned slowly. With a shrug and an "O.K., then" - he ambled up the block.

Now, DO NOT get me wrong. Oft times in this city Danger IS Danger. Once in a while, though, "Danger" is just an awkward salesman.

Thanks for tuning in to Escalatorville,
Z.F. Lively
escalatorville@yahoo.com

The opposite of hate is tolerance. the opposite of love is unthinkable.

Lag Time

2009-02-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

"I have noticed that the people who are late are often so much jollier than the people who have to wait for them" E.V. Lucas

"Tardiness in literature can make me nervous." - Manuel Puig

"Good counsel never comes too late." - German Proverb

"There is, by God's grace, an imeasurable difference between late and too late." - Mme. Swetchine

"Life is a race, where some succeed,While others are beginning;
'Tis luck, at times, at others, speed,That gives an early winning.
But, if you chance to fall behind,Ne'er slacken your endeavor;
Just keep this wholesome truth in mind: 'Tis better late than never!" - John Dyer

new dispatch coming soon,
Z.F. Lively

Merry Christmas from Escalatorville (2008)

2008-12-21T20:10:00.000-08:00

Greetings Escalatorians and Escalatrixes, we hope this dispatch finds you in the best of spirits at this time of the year.

I would love to be able to shower you all with gifts (lord knows some of you just need to be showered). However, I have to save all my strength so that I can make a 24-hour, round the world trip to see that every child awakens with a present on Christmas morning (well, almost every child - sorry Korea).

Since I cannot personally drop down your chimney this year, I would like to present a few of my recent holiday observations (click the links for interesting stuff):

-Tickets for the Santa Train should come with a warning (at least the hospital was appropriate).

-Apparently, The Grinch does exist (Fa-Who-Foray, my eye!).

-I've never seen a Dentist crying at the holidays.

-I realize that Scrooge was most enamored of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Now, there are 700 Million people on Earth who will tell you exactly why they celebrate this season (that's a full 10th of the planet) - something about a magic baby who grew up to be a magic philosopher. His accomplishments are well documented in a couple books, ask at your local library.

However, there are a few feats which have been otherwise ignored. As a final Christmas Present to you, dear reader - we are pleased to present

"Jesus' Other Miracles(No Guarantees)":

-Took 1 Peanut & 1 Cocoa Bean. Poof. Snickers Bar.

-First to water ski with no skis. No boat.

-Once brought Ringo out of a really deep sleep (Wrong place, wrong time, wrong Beatle).

-"Christmas in July" on QVC!

-Clamato

Thank you. Thank you. I'll be here all week.

Escalatorville will return with a vengeance in the New Year. Until then, may your days be merry and bright!

-Z.F. Lively, Grand Marshall, Escalatorville Holiday Parade

escalatorville@yahoo.com

p.s. This year, I'm giving everyone I know a tiny bag - each containing 44 cents and a sticker which reads "Change has come to America"

Politics or Parlour Tricks Edition

2008-10-31T23:47:00.000-07:00

My friends,
It is an interesting time at which I write this. A smidge past 3AM, that is. Bess and I have just returned from a couple of rousing Halloween parties (my great gear put together by the ever wonderful Bess), my folks happen to be visiting from out of town, and in a matter of mere days - we will select a new leader of the free world. There are no pollsters in Escalatorville, but we do think of politics from time to time. Welcome...

Stop Acting Like You're in Electoral High School
In counting all the candidate yard signs in and around our street - I can say safely that I believe our neighborhood is voting in favor of 'For Sale'.

Ready on Day 2922?
The scene: On his last day in office, George W. Bush heads down a long hallway to the White House exit, Laura follows 20 yards behind. As he approaches the door, he notices a sign attached. Reading the sign, W turns around quickly, sees Laura, and turns back toward the door. Again seeing the sign, he quickly spins around, and just as quickly spins back. Confused and angry, George pushes through the exit, and angrily struts to his waiting Limo.

Laura reaches the exit, and starts to cry as she reads the sign aloud:
"Please Close The Door Behind You"

Scenes From The Homeland, Part 1
Overheard conversation at the bank-
Customer: "How's your boy doing?"
Teller: "Good. Real good - he's batting a hundred!"

(I think I know why the economy is failing)

My Definition of Technology Means I Have No Logic of Tech.
Don't you hate it when the microwave starts harassing you, simply because it's been 30 seconds since your food was done? I hear those accusatory beeps, pal - it's not like I'm having a party with the washer and dryer over here - we're doing work!
Get off my case, microwave, it's just potatoes.

Bon Appetit, Sucker.
Ol' Dubya got one thing right. Early on, in his initial White House run, he stated that he'd run the country like a CEO. As we can see during his run from the White House (which seems like it's taking forever, doesn't it?) - the CEO's he had in mind are the ones that have come to be the examples of modern American Corporate Capitalists.

You know, the ones who profit outrageously before, during, and after driving their companies into ruin - leaving employees to face the withering cost of the boss man's failures.

What folks never paid attention to was that, when Junior actually was a CEO - every business he ran failed.

