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When I was a little boy growing up in South Ozone Park, we had a tiny backyard between the house and the garage. When we moved in, it had a little lawn. Toy cars and monster trucks quickly turned that lawn to dirt. Then I added a few hundred little green soldiers to the landscape, and that necessitated the pushing around of that dirt to build foxholes and create hills to be “taken.”  I loved playing in that backyard. Eventually, there wasn’t a blade of grass to be found. That yard looked like a lifeless piece of the lunar surface. My folks didn’t care. It kept me quiet.

Quiet was in short supply around the Paulson house. It seemed that Brother X and I always competed to see who could make the most noise. When I was just a rug-rat barely out of diapers, there was only one thing that kept me quiet. My mother would put two pots on the kitchen floor, along with a bag of onions. I would fill one pot with onions and then dump it into the other pot. Then I would pour them back into the first pot. This would continue until the onions were mushy and the entire house smelled like onions, but my Mom didn’t care about the odor. At least I was quiet.

Now, I have a back porch and a small yard. When I first got here it had one tree, one telephone pole, a brick patio, and four rose bushes. I have since added a bar (which I made from 63 empty kitty litter buckets and three full sized mirrors), a round table, a banquet table, three barstools, a half dozen plastic chairs, a grill, a “4-foot farm,” a reclining beach chair, wind chimes, solar lights, wind socks, artificial flowers, and butterflies, lots of butterflies. I have butterflies made of silk, plastic, and cardboard scattered all over the backyard. I call it Butterfly Alley.

My backyard is colorful and a great place to hang out. It reminds me of that place in my youth where I drove monster trucks and stormed San Juan Hill with all those green soldiers. I haven’t added any toy soldiers to the landscape here, but I have tossed quite a few “dead soldier” into the recycling bucket near the bar. I have a radio back there, but I often go into the yard just to spend some quiet time.

So, instead of playing soldier or digging in the dirt, I mostly relax with a beer and watch nature. The first thing I noticed were the bees. They were attracted to the big yellow butterflies, not the green, pink or blue ones, just the yellow ones. They would literally make a beeline to the yellow butterflies. I witnessed their joyful rush and then the shrug of disappointment when the bees realize that what they thought was a giant yellow flower turned out to be nothing but a polyester butterfly. It may be nice and colorful for humans, but, to a bee, it’s a big waste of time.

The next bugs I noticed were flies. Spending so much time indoors at my computer, I had almost forgotten about them. Unlike the bees, who would leave me alone while they went around looking for yellow flowers, the flies seemed bent on annoying me. So I went back inside, to my computer to Google a solution. It seems that they hate cayenne pepper. So, I went back outside with a solution of water and cayenne pepper that I sprayed everywhere. That helped a little. Then I just started sprinkling straight cayenne pepper around like I was seasoning my porch for a barbecue. That got rid of almost all of them. There are still a couple around, though. They must have flown here from Mexico.

I’ve also got fireflies, who just flutter around blinking their tails to get attention. They remind me of those small planes you see at the beach flying slowly pulling advertisements. I’ve got strings of blinking lights hung up around the yard that are solar powered and come on when it starts getting dark. The blinking lights really attract fireflies. They must think they’re seeing the Promised Land. The local fireflies now start to gather in my backyard every night a little before dusk.  Then, when my solar lights start blinking they act like it’s a 4^th of July fireworks display.

It’s funny the things you notice, when you’re just being quiet. Now I understand why my Mom loved quiet time so much. That gene is finally kicking in.

Peace & Love, and all of the above.

Earl

It’s been a busy fortnight. In addition to seeing relatives at my nephew’s engagement party, I also got together with many old and new friends in the last two weeks. Being with friends makes the fun times more fun. Being with friends can also make the bad times fun, too, though. Sometimes.

Last Sunday, during a 4-day stay in NY, I got together with two of my friends, Maria and Tilda, and we went to an Off off Broadway show in Morningside Heights. That’s George Carlin’s old neighborhood, except he used to call it West Harlem to make it sound tougher. The show was called A Map to Somewhere Else. The cab driver, Mohammed, didn’t need a map. He knew exactly where the theatre was, and we zipped up the West Side Highway, past the Intrepid, and a whole bunch of buildings branded with the Donald Trump logo.

When we go there, the first floor was some kind of church. That’s why Mohammed knew the address. A small sign said that the theatre was on the third floor. We climbed the steps half-expecting to be mugged on the way. We got to the theatre and it looked worse than my last apartment before I moved out. It was packed with cardboard boxes. Were they there on purpose? Were they part of the set, or were we supposed to sit on them. We were dumbfounded.

Tilda broke the silence. “They’ve done a great job of making this place look decrepid.”

Maria and I agreed immediately, and we all laughed.

There were some seats here, and some seats there, and a few seats everywhere almost circling the center of the room. The couch in the middle looked like it might be part of the set, so we sat in the section of seats with the most people. We took three seats in the second row. Those had to be good seats, we thought. Until the show began.

