#ROW80 SUNDAY CHECK IN – POST 14 – ONLY ON NEBRASKA AVE., 33602, 33605, 33604, ETC.

I believe I've mentioned that everything that can possibly happen has happened here on Nebraska Avenue, whatever the zip code. As I roam around pretty much within these 3 zips, it's safe to say, I've seen just about every kind of human failure, vice, venal and cardinal sin committed, along with just about every sort of human kindness, sacrifice and altruism given in aid as well, not as part of someone's job, but because someone cared and ached for a fellow being.

That being said, lots and lots of weird things happen and just plain, WTF? of the unfathomable variety. Laziness? Because you could? What part of no did you not get? Case in point being the famous hole in the counter between the registers in the Sweetbay Pharmacy. The hole is 2” across; not very big. People kept throwing garbage in it and it was a real pain in the ass for the pharmacists' assistants to get the little wadded-up pieces of paper and gum and lint and what have you out of the hole.

Look how happy he is! He's just waiting for you to throw your linty mint, chewed-up pencils and broken hair barettes in here. (Frankly, when inanimate objects start doing this, I'm outta here!)

The easy solution? They started out by writing “DO NOT USE THIS FOR GARBAGE.” Less than 20 feet away is a perfectly good garbage can for, ohbestillmybeatingheart: garbage. I know; right? Garbage kept magically appearing and the pharmacists' assistants kept having to dig the little wadded-up pieces of paper and gum and lint and what have you out of the whole.

The thing escalated. Next, one of the assistants put a medicine bottle that just fit in the hole. You could still see the “DO NOT USE THIS FOR GARBAGE.” This did not deter are garbage squirrelers or throwers, or lazy assholes, or whatever. They removed the bottle, and dumped their little pieces of wadded paper, gum, lint and what have you, so the pharmacists' assistants would now have to remove the bottle and dig out all of the day's debris.

Someone finally got pissed enough, after 2 years of this shit and put about 6 pieces of duct tape over the bottle, so that if some garbage scofflaw wants to get rid of his or her pocket trash, they will either have to peel off 40 minutes worth of duct tape, which will get them beaten to death by an angry Pharmacy department, or walk the 20 feet to the real garbage can. When I heard all of this, I just shook my head and said, “Only on Nebraska Avenue.” Two of the assistants live near me and they howled. They knew what I was talking about.

This is pretty much how we roll here. From shoe-guy on the bus, to slum landlords who think bedbug control is using a 1200 degree heat gun on your mattress, completely missing the "oops, my mattress caught fire" factor, taking bets on how long it will be before someone violates parole and ends up back in the slammer and the ever-popular bus stand game, "Can I have a dollar?" No. "Can  I have fifty cents?" No. "Can I have a bus pass?" Shut up. "Can I have a dollar? ...

This was taken from my porch. I face east. Directly south of this house is the homeless shelter where I lived, before moving here, when I received my disability. It's a magnificent house; there's a plaque on the front explaining it's history.  This is where Teddy Roosevelt stayed at times when he was mustering the Rough Riders, a volunteer corps. After the Civil War, there were not enough soldiers to engage in the Spanish-American War. There was also a fierce debate raging in Congress regarding interference in foreign affair. Isolationists v. Imperialists, so, Teddy took his own road.

Which brings me to my next story. There is a house across the street. It is a magnificent house. Theodore Roosevelt stayed in this house, when he was mustering troops, who later became renowned as “The Rough Riders” before they left for Cuba to fight in the Spanish-American War. They arrived in Tampa in 1898. The Rough Riders are still around, and each year for several years, I played “Mass in Timeof War,” By Franz Joseph Haydn. We would play on Veteran's day and the Rough Riders would come; we donated some of the gate to their cause, for homeless children.

The Rough Riders, circa 1898. The staircase leads to the Grand Ballroom of the University of Tampa. I have played in that ballroom many, many times when I was Principal Viola with the Tampa Bay Chamber Orchestra. The acoustics are marvelous!

A little diversion here, because that's how I roll. I always sat first stand and partnered with a fellow from Curtis freaking Institute. Julliard is Curtis's bitch, if you get my drift. William is an awesome player, and of course, he makes me play like I came from Curtis (ha!) but it's axiomatic, you play better when you're with better players. Anyway, we had to have this choral conductor who was no Dr. Charlene Archibault, or Sir Colin Davis, or James Levine, and certainly no Maestro Anton Coppola. Dr. No (not his real name) did nothing but scowl at us. But, he would never tell us what made him scowl. Sometimes, he'd have less of a scowl, sometimes more. After one of our last performances, William said to me, “What's up with him? He always scowls at the violas, but never tells us what to do to make unscowlable.” I said, “Dunno, but did you notice he had plenty to say about every other section. Mebbe he's just pissed 'cause we don't suck.” William and I shrugged and went off to our next gig, “Santa Claus in Whole Notes, Cause We're Violas.” Great use of that performance major. But, I digress.

This is close to the same image now. Check out the minarets. 

Anyway, that magnificent house has quite a history. I housed a high-class madam and her “hoors” for several decades. The mayor and the Chief of Police were frequent fliers there, I hear. Also, once upon a time, this town was pretty mobbed up by the Trafficante family, who had some dealings with a character named Jack Ruby. The Trafficantes pretty denied much any association with him and some of them are still around, but they engage in honest commerce.

Back in the 70s, I believe the house was sold to the present owners who completely gutted it and restored it back to its original state. It has been named a historical sight and is one of the key key attractions of V.M.Ybor (pronounced ee-bor) which is a part of Ybor City, just to the southeast of Tampa proper. V.M. Ybor's neighborhood association is a weird combination of young professionals and hoodlums. Very eclectic. The V.M. Ybor association had to fight like hell to get it named a historical monument. One for the good guys.

I love the piano. It doesn't love me. I had to take a semester in college and I managed a little Chopin and some Beethoven. I got to Rachmaninoff and had a crisis. I'll stick to the viola on ol' Rocky. That's tuff enuf.

Anyway, the guy who now owns the house has a bunch of musical instruments and he had bought himself a new piano. Either an upright grand or baby grand. He had it tuned and then they had to move it into the house. On the second floor. Understand, I'm a bit sketchy on this, because this is lore and happened about 25 or 30 years ago. So, the owner gets himself a piano mover, who is using an... I don't know what. Forklift? Crane? Magic? Whatever he was trying to use, it didn't work and he dumped the piano right spang in the middle of Nebraska Avenue. Other than being out of tune, the only thing that broke, was the little knob on the lid one uses to open and close the thing. Only on Nebraska Avenue. Actually, I say that, but what I'm thinking is this, “they know about pianos on Nebraska Avenue?” Sometimes, the people here make me wonder if they know about fire or the wheel.

ROW 80 4th QUARTER POST 9 – NEURON CENTRAL AND TV

Well, I had a thought, but it got lonely and left. It’s been that sort of morning. Fuzzy, unfocused. Interesting dreams. In one of them, Governor Moldemort, was on the television bellowing about how all the fine citizens of Florida needed to quit running over, killing and eating all the squirrels. JC, in his usual forthrightness, hollered at the TV, “What a dumbass!” I screeched out, “That’s telling him!” and woke up. Every limb is zinging. I look at my toes. My right batch of toes look like crushed up peanuts. My left ones look like the cat’s toes when you tickle them, all spread out. WTF??

I lay back down and RIGHT then my brain decides I need to be treated to a variety images of shoe racks for the next, oh, hour it seems like, every time I close my eyes. Of course, this comes with an interestingly frantic sound track of that horrible 50s music that we were all treated to in some class or other, when the teacher had no lesson plan, an extra projector and a spare reel of “Cavalcade of Road Graders Through The Ages.”

The giant screechy thing is exciting; the film was not. On the plus side, I think the music was written by the last of the great "Amphetamine" school of composers, who sadly died at the age of 13, after staying up for 72 months. He wrote 948 symphonies. They all sucked. His name was Benny Something-or-other. We studied him in Roger Muti's Music Boredom class 102. Next week, I transferred schools and my sanity to somewhere else.