Way to go, Georgie boy. You told us outright that you were tempting us with frosting - and no one noticed the shit cake beneath.

Scenes from the Homeland, Pt 2
I would love to buy coffee from a small, independent, nouveau cafe. Unfortunately, the only true caffeine disbursement center in my office park is a name brand purveyor of slow roasted mudwater.

As I was egressing recently, a spherical woman entered and lurched toward the food case. After a quick glance at the choices laid out, she asked - in furious, sweaty anticipation - "Where's them Krispy Treats?"

I'm guessing I walked out the door just in time, as I swear I heard the hiss of a boiling kettle begin to emerge from her gullet as she was told:
"Oh, we don't carry those anymore."

A Falling Soldier
To Escalatorvillians of every political stripe: I hope that you'll continue to read this in it's entirety, despite the admission I am about to make.

You see, I've been "in the tank" for Barack Obama for a while. I've got the sticker, the button, even had a lawn sign until it got stolen. [Full disclosure: I keep myself registered as Without Party Affiliation - so that I'm not beholden to a single group, nor do I feel the need to declare that I follow the specific credentials of any organized political affiliation. I believe in choosing the right person for the job, no matter their party - I guess I'm a maverick like that.] Simply put, I became an Obama fan because I've been paying attention to the world of politics over the past few years - and I believe he has a better, more definitive plan for the country I call home.

Also, I'm quite concerned for John McCain.

A once strong and vibrant veteran, who sacrificed so much - I'm concerned that he's become a bit unhinged, and a victim of the Republican party. Yes, a victim.

Being a conspiracy dweeb, I have a theory. Here goes: I believe McCain was meant to be the Republican choice eight years ago - and is now trying to reclaim what was once viewed as rightfully his. Hell, I was pulling for him to get the GOP nod in 2000 - at least then, I would have felt a bit better about Gore throwing the thing away.

But, something happened. I think someone in the party screwed up, thinking McCain would be difficult to manipulate - and got Bush the top spot on the Republican ticket that year. Perhaps the Republicans needed a patsy/puppet to go along with the Cheney Agenda, perhaps McCain was a bit too testy, even too logical at that time to guarantee a victory (when the GOP was gleefully misinterpreting Malcom X's mantra of "By Any Means Necessary"). Bushy "won" and began the reign of decline that America has been facing for the better part of a decade.

Enter Republican guilt. The forces behind the Republican party (which, honestly, for any political party should be the citizens - but is definitely not) in the past couple of years have had to live with their harmful decision, and probably felt that they needed to make up for screwing McCain out of his run eight years ago. So, in order to save face, they bring McCain to the forefront after realizing that neither Huckabee nor Romney would have the credibility or cojones to go after the most coveted job on the planet (perhaps "coveted" isn't the best word, but think of it - based on the the current Presidents record, the job consists of doing whatever the hell you want, pissing on those who disagree, and taking as much vacation time as you could possibly need).

Here's where things take a turn for the worse. McCain begins to worry more about his Presidential Image, rather than his policies - and is deceived into letting someone else take charge of his campaign. The John McCain that should be running for the White House is that tough as nails soldier, not the cancer-ridden old man reaching for a last gasp at glory with tirades and false policies.

It seems obvious to me that he's become just a figurehead of his party, being manipulated by a force greater than himself (kinda like, yup, G.W.B.) and it has led him to betray what I think he once believed in - honesty and integrity.

Every presidential-style decision he has made in the past few months; the pick of Palin - "suspending" his campaign to fix the economy (only to make things worse) - even McCain's retort that "I don't care about an old, washed-up terrorist" - despite the fact that it's that same terrorist his campaign is shoving down our throats, has been an abject failure.

If John McCain cannot control his own campaign, I don't see how we can trust him to pull together this country.

John McCain suffered for over 5 years in a foreign prison during an unjust war for his country, my country, our country. Sadly, the tenacity and fortitude he showed throughout that situation has deteriorated over the past 35 years. His "straight talk" of late seems restricted to attacks on his opponent, with no current glories to back him up - dependent on his past imprisonment to bring the gravitas that's needed to plot the course for 350 million Americans. This is a man who is relying on his 'hero' status while simultaneously allowing the actions of his party superiors to obliterate it. It's sad, quite sad.

When given the choice between two candidates, wouldn't you rather choose the one who believes that he owes it to America, and not the one whose stance is such that America owes him?

No matter what - on the day after this election - we all need to come together. Not as Republicans. Not as Democrats. Not as Libertarians, Whigs, Bull Moose, or representatives of any party. We need to get together as Americans - and work to restore the reputation and strength of our great nation.

All of the Escalatorville staff has already voted. Do your duty and cast your ballot.
In hope,
Z.F. Lively
escalatorville@yahoo.com

p.s. In previous missives, i have related my affection for 'The Big Lebowski'. We now take a brief moment to salute a real life Donnie. Good Night Sweet Prince.

