Goodbye Dave's Long Box

Back in the summer of 2006, I stumbled upon an excellent blog called Dave's Long Box by Washington (State) based blogger extraordinaire David Campbell. And I will admit that I came across the blog through his seminal Power Girl's Boob War post. Hey, it's a crazy Google inducing post. And, as I will mention below, Dave's Long Box was critical in helping me orient my geekiness as I came out of the comics closet. I needed to know who was Power Girl and Dave told me she was all breasts. Thanks, Dave.

The blog-o-sphere has the elite bloggers like Campbell and the other upper crust of the comics blogging scene that create the whole scene itself. They have inside jokes, rivalries, and a healthy exchange that the creators respond to. Want me to prove it? Well that is a lot of fan boy for the average person and also represents two years of laughs. There are second-tier bloggers that certainly command my respect and then there are endless wimpy bloggers like me. I am not going to lie, but I would love to be like Dave and get paid to blog. He is the whole reason I started to blog!

When I first came across the Long Box, I had just bought my first few comics (A whole stack of back issues Ultimate X-Men) and Dave's funny and sincere posts told me to steer away from those turgid 90's comics and look into Frank Miller's Daredevil Born Again. I will admit it was hard to relate to many of the older comics Dave covered, but then he had Relevant Content week and some simple asides, like this take on back of the magazine advertising.

Dave's writing always came across as honest and sincere. Unlike so many fanboys that seem to hate everything the genre offers, Dave could offer actual constructive criticism and not Internet Tough Guy Talk. With all that said, I am sad to see that he is calling it quits, even if it just on the Long Box itself.

God speed Campbell. Like Sally P at Green Lantern's Butts Forever, you are part of my routine (Even if I get no updates it is nice to know more are coming)*, but you got other things to do bigger and better things. Amazing and Airwolf!

Peace!

*I know. I know.

Old Media

Now that I enjoy a buffer of some 350 miles from Ithaca, I can say something that would have resulted in an angry glare and harsh judgment well beyond the levels of anything from Greenstar.

If I would have said this in Ithaca, the Ithaca blog-0-sphere would have cracked in half. There would be no safety in the hills of the outer county or in the deepest alternative stronghold on the Commons.

Here it is: I don't hate the Ithaca Journal. In fact, I would defend it.

Some of you veteran readers (Do we have any?) might remember my first blog and how I used to make fun of IJ articles in it. Not so much the copy or style, but the sheer insanity of somethings in TC like the Sundae Wars. Well, I would hope that the new blog (i.e. this one) shows a bit more maturity and understanding that others can read these posts. Not that I refuse to speak my mind, but I have given up on angry rants.

Maybe it was because I began writing for a local paper, but I gained a bit of respect for the IJ in mid 2008.

The paper gets hammered from all sides. Part of this is simple americana. Everyone thinks that the girls from their home town are the hottest or that their city has the craziest drivers. If your local sports team is doing well then, of course, they are the super ultimate best! And if they suck, then the community chorus becomes a sort of gallows humor. There are people in New York City that complain about the New York Times and even this greenest of green reporters understands that newsrooms often serve as a simple receiver for whatever rants the community can create.

In Ithaca, the IJ gets blasted for being too conservative by the Ithaca intelligista and too liberal by the surrounding countryside. Either the paper is right-leaning or left-leaning. As a Gannett-owned paper it is part of overall corporate media and hence another rag in the right's war on information! But as a corporate owned mainstream media publication it is also a part of the left wing media domination! How can both of these possibly be? Pick one! As a former consumer of the IJ, I feel it reports what its key demographics want, but remains limited by all the other burdens on a small newspaper.

Ithaca and Tompkins County support three county wide newspapers. That is incredible and serves as a testament that the entire area wants to be engaged and informed about what is going on. I have no idea about the internal works of the IJ, but being at the bottom of the Gannet food chain makes me feel that they have limited resources. Their beat reporters in outlying towns focus exclusively on the lame social scene out there. I mean, it wonderful that the Slaterville Springs volunteer fire department is having a chicken BBQ, but didn't anything else happen out there? Is it Pleasantville? Then again, these are small towns and regardless of what you think of Ithaca, it is the county seat and the economic/social engine of the county. It deserves adequate coverage. I would not want to be the editor of the IJ and try to turn what is a simple city paper into a regional gazette.

The paper, like all other newspapers, could use more money. However, therein lies the Catch-22. The IJ needs more readers to make more money. But to get more money it needs to feature the better content that attracts more readers. That content costs money that comes from readers. But no readers means no money for content! No readers means no ads and advertising is the cornerstone of any paper's operations.

How do you fix the IJ? I don't know and really couldn't say. From living in Ithaca for six years I can certainly understand why folks can get frustrated about it. I remember an autumn food piece back in 2006 that was about the apple harvest. The piece came from the Gannett wire and originated from an Arizona paper. A wire piece about apples in a CNY paper coming from an Arizona paper is a true WTF moment when you consider that NY is the second largest apple producer in the country. They really couldn't find someone local to do that?

Of course, the paper is available for free online and the Story Chat function has injected a new perspective on the local scene. Whether you love or hate the IJ discussion boards, the paper would be truly inept to take them down.