Even as an 8-year old, I found this selection of music hysterical. Some serious voice would intone, “The road grader is a magnificent feat of the highest in mechanical technology… blah, blah, blah,” and the string sections would be playing some frantic, frenetic, pretend-happy Leroy Anderson-style scale thing, complete with xylophone and 64^th notes…beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle. Ad infinitum, ad nauseam, up and down the fingerboard, for the entire film.

Yes, I've played in this; I've also played in it's more horrible cousin "Cascading Strings," or "Castrating Strings," as I called it; I have my standards. I am an artiste. 

So, this is not making for a restful time. The hours are ticking by. At least I know why I can’t sleep now and don’t feel so crazily out of control as I did, when this all started happening. Still, I am unable to fall into slumber. I notice something kind of cool. With my eyes closed, my brain remembers how to “track.” My eyes don’t do this when they’re open. So, I’ve figured out how to scan from right to left, with my eyes closed. Now, I can “see” a “panorama” of the shoe rack that my brain is treating me to by scanning from right to left! Now, I’m all excited. I wonder why this doesn’t work when my eyes are open; why my eyes don’t work in tandem. It’s not just that; my brain “sees” one image; it sees 2 and it has for years, even before I went blind; sadly, I have “slacker” brain.

Well, still getting the Leroy Anderson track. Brahms would be nice. I keep seeing shoe racks, then a scramble like a bunch of ions on a TV tube. Channel changing? More shoe racks. Shit. No cable here. This would be a nice time to mention that we have no television. We huddle around my computer monitor, like cavemen around a fire at the Dawn of Man. Being Old Crocks is a primeval business. While we char roasted beast or squirrel, in spite of Governor Crowbar’s abjurements, we watch the very best shows that Crackle, HuluPlus, or Amazon Prime have on tap. Lately, it’s been “Lost” Season 2, so we’re going tribal right now. We’ve been to visit Jack Bauer and Angel.

I find now that I’m writing I pay much more attention to the structure of these stories and how the characters themselves react. I find Angel to be fascinating. The idea of grace through redemption is so oddly comforting and beautiful and pure to me, after decades and years of evil. He truly understands that he has a mission to fulfill at huge cost to himself. Even Spike, though his motivations, towards the end of the series seem a bit less pure, deserves his chance at redemption. He wanted a soul. As people, as men, they are fleshed out; they bicker, fret over trivial stuff and when they have to, they step up. They try not to fail. Their characters work. Maybe because the series  itself is only 5 seasons long. Still, I wanted more of “Angel.”

Jack Bauer I also love; however, by Season 8 of “24,” his only redemption, as a character comes in what he does at the very end. I am not spoiling this for anyone, especially those people named, ahem, Andi-Roo, but up until that last, through seasons 5 through 8, though entertaining as all hell, he gets, well, predictable. As all hellz and kickass as he is, alas, it got old for me. I found myself saying, “Ah yes, the old Jack (fill in the blank) move.” As wonderful as the show and as complicated and, unfortunately, dead-on as I think some of the geo-political nightmares depicted truly are in that series are, it went on  too long. What Jack did at the end made all of the same-old, same-old okay. Chloe flat-out rocked.

We are only into the 2^nd season of “Lost,” and frankly, I already have about 47 million questions, but I’m not familiar enough with the landscape right now to ask. I like how the characters are seemingly connected prior to the plane crash. Whether or not, J. J. Abrams and David Fury can really pull it together with subtlety remains to be seen. David Fury is the one constant with the 2 prior shows and I admire his work. If his name is on a show, I want to watch it. The same for Josh Whedon and several others. As I stated earlier, I never really started paying close attention to writers, directors and show runners before my own attempts at writing and I’m learning from this; it’s amazing. I may be an infant when it comes to celluloid, but I do understand enough about thematic structure and literature to know when I am in the company of some people with pretty solid writing chops. These are a few of them, to say the least. And of course, that also includes my dear AR. She writes the hell out of her bloggy-blog.

Well, this was not where I was going with this post, but my brain wanted to go here and so here we are. SDBN, Now With Added Moms tomorrow (link) and Sunday check in here on “Homeless.” No riots or stabbings scheduled here on Nebraska Ave,33605, but you never know. There’s a BBQ later. We may have some unscheduled muggings.

