I left the Uxi Duxi, on a cold Wednesday night, and began to walk through the 43 degree air that was too cold to go out and make my living in, towards Rouses Market and then home.
This assessment of the weather was, of course, a "cop-out," to use a term that was popular about 4 decades ago, as I could have bundled up, drug myself to the Lilly Pad, and then just sat there with the guitar in my lap, blowing on my hands intermittently, and would have probably garnered anywhere between 5 dollars and "a living" in tips doing so.
I knew that I would be warmed up some by the time I got to Rouses Market, and the same walk would allow me time to contemplate on whether or not to try to steal a pork steak from them.
I would have about $2.06 to spend on food for myself, after having bought the 2 cans of cat food that Harold requires, especially on cold days, when he is outside burning calories to stay warm.
This would explain the voracious appetite that he had had a couple days ago, when I got mad at him, thinking that he was being a glutton, or meowing just out of boredom for more food, or worse, that I had conditioned him to think that endless meowing would fetch him endless food, and he was testing that theory.
I was wearing my heavy winter jacket, with the huge pockets on the sides that made me wonder if, at the jacket making factory they had nicknamed them, and would say things like: "Make sure you double stitch all the way around the shoplifting pockets before you send them down the line!" to their employees.
Under my heavy jacket was my lighter jacket. This one was tighter and hugged my waist somewhat. A pork steak would probably slide down my midriff and become wedged above the waistband of that, concealed by the outer jacket with the big pockets.
Under that, though, was my hoodie type sweatshirt, which had a big kangaroo type pocket in the front. As I walked, I realized that, just as I could get both of my hands in that pocket by lifting up the 2 outer jackets, I could get a pork steak in there. I could pass my right hand all the way through the pocket, so it was coming out the other side, where it could be waiting to grab a pork steak, passed to it by the left hand, and to pull it quickly into the pocket. That would be how David Copperfield would shoplift pork, should he ever be down to $2.06 and have developed a taste for it, the way tigers sometimes do for human flesh, over the Christmas holiday, I thought.
It was weird, walking into Rouses Market, contemplating stealing pork.
The security cop who greets people at the entrance, and who had, perhaps 2 years ago, "followed me around," a few times before eventually, probably with the corroboration of other security types, deemed me to be a non-thief. "He stands there forever, comparing prices of things, and will turn everything in the meat case over, as if trying to uncover hidden bargains, but we've never seen him steal anything. We even had our guy tail him for a half mile after he left the store once, just to see if he would pull anything out from under his coat once he was out of sight of the store, but, he's OK..." smiled at me and greeted me, like he normally does.
"Hi, I'm here to steal pork..."
This started me thinking that it was this opinion of myself, which I had in a way worked on fostering ever since I started going to that store, that was worth more than any pork steak that I might have took.
I decided that I was going to scour the store for something that was marked down to what I could afford, and to not steal a pork steak.
One consideration was the fact that, being such a cheap meat, the smallest package of pork steak, which was priced at just under 3 dollars, held a pound and a half of the stuff. It would barely fit in my kangaroo pocket. Even if I had practiced the Copperfield trick at home a few times, it would have been hard for me to make it disappear; it was like half the size of my head.
"How 'ya doin?" asked one of the meat manager types, who was talking to another one as they stood not far from the pork section.
It crossed my mind that the one might have been some kind of big boss, making the rounds of one of the stores in his territory, and the other, more butcher-looking one had smiled and greeted me for show, so that the big boss could see that he was "always" friendly and helpful, regardless of whether the customers had backpacks and guitars, or not.
Still, it was unusual to have been addressed so, and another thought crossed my mind, which was: They know. They can read me like a book. I'm exhibiting all the behaviors of a pork taker.
I flinched a bit, and there was a barely perceptible delay before I had returned the smile and exchanged whatever small talk about the weather that I might have.
I don't have it in me, I thought.
I began to consider buying the pork instead of the cat food, and then trying to feed both Harold and I off of it. But that would be a pain in the ass. We would be in competition.
I wound up getting two cans of cat food and a half pound of "Italian Mix" cheese.
I figured that the cheese would go with just about anything that I might find in my cabinets, which I hadn't checked thoroughly. Pasta, beans, rice -even oatmeal- could be paired with cheese, I thought. I could make some kind of dough out of the flour that I still had left, using the last egg in the process, and then, using tomato sauce, make little pizzas in my oven.
I felt better, leaving the store with 2 cans of food for Harold and a half pound of cheese. I had 6 cents left over. I would call Bobby and ask him if he had any tomato sauce or paste, when I got back.