I’m new at this theatre stuff, so I don’t know who does what, but whoever did the staging did a very poor job. It seemed that whenever the actors spoke they were always facing away from the audience, even though the audience practically surrounded them. I have a small hearing problem, so I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then, I looked at Maria and Tilda and realized that they couldn’t understand the actors either.

I need glasses to read, but not to watch a play, but I still missed half the action because there were boxes in my way.

At intermission, Tilda had to explain to Maria and me what was going on. We didn’t even understand her explanation of the show.

Act II was longer that Act I. At least it felt that way, even though I was starting to get used to the acoustics, and I finally understood what they were saying. Except I still didn’t know why they were saying what they were saying.

On the cab ride back to Penn Station we immediately gave the show three thumbs down, and yet, we also instantly agreed that we had fun. It was an adventure, an adventure to somewhere. None of us were sure where, but it was an adventure none the less, and we enjoyed it.

I sure could have used a map, though.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The Alley Kat is my favorite spot in town. It’s just around the corner. Walking Distance. Heck, it’s stumbling distance. They have $6 pizzas on Monday night and Open Mike Night on Thursdays. I’m still practicing my saxophone for Open Mike night. That’s gonna be my next adventure. I already threw out the first ball at the local baseball franchise. If I could get just the right song for Open Mike night, I think I could maybe run for mayor of this town. I’ll probably play “Tequila.” But, tonight, I was just checking out the competition and enjoying the best pastrami sandwich in Pennsylvania.

Having finished dinner, Debbie and I were leaving the bar at 11 and Randy started bustin’ my horns. “You guys gonna leave before I go on?”

“It’s 11 o’clock,” I countered, “It’s over.”

“No, it doesn’t end until 12.”

I thought Open Mike was from 9-11 pm, but I was w-w-w-w-w-w-rong. See how I’ve grown? I can even admit when I’m w-w-w-w-w-rong, now.

“Well, Debbie just had two full glasses of ice water. The window for her being able to drive sober is now open, and I want her to get home safely, so we’re leaving. (Beat) I’ll be back when she’s safely on her way.”

Randy is a character. (Would he be appearing here if he wasn’t?) He looks like a short version of that big guy in The Green Mile. (note to self: Google his name…Michael something, I think.) He wears bib dungarees like you would expect a farmer to wear and when he gets up to the mike you’re just sure you’re gonna hear, “Massa’s in de cold cold ground” or “Zipadeedoodah” and then he completely fools you by singing Roadhouse Blues. He’ll usually follow that with something from The Who.

Everybody loves Randy. That’s one of the reasons he always closes the show. He lives about 50 feet up the block from The Alley Kat, so he knows everyone in the neighborhood, and everyone knows him.

Drunk white girls can’t resist him, and it just so happened that there was a drunk white girl in attendance that evening. She was with her two girlfriends, who were not yet as drunk as she was. When Randy got up to the mike, the drunk chick went up to him and started doing a dance that would have cost me money to watch in New York.

After a while, Randy, always the professional, gave her a look that said, this is all fun and stuff, but I’m trying to sing a song here.

So, not knowing what do to with herself, but still inebriated, she just went around the bar giving lap dances to anyone who would smile at her.

I, of course, smiled. What the heck. I like to encourage talent.

The next day, I called Debbie. “You’re not gonna believe what happened.”

“What?”

“I went back to hear Randy sing and some drunk chick tried to give me a lap dance.”

“You didn’t let her!?!?!?”

“Of course not, Honey Bunny.”

Dating a Mennonite is a lot easier than I thought it would be.   I don’t have to worry about her going on the computer.

Peace & Love, and all of the above

Earl

With Clipper Magazine Stadium just a 5-minute walk from my apartment, and the extremely low cost of field-level box seats, I’ve been going to a lot of Lancaster Barnstormers baseball games. I’m especially fond of the Tuesday night games.

Tuesday night is free t-shirt night for the first 1000 fans. I think they only have about 1000 fans, so, basically, everyone gets a free t-shirt. Tuesday night is also Dollar Dog Night. Hot dogs for a buck all night long. So, I don’t cook on Tuesday nights anymore. Plus, they have $2 draft beers between 6:30 and 7:30. You can only buy two at a time, but the seats all have cup holders, and since there are plenty of empty seats, there are also plenty of empty cup holders.

Debbie and I had a plan. We would each get 2 beers at 6:30, 2 more at 7:00, and 2 more right before 7:30. That would be 6 beers apiece. That should get us through a 9-inning ballgame. The other 9 seats in our row were empty, so we had enough cup holders for 11 beers. Plenty.

The four beers we got at 6:30 were gone well before 7:00, so we headed for the beer stand. “They’re only allowed to sell 2 beers at a time,” I said, “so let’s both go up and get 2 more beers.” I gave her money for the beers and she got on line behind me.

I was served my two beers and I started to walk away, when I heard from behind me, “One.”

“One???” Was that the umpire I heard, or did my beer-guzzling partner already forget the plan.

“Are you sure you don’t want two,” I turned to say to her as I walked to my seat.