Dispatch From Escalatorville: PALINdrome ABSURDity

2008-09-24T16:09:00.000-07:00

So, travelogues are in hiding and my jet pack is busted. For now, the E'ville Media Elite has issued the following :

Never Odd, Or Even

"I hope I didn't catch anything from my friend in the hospital," the cashier stated - as she coughed over my groceries. This is, of course, the same store that has on it's "storm preparedness" shelf - a 3 pack of wine coolers and a 15-year old novelty snorkel set.

So Many Dynamos
There's an old joke about the oxymoronicality of the phrase "Military Intelligence." In the recent past, it's humor has been put to the test, as I witnessed members of our Armed Forces (and bless them all) whom could not operate an Automated Teller Machine.

In the interest of National Security, I am eliminating the phrases "Military Intelligence" and "Exception Proves The Rule" from all future editions of the Dispatch.

Satire : Veritas
Reality Television Shows that I predict will air in the next decade:
-Celebrity Janitor
-America's Got Syphilis!
-Survivor: Central Park Zoo
-Pimp My Fish
-American Gladiators vs. 5th Graders
-No, You Shut Up!
-I Married A Drunken Orangutan
-So, You Think You Can Fart?

Flee To Me, Remote Elf
Oh, what hath Pop Culture wrought? In covering the recent stock downfalls, financial takeovers, and bank failures - the onscreen headline of a major network news program declared "Nightmare On Wall Street."

I slightly cackled at the thought of Freddy Krueger in a business suit.

Pull Up If I Pull Up
I believe I may have mentioned my good friend Dave to you at some point in the past. I bring this up because Dave plays a key role in the following tale. However, as my memory fades with age (and, being self-centered as I am means I am apt to dis-include any element of a story that doesn't directly pertain to ME) - I have invited Dave to corroborate and fill-in some details.

Dave and I used to have a band, called Powhite Trash. We pronounced it "Pow-Hite" as an inside joke that only residents of Richmond, Virginia might get. A fact that, I realize, makes even less sense to my current international readership, but there you go.

The two of us, as a band, decided to work on/record some tunes up at a cabin that Dave's folk owned about 90 miles north of Richmond. For the trip Dave offered to drive, and his family had a choice of vehicles.

Dave: My parents had such a crazy assemblage of cars, didn't they? At that time, there were seven of them (there are now just a scant four, and only one of those original seven is also in the four). The stable included:

-a shit-brown Audi which was sold to my mom by some Russian mob-types for cold hard cash
-a 1965 VW Karman-Ghia (which could, occasionally, squeeze my lanky frame into the back seat, albeit painfully - for a trip to Kings Dominion, or a ride home from Richmond Community High School - Z.F.)
-a mid-80s Honda Civic (very depressing to think that this car got 45 MPG even then)
-a 1969 Cutlass Olds with absurdly little rust for its age
-a mid-80s Buick Century with very bad steering problems
-an indestructible Datsun (before they became Nissan) 1981 hatchback that managed 195K miles before it was sold to a very happy woman for $100 in 1991.

But you came here to hear about the Impala. The army-green, widest-car-ever, 356cc engine block 1976 Chevrolet Impala, with its truly awful/incredible 9 MPG city, 15 MPG hwy (yes, rilly).

Now, Dave thinks this story takes place in the Winter, while I believe it was Spring. Nonetheless, due to either a dousing of rain or a semi-frost, the roads were slick - and the earth was muddy. We took no notice of this on the way to the cabin, but after a few hours of Rockin' Out - we needed a break, so we hopped back in the Impala.

Dave: The feeling of driving a 1976 Impala is the feeling of driving a boat, truly. The seats are so sproingy that you glide around on a surface of hovercraft-like cushion. And because of the severe weight of the car, they had to equip it with the most responsive power steering I have ever seen anywhere. Turn the wheel a degree, and the tires moved 10-15 degrees, it seemed. God help you if the power steering failed. (Yes, at some point this did happen to me, and I will tell you that wrestling a kangaroo to the ground would be easier than changing lanes.)
We managed to find, as I recall, a Chinese place called (no lie) Fuking Gourmet. I don't recall the food, but I do recall being fairly glad we found it, since we were running out of places to look for food, and we'd nearly died five minutes earlier.

Ah yes, those of you waiting for the story to get interesting have arrived at your destination (and I'm not strictly speaking of the Fuking Gourmet). I refer to the 'near-death' part - oh, had we not mentioned that yet? As I'm pretty certain that it was Dave's driving that keeps this as a "near" death experience, I'll allow him to continue -

Dave: Well, the road back out to Route 17 is still very narrow, not designed for vehicles traveling more than 45 miles an hour. Of course, this means that locals travel a bit faster than that, on the average, which tends not to be a problem until you actually meet someone or something going the other direction. In those days, you had only a scant probability of that happening.

But you want to hear about the dump truck.

We were headed north on the road, back to Route 17, so that we could head south (Yeah, that makes no sense, but that's how you had to get back to the interstate). The truck was headed back toward our little street in one of the turns where there is a pretty good hill. We were going a normalish speed of maybe 45 when this truck came over the crest, going at a similar pace. So - two vehicles maxing out the safe speed, both very wide characters.