Then, about halfway home, there was a bottle of red wine that had been emptied of a couple glasses, re-corked and then left standing right by the parking lot of a restaurant.
Of course it was an expensive wine, and it was free.
I was then even more glad that I hadn't stolen a pork steak, because I then would have seen all kinds of hidden meaning in the half bottle of wine just standing there.
It would have been Satan saying: "Nice job. See, that wasn't so hard. Have some wine! On me!"
Or, it would have given me enough pause to wonder if that was the case to have thrown me into the type of spiritual turmoil that I haven't labored under since I used to drop acid and Satan, I would have hallucinated in person, standing by the wine bottle (he would have appeared in the knot-work of the oak tree that it was in front of, perhaps).
I picked up the bottle, uncorked it, sniffed it to determine that it was indeed a fine red wine that I was leaving there for the next skeezer, and then put the cork back in and returned it to in front of the oak tree. Red wine isn't that good cold, and it was 43 degrees out, I further rationalized.
"I Think It's A Record Album."
Then, upon my arrival back at Sacred Heart Apartments, I was told by the security lady that I had received a package.
She then produced a package, upon which I noticed the queen of England affixed to the "Royal Mail" stamp; something that has come to signify The Lidgleys of London, to me.
"I think it's a record album," offered the security lady. "With you being a musician and all, I think it must be a record album."
"No, I think it's a calendar," I said, giving the thing a little bend to at least rule out a record album.
"Nobody has turntables anymore. To give someone a record album, you would almost have to send them a record player along with it," I said.
I opened it in front of the security lady, seeing as I did that it had printed on it, in the hand of Alyne Lidgeley, something to the effect of: "New calendar; regular parcel on the way..."
This was undoubtedly written in case the much lighter calendar arrived ahead of the parcel with the guitar strings, chocolate and clothing.
Would I really have been disappointed, and had the audacity to complain, should I have gotten the calendar first and wondered if that was all I was to get from the Lidgleys this Christmas?
It would have served me right, for having become spoiled, if that were the case, I thought.
Though it would have perpetuated the overall letdown of the season, after not having gotten the bike that Howard had half promised, nor the electric guitar and amplifier that Bobby had half promised; and then not having been asked to play the guitar that I had toted over the river and through the woods to Howard house. And then to be unemployed due to the weather and the flu...
The calendar had a 20 dollar bill taped onto the month of October, when my birthday falls; something I may not have noticed for another 10 months had Alyne not written some commentary under the picture for the month of January, which caused me to flip through, looking for more such things.
A Good Night To Stay In
I had 20 dollars and 6 cents, a half pound of cheese, and I wasn't a thief, on a 43 degree night that was a good one to stay in and get something done, like a cartoon of Howard Westra, which I might be able to work into an eventual cartoon series, if I ever compose one.
How To Draw A Face (Quickly)
Youtube videos on "how to draw" everything from a face to cats, have been eyeopening to me. It doesn't surprise me that people who have put as much into pencil or charcoal drawing as I have into music over the past 45 years can outdo (to use an understatement) the drawings that I've been making.
However, one difference between those experts and I is that they will typically use more than one pencil for the whole drawing: "For this one, I'm gonna use a number 6, a number 7 and a number 9 pencil..." type of thing. And I have a renewed interest in the use of a "blender," which, for me has been a Q-tip.
I Am Rude
This morning, at about 8 AM, Harold was meowing continuously. I knew that it was 45 degrees and raining outside. He didn't.
Eventually, when the tone of his meowing told me that it was more serious than him just wanting to go out for a walk (I had covered up his litter box when moving things around and he hadn't been able to even fit his butt over it). I got up, and went to let him out; without having thrown on either a hat, or shoes (see top photo).
His continuous meowing soon became blended with the moans coming from the stairwell, of a woman or a man, who was trying to get a shopping cart loaded with food up the flight of about 5 stairs.
It was one of the trans-sexuals who lives in our building. It looks and sounds, like a woman. Except...
Harold refused to enter the stairwell. The transvestite, transgender, transsexual, man with tits, or whatever that thing is, had amped up her volume, as she struggled with the 100 pound thing.
It could have entered through another door which has ramps that lead to the elevators, no stairs involved, but here it was, frightening the hell out of Harold.
Hasn't it been living here long enough to know about the elevators? Or, is it the racket of this person to act helpless, in order to get other people to do things for it? I suspected the latter.
"Are you gonna help me?!?" it asked me in a tone of voice that implied that it was my job to do so.
I started to say: "What if I didn't just happen to come out this minute, then where would you be?"