Obviously, there is bias in this post. When I worked as a reporter in Ithaca/Tompkins County, I never considered the IJ competition. All the papers in TC have their own cadence and demographics and we are all relatively small. Silly to turn the local journalism scene into a Hearst or Murdoch style duel of one-uping. Even though my reporting was brief and fledgling, the position showed me that many readers harbor deep misunderstandings about what a paper is supposed to do or how a journalist must act. So I did gain respect for the IJ reporter that covered my beat and everyone else in Ithaca trying to find a strong voice between left and right extremes. I guess that is not good journalism ethics, but these posts are not journalism. I mean, my most popular pieces are those where I Photoshop the animals in silly hats. Riveting.

So, yeah, I respect the Ithaca Journal.

Peace!

The Angry Post

Maybe it is not the best idea to go deeper underground* (i.e. legitimate excuse for no posts for a while) and have this is as the last post, but, it is what it is!

In December 2008, I attended a holiday party meant to celebrate all the sustainability advocates and volunteers in Tompkins County. Like an office party for sustainability. I struck up a conversation with a young lady about life in Ithaca. The whole conversation was actually somewhat surreal considering how introverted I am (There is a reason why I blog!), but the entire exchange felt very organic and charged.

I told the young lady that I was thinking about leaving Ithaca. She looked at me like I was the damn devil. The kind of look where a person's eyes tip back into their sockets, but spin right back and unify at an angle while they stare at you. "Why would you ever want to leave," she said.

Comments like that are not unusual in Ithaca and Tompkins County. The area has the ability to vex the yearly wave of newcomers and transient with a passion usually reserved for bigger cities. Ever go to college with a kid from New York or Chicago and they kept reminding you how much better their city was then whatever town your college inhabited? Well, that happens in Ithaca except instead of a metropolis we are talking about a place where dogs have their own guild association and a yellow VW bug (formerly) kept us safe.

I had the Ithaca Fever. I believe that for many generation Y kids that never felt in touch with their lives back home, Ithaca offers this weird fresh alternative that you never want to leave. I had never shopped in a downtown district or been able to walk somewhere I wanted to. Hey. they have two indie film theaters, three to five book stores, and all these artists! If you felt that your home was nothing but squares, then Ithaca seemed like a place where the entire missions was to freak out the squares! I had a plan. I would work for the Finger Lakes Land Trust and live really close by in the Fall Creek neighborhood, Ithaca's Gold Coast. I would shop only at Greenstar and attend all the rallies on the Commons, telling all the evil people what this person from the "1o square miles" thought about their profiteering. It would make my mom insane and we would all be happy!

Ithaca has many charms. More on those in the happy post. But, my Ithaca Fever broke sometime after my third year here, instead replaced by my desire to escape.

Professionally, Ithaca is the doldrums. The Ithaca Fevers affects hundreds of young professionals and future grads every year and they all want that office assistant job with the Ithaca Free Clinic. When a master or PHd student comes to Cornell and brings along their spouse/family, it inflates the candidate pool in a town with an even smaller job selection. Say what you will about Cleveland, but my job search there has been much more vigorous then ever in Ithaca. Of course, it a metropolitan area and size does matter, but, in Ithaca, a town that prizes itself on arts and free expression, the last writing gig, for example on the local Craigslist until April 17th was on March 27th. Cornell and IC area huge employers, but, like any big company, they tend to hire from within, promoting people over new hires. Candidates are over educated and I have seen way to many people hold down some dinkus job while volunteering at a local non-profit. Juggling becomes their career. I did it for a while and I realized that I still had to list barista as my job title and I did not want to do so. The sheer amount of volunteer opportunities in Ithaca starts to lose its appeal when you can't pay the bills.

The common knowledge about Ithaca is that it is very left leaning and very progressive. While that is certainly true, the meaning of all that is much more nuanced. As a left leaning person myself, I still feel left out of the Ithaca political scene. The local intelligista are very far left leaning and will make sure that that becomes the definition of "progressive" or "Democrat." A wonderful example was the 2007 Town of Ithaca Democratic primary where one huge question for both candidates was "Just how better of a (Ithaca) Democrat are you?"

For how much Ithaca presents itself as an alternative to mainstream America, this sort of dichotomy just represents the ugly red state vs. blue state divide of the early part of the decade. The people in Kansas feel just like the folks in Ithaca, only for different sides of the aisle.

With our world facing so many problems and Ithaca labeling itself as the city to fix all that, it really breaks my hear to see progressivism defined by your loyalty to Greenstar Cooperative Market or Fall Creek Cinemas. The environmental movement used to be defined by what we should not do. Do not throw that can away. Do not throw those plastic rings away without cutting them. Do not do dough nuts in the parking lot. Recently, we have seen a surge in things that we CAN and SHOULD do to help the environment and solve our global problems. The semantics are important and help remove the accusations of elitism that have always dogged social justice. While it is foolish to think we can buy our way out of these problems (Countering the "everyone should buy a re-usable tote bag logic") it is even more foolish, even dangerous, to define all those who give a shit as the people in a tiny green supermarket in Ithaca, NY. Yes, I have felt ostracized in Ithaca.

There is a lot of outward thinking in Ithaca. How can we as a city specifically address climate change/Darfur/immigration/impeachment seems to be the par for the course. Ever watch those city council meetings on Channel 13? They have a three minute limit for a reason. If not, the report from the fire commissioner would come at 11:30 after we have heard tirades about the lights at Schokellpoff field and cell phones on the Commons. When such folks come together (like the TC Dog group) the entire thing becomes a filibuster, like something out of of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. All of this is commendable, but in an ideal situation, I would hope the city realizes its own problems before trying to unilaterally solve the rest of the world's. I would not trust the Federal government or the UN to fix the Ithaca Commons. Neither would I trust the Ithaca Common Council to run the War in Afghanistan.