The Impala just fits in the lane, and a dump truck only fits if you take a kind of "tennis approach" whereby "fitting in the lane" includes being on the center line. It does NOT help matters when said truck decides to travel the turn without regard to lanes at all, making the generally-safe assumption that you can drive half in the other lane. That would be MY lane.

With nowhere to go, we went off the shoulder. Now, this would be messy anyway, but the particular spot we went off was a steep drop from pavement to grass. That would only have been a concern for the paint job and suspension if it had not been for the fact of the ditch.

The "ditch" he says. The Impala had stopped, certainly, we were unhurt and safe, I assumed (I'll state this for the record - as this was a pre-airbag vehicle, it is a credit to Dave's driving/swerving skills that we had no bruises or abrasions - there were many occasions in our youth wherein Dave saved my neck in different respects, but none so literal as this day). It was then we looked straight out the windshield and into what Dave calls a ditch. I would call it a massive ravine.

Reverse. The one gear we desperately needed was the one that didn't want to work. I feared that if we spun the wheels backward too much, that we'd alter the cars center of gravity and send the Impala -and us- over the edge. Slowly, carefully, we scrambled out of the vehicle. Once we were a couple yards away, and calmed down slightly, we realized that the situation itself was sticky, but not as dangerous as the view from the Impala's front seat would imply. Treacherous, definitely, but only slightly life threatening.

"Y'all all right over there?" we heard from the road.

Momentarily, we'd all but forgotten the dump truck. Forgotten that, indeed, there was someone else on this lonesome road - and as we turned toward the pavement we saw him.

Walking towards us was a massive chunk of a man - about 6'4'' or so with the darkest five-o'clock shadow I've ever seen in the mid-day sun. He wore a grubby green jacket, with a tattered ball-cap, and hair to match.

"Y'all wait here 'bout 20 minutes, I'll go dump my load, come back, and use my chains to pull y'all out."

A nice and kindly gesture, from the man who had just nearly killed us - and one that I almost didn't hear. Sure, we were still a bit shaken up from the accident, but I couldn't concentrate because I was staring at this man's face. His words were coming from a mouth so mangled that he resembled, to me, a horror film antagonist.

I mean no disrespect to our new acquaintance, however, his face was shocking. His mouth, you see, was disfigured. It looked as if his lips had been ripped or bitten off, in pieces - and then badly rearranged and sewn back on. That description is as accurate as I can get, it could have been worse for all I know, but this is the one detail of that day that has consistently stuck in my brain these many years. He was kind enough, but extremely frightening at the same time.

I didn't have much time to process that at the site of the accident, as he was soon off to dump his load. So, by the road Dave and I sat, waiting to be rescued by our tormentor.

The entire time I wondered if maybe the accident was just the beginning of our troubles. Perhaps he wouldn't come back after all - and we'd be stuck for hours in the mud. Or worse, perhaps he would come back, and then kill or kidnap us as he was "helping" to pull the Impala back to the road. Perhaps, I was right about the lips - maybe those weren't his lips at all, maybe they were the cobbled together lip parts of his many victims - and maybe we were next.

As the truck made it's slow return down the road back to us, I silently shuddered at the thought.

I was also totally and completely wrong.

I can now assume that the driver was as shocked as we were in those moments after the incident - and that his initial terse commentary was simply his gut reaction to offer a fix to a situation he had helped to cause. Within minutes of seeing his truck heading toward us again, we had helped attach the hook and chains from his truck to the car, and managed to yank the Impala from its perch above the ravine. In a few more minutes, we had gotten back on the road, and were headed for food (although, had I been the man then that I am today, Chinese food would not have been the first thing I inhaled after the incident).

I never caught the truckers name, and neither did Dave. I would like to thank him, if he's still around, for helping us out of what could have been a long, long day slogging through mud and calling tow companies who might be willing to donate their services to two out of work musicians.

So, if you happen to be in northern Virginia, and run into our monstrous, malformed Savior - please give him my regards, but make sure your running shoes are tied, just in case.

Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Or : Rise to vote, sir.
I wonder if you've noticed that there's an election going on. Yes? No?

Well, if you haven't, then you need to start paying some attention. If you have, then you're probably sick of it by now.

Before I get into specific political issues or endorsements, however, I do have one non-partisan concern:
You see, all the Presidential and Vice Presidential candidates currently have other, kind of important, jobs.

Now, imagine that you or I walked into our employers office and stated "Hey there, bossman, keep those paychecks coming - by the way, I'm gonna ignore most of my work here for a few months while I try to apply for a much better job." What do you think would happen?
Same here (and have I mentioned that I'm announcing my 2024 candidacy?).

Most politicians that you see follow their own presumed party rhetoric, which amounts most often to "Do as I say, and pay no attention to what I do." This occurs throughout history, no matter what political campaign or party - they all do it, have done it, and will continue to do it.

However, in the past decade or so, the tone has changed to one of "Don't spit on the sidewalk, or even think of spitting on the sidewalk. In fact, don't even mention 'spitting' or 'sidewalk' in my presence. Also, please take care to walk around that huge gob of saliva I just hacked up onto your sidewalk."

Add that to the Dickensian roll call of our nation's representatives of late - and we're on the verge of turning our country into a farce. I've had a chance to recall the
onomatoepeiac-ness of the past few years. Names that are clumsily descriptive in the ways that old Charles would have written them-

There's the obvious: Bush and Cheney - but we've also had some expansive (yet ever more popular) Gore, some flavorless Rice, a A Bi-Partisan-Curious Lieberman ('Liebe' is German for 'Love' y'know), the "Don" Rumsfeld, a number of odd Johns - and an administration press secretary (whose job it is to white wash presidential statements) named Tony Snow (R.I.P.).

It seems at times as if we have walked right into a Dickens scenario - although his most appropriate titles for our current situation might be 'Hard Times' or 'Bleak House'.

Let me see if I can make my particular viewpoint outrageously simple.

Essentially, America holds the mousetrap that the remainder of the world used to envy. It was strong, sleek, and could trap a rat like nobodies business. Over the past couple decades, however, the trap has gotten rusty and weaker - it's been kicked around so long that now the rats themselves have taken control of our trap. So, we're left with the important decision of what to do.

Logic would tell us that we need to rebuild the trap, which it appears that one party want to do
(provided we can agree on a design, and get the parts made at home, please?). One party simply wants to replace the cheese - which we all know will only piss off the biggest rats even more so, no matter how "friendly" the cheese nor how fertile the family of cheese may be.

Me, I'm voting to rebuild - a busted trap can only hold cheese for so long before it snaps back on
your finger.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's it from Escalatorville for now:
Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas,
-Z.F. Lively
(escalatorville@yahoo.com for love letters, hate mail, and palindromes like "Party Booby Trap")

p.s. one of my favorite things in the world (ever!) comes from Eivets Rednow.

The Brand New Escalatorville...

2008-09-14T14:02:00.000-07:00

...should be arriving shortly.
In the meantime, please enjoy this.

The Dispatch From Escalatorville: Stopgap Edition

2008-07-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

We apologize that our latest flight to Escalatorville's Vacation Paradise has been delayed. Rest assured, a full travelogue of our recent Vermont excursion will surface next week. In the meanwhile, please enjoy these complimentary snacks. We realize that you have a choice in semi-humorous reading materials, and thank you for laughing with us - and at everyone else.

A Fish that is, howyousay, Belly-Up?
I recently strolled past a local real estate office, noticing the sign out front. Sure enough, the empty building was for sale.

The USA is a Cancer (Astrologically Speaking)
A flurry of friends have had birthdays of late, thus reinforcing my awareness that we are all getting old-er. However, the U.S. Mail has recently delivered some extremely pre-emptive membership applications for the AARP. Sadly, I found myself on the verge of filling one out, just to get the free pedometer.

Department of Wha? Dept.
The Escalatorville Museum Of Unique Literary Deceptions presents examples of some recently acquired pieces:

"I Think, now What?" -Descartes First Draft

"Dearest Familial Maggots,
Well, another Holiday Season come and gone,
and yet again, none of you ingrates thought to get me a comb. Bah humbug."
- The final 'New Years Letter' of Mark Twain

Unpublished Orson Welles script entitled "Rosebud The Sled"

Also, the button marked 'Off' works.
I have just discovered the feature of our remote control that allows us to block channels. We have no children in the house yet and, as such, have nothing to worry about in terms of entertainment content, so I really hadn't noticed that this feature existed.

On a recent weekend I was flipping around, and found two separate channels airing programming so disgusting, so amoral, so unbelievable that I actually questioned the reason for such a channels existence - and then, I BLOCKED THEM.

In the weeks since, I've actually felt a relief not having those channels available to us without having to go through the rigmarole of inputting a secret code. We have been able to live our lives without them just fine, and now I don't worry so much about being offended when I turn on the television. No one in the house seems affected either by the missing channels, but then again, whose going to admit to sneaking a look at Fox News or CNN?

But there's a similar sign on the road to Eden...
I'd suggest that our local Elk's Lodge re-examine the idea of using the same roadside ad to promote both nightly entertainment as well as menu specials. Case in point, this actual and recent listing:
FRIDAY- Prime Rib
SATURDAY - Kristal and James

He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack...
I have always revered Chuck Berry. I believe he is one of the greatest poets of the past 100 years, and -despite his various peccadillo's in the medium of amateur restroom photography-have always had a respect for the man who redefined what the electric guitar could mean to a pop single. Sadly, he will probably never know that we are also mortal enemies.

You see, nearly 20 years ago, I took my pal Dave to see Mr. Berry in concert at the Richmond Mosque (I took my pal Dave because the girl I asked first actually replied "Uh, who is Chuck Berry?" - thus eliminating any desire I would ever have to date her). In my high school years, I went to see a few shows at this particular venue, and had found through trial and error the artists exit from the backstage area.

After a great show, we made our way around to the rear of the theater and waited along with about two dozen other folks for the legend to make an appearance. After a few moments, a police officer cleared a path from the back door to a car waiting just in front of the assembled crowd. He then opened the trunk. A gasp and sigh simultaneously emanated from the group of us in a moment of anticipated wonder and revelation that we had no idea what was going on.

It was then that we saw him. Chuck Berry himself was descending from the stairwell behind the stage and through the pathway laid aside by the police officer. It was then we realized that Mr. Berry would be using that trunk in which to gingerly place his beloved guitar. As his female companion made her way around to the passenger side, another revelation - Chuck Berry drives himself to and from his gigs. It seemed then, as the original guitar hero climbed in and started the vehicle, that our time with the legend had passed.

Of course, this wouldn't be an interesting story without a "but..." - so here it is -

But... just as we suspected Chuck Berry would be taking off into the darkness, the driver side window opened up, and a line formed aside. Mr. Berry would now begin signing autographs, the officer announced. My sweaty hands tore into the remnants of my wallet to grab the remains of a nearly shredded ticket stub. I took my place in line, with Dave standing right behind.

"This will be the coolest thing for anyone who actually cares" I thought as my space in the line got closer to this aperture of historic opportunity. For moments, we inched forward, as I saw a variety of items reached into and then withdrawn from the space where the Chuck Berry, the man who had influenced the Beatles and Rolling Stones, the man who practically invented the Beach Boys - was sitting, about to ascribe his famous name onto my wisp of a ticket stub.

Finally, I was next in line. I saw the album cover held by the man in front of me exit the car window, it's fresh autograph ink giving off a glint in the snow-refracted light of a parking lot lamp. I eased my hand holding the remains of my ticket into the window - just as I heard the officer utter - "No more autographs."

But my hand, it was already in the Chuck Berry window of opportunity, clutching at a chance to take home a personalized piece of Rock and Roll ephemera. My hand was still in that window. A window that had started to roll up. I glanced at Dave, who was busy glancing at the police officer, and then I glanced back at my hand. The window continued to roll up. I clung to the hope that Chuck Berry would be nice enough not to slice my paw at the wrist. The window continued to roll up. A decision had to be made.

I opted not to lose my hand that evening, even if it was to an idol of mine. At the literal last second (seriously, I scraped my thumb on the glass), I removed my hand from the car, just as it lurched forward and into the streets of Richmond,Virginia.

I still love the music of Chuck Berry, many of my favorite songs have been written by his hands. However, whenever I hear his story about the autograph-seeking fan he wrote in the tune 'Sweet Little Sixteen' - I feel a tinge of vengeance and betrayal towards a man who has otherwise brought me great joy.

Well, that oughta do some of it for now, there will be more soon. And don't forget, while flying Escalatorville Airways, be sure to enjoy the scenery - let the Escalator be your friend.

Happy Landings,
Z.F. Lively
Doing things with words since 1975

Always available for comments, queries, etc.- Escalatorville@yahoo.com

"Don't Drive Like My Brother" Edition

2008-04-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

The Dispatch From Escalatorville arrives at the onset of an early spring storm, providing thoughts and observations to fuel plots and conversations the world over. Or so our editors would like to think.

Back to one set of footprints...
In my day job, I hear a variety of voicemail greetings. About one month ago, I noticed a fast spreading trend of messages concluding with a variation of the wish "...and have a blessed day." There's no umbrage to be found here - hell, I'll take as many blessings as I can get. The rising pace, however, gave me the urge to start tracking them.

I marked a corner of my notepad with a check at each occurrence. Daily, the numbers grew. Three. Five. Nine. Nine!?!

As I began this past week, I once again sectioned off an area of said notepad for "Blessed Day Scoring, " carefully organizing my papers so as not to confuse my "actual work" check marks with my "new hobby" check marks. I double click my pen - full of ink and ready to go. Then, nothing.

For the entire week, no "Blessed Day" wishes. As quickly as they had sprung up - they were gone.

I blame the media.

Best served cold, and addictive
Strange, isn't it? Engineers from Japan- y'know the country we knocked out in WWII - are slowly conquering the world with a device called the wii.

There is nothing I can say here that won't get me in trouble
In St. Uglytowne, one of my favorite neighborhoods is the historic African-American district, Lincolnville. The area's history in the struggle for civil rights is well documented, and it has recently been added to the slate of the Tour Tram attractions. It was awkward to see, on a recent drizzly afternoon, a Tram full of tourists pulling into L'ville's residential section - every passenger dressed in identical, white, hooded, rain ponchos.

Although, probably a bit more awkward for the residents...

Why I don't live in Hollywood (Part 1)
Here's a movie I'd like to see: The story of a man or woman who, due to an incident in high school 20 years prior, has lungs that - as well as circulating air - also produce Vodka. Thus our protagonist is drunk all the time. Send me a good title, and I'll send you a potato.

Fake Boob Tubing (Why I don't live in Hollywood, part 2)
Garrison Keillor beat me to the punch this week with a column on 'waiting in line,' a subject that I had planned to address in this space. Thus, we now present the Escalatorville Soap Opera Roundup:

Lustful Days of Vengeance - Chas was thrown lustfully from his horse, Chas Jr. - landing miraculously in the lap of Archduke Boris, who had vengefully pushed his lover, Patrice, over the Hoover Dam. Meanwhile, Gracie realized that by marrying Carlos, she'd become her own great Aunt.

Harlots and Hussies- Charla slept with Rudolfo, who flirted with Cecelia, whom later slept with Chance - then Rudolfo, and Charla. Chance also slept with Charla, who then slept with Pamrissa - while flirting with Cecelia. All were then poisoned by Wilbur, whom announced he was now reclaiming his virginity.

Pechos Con Acentos - Que la mujer con los pechos del levantamiento consiguió en una lucha caliente del gato con la muchacha tomboy linda pero trabajaron todo hacia fuera para el momento en que tuvieran que exprimir en sus uniformes de la escuela católica.

It stands for Need Pledged Revenue
Recently, its been Public Radio pledge time again. Now, I'm a big fan of Public Radio, and I do give it my support. granted it's mostly moral support, but support nonetheless. In any case, it's been my experience that the national personalities are far more persuasive than the shills for your local affiliate. In fact, local pledge break broadcasters, while fiercely necessary, are annoying enough to make me want to throw up a transistor. As Guy Grand is wont to say: "Sometimes, it's not merely enough to teach. One must punish as well."

So, I've made another game out of the experience-

At the start of the pledge drive, obtain the amount of money you would normally donate - in the form of $2 bills. Lay them aside (you can put them in a pile of arrange a pretty pattern on the floor, however you'd like - it's your money). Then make note every time a local correspondent:

A) Makes a comment which clearly indicates that they weren't really paying attention to what was just on the air.

B) Tells a joke that is either stupid, unfunny, or too "inside" for the general audience.

or C) Uncomfortably tries to relate a story that has little or no relevance to the pledge drive.

Every time you witness one of the above, take away one $2 bill from the pile. At the end of the pledge drive, send in what's left. If you happen to be a detail-driven person, include a list with your cash.

Spend the rest on tickets, when your favorite touring radio program comes to town.

With apologies to Robert Bly
A few weeks ago, some of my best friends and I embarked on an adventure described singularly in the Encyclopedia of Testosterone as "MANCAMPING." (yes, the caps are necessary, it aids in proper enunciation of the term)

This was my first MANCAMPING experience, and I was a bit hesitant, as I had heard tales from the last MANCAMPING excursion a year prior. I had envisioned contests involving feats of strength, being randomly wrestled to the ground in the midnight hour for fighting, and perhaps a bit of light hunting - with just our fists and teeth as weaponry.

To be quite honest, however - after loading and unloading gear into and out of a boat, having travelled in that boat upriver to set up camp on a small island, then gathered up firewood (and the dog)- we were satisfied just to get quite inebriated and relaxed.

Yes, while there were the occasional conversations of the "What have you done/who would you do" variety, we were content in not having to fully express our "manliness" - collectively acknowledging that it was manly enough just to know we could.

The new 2% solution
Have you ever noticed in nighttime photos of our national monuments, just how bright they are? There must be a thousand lights around the White House alone. Now imagine, if we took away 20 lights. Just 20 lights out of one thousand.

Then, imagine if we turned off just 2% of the lights at all of the national monuments and government buildings.

These beacons of democracy will lose no noticeable shine, and yet would shave a considerable sum from the nations electric bill. Cash that could be spent say, eradicating the Homeless problem.

Also, we all know that we have the greatest military, probably ever. With a team so efficient, it stands to reason that any mission that requires 50 new $200, 000, 000.00 planes, could be done just as well with 49. We could then use that extra 200 Million dollars for our nations schools, perhaps? That's a bunch of computers/books/teachers for a measly 2%.

If we're willing to give a little in the accumulatory sense, we stand to gain a lot in a communal sense. Call it the "trickle up" theory.

No membership required in Escalatorville,
Z.F. Lively
Escalatorville Chamber of Commerce

p.s. if you know anyone looking to pay,oh, me- on a regular basis to write things akin to the above, let me know. Better yet, let THEM know.

Persona Au Gratin Edition

2008-03-16T11:08:00.000-07:00

"I Don't Feel Tardy" - D.L. Roth, Esq.
Believe it or not ( to coin a copyrighted phrase), my New Years Resolution was to write more often. Well, that and to listen to more Otis Redding. So, my brain awakens today determined to stop the word "failure" from riding in on the first breath of Spring.

Vacating the Premises
The lovely Bess and I began the year under starry skies and amongst friends - a good kick off to any endeavor. Utterly exhausted by a New Years Eve spent lighting fireworks and engaging in decent conversation, we took a vacation to my hometown of Richmond, Virginia (I was born a Confederate Episcopalian - God knows what I am now). We had a grand time celebrating a belated Christmas with my family, and got the chance to really hang out with my sister, Stopsign.

I also got the spend some quality time with my dad, while our respective spouses compared notes. their non- scientific observational study concluded that my father and I are essentially the same person. Of course, I realize this fact every time I start to tell a story about the paper route I had as a kid...

Bess and I followed up the 700 mile drive back to St. Uglytowne with a nice, relaxing weekend - in which we moved everything we own into our new house. By the time we got around to having our house-warming party, my parents had decided that they liked our 'vacation' idea enough to steal it, and came down to our neck of the woods. Not that Florida really has any "woods" anymore, but it's a popular expression.

Art imitates life, which imitates art, which imitates life again, etc, etc.
Our recent parental visitations were bookended by two examples of cinematic artistry. In Richmond, the four of us took in the most recent version of Sweeney Todd ("Too bloody," critiques J, my step-mom, and also "too musical"). In St. Uglytowne, the same set of couples spent an afternoon at home watching The Man Who Wasn't There.

I think the choice of films seemed to represent our respective relationships. One is an older story, but one still vibrant, colorful, exciting, and - while not very bloody - still quite musical. The other - a more recent and quirky tale, albeit one that resembled a classic from the day it was made.

Of course, both films center around the exploits of murderous barbers. I don't see what that has to do with my family, however. Then again, I cut my own hair.

Re-evaluating the Fruits/Labor Equation
A recent visit to the physician brought the diagnosis that easing my stress would aid my stomach troubles - coupled with a change in diet, of course. Now, I don't know about you, but eliminating lifelong favorite foods from my daily eating habits? Pretty damned stressful! Eventually, however, I envision myself being completely stress-free, while consuming only saltine crackers.

What the Vroom was that?
As I drove home from the day job last week, the following site had me convinced for a brief moment that I had entered a post- apocalyptic themed film-

A quarter mile ahead of our truck, the bewildering vision of a 10-foot tall horned beast, with a giant rounded head and only dirt where the creatures feet would have been It quickly scampered across all four lanes of US1 and down one of its many crossroads.

As I got closer, the creature became clearer to the point of being recognizable. Once I got to the crossroad, I glanced in the creatures direction - only to see clouds of smoke and dust in its wake. I can't begin to think of where he was headed, but I bet that kid broke a local record riding a motorbike wheelie.

Support your Local Joke-Tellers Union
I have a reputation for being funny. Oftentimes, I will say or write something humorous (although not necessarily in this particular Dispatch), and someone will comment that I should be a comedian, a stand-up comic.

While flattering, I'd like to proffer that I am not comedian material, i am a humorist. trust me, there's a difference.

You can spot the comedian at a party. He or she is the one maybe half a beer ahead of everyone else, and can be heard throughout the room, constantly coming up with lines and/or impressions that get out-loud laughter about 50% of the time. Whereas a humorist will silently observe for most of the party - occasionally dropping in a witty comment that requires one to think for a moment before the joke sets in.

Y'see, a comedian wants to make you laugh all the time, and so they force their humor upon you. Humorists? While we do like to see you smile every now and again, we're happy enough if you just pay attention.

If the phone doesn't ring, it's probably me.
At my day job, I work the phones. As you'd expect, I hear many voicemail greetings imploring for messages to be left. I've taken he first parts of some of the most common messages to create the following "pastiche" which you may or may not want to use as your new greeting:

"Hello, no one. I'm sorry. We missed. The party. We can't come. Please leave."

Meanwhile, in my own Private Idaho...
I recently paid $120.00 for a pair of concert tickets. I should have balked at that. Normally, I would have.
However, this was a benefit for the humane society, plus, how many chances will anyone really get to see 'Rock Lobster' performed live by the gang that wrote it?
Also, if you knew how spiffy my wife gets when she knows I'm sporting two $60 tickets for anything in my pocket, then you'd understand why this was no problem.

Like a car alarm, only more annoying.
I have to admit it. I am not a fan of Nelly Furtado. Not only has she sold most of her hits to commercials (hey, if you want to be a pop star, be a pop star; if you want to be a jingle writer, be a jingle writer) - but, a fraction of one of her jingle-pop hybrids keeps repeating itself in my head [Editors note: Due to the message of a few keen readers, it has come to my attention that the song mentioned herein is actually by Natasha Beddingfield. Although I offer no apologies to Ms. Furtado, she knows her crimes].

That overly repetitive second and a half of madness is not an interesting drum break or sound effect either, just the part that implores one to "Feel the rain on your skin."

Yep, just that one phrase, in a constant loop repeating in my head: Feel the rain on your skin. feel the rain on your skin, feel the rain on your skin feeltherainonyourskinfeeltherain...

You get the picture.

I keep trying to think of something else to knock that refrain out of there, something that I could stand hearing 50 or 60 times in a row. Sadly, here is where more trouble begins.

The piece of my brain desiring decent music keeps flashing the sign that reads:
"Rachmaninoff? Please. Rachmaninoff?"

Unfortunately, the piece of my brain that retrieves snippets of song from my cerebral jukebox must be reading the sign backwards - somehow translating the message as:
"Billy Ray Cyrus. Billy Ray Cyrus."

You can't afford to park there anyway.
This is the type of town that we live in - Near our house is a byway whose street sign reads: Old Beach Road.

Directly beneath is another, larger sign, stating: No Beach Access.

Remember, being nice never killed anyone.
Wait, did it? I think it might have.
Eh, you should be nice anyway,

Z.F. Lively
c/o escalatorville@yahoo.com
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