I'm pretty sure that it hadn't been moaning and groaning until it saw or heard me coming.
And, I am chivalrous to automatically come to the aid of any lady that I might come across who is in such a situation. But, not any "lady."
Something in the way her cries for help mingled with Harold's pleas to be let out caused me to feel overwhelmed, and see them as being related. I wanted to put both of them outside, so they could do their business in the bushes.
I went back into the hallway and scooped Harold up, so I could carry him past the thing that he was afraid to walk by.
After I had put Harold down just as another clank from the metal of the shopping cart gave him a start and he had taken off, I assisted the thing by grabbing one side of the cart and helping pull it to the top landing.
Maybe one of the reasons the guy changed his sex to female is the way gentlemen will hold doors for and help ladies out in general. That might have accounted for the tone of voice, when it had said: "You're not gonna help me?!?" What kind of gentleman am I?
One who came out barefooted, with his hair looking like in the top photo...
I hurried back towards my apartment and heard only: "Your cat..." and the door slamming behind me.
I then lay there, having more trouble going back to sleep, feeling like I had been rude, and had taken my irritation at Harold out on the thing. I felt kind of bad. Now I will have to apologize.
Had I been more of a gentleman, who knows, she may have given me some food out of the cart which had been filled at one of the food banks that I have lost track of. Or told me something like: "Yeah, if you get over there before noon, you can get a big box full of food yourself..."
After I had gotten such a nice gift from the Lidgleys the night before, too...
Maybe I can ask the security lady if she knows what apartment the guy with tits lives in, and then can slide a note of apology under the door of it.
Backtracking
Now, I go back to yesterday's post to read the comment that I noticed was there. I wanted to write the conclusion to the pork steak episode before reading any comments on yesterday's post, for some reason.
 |
| At least I don't steal pork, I thought upon waking up and |
| being greeted by this sight in my mirror... |
This assessment of the weather was, of course, a "cop-out," to use a term that was popular about 4 decades ago, as I could have bundled up, drug myself to the Lilly Pad, and then just sat there with the guitar in my lap, blowing on my hands intermittently, and would have probably garnered anywhere between 5 dollars and "a living" in tips doing so.
I knew that I would be warmed up some by the time I got to Rouses Market, and the same walk would allow me time to contemplate on whether or not to try to steal a pork steak from them.
I would have about $2.06 to spend on food for myself, after having bought the 2 cans of cat food that Harold requires, especially on cold days, when he is outside burning calories to stay warm.
This would explain the voracious appetite that he had had a couple days ago, when I got mad at him, thinking that he was being a glutton, or meowing just out of boredom for more food, or worse, that I had conditioned him to think that endless meowing would fetch him endless food, and he was testing that theory.
I was wearing my heavy winter jacket, with the huge pockets on the sides that made me wonder if, at the jacket making factory they had nicknamed them, and would say things like: "Make sure you double stitch all the way around the shoplifting pockets before you send them down the line!" to their employees.
Under my heavy jacket was my lighter jacket. This one was tighter and hugged my waist somewhat. A pork steak would probably slide down my midriff and become wedged above the waistband of that, concealed by the outer jacket with the big pockets.
Under that, though, was my hoodie type sweatshirt, which had a big kangaroo type pocket in the front. As I walked, I realized that, just as I could get both of my hands in that pocket by lifting up the 2 outer jackets, I could get a pork steak in there. I could pass my right hand all the way through the pocket, so it was coming out the other side, where it could be waiting to grab a pork steak, passed to it by the left hand, and to pull it quickly into the pocket. That would be how David Copperfield would shoplift pork, should he ever be down to $2.06 and have developed a taste for it, the way tigers sometimes do for human flesh, over the Christmas holiday, I thought.
It was weird, walking into Rouses Market, contemplating stealing pork.
The security cop who greets people at the entrance, and who had, perhaps 2 years ago, "followed me around," a few times before eventually, probably with the corroboration of other security types, deemed me to be a non-thief. "He stands there forever, comparing prices of things, and will turn everything in the meat case over, as if trying to uncover hidden bargains, but we've never seen him steal anything. We even had our guy tail him for a half mile after he left the store once, just to see if he would pull anything out from under his coat once he was out of sight of the store, but, he's OK..." smiled at me and greeted me, like he normally does.
"Hi, I'm here to steal pork..."
This started me thinking that it was this opinion of myself, which I had in a way worked on fostering ever since I started going to that store, that was worth more than any pork steak that I might have took.
I decided that I was going to scour the store for something that was marked down to what I could afford, and to not steal a pork steak.
 |
| The town where Alyne Lidgley grew up, with its tree |
"How 'ya doin?" asked one of the meat manager types, who was talking to another one as they stood not far from the pork section.
It crossed my mind that the one might have been some kind of big boss, making the rounds of one of the stores in his territory, and the other, more butcher-looking one had smiled and greeted me for show, so that the big boss could see that he was "always" friendly and helpful, regardless of whether the customers had backpacks and guitars, or not.
Still, it was unusual to have been addressed so, and another thought crossed my mind, which was: They know. They can read me like a book. I'm exhibiting all the behaviors of a pork taker.
I flinched a bit, and there was a barely perceptible delay before I had returned the smile and exchanged whatever small talk about the weather that I might have.
I don't have it in me, I thought.
I began to consider buying the pork instead of the cat food, and then trying to feed both Harold and I off of it. But that would be a pain in the ass. We would be in competition.
I wound up getting two cans of cat food and a half pound of "Italian Mix" cheese.
I figured that the cheese would go with just about anything that I might find in my cabinets, which I hadn't checked thoroughly. Pasta, beans, rice -even oatmeal- could be paired with cheese, I thought. I could make some kind of dough out of the flour that I still had left, using the last egg in the process, and then, using tomato sauce, make little pizzas in my oven.
I felt better, leaving the store with 2 cans of food for Harold and a half pound of cheese. I had 6 cents left over. I would call Bobby and ask him if he had any tomato sauce or paste, when I got back.
Then, about halfway home, there was a bottle of red wine that had been emptied of a couple glasses, re-corked and then left standing right by the parking lot of a restaurant.
Of course it was an expensive wine, and it was free.
I was then even more glad that I hadn't stolen a pork steak, because I then would have seen all kinds of hidden meaning in the half bottle of wine just standing there.
It would have been Satan saying: "Nice job. See, that wasn't so hard. Have some wine! On me!"
Or, it would have given me enough pause to wonder if that was the case to have thrown me into the type of spiritual turmoil that I haven't labored under since I used to drop acid and Satan, I would have hallucinated in person, standing by the wine bottle (he would have appeared in the knot-work of the oak tree that it was in front of, perhaps).
I picked up the bottle, uncorked it, sniffed it to determine that it was indeed a fine red wine that I was leaving there for the next skeezer, and then put the cork back in and returned it to in front of the oak tree. Red wine isn't that good cold, and it was 43 degrees out, I further rationalized.
"I Think It's A Record Album."
Then, upon my arrival back at Sacred Heart Apartments, I was told by the security lady that I had received a package.
She then produced a package, upon which I noticed the queen of England affixed to the "Royal Mail" stamp; something that has come to signify The Lidgleys of London, to me.
"I think it's a record album," offered the security lady. "With you being a musician and all, I think it must be a record album."
"No, I think it's a calendar," I said, giving the thing a little bend to at least rule out a record album.
"Nobody has turntables anymore. To give someone a record album, you would almost have to send them a record player along with it," I said.
I opened it in front of the security lady, seeing as I did that it had printed on it, in the hand of Alyne Lidgeley, something to the effect of: "New calendar; regular parcel on the way..."
This was undoubtedly written in case the much lighter calendar arrived ahead of the parcel with the guitar strings, chocolate and clothing.
Would I really have been disappointed, and had the audacity to complain, should I have gotten the calendar first and wondered if that was all I was to get from the Lidgleys this Christmas?
It would have served me right, for having become spoiled, if that were the case, I thought.
Though it would have perpetuated the overall letdown of the season, after not having gotten the bike that Howard had half promised, nor the electric guitar and amplifier that Bobby had half promised; and then not having been asked to play the guitar that I had toted over the river and through the woods to Howard house. And then to be unemployed due to the weather and the flu...
The calendar had a 20 dollar bill taped onto the month of October, when my birthday falls; something I may not have noticed for another 10 months had Alyne not written some commentary under the picture for the month of January, which caused me to flip through, looking for more such things.
A Good Night To Stay In
 |
| "Did you make a cartoon of me? |
I had 20 dollars and 6 cents, a half pound of cheese, and I wasn't a thief, on a 43 degree night that was a good one to stay in and get something done, like a cartoon of Howard Westra, which I might be able to work into an eventual cartoon series, if I ever compose one.
How To Draw A Face (Quickly)
Youtube videos on "how to draw" everything from a face to cats, have been eyeopening to me. It doesn't surprise me that people who have put as much into pencil or charcoal drawing as I have into music over the past 45 years can outdo (to use an understatement) the drawings that I've been making.
However, one difference between those experts and I is that they will typically use more than one pencil for the whole drawing: "For this one, I'm gonna use a number 6, a number 7 and a number 9 pencil..." type of thing. And I have a renewed interest in the use of a "blender," which, for me has been a Q-tip.
I Am Rude
This morning, at about 8 AM, Harold was meowing continuously. I knew that it was 45 degrees and raining outside. He didn't.
Eventually, when the tone of his meowing told me that it was more serious than him just wanting to go out for a walk (I had covered up his litter box when moving things around and he hadn't been able to even fit his butt over it). I got up, and went to let him out; without having thrown on either a hat, or shoes (see top photo).
His continuous meowing soon became blended with the moans coming from the stairwell, of a woman or a man, who was trying to get a shopping cart loaded with food up the flight of about 5 stairs.
It was one of the trans-sexuals who lives in our building. It looks and sounds, like a woman. Except...
Harold refused to enter the stairwell. The transvestite, transgender, transsexual, man with tits, or whatever that thing is, had amped up her volume, as she struggled with the 100 pound thing.
It could have entered through another door which has ramps that lead to the elevators, no stairs involved, but here it was, frightening the hell out of Harold.
Hasn't it been living here long enough to know about the elevators? Or, is it the racket of this person to act helpless, in order to get other people to do things for it? I suspected the latter.
"Are you gonna help me?!?" it asked me in a tone of voice that implied that it was my job to do so.
I started to say: "What if I didn't just happen to come out this minute, then where would you be?"
I'm pretty sure that it hadn't been moaning and groaning until it saw or heard me coming.
And, I am chivalrous to automatically come to the aid of any lady that I might come across who is in such a situation. But, not any "lady."
Something in the way her cries for help mingled with Harold's pleas to be let out caused me to feel overwhelmed, and see them as being related. I wanted to put both of them outside, so they could do their business in the bushes.
I went back into the hallway and scooped Harold up, so I could carry him past the thing that he was afraid to walk by.
After I had put Harold down just as another clank from the metal of the shopping cart gave him a start and he had taken off, I assisted the thing by grabbing one side of the cart and helping pull it to the top landing.
Maybe one of the reasons the guy changed his sex to female is the way gentlemen will hold doors for and help ladies out in general. That might have accounted for the tone of voice, when it had said: "You're not gonna help me?!?" What kind of gentleman am I?
One who came out barefooted, with his hair looking like in the top photo...
I hurried back towards my apartment and heard only: "Your cat..." and the door slamming behind me.
I then lay there, having more trouble going back to sleep, feeling like I had been rude, and had taken my irritation at Harold out on the thing. I felt kind of bad. Now I will have to apologize.
Had I been more of a gentleman, who knows, she may have given me some food out of the cart which had been filled at one of the food banks that I have lost track of. Or told me something like: "Yeah, if you get over there before noon, you can get a big box full of food yourself..."
After I had gotten such a nice gift from the Lidgleys the night before, too...
Maybe I can ask the security lady if she knows what apartment the guy with tits lives in, and then can slide a note of apology under the door of it.
Backtracking
Now, I go back to yesterday's post to read the comment that I noticed was there. I wanted to write the conclusion to the pork steak episode before reading any comments on yesterday's post, for some reason.
Stealing sucks, because you can go to jail for a cheapo pork steak.
ReplyDeleteBest is busking, doing handy work, cleaning windows, making and selling handicrafts, etc.
Next best is good old begging. I made a dependable $20 an hour "crack spanging" which means walking up and down a street asking people politely if they have any spare change I could have. I'd explain that I was paying $20 a night to sleep on a guy's couch (the truth) and it was a rare day I didn't get at least one $20 bill.
After that comes dumpster-diving, asking at restaurants for leftover food (ethnic places are kind, and "shi-shi" places always have plenty of leftover bread and butter) or "white boxing" which means asking people for their "doggie bag" leftovers which are generally in white boxes. I give away a lot of "white box" food myself.
You used to be a lot more enterprising in finding food in dumpsters and so on. Leftover drinks too. Food stamps have made you soft, my friend.
That didn't cross my mind; to get that bag that they throw out at Popeye's Chicken every night, the clear plastic one that has everything that was freshly fried and sitting on the warming rack in case of a 9:59 PM walk-in customer...
ReplyDeleteFunny thing, though, Harold my cat might be spoiled beyond Popeye's Chicken; plus, If I had ventured into the Quarter as far as that dumpster then I would probably be warmed up enough to just go to the Lilly Pad. Dragging myself out for free chicken would have been just as odious, still getting over the flu and all...