This post has lost a lot of steam. I began to write in Ithaca, but now I am in Lakewood, OH. The size of the metro area makes for that energy I always wanted. Cleveland has problems and so does our little suburb. However, here I have met all kinds of folks from preppies to hippies and Latinos to Albanians. Ithaca felt static Right now the scene outside my window feels alive. The headlines in the Cleveland paper feel heavy and dynamic to these tired eyes.

There are things I will miss from Ithaca and even though I am happy to leave, I cannot dismiss six years of memories. I am glad that Ithaca betwixts so many people. It hurts when that community pride becomes group think.

Goodbye Ithaca. If you have the Ithaca Fever then run with it and try and make Ithaca the best place it can be. Just remember there are other places besides Ithaca and that these are wonderful too. If you are anything like me or Amanda (i.e. young professional), keep up the good fight! You just might move on too or find that it is better to build a better environment then dig a deeper trench. Try to find that Ithaca underground of progressive, intelligent folks that are not hippies or hipster. Those with a touch of the "real world."

PEACE!

Bilingual

Here is a little fiction piece I have dug up from the archives. The actual move data approaches fast and I will lose stable Internet connection by this weekend. So, now I have a real excuse for not blogging!

I will try to get one more piece out before that. I have all these ideas in my head about our exodus from Ithaca. I will have a good post with all the things I will miss. For example I got my last hair cut ever at the Cornell Barbershop today and I will sure miss that barber shop with the mounted fish next to the peace signs. It was a microcosm of the weird urban/rural divide that defines Tompkins County. Oh, and my barber would often segue into seeing naked girls down at the gorges. 100+ years in that little basement and still going strong.

And we will have an angry post. What is all this nonsense about a dog park?! The 9-11 conspiracy guy!? Unsynchronized lights?! Angry hippies?!

And we will have a post in defense of an institution that is often mocked, but critical to the daily debate in I-Town. And it's not Cornell!

Until then enjoy this story, which is about PR. Again.

_____________________

El Flamboyan Arde

By Garik Charneco

A hairy hand reached into the back seat of the car, in between the faded leather front seats, and snatched the book from Paco’s own grasp. “Que tu lees,” the father asked, holding the book to the Caribbean radiance that poured through the open window of the old, boxy Volvo station wagon. Sunlight shimmered off the foil decorated letters and highly-stylized star fighters on the cover. The father snorted and balanced the book over the cracked vinyl of the steering wheel. He took a sharp curve that took him off the main avenue and into one of the streets of the Trastalleres barrio. He barely missed a three legged dog that lay in the accumulated dust of the street gutter. Paco’s mother reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, guiding the car back to the center of the street while the three-legged dog hobbled over to the shade provided by the plastic waffle cone of the abandoned Tasty-Freeze.

“Be careful, Hector. You just almost hit that poor dog.” Mariela looked out the window and saw the dog sprawl on the warm concrete under the order window. “Poor thing.”

Hector dropped the book into his wife’s lap. He reached down, underneath his seat, and pulled an out opened can of Medalla beer. He finished off the drink, crushed the can against the door and tossed it into the back seat. The can clinked against the empty shells of the rest of the six pack he bought at the gas station in Ponce. “Don’t worry about that dog. Worry about your hijo.” Hector pointed at his wife’s crotch and the book nestled in between her legs. “Reading that shit. Will that make him a hombre?”

Mariela took her own look at the book and shrugged. “He is only nine, Hector. It’ll help him learn English.”

“Ingles? Why should he care about that? He doesn’t need that”

Mariela handed the book back to Paco, who grabbed it hesitantly and with a keen eye on his father. “Here you are, mi amor,” she said to Paco and then turned to look at her husband. “Well, it would be more than you know.”

Hector cleared his throat and took the next turn gentle. “He doesn’t need that.” Hector turned his entire head backwards and met Paco’s eyes. “Look out there and you’ll see what you have to learn.”

Paco just wanted his book back. The novel was just getting good and a gigantic space slugging match, complete with armored mechs, was brewing in the next chapter. His father no longer looked at him, but Paco still felt the urge to obey. He peered through the window.

Outside, it was 2:47pm. Groups of girls in powder yellow polo shirts and black-yellow plaid skirts grouped around, but each one still on their cell phone. Younger boys tried to slap each other with the flat seed pods of the playground’s flamboyan, which rippled in burst of green leaflets and grapefruit flesh colored blossoms. A cloud of dust emanated in the background, coming from the cinder block factory. Two older boys played basketball on the public court, where the backboard had two holes in it and the rim was without a net. The car slowed down and idled in front of the bodega, where old men in sky blue linen shirts, grimy trucker hats, and freshly ironed slacks played dominos, surrounded by green, frosted bottles of beer. Hector held his elbow out the car door and motioned to the men with his driving hand.

One of the men, his skin coffee-ground dark and his beard whiskers an off-white, held up his own coated beer and saluted the passing car.

Hector laughed and then honked the horn, scaring a flock of pigeons that fed on the brown sugar left out by the neighborhood kids. “Now, that is what I am talking about. Real guys just sitting, enjoying an early afternoon beer. You don’t need any English or books for that.”

Paco was about to open the book, but his father’s words cut through. Paco pressed his bookmark into the book’s spine and slid down his seat to the pile of trash in the bottom of the seat.

Hector goosed the car up the streets; a patchwork of cobblestone, old railcar tracks, cobblestones, and cement. “Anyway, we are almost at Vivi’s house. No need for more reading.”

* * *

The floorboards at Vivi’s were recently painted and free of the wooden slivers from Paco’s last visit to Mayaguez. Paco preferred the new, smooth floor to his great-aunt Vivi’s plastic-lined couches, but then he heard the rasping from underneath the house.

Vivi came out from the kitchen in the back of her two room house, holding a tray of deep fried plantains with the golden bananas clustered around a saucer of Puerto Rican special sauce. Vivi set the platter down on her mahogany coffee table next to a crowd of porcelain elephants, sad clowns, and cherubs. Vivi wore a charcoal gray dress with white trims along the arm holes. The dress reminded Paco of the burlap sacks of chicken feed Tio Felix kept for the cock-fighting roosters. The dress hung baggy over her bent 82 year old frame and exposed flabby pieces of skin, dangling from her under arms and calves. She was not fat, just wrinkle by enough time to make her appear swollen and unwieldy. She sat down and the sound of plastic scrunching against vinyl, drowned out her long sigh. She pointed to the plantains. “Made those just for your trip. When was the last time you cam from San Juan?”

Hector scooped out dollops of the mayonnaise and ketchup mixture with one of the flaccid plantains. Mariela looked at her husband with eyes that came together at the bridge of her nose and trembled with emotion. The eyes seemed to say, ‘Get that damn banana out of your mouth and look at my great aunt,’ but the message was lost on Hector

Mariela turned away from Hector, shaking her head so that the crop of her hair swayed over her forehead. “Too long, titi Vivi. I think it has been five months.” She looked back at Hector, seeking an answer, while he wiped his mouth with an embroidered kerchief. “Isn’t that right, Hector? Five months, no?

He stretched out in the chair, spreading his legs so his kneecaps looked like they would erupt from his jeans. “Yeah, five months or something like that.” He motioned to the kitchen, seeing straight through the curtain of wooden beads Vivi used for a door. “Got anything to drink, Vivi? It was quite the drive. There was some protest at the oil refinery down in Ponce. Had to stop while it quieted down.”

Vivi mentioned she might have some beer and got up to check. “And I’ll get a soda for Paco. Picked up some Kola Champagne at Franco’s when I bought the yemitas for Catalina’s christening.” The soft skid of Vivi’s worn slippers lingered in the air, even after she had slipped through the beaded curtain. When Mariela heard the sharp shuck of the refrigerator door, she threw Hector another glare. Paco didn’t see his mother’s lips move, but watched her Roman nose wriggle, the chestnuts irises of her eyes flicker in quick saccades and lips protrude. She spoke to Hector in the secret Puerto Rican facial tic language that Paco had not yet picked up. He knew the gist of the conversation, but only because his father had been in this situation so often, lying and searching for one more beer. There was anger, annoyance, and a bit of frustration.

Vivi came back from the kitchen holding two cans, one colorfully red and the other decorated with golden sprigs of wheat. Paco accepted the Kola Champagne and drank the sugary dark proto-soda while still clinging to his mother’s side. The sweat from his legs stuck to the plastic. Vivi looked at him and asked why he was on the couch. “Weren’t you all about the floor, hijo? I just had it smoothed. No more splinters.”

Paco looked down at a big, clustered knot in the wood. He heard the soft, but continuous, pitter-patter of feet. Sometimes he heard the clink of metal and soft breaths. Didn’t the adults hear it? Paco imagined that maybe El Cuco, the legendary baby-stealing Caribbean boogey man, had moved under Vivi’s house. Or maybe the Chupacabra, who his third-paternal cousin, Ruben, swore he’d saw outside the outlet mall in Canovanas. Paco cuddled next to his mother, reaching deep into a slight roll of fat on Mariela’s side, for security. He wondered whether the blood-hungry, red-eyed beast had made the 90 mile journey from the rainforest, just to move under Vivi’s house and torment him.

Hector noticed his son, burrowing himself back into his mother. He set down his beer and looked at Paco. “What is wrong with you? Que te pasa?”

Paco nuzzled into Mariela, feeling the slight tickle of a few raised liver spots through the cotton of her blouse. He didn’t glance at his father, but kept an eye on the floor, staring at the same, knotted swirl in the floorboard.

Hector tapped his heel against the floor. “You afraid of the floor! But c’mon, I has no more slivers. What is so bad about it, now?” He started to chuckle.

Paco clambered deeper against his mother and the skin on his legs squeaked and slipped against the couch’s plastic lining. “Leave him alone, Hector,” Mariela said before she heard the soft whine come from under her feet.

There was a gurgling sound, from when Hector stopped sipping at his beer. He leaned forward, tilting his head so his ear pointed to the floor. “What was that?”

Vivi turned around in her chair, her old hips still showing some speed, and grabbed a wooden broom handle that leaned against the wall. She slammed the floor boards with the broom handle, keeping a steady rhythm with her feet and calling out a roster of saint’s name. “Madre de Dios!” She looked up at Hector, as if asking for help. “This damn dog!” She put her head down and screamed at the floor, “Mira! Pee-wee, shut up !”

The whine stopped but Paco still heard the soft rattle of metal on metal. Mariela brushed her son’s head, whispering soft cooing noises to him, like the sounds mourning doves make. She whispered, “Mi amor,” before kissing Paco’s forehead and turning her gaze to Vivi. “Pee-Wee? Calixto’s dog?”

Hector grumbled and finished his beer. Paco perked up at the mention of his first maternal cousin, the artist who left the tin-roofs and pouring rain spouts of Mayaguez for the gallery scene in old San Juan. Vivi put the broomstick back against the wall. “The one and only,” she answered while balancing the rounded tip of the broom handle into one of the grooves in the wall.

Hector brought his legs together and put his arms against his side. He lost the casual, ‘give me another’ beer attitude and assumed an air of responsibility. Even in his blue jeans and white t-shirt he appeared fatherly by just sitting there in Vivi’s arm chair that had survived the hurricane George floods. “Why didn’t he just take that dog with him to old San Juan?” Mariela tried to quiet him, but Hector continued. “No, I am just saying that it is just him and that Ricardo guy in that apartment. With a rooftop apartment there is enough room for that dog. He keeps all those damn trees there.”

Paco crawled out from his mother’s side. “The ceibas trees,” he said, correcting his father.

Hector laughed and reached over for another fried plantain. He opened his legs again and shook the piece of fried fruit at Vivi while he spoke. “Mira, that is his cousin talking. You had to see what Paco was reading on the way here. Vivi. Some mierda with lasers, aliens and all that. I tell you, that is Calixto.”

Mariela jumped into the conversation. “Well, anyway, what is wrong with Pee-Wee?”

Vivi struggled to pick who to answer. She looked at Hector and Mariela in short glances before deciding. “I don’t know what is wrong with the dog. Your sister sent him over about a month ago and he had these horrible shakes and all this liquid, almost like pus, coming from his nose and, oh, was it horrible. I got some of the neighborhood boys to tie him down there, under the house, because he just spent all day shaking and whining.”

“Why would Luisa send the dog here,” asked Mariela while she petted Paco’s head, wondering if this was too much.

“He is a biter. He tried to bite Gabriel.” Vivi crossed her arms across her chest and the sacks of skin under her forearms jiggled. “You know how your cousin is always dropping off her kids at Luisa’s. It was bound for the dog to try and bite the baby one day. So they sent him over to me because you know how I am with animals.” She smiled and showed a mouth with one missing tooth and another colored completely black. Paco remembered the family stories of Vivi and all the strays she took in. The roosters with only one eye that she saved after the cock fights and the guinea-fowl she sheltered from hungry neighbors. Mariela returned the smile, but then Vivi hung her head low. “But I do not know what is wrong with Pee-Wee. Calixto is here for the weekend. I think he is going to take the dog to the vet school at the university and well,” she glanced at Paco, hesitating and cautious. “Well, so they can take a look at him.”

Everyone seemed content in the lie and Hector only grumbled about Calixto in Mayaguez. “What is he doing in town?” He glared at Mariela and Paco, asking in the same face code language, ‘Was it one of you?’

“He has an exhibition at the university. Just a few paintings.” Vivi got up from the chair and shuffled back to the kitchen. “Now, you must be hungry. I made this asopao really quick, so it’s a bit watery but the rice is still good.” From inside the kitchen, the noise of pot lids and bubbling stew wafted into the living room.

* * *

Vivi had a TV, a huge one, but no cable. She used it to watch the local news and to hold her collection of porcelain Buddha, sad clown, and dog figurines. Paco stared at the picture frames under the television stand and the faded photographs of the models Vivi never took out. Hector and Mariela were in the kitchen when the rusted deadbolt of Vivi’s front gate squeaks the arrival of someone. The adults peer out from the kitchen and notice how the visitor took their time, putting the deadbolt back in place. Mariela slid her fingers away from her coffee mug and asked Vivi, “Is it Luisa?”

Vivi shook her head, rubbing her grease soaked fingers on the towel she had over her shoulder.

Hector shrugged and sat in the wicker rocker in the kitchen. “Well here they come anyway so calm down.” Hector turned his head and saw the Paco’s back as the boy sat on the floor. “Nene, tell us who it is?”

Paco got up and when he moved, the dog under the floorboards gurgled and scratched at the weathered wood. Paco stood quiet for a second and did not notice Calixto come through the screen door.

Calixto wore a purple polo with a small neon green shark stitched across from the breast pocket. Under that he had a pair of yellow, pink, and green plaid shorts held together by a black leather belt with a simple gold colored buckle. His shoes were low-top canvas sneakers colored in the same algal green as the green in the plaid. His socks were plain white. Calixto was tall, skinny, and tanned from daily swims down at the Escambron beach in Old San Juan. His hair was cut in an unappealing flat top, his nose pronouncedly Roman, and all his angles primordially Puerto Rican with sharp and slender cuts that remind Paco of the Taino Indians he read about in school. Paco smiled at the sight of his cousin and embraced him, but only coming up past Calixto’s knees. Paco started telling him about a book he read and Calixto returned the smile, flashing glittering teeth and always half-giggling at Paco’s actions.

Vivi shuffled over and kissed Calixto while blessing him with every saint Paco had ever heard of. Mariela smiled and Hector just grimaced asking, “What you going to do with that dog”

Calixto answers, “That is why I came here,” but says it an articulate, halcyon Spanish that makes Paco think of rusty ceiling fans blowing cigarette smoke out an Old San Juan gallery.

Hector got up from the chair but did not leave the kitchen. “Well good. Take it back to Ricardo and see what you two can make of it. Pobre Vivi, having to watch over it while you were gone.” Mariela squeezed her husbands arm and tried to quiet him.

Calixto nodded to Vivi and thanked her for her help. “Don’t worry. I will take care of Pee-Wee.” Calixto turned on his heels and watched through the glare on Vivi’s TV, Hector sitting back down. After that, Calixto motioned to Paco, flicking his wrists so a leather bracelet studded with shark’s teeth jingled. Paco shot glances in between Calixto and his father, who argued with Mariela. With his parents busy Paco followed Calixto out the screen door and to the trapdoor that lead under the house.

Vivi had a giant poinsettia plant left over from a far gone Christmas that she allowed to grow in her yard. The plant’s dual colored leaves fanned over the trap door and Calixto made Paco hold onto a supple branch while he untwisted the wire hinges that kept the plank affixed to the latticework trim. He went in first but held the plank aside for Paco.

Under the floorboards of Vivi’s house there was a weather concrete circle with a metal spike drilled into the middle. The entire ground was soft dirt and there were pits and tracks where Pee-Wee frequented. Pee-Wee was tied by a metal link chain to the spike in the middle of the concrete circle. He moved in a circle around the spike, leaving a hair and drool lined moat around the center. A bowl of water sat at the center but there was no food.

Calixto came up to Pee-Wee, a wiry mutt that he called a Puerto Rican terrier whenever asked the breed, and pressed the shaking dog to his chest. Pee-Wee tired to shake his tail, a sandy brown paint brush capped by a smudge of white, when Calixto hugged him but he trembled as to make it seem like he was shaking of a blow. Calixto kissed the dog’s head and when he pulled away, a trail of frothy spit marred the purple of his shirt. Calixto looked at Paco and waved him over. “C’mon. He won’t bite you. He knows who you are.”

Paco only briefly remembered Pee-Wee, the slim and sturdy mutt, or Puerto Rican Terrier as Calixto called him, that Calixto rescued from a fight with a three-legged dog one day while fishing for cocolito crabs in the sewer. Paco had been younger, around four, when took that trip to Mayaguez for tio Carlos’s funeral and saw Pee-Wee in the backyard. The dog remained in Mayaguez, after Calixto grew up and sold enough paintings to buy a car and head to the capital. Pee-Wee remained fast and quirky while Calixto was gone, jumping from Paco’s lap to back door where he would chase the aging fighting cocks tio Carlo’s used to keep.

Paco watched Calixto let go of Pee-Wee and the dog scuttle to the floor and drag its face in the dirt. Paco crawled over to Pee-Wee and touched the dog’s rear leg. Pee-Wee did not notice and jumped up, flinging the metal chain into Paco’s stomach, and then ducking back down to the dirt. Pee-Wee lifted his head and dirt clung to his lips. Calixto grabbed the dog again and soothed it, petting its dry nose and saying, “Que caliente. Must be the fever.” Paco nodded and came over to Calixto, walking in a half crouch so his back rubbed the underside of the floorboards. This time when he touched the dog Pee-Wee did not jump but Paco felt the heat come from under his fur and the tick that made Pee-Wee’s jaws rock back and worth like if he were chewing gum. Calixto noticed this and put his nose to Pee-Wee’s. He asked, “Chewing gum, papa?” and then smiled his own canine smile. Calixto looked away from the dog and at his cousin. “Do you want to help me get him out of here and into the car.”

Paco nodded and listened while Calixto told him to hold Pee-Wee’s rear legs while he could scoop the dog up. Paco followed and held Pee-Wee by the knuckles of his rear paws while Calixto unfastened the collar and cradled the dog into his arms. “Go open the panel,” he said. Paco scrambled to the side and held the panel open while he watched his cousin wiggle out from under the house. Pee-Wee trembled even when with his owner but not as violently or suddenly as when under the house. Paco fastened the wooden panel back to Vivi’s house twisting the wires hard until they splintered the water-swelled wood. Calixto struggled with Vivi’s front gate and Paco came up to undo the deadbolt.

Calixto’s car, a cocoa brown boxy Japanese import, was parked right in front of Vivi’s house. He gave Paco the keys and made him open the rear door. After he put Pee-Wee in, over a pair of blankets lining the back seat, Paco closed the door. Calixto took the keys back from Paco and looked through the metal railings that blocked off Vivi’s porch. From inside there were no noises. Calixto looked at Paco and said, “You should come. You can hold Pee-Wee while I drive to the Vet school at the university.”

Paco played with the insides of his pockets, twirling a piece of lint in between his fingers. He also looked back into the house, but could not look above the soot lined cement outcropping of Vivi’s porch. Pee-Wee was holding his head to the rear window and still gumming away at a phantom piece of food. “What about papi and mami,” Paco asked.

Calixto shrugged and told him they would be back soon and that he really needed the help. “I need you to help hold Pee-Wee while I drive. It is a short drive but he could jump to the front and cause an accident.” He raised his head and cupped his hands around his mouth. He said to the railings, letting the wind carry his voice, “Vivi! We are going to take Pee-Wee to the Vet school.” He cracked open the door for Paco, keeping his body against the hinges for Pee-Wee could not get out. Paco got in and after finding the seat belt under the blankets called Pee-Wee. The dog put its head down and jerked over from one side of the car and stood over Paco, Pee-Wee’s legs sandwiching Paco’s lap. Paco put his arms up and over Pee-Wee’s stomach, so that his hands curled under the piano-key ribs. Calixto got in the car and when he fired the engine, Pee-Wee wriggled in Paco’s grip and pounded his legs so that his un-trimmed claws scratched Paco’s thighs. As the barrio passed by and Paco saw the same buildings again, this time empty, Pee-Wee trembled, gnawed, and snapped at every bump in the pitted road. Paco held on to the dog, feeling his own chest shake when Pee-Wee shook. Calixto drove slow and played a heavy drum laden track over the popping speakers. Calixto would look in the rear view mirror sometimes and tell Paco that he was doing good and that they were almost there. Paco tightened his grip around Pee-Wee and smooched the dog’s neck, whispering to it, Calmate. Calmate.

* * *

The gate to the university was a cement and iron archway lined with the yellow blossoms of the maga plant. No walls came out from the gate and anyone could simply walk around them and wander onto a greenhouse or practice field. Calixto took the car through the gate and then a gentle curve up a hill. Paco’s arms began to fall asleep but he had lulled Pee-Wee into his lap and the dog stayed there, trembling, but somewhat placid. The car stopped and when Paco looked out, he saw a pair of young men dressed in aqua colored shirts and pants standing next to a concrete building. Calixto got out of the car and yelled to the boys, saying that he had called ahead with, “El perro, Pee-Wee.”

When the boys began to walk over, Paco lifted the dog’s head and cupped his hands around the rear claws, so they wouldn’t scratch him when Pee-Wee got up. Calixto opened the door and grabbed Pee-Wee, pulling while Paco slowly titled the dog forward. The boys got there and one scratched into a clipboard. Paco wanted to get out but Calixto told him to wait there in the car. He said to not even bother to close the door; it would be that quick. Paco nodded and waited, already confirmed that this would be a one-way trip for Pee-Wee. That it would be what his mother called, La Ultima Paz and what they brought him books about at tio Carlos’s funeral. The books said you could see it all around, in the brown leaves on the ground and after a hurricane when there were no paloma sabaneras to coo you awake in the morning.

When Calixto came back out he was alone and the drool and hair on his body had been wiped away. He got into the car and snorted. He told Paco, “Thank you, primito.”

Paco saw the glimmer in his cousin’s eyes and wondered whether he would cry. Whether he should, but on the car ride back to Vivi’s he didn’t. But he said, “De nada” and all the niceties his mother had taught him but until that moment had carried no weight. Paco looked at his cousin one more time and then out the window, where they passed the school playground again. The flamboyan tree now seethed and shimmered to Paco’s eyes, some how more real and tangible as if lit by tropical forces unknown.

______________________

Junot Diaz has got nothing on me. Well, except that Pulitzer Prize.

Peace!

Hitting the Dusty

It's official!

After six years, Amanda and I are leaving the Ithaca area! By April 21st, any posts (or lack of posts) will originate from the Fear of the Blank Page's new home office in the Cleveland, OH area.

Cleveland: Because I hear it rocks

We are both excited to move. Friends and readers should have already known that we were getting tired of Ithaca. This should not be a surprise, but we do not leave Ithaca with anger (Well, at least not an unhealthy amount of it) in our hearts. Expect a post about why we were so desperate to leave soon, but I need to publicly announce that I am particularly stoked.

Yes, it's Cleveland. It gets ragged on more than New Jersey and the French combined. Yes, it has problems (Just like Ithaca!), but I tried the small town life already. I thought I could get into it, but I want to live in a big city. Live in Ithaca long enough and everyone starts to seem familiar. It's like one huge college campus where everyone moonlights as something else and the six degrees of separation get shorter and shorter. In college, you might make yourself into an ass by slipping a Valentine's day card under the door of the girl you had crush on. She never replies and when you get over it, three semesters later, she becomes your chem lab partner! And she has a boyfriend. WHO IS HUGE!! But, then you both graduate and become blips on each other's Facebook feeds*

In Ithaca, however, your manager from one job becomes your waitress at another. The Quad Americano guy becomes Mr. County Legislator. The reporter interviews your boyfriend's boss and the tax preparers never tipped.

There is some neat whimsy to all of this. Networking is important, but in Ithaca you can see an ad for a job and think "Awesome. I know I can get this, except that when I bused tables at Moosewood I spilled Peach Spritzer all over this dude."

More on all that later. I am also looking forward to living in a town where being an environmentalist doesn't mean constantly defending yourself from others of the same persuasion. I could never win the laundry list pissing contests of sustainability in Ithaca. Since we rent, we could never install a composting toilet or triple planed windows. We can't afford a Prius and thinking about Greenstar upsets me. Hence, in the eyes of Ithaca, we were horrible people with all associated cartoony stereotypes. Environmentalism means something in the outside world and isn't that what we are trying to protect.

Oddly enough, one thing I am looking forward to is major league baseball game. It could possibly be the Ithaca Fever breaking, but it is something we could have never done in Ithaca and now we have the opportunity. Maybe it's cathartic. Or, maybe, its because Major League** enthralled me as a child. Regardless, I need to work on my Go Tribe and my Fuck the Red Soxs.

PEACE!

* Who am I kidding. She never friended me!

** Jobu needs more rum and cigars to take fears from bats! And moving truck!

Early Flag Day

It's always a post when I write about my father!

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Untitled

Marie, my assistant, found a flag folding guide online, but it's for Old Gory herself and I can't follow the prompts. My father's flag has one star and three stripes. When I do give up, I fold the flag neatly over itself. I clear a space on my desk, moving the Fillepo closing papers to the side, and let it slide down my forearm onto the cherry wood.
"Give up?" Marie's head over just past the door frame.
"Oh, yeah. I guess." I rub the rust off one of the rings on the hoist. "It's a two person job, anyway. Two Marine job, certainly."
She lets a shoulder slide into the view and the corner of some papers folded across her stomach. "I can help after lunch."
I remember about the Fillepo closing and grab that stack. "Sure. That would be nice, but lets get this done first." I wave the green folder in the air that held the Fillepo papers. Green for closings. Big closings. "Can you please let Donnie know that we can meet to get ready for the closing."

Donnie arrives with his own set of papers. He catches the empty space on my wall, just above the awkward dracena tree. A rectangle of bright white shines through the yellow buff of the rest of the office. "I can't believe you are getting rid of it. It made this office!"Donnies stretches his arms out, captures everything in the room between his fingertips. "Like on the crime dramas and the commissioner has some old tattered flag framed above his desk. Makes them look all the more veteran." He opens his folders and slide a carbon monoxide affidavit across the desk. "It all looks good on safety."
I glance at the paper. "Yeah sure does." I scribble onto a note pad. "My nephew will like it. The flag, I mean."
"Oh, sure. Has a lot of history to it, right?"
"I think. It was my father's. My mother told me some old lady knitted from Lares knitted it for him. Some little old lady in a flowered smock and rollers in her hair knitting pieces of cotton together because she felt there was still something to say."
Donnie shuffles for another safety check. Smoke detector. "They can always use more culture in...where does your nephew live, again."
"Oswego, New York. Lives with is parents. He is only twelve."
The smoke detector checks out. "Well, what a place to live, I bet. Needs a good legend."

Marie helps me fold the flag into a triangle, but all we can see is the red and the white. She tries one last time to get the bit of blue and two prongs of the central star. She unfurls it, snapping the cotton cloth from her waist. She examines a black splotch on the surface. "Has a lot of history, huh?" Her nail scratches at the mark. I don't tell her it's decades old mosquito guts. Leftover from when I slapped a big one, full and red as a Christmas light, on the surface. I still feel it was an offense, but the insect had the white stripe patterns of the dengue carriers. My mother told me to never take chances on those.
"Yes, it was my father's a supposedly an old seamstress in Lares made it for him when he was a teenager. Lares was this town where there was an uprising against the Spanish in 1868."
"Oh, wow! So it's historical!?"
I focus on the Fillepo papers, pretending I am lost in the fine text. We closed on that three hours ago. "I guess, in a way. Like if you had a flag made by Betsy Ross's great-great-great-great-great niece or something like that." Marie smiles and brings two sides together. Oh, and it's entirely handmade. That's important too."

A week later, my nephew calls me. I have no children of my own, but I still sense the honest excitement in his voice. "Hey, thanks for abo's flag. I will make sure to keep it safe and in the family!"
My mother portrays me father in larger than life colors. He watches over the children sitting right next to God. The new holy foursome: The Father, The Son, The Holy Ghost, and Oscar, my father.
William replies after I just squeezed out a weak, "Oh, sure."
"Did someone once steal the flag and make abo walk back from his school naked and covered in paint to get it? Oh, and did he have it when he stole a bicycle to go see abu at school when they were kids."
I am familiar with the tall tales of my father. I know as much about all that as the woman in Lares. "Oh, I guess. Make sure to ask abu about that. She would know better. Make sure to take good care of the flag, too."
"Mmm hmm. Dad has already put some tacks on the wall in my room so I can hang it up and I am going to try and fold it. It feels real. The flags at scouts feel plasticky."

__________________________

I imagine this would make a better scene than story. Just need a few colons and screen instructions! PEACE!

Breaking Radio Silence

It's not an April Fool's gag, because I am back today! After two solid months of nothing, I read something so mind-boggling that I had to blog.

Ithaca, NY now has not one, but, two homegrown dog park advocacy groups!

Ithaca: "Progress" by Division.

Meanwhile, pot holes continue growing unchecked as possible organizers fix the alignments of their cars or dig their bicycle out of the pit.

What else happened during the two months of radio silence?

AMANDA AND I ARE ENGAGED! YAY! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT, IMAGINARY AUDIENCE! Well, you should since I make most of you up!

I saw a few more "Movies I Should Have Already Seen," but I already forgot all the funny. Instead, you can laugh at me for not having seen L.A. Confidential and Clueless until the year 2008. Yikes!

Easter came early and I felt like Romanticizing bunny rabbits some more and advocate to Make Mine Chocolate, but that data already passed blog-less. However, seriously, please take a minute before buying a rabbit as a child's pet.

I saw 10,000 BC, which was horrible. Out of everything irksome about it, I took specific mind pains to the hard segues between ecosystems. One minute the heroes are on snowy Kilimanjaro and next in the rain forest, with the snow coming right up to the palm trees! Sets brought to you by Misses Kennecke's fifth grade Earth Science dioramas!

I honestly do hope to get some serious posts in the near future. The new job I got in January will soon wind down and there are some solid job prospects beyond Ithaca. If we do leave, expect my long series of planned Ithaca wrap up posts! PEACE!