OH SHIT! We're all dead now! Governor Crowbar told Florida to quit eating vermin. We'll be extinct by sunset!

OKAY, MORE IMPORTANT NEWS, HOMELESS CHRONICLES BACK IN BUSINESS, NOW WITH LESS IRONY, MORE... WRITER'S BLOCK?

I really did hit a writer's block or brick wall with this title. I wanted something clever and ironic and witty and eye-catching, that will nab me a million views in one day. Bullshit; we all know this is not going to happen. I am re-launching this website for a purpose and a good one I hope. But, the hell with it. I want to do something good here and if I just keep thinking about it and trying to polish it, it will never get done. It's my Preciousss.... *shakes head* Let me cut right to the chase.

Anyone who’s known me for any longer than five minutes pretty much has heard me barf up the story of my life so I won’t puke it up again. Just the usual stuff, smart parents, but dysfunctional, alcoholic daddy, co-dependent ma, deeply flawed, but man, they were good people. I was basically lazy, low, low, self-esteem, slacker, blah, blah, but got somewhere, because I had loads of talent, but little drive and loads of self-destructive behavior. Cursed myself, but I own it and I am lucky to be walking and breathing. Okay. I have nothing that will kill me outright, but lots of annoying shit that I bore my poor friends to death with, topped off with a butt load of bi-polarity and that evil, lying bitch, depression. (am I right, Andi-Roo?) I got pretty fucked up over this whole thing called “life” a few months back, which I do on a fairly regular basis. I found out I was bi-polar this past March, after having stayed up most of February. Ironically, I don't remember much of March, except for St. Patrick's Day weekend. The rest of March, I was in the Hospital under the kind auspices of the Baker Act, which is a polite term in Florida for Loony Bin. Life is some serious shit.
 
I am one of the lucky ones. To wit: I have a roof over my head. I have food. Yes, I am on SSDI. Yes, it's a constant battle to get any kind of health care at all. It just forces me to be very discerning and ask lots of questions, and not necessarily about the particular health problem I may be dealing with at the time. So, enough of my organ recital.

I got my second chance; I suspect one of the reasons I am having such a bad time at this point, is I have nothing to really engage me, nothing that makes me feel alive NOW. That is a terrible thing to say. I have a good man in my life, whom I love beyond reason. I have countless friends who love me and whom I adore. I am still after 56 years of sloth, indolence, carelessness and general indifference, intensely interested by the human condition. I am curious, awed, moved, amused, bemused, exhilarated and disgusted by the way we treat one another. Everything we do has a consequence, everything we do matters and matters greatly. To quote Arthur Miller, "Attention must be paid."

When JC and I were coming home the other day on the Bus, a woman was standing out in the rain trying to sell the little newspaper that homeless people can "sell" for 1.00 to earn money since panhandling has been outlawed in Hillsborough County. This is the most asinine law. The lawmakers here resisted it for a few years, but the law was passed across the bay in Pinellas County, so it was simply a matter of time. I know all the arguments about the homeless. I've been there. I was homeless and it really sucked and I got un-homeless just as fast as I could. Truth be told? If I hadn't been so goddamned sick that I spent 2 months in the hospital and I was a shoo-in for SSDI, I'd probably still be homeless, nearly two years later. Shudder. 

Anyway. This woman is standing in the rain trying to sell her wet newspaper. Debby is borin... er, raining on her; she's wet, her little paper's wet, and I can't get out of my goddamned bus seat to get to the door to get her a damned dollar because the light changes and I trip over whackamole. I cried all the way downtown. Life can just suck. I want to help people like that. That lady needs help. She doesn't need condemning. She's not one of these people who's getting a check once a month and blowing it by the 3rd of the month. They live across the street from where I live now. I have to stop. I will tell more. Much more and not just about the homeless, but the system and their absurdities. Maybe I can find some answers and some concrete ones.

Please come back; I have more to tell. I want to help in my little patch of Nebraska Avenue. It isn't just about being funny or being insane, it's about doing what I can here with the not insubstantial tools I possess; just don't ask me to drive. I can become engaged and feel alive again.