When she got back to the seat, she only had one half-empty beer in her hand, but in the other hand she had a handful of hot dogs, so, no harm no foul. I was willing to make a few extra beer runs for the team as long as she was making sure that we were well fed. So before 7:30 I made another hot dog run and 2 more beer runs. We were in very good shape, beer-wise, but I had missed most of the first two innings. It was the top of the third. The other team was up, and the kid behind me is suddenly screaming something at the top of his lungs. I can’t make out what he’s saying. A woman in the row in front of me turns to give the boy a “do you have to be so loud” look, but he keeps on chanting. The batter grounded out, and the stadium got quiet again.

Two-three innings later the kid is shouting again. I still can’t figure out what he’s saying. I asked the man in front of me if he knew what was going on. Maybe the kid is related to the batter. The man in front of me explained that the kid was chanting “Slushie.” The opposing batter at the plate was the “Designated Slushie.” If he struck out, the section that was cheering the loudest would get free Slushies.

I had consumed quite a few of the beers by this time, but I still had quite a few sitting in cup holders further down the row. I figured they were starting to get warm, and I might be able to McGiver some way to use the free Slushies to keep the beers cold. So, now, me and the kid behind me are both yelling “Slushie” at the top of our lungs. Several more kids joined in. Debbie joined in, and the woman in front of me quickly moved to a quieter section. If you can’t take the Slushie, get out of the kitchen. We were loud and proud.

The batter struck out, but nobody came around with Slushies for us. So, the next time the Designated Slushie came up we doubled our volume. He got a single that he stretched into a double. I think we awoke the sleeping giant inside the .217 hitter.

I think that we awoke security, too. Never before had they heard such cheering to win a simple Slushie. They brought out t-shirts, nurf balls, and rubber balls with the “Stormers” logo, and just started firing them at us to keep us quiet. I leapt for a t-shirt, but since you can’t slide a dime between my shoes and the ground when I jump my highest, I only tipped it and it bounced to a guy behind me. He immediately smiled and tossed it to me. I caught a rubber ball and in the same spirit of generosity tossed it to a young fan. A nurf ball bounced out of my hands into the seat in front of me. I grabbed it and tossed it to another little kid, who also dropped it, but his sister got the rebound and gave it to him. Our section was really having a good time and we still had beer left.

The Stormers went into the bottom of the ninth trailing by a run. They didn’t manage to score. So, they lost the game, but they did get enough men on base to give Debbie and me time to finish the rest of the beers. You’ve got to love them for that.

It took us about 45 minutes to make the 5 minute walk back to my place. Maybe instead of a Slushie they should offer a designated driver to the fans who are cheering the loudest.

Go Stormers.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

I was doing some luxury shopping at the Dollar Store opposite the Barber School, and I figured I might as well get a haircut while I was in the vicinity. I didn’t really think I needed one, but Easter is this Sunday, and I’m going out with Debbie and her mother for Easter Dinner. I never met her mother before, so I figured that a fresh haircut might help make a good first impression.

There’s never a line at the Barber School. At $3 a haircut, they do draw a lot of customers, but they’ve got a couple dozen guys waiting around just to practice on somebody. So, there’s never a line, but I always have to wait a little bit, while a half dozen future black barbers figure out who needs the most practice on Caucasian hair.

For $3 you get the hair cut out of wherever it appears north of your neck, your head, your ears, your eyebrows – all included. Like I said, these guys want to practice, and I usually get the guy that needs the most. That’s cool, though. When the student is finished and turns me towards the instructor, the instructor fixes whatever they botched up, and schools them. So, I get two haircuts for $3, the rough cut by the student, and the finishing cut by the instructor.

Today, I got a guy who was in his second week of training.

“How do you want it cut?”

“Just a trim.”

I think he was cutting one or two hairs at a time. He didn’t talk as he concentrated on his work, but after 45 minutes, he relaxed a bit and talked to me. His arms were tired from holding them up in the air with the comb and scissors so long. I asked him if his feet hurt. I would think your feet would get tired of holding up your body, before your arms got tired of holding up a scissors. He said his feet didn’t bother him a bit. I was surprised.

I told him that I had been getting my haircut at the Barber’s School since January. I told him that I was new in town. He told me that he was too.

I asked him where he was from.

“Prison,” he said, and I was surprised again. Not that he just got out of prison, but because he was so open about it. We talked about it a bit and he continued to snip away. He was determined to turn his life around. Now, he wanted to be a barber, instead of being a hoodlum. I hoped he would make it. Especially since he now had access to both a straight razor and my neck.

“You gonna be done by 6?” the instructor asked him.

“Sure, Mr. G.”

Six o’clock came and went and he was still snipping away. Finally, around 6:10 he put down the scissors, picked up the clippers and asked me if I wanted it round or square in the back. Ten minutes later he was done. He called Mr. G. over to inspect his work.

There wasn’t much hair left for Mr. G to work with, but he evened out the rough spots, and pointed out ways that the young barber could improve.

The young man paid close attention, and I hoped that he would graduate from Barber School and someday have his own barbershop.

When the hand mirror came out I didn’t quite recognize myself. Only in Boot Camp was my hair ever shorter. Oh well, it’s only hair.  I figure I’m still just a six-pack shy of handsome, and maybe my hair will grow in a little bit by Easter.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl