You don't tug on Superman's cape

Ever feel like you've been swimming upstream?

You somehow get out of sync with life's rhythms and suddenly guys with electric cattle prods start coming out of the woodwork. Innocently, you bend over to pick a dollar bill off the sidewalk and then "Yiheee!" they've got you.

The funny thing is, I'm in a pretty good mood as I write this and am starting to feel like, maybe, I've made it through the tunnel to the other side... but only time will tell.

What am I talking about?

It all started on Thursday morning, when I got a speeding ticket on the way to work. No big deal, right? Just a minor pain in the ass...

"You late for work or somethin'?" asked the cop. My clever retort (at least more clever than the question) remained unspoken. "Nope," I said.

In spite of my discretion I was cited for both speeding and no proof of insurance. Accordingly, Monday, I took time off work and drove down to the Scottsdale Civic Court to show them the little card that had been buried in a pile of unopened mail.

The clerk looked confused. "When did you get your ticket?" she asked. "Because the officer hasn't turned in his paperwork yet." Of course not. She took a copy of my insurance and said it would be matched up with the ticket when it came in...

(And while I'm sure of her good intentions something tells me I might want to double check on this. Either that or just sit at home and wait until they show up at the house with a warrant for my arrest.)

That was on Monday.

On Tuesday, the truck was stolen.
(Or maybe it was Wednesday, but when I went out that morning it was definitely gone. )

"Truck's gone," I told M as I walked back into the house.

"What?" she said, in sleepy confusion.

"Truck's gone. Pretty sure it's stolen."

(pause)

"Did you lock it?" she asked.

Ironically (for those who know me) I had.

Blogging as a metaphor for life?

Haven't heard from anyone lately via email, posted comments, or what have you. I guess I didn't blog for a while and seemed to have lost the thread of connection.

But there's a certain freedom in that.

It would be self-aggrandizing to call this art, yet blogging is a form of self-expression in a public venue. (So blogging is what, artistic? Artsy? Great. Maybe I should just start gluing little shells to paper right now.)

The conundrum is (great word, by the way, "conundrum", sounds like drums beating):

Whether to create for one's self... or to create for one's public?

So, whether to cater to a, primarily, faceless audience or to blog what one truly thinks and feels -that- is the question! (Then again, maybe we should just substitute "live" for "blog" and cut to the chase). The trick, I think, is to act from the heart, without being apologetic -or- defensive. The more direct we are, with others -and- with ourselves the simpler and easier things are.

Yeah, okay, I realize this isn't rocket science, but this is MY blog and if you don't like it you can just go eff youself while being roasted over hot coals... (well, yeah, I guess this could be construed as defensive. Whatever.)

Anywho... inspite of my car being stolen, and a little added in stress in the lives of both M and myself, I truly love being downtown.

Earlier, as the sun set, the buildings, sidelit and framed by telephone poles and light poles and the glitter of broken glass in concrete, the buildings glowed against a darkening sky and it was as if the light came out of them, not just bouncing off of them. They were stoic and majestic and I felt like an explorer in some dark exotic forest, lucky to observe these beings, undisturbed in their natural habitat

And no, I was not on drugs.

Although, now that I think of it, my visual acuity seems to be greater lately. Know what I mean? You just see things you don't normally see, see the transcendant quality in them...

I wonder if this isn't, to a certain extent, a function of stress. I am able to see transcendant beauty because I am more desperately seeking it out? Perhaps, "desperately" isn't the right word. Mabye its "adamant".

Good word, that.

P.S. Speaking of stress, anyone looking to sell a good cheap car?

The Man in the Black Coat Turns.

Its 4:30 am.

The dog next door barked a few times so I went out to sit on the porch, smoke a cigarette and observe.

Thought I heard tires on gravel, like a car being pushed along the road, but when I walked out into the yard, nothing.

I did see a pregnant woman walking, two blocks down. That and some slow moving scallop-shaped clouds backlit by the moon.

Now I'm sitting here staring at the computer.

I could go on, but why?

The Purple People Eater done gone away...

Anyone seen a '95 nissan purple pickup? 'Cause I sure haven't. Not since 7pm last night, that is.

Came home last night after work and a quick Camelback sojourn (even took a few pics of the purty sunset) to settle in for an uneventful night o' readin'.

For those who are keeping track I just finished "Kafka", a biography of sorts, llustrated by Robert Crumb, then started re-reading "Wyrms" by Orson Scott Card. (Its better than it sounds. Really.)

M came home, close on my coat tails, and asked if I wanted to grab a drink at Carly's. I passed in favor of the aforementioned. (Now, of course, I can't help but wonder...)

Read til M came to bed, 'round eleven or so, and slept thru most of the night. Exception: The dog next door went ape sh*t around 5am but I thought little of it at the time.

Then, 'bout 6:15 am, with the sun shining and birds shrieking (singing, whatever), I shlepped out to the car and found...

(insert dramatic organ music here)

Nuttin'!

Absolutely nothing! They got the car, M's digital camera -and- one of my library books (talk about adding insult to injury - those fines can be a real bitch!)

As my dear old dad would say, "Bummer, dude."

The good news is, though we've split up, I have little emotional investment left over and sincerely wish the little truck well in whatever circumstances it may find itself (no one say "chop shop" or I might get a little teary-eyed).

The bummer part is all the paperwork crap (example: My existing insurance policy won't fully cover my rental car. Why? Because my policy was liability only and to increase coverage I would have to (giggle) bring in my truck for appraisal. Ironic, no?). And then there's the joy of purchasing a new vehicle.

As Bill Murray once said, "so I got that going for me... which is nice."

On the bright side - I did get to take the day off of work.

Slacker as Art Patron

Whenever the sun is near the horizon, sunset or sunrise, the light hits the carriage house behind ours and it looks for all the world like a painting.

M and I have alluded to this in passing, occasionally sitting on our back steps and savoring the view, but recently Slacker seems to have joined the party, as well - avidly awaiting the opening of the door, and then quietly standing or sitting in the doorway, gazing out.

Westward HO!

Went to the farmer's market yesterday morn and while it was none too exciting (lots of eco-conscious lesbians and aging yipsters plodding thru their liberal weekend rituals) the coffee was good (organic free trade, of course), the company was excellent (the charmingly dishevelled M), and the light was beautiful. Accordingly, I was inspired to snap a few pics.


The market is held in a parking lot kitty-corner to the Westward Ho Hotel, a monolithic throwback to 40's California architecure.


Something about this place is very alluring. Reminds me of when you meet someone for the first time (maybe after a few beers) and you have that comfortable yet energized feeling - intimate and very familiar.

Home again, Home again, Jiggity Jig!

So I had this history professor my freshman year in college, Dr. Hanson, who had a bowl haircut and cheezy little mustache but eyes like Gene Wilder's - kinda fun, kinda crazy - and he was fairly sharp.

He said that not everything from the past was noteworthy. Brushing your teeth, for instance, was something you'd done in the recent past (at least, hopefully), but it didn't make the event historical.

Blogging's kinda like that. Haven't had much to say, lately, but now I got a coupla things:

First off, M and I are settling in nicely into our new place. We are in downtown Phoenix, the Garfield Historical Distric, which is one way of saying the the Arts District -or- another way of saying the Barrio.

M points out "Ghetto" may be more appropriate in lieu of her Jewish heritage, but tell the multitude of our hispanic neighbors that. If you can speak Spanish, that is. Which I can't.

Question: What do call a monolingual?

Answer: An american.

So I've been listening to the mexican radio stations but haven't quite made the lingual leap yet. But once the downtown library re-opens I am so there. Seriously.

Oh, so anyway, last night M wakes me up 'round midnight (all apologies to Thelonius Monk) and says:

M: Adam, you have to see this.
A: Mmmmf. (I say, in my sleep befuddled state)
M: You have to come see this and tell me what it is.

At this point I have no idea what she's talking about but I do know that I've been awakened from a deep sleep to do, what, share in the moment?

A: What!?
M: Come in here.

So I stumble out of the bedroom, bedraggled, to see what looks like a hummingbird flying around our living room. Or one of these really cool moths that recently started appearing at the warehouse where I work.

S'moth, I said.
No, she said, it's not a moth.

Then it landed on the wall near us. And she was right. It was not a moth.

First of all, let me say that all insects - with their mandibles, exoskeletons and multi-faceted eyes - are about as alien as you can get and at the risk of sounding species-ist, I just don't mix well with their kind. In fact, they pretty much freak me the f*ck out!

But cockroaches... they are in a class all by themselves.

Now imagine the grandaddy of all cockroaches - two inches long, half an inch thick, with a head big enough to make out facial features... (and I'm pretty sure we made eye contact).

Jesus, I am getting skeeved out just describing this. You know that itchy skin feeling on the the back of your neck and shoulders like something is crawling up your back and into your hairline? Yep, I got that feeling right now.

So now I'm wide awake, eyes locked with this Kafkaesque monstrosity, when suddenly it assumes the form of a small bird and flies at my head.

No, I didn't scream like a girl. Yes, I wanted to.

Thankfully, however, Jesus intervened (praise god!) and the little f*cker flew up into our overhead lighting, where he was trapped and finally cooked by the multiple lightbulbs therein. Of course we could see his desperately flailing siloutte and hear the skittering of his little limbs for about an hour after that but didn't bother us.

Much.