Morley's Dog!
Years ago when the stars shone brightly in my eyes and I had far more sense than I do today I would visit a friend in Johnstown PA. He was part of a living architecture program sponsored by the Pennsylvania State University. A group of students inhabited a low rent house in a back tide water neighborhood of Johnstown. About ten of them went about applying their architecture magic to small scale urban planning deep in the craw of the Little Conemaugh River Valley.
Weekends I would drive into Cambria County following the side of the hill above the River until the industrial descent into town. My friend Terry and his cohorts would greet me. We'd have a beer and settle most of the world's problems. It was a good time, sleeping on the floor and having coffee on a door, sanded smooth tan, fashioned into a table, designer chic, in the morning.
'Course everyone knows what happened in Johnstown, PA. Twice! On May 31, 1889, a dam ill maintained by bunch of big wig fat capitalists up from the wealth of Pittsburgh, The South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club sprang a leak during a heavy rain and cascaded a 40 foot wave of water down into the little town of Johnstown. Oops! No more sailboats on the lake up in the mountains! I would have been in a world of trouble sleeping on the first story living room on that day.
Several of us would take lazy walks on autumn afternoons. Eat a chili dog, notice the effect of France en Provence on PA house buildings. Sing praises of Louis H Sullivan and Louis I. Kahn and Beaux Arts. I learned more architecture those days than I would have in course at the University. I still judge a building on the attention paid to the lavatories. I was told, “If the detail isn't there it isn't in the structure either.”
On one of those strolls when we traipsed into Johnstown proper, my eyes lighted on the bronze statue of a dog.
"What the hell is that all about?" I asked. They told me
The day of the flood, liquid seeping and breaking the earthen dam works, starting a wall of water, speeding and growing with the aid of that self same gravity that struck Newton on his head, following Second Law, the least path down into the valley below, taking with it houses, trees, a locomotive engine, bridgeworks, the now silent and cold works of a steel mill, o! the humanity, farm animals, boulders mixed in a deadly forceful concoction. The dog, Morley's Dog, sensing the world of wet and harm that was about to envelop everyone, began racing up the streets barking a warning for the citizenry to hear. Perilous flood waters. Saving, I presume a life or so. And in reward, a statue in celebration of his bravery.
My perverse nature, in the face of the story, began to ask questions, which quite frankly will dull the gleam of the story, but I felt that I had to ask.
How is it that this mongrel pooch could do what only the Psychic Friends Hotline can do, in our day and rather frivolous age, namely foretell an encroaching disaster? Did his excellent doggie nose smell the water in the air? Did his doggie senses perceive the change in atmospheric pressure that must have raced along in front of the deluge? Did his miraculous ears hear the roar of the raging monster? Or did he use all those senses in some sort of doggy intuition that foresaw the doom that was about to befall the poor people of Johnstown?
Ultimately I gave Morey's pup the benefit of the doubt. Somehow this heroic canine did sniff out the danger aborning .
But what really dogs and bogs me down was who understood him? No one, except for Doctor Doolittle, Rex Harrison and Eddie Murphy, can talk to the animals. Okay, Francis the Talking Mule or Mr. Ed, perhaps Saint Francis and Aesop. But I stop there! People and animals don't communicate in English (or Latin I guess for the Saint). C'mon I know your dog thinks that it’s a human. And isn't it cute that your cat can use the toilet just like normal folks. But What?
They have little brains and never once have I had a stimulating intellectual conversation with one. Except one evening while I was under the influence of several psychotropic substances. I think even a lamp post impressed me with its wit.
The story has bothered me for a long time, yet there was the statue of the dog! I visited Virtual Johnstown and found a picture of the Morley’s cast dog. It turns out that the statue itself is a survivor of the flood. Dragged from the debris and the water and placed in the town square for all to view. The dog has become the mascot of Johnstown. A beer, Morley’s Red was named after it.
Architects lie, I now conclude! What is bothering me even more is why Morley, whoever he was, had the casting of a dog in his front yard.
Tuesday, October 30, 2001
Monday, October 22, 2001
Refrigeration Load Calculation Part II
"Well," I say, "what size walk-in did you have in mind?" There is a pause. When someone balks at this question I know that the ground we are about to cover will mostly be a miasma of swamp.
"I have a space in the basement under the stairs." It starts off badly.
"You want the walk-in to have a slanted ceiling to match the slope of the steps?"
"Can't they?"
"It's unusual but, yes, I suppose so."
"If that's a problem I have a completely empty seven thousand square foot building with twenty foot ceilings out back that I don't use."
“Oh,” I say like a drowning man offered a dry hand, “maybe we should think about the seven thousand square feet.” I take a breath. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with this space?”
“Getting prices!”
I sigh, “No, I mean, what is it that you want to refrigerate?”
“My wife makes great apple pies!”
“Great, why don’t you tell me about the process?”
“Process?”
“Yeah, will you, I don’t know, want to freeze the pies after you bake them? Cool the separate parts of the pie and assemble them for shipment? Precook the pies? Send raw apples?”
“That all sounds good, freeze them maybe…..”
“Why don’t we start at the end? You want to sell the pies that your wife bakes, right?”
“That was one idea we had. But my Uncle Wilfred has an idea about cutting meat.”
“Okay.” I am more nervous by the minute. I have visions of Elsie with an apple in her mouth “Tell me about the meat cutting.”
“Well, Uncle Wil, wants an old fashion butcher shop, you know with the meat rails…”
“Your Uncle is going to receive sides of beef?”
“Yeah and then you know put them up on rails and run them into the walk-in.”
“And then he’ll cut the beef?”
“Well we haven’t figured that out yet!”
“Uhhh, look,” I say in a strained voice, “you really have to make some kind of decision. You know, to get prices.”
“Can’t you give me a price various ways?”
“That, “I assure him “is my specialty.” It has often been bandied about the company that we would be far ahead of the game if we charged only for the quotation and provided the equipment, material and labor gratis.
Okay, now in the Part III, I tell you what you need to know to help this guy. Definitely a bottle of aspirin is in order. The thought that comes unbidden to my brain is, “Why did I think this was funny?” Bear with me we’ll find humor somewhere, I think.
"Well," I say, "what size walk-in did you have in mind?" There is a pause. When someone balks at this question I know that the ground we are about to cover will mostly be a miasma of swamp.
"I have a space in the basement under the stairs." It starts off badly.
"You want the walk-in to have a slanted ceiling to match the slope of the steps?"
"Can't they?"
"It's unusual but, yes, I suppose so."
"If that's a problem I have a completely empty seven thousand square foot building with twenty foot ceilings out back that I don't use."
“Oh,” I say like a drowning man offered a dry hand, “maybe we should think about the seven thousand square feet.” I take a breath. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with this space?”
“Getting prices!”
I sigh, “No, I mean, what is it that you want to refrigerate?”
“My wife makes great apple pies!”
“Great, why don’t you tell me about the process?”
“Process?”
“Yeah, will you, I don’t know, want to freeze the pies after you bake them? Cool the separate parts of the pie and assemble them for shipment? Precook the pies? Send raw apples?”
“That all sounds good, freeze them maybe…..”
“Why don’t we start at the end? You want to sell the pies that your wife bakes, right?”
“That was one idea we had. But my Uncle Wilfred has an idea about cutting meat.”
“Okay.” I am more nervous by the minute. I have visions of Elsie with an apple in her mouth “Tell me about the meat cutting.”
“Well, Uncle Wil, wants an old fashion butcher shop, you know with the meat rails…”
“Your Uncle is going to receive sides of beef?”
“Yeah and then you know put them up on rails and run them into the walk-in.”
“And then he’ll cut the beef?”
“Well we haven’t figured that out yet!”
“Uhhh, look,” I say in a strained voice, “you really have to make some kind of decision. You know, to get prices.”
“Can’t you give me a price various ways?”
“That, “I assure him “is my specialty.” It has often been bandied about the company that we would be far ahead of the game if we charged only for the quotation and provided the equipment, material and labor gratis.
Okay, now in the Part III, I tell you what you need to know to help this guy. Definitely a bottle of aspirin is in order. The thought that comes unbidden to my brain is, “Why did I think this was funny?” Bear with me we’ll find humor somewhere, I think.
Wednesday, October 17, 2001
Refrigeration Load Calculation Part I
What's so funny!
I mean, why do I laugh every time I sit down to figure out what size refrigeration unit is needed to refrigerate and store a product? I'll tell you about the laughter in a moment but first I have the painful task of telling you a few physical constructs and constants.
Senior year in high school I had a diminutive, balding physics teacher who had an uncontrolled eye twitch. We twittered and tittered like small birds. "Blinky" we called him. In whispers behind our cupped hands which if said loudly enough and with enough daring would turn into blooming gales of laughter. From my now stately and advanced age I know that “Blinky” knew what was going on. He had the final laugh in the grade book. One day "Blinky”, talking about our illustrious fourth dimension decided to do away with the second as a means of measurement and to create a new measure that we would use for experimental purposes. That devil in rational scientific school teacher garb chose "an eye blink". A blanket of silence fell over the second floor end of the building physics classroom with its beakers and gauges and spring weights and rheostats now standing at rest. Afterward in the lunch room one flight down and to the right it became the stuff of ridicule, but in that precise eye blink we were stymied, stifled and without speech. I never really did like the guy, but I doff my hat (it would have to be my virtual hat) to him.
So, as "Blinky" would tell you 1 BTU is the amount of heat that must be applied to 1 Pound of Water from 59º to 60º Fahrenheit. An aside or a ramble in the halls of physical reality (something I usually do in parenthesis): the other term I always loved is Standard Air. Standard Air is dry air at 70º Fahrenheit and 14.696 pounds per square inch absolute (psia). See where a ramble takes you. Air (just the good old breathing stuff) exerts a pressure at sea level (every pain in the ass thing in science must be defined, qualified, filtered and explained to tears) on us of roughly 14.7 pounds per square inch and yet we still stand and walk around. It is less in mountains and more in valleys which indicates to me that it is indicative of how long a column of air there is that wighs us down. This really shouldn't surprise you too much. Put a couple two inch 100 pound weights on your head, now add about three inches more. See, science can be painful!
Now "Blinky's" amazing fact number two. You don't really make things cold, what you do is remove heat from them. And what is measurement of heat. Yay! A+, the BTU. Which does stand for British Thermal Unit. Being the patriot that I am I think we should convert to the ATU or American Thermal Unit or the USATU (Well they didn't call it the Great British Thermal Unit did they?) So problems come across my desk everyday. Hey, Joe, says customer, I need a walk-in cooler (or freezer) and how much does that cost? Now, I'm going to break down the rest of this entry into quanta of easy learning. Learn and think lessons, I’ll call them. General Topic: Where is the load in the load calculation?
Say, this is getting long so I am going to make it in at least two parts!
What's so funny!
I mean, why do I laugh every time I sit down to figure out what size refrigeration unit is needed to refrigerate and store a product? I'll tell you about the laughter in a moment but first I have the painful task of telling you a few physical constructs and constants.
Senior year in high school I had a diminutive, balding physics teacher who had an uncontrolled eye twitch. We twittered and tittered like small birds. "Blinky" we called him. In whispers behind our cupped hands which if said loudly enough and with enough daring would turn into blooming gales of laughter. From my now stately and advanced age I know that “Blinky” knew what was going on. He had the final laugh in the grade book. One day "Blinky”, talking about our illustrious fourth dimension decided to do away with the second as a means of measurement and to create a new measure that we would use for experimental purposes. That devil in rational scientific school teacher garb chose "an eye blink". A blanket of silence fell over the second floor end of the building physics classroom with its beakers and gauges and spring weights and rheostats now standing at rest. Afterward in the lunch room one flight down and to the right it became the stuff of ridicule, but in that precise eye blink we were stymied, stifled and without speech. I never really did like the guy, but I doff my hat (it would have to be my virtual hat) to him.
So, as "Blinky" would tell you 1 BTU is the amount of heat that must be applied to 1 Pound of Water from 59º to 60º Fahrenheit. An aside or a ramble in the halls of physical reality (something I usually do in parenthesis): the other term I always loved is Standard Air. Standard Air is dry air at 70º Fahrenheit and 14.696 pounds per square inch absolute (psia). See where a ramble takes you. Air (just the good old breathing stuff) exerts a pressure at sea level (every pain in the ass thing in science must be defined, qualified, filtered and explained to tears) on us of roughly 14.7 pounds per square inch and yet we still stand and walk around. It is less in mountains and more in valleys which indicates to me that it is indicative of how long a column of air there is that wighs us down. This really shouldn't surprise you too much. Put a couple two inch 100 pound weights on your head, now add about three inches more. See, science can be painful!
Now "Blinky's" amazing fact number two. You don't really make things cold, what you do is remove heat from them. And what is measurement of heat. Yay! A+, the BTU. Which does stand for British Thermal Unit. Being the patriot that I am I think we should convert to the ATU or American Thermal Unit or the USATU (Well they didn't call it the Great British Thermal Unit did they?) So problems come across my desk everyday. Hey, Joe, says customer, I need a walk-in cooler (or freezer) and how much does that cost? Now, I'm going to break down the rest of this entry into quanta of easy learning. Learn and think lessons, I’ll call them. General Topic: Where is the load in the load calculation?
Say, this is getting long so I am going to make it in at least two parts!
Tuesday, October 09, 2001
Tuesday, October 09, 2001 5:19:42 PM
Backyard - Picnic Table - Squirrels- Trees- Wine. You know the drill, except I have on several layers of clothing. Across the valley the local football team is making sounds like boots in basic training. WhoHa!
COPS!
No, this isn't going to be a tirade. Never once will I use the word PIG except ........ I know a cop's job is hard and thankless. Hell, I couldn't stand it when I was a patrol boy in the sixth grade and a cute little first grade girl cried because I looked so threatening goose-stepping up and down the aisles of the bus. I think the principal chose me for duty because of the imposing flab of my body in the first place. After countless afternoons of her tears, I got a kind of Frankenstein complex. I examined my head each night for bolts. Nothing was ever there, just a fat neck, a shiny badge and a white belt. Yet the little girl still cowered in her seat when all I did was, well, patrol.
Don't think I don't have empathy for people who wear shiny badges and can give you tickets because you break some irrelevant law that some governmental father figure thought would both protect us and keep us from having any fun. I don't hate 'em, honest! I understand 'em. What I don't get is; why don't they train them.
On the north side of the Allegheny River was started this summer in merry may a project that completely dismantled the roadway. I mean, only the concrete pillars were left standing. The entire bloody overpass came down and since we are not up yet to Jetson flying technology, the rotten sniveling bastards from across the river came in hordes over to my side and totally screwed up traffic. I did and do consider it a personal affront. "Damn Tourists!" I hiss every morning as they pour off the Highland Park Bridge on to my personal roadway. It just ain't fair. But I learned to live with it and it is October and the other side of the river now sports happy new steel beams sitting proudly on concrete pillars, but not yet any roadway.
This morning traffic was abhorrent. As I approached the Fleming Bridge from the south I noticed that cars were backed up all the way across the bridge and out on to the Butler Street. My mind goes numb in situations like this. If I lived in England where the people queue up if someone stands still for an instant, I would long ago have been taken away, my arms secure against my side, billowing a spray of spittle and howling like a wild hyena. If a fast food restaurant has a line of, say, more than two people I walk out in disgust. I am irrational about this. I know it. But it doesn't stop the knot in my stomach which reaches to a kink in my brain.
There was nothing for it this morning. I sat on the bridge while I conjured up images of cars falling into the river and the means that I would use to get off the bridge when it happened. There must be an accident. I thought. Dead people and crushed cars. Surely the ambulances were blocking traffic. I ticked off all the possibilities. I was in a Twilight Zone episode where time stopped. I was in Hell where you wait in line for everything and never reach the front. Then it came to me and I knew what was going on.
There was a cop directing traffic! And sure enough when I got close to the end of the bridge. A traffic officer!
I don't know if the guy never had any logic in school, or if he was hopelessly flummoxed by a Rubik Cube, or if Big Blue beat him badly in a game of chess, or if was the only job that they could find for him. I sat and watched the sad spectacle. Until that is there were no cars at any of the other sections of the intersection except for mine. We sat. No one moved. The cop was looking every direction but mine. I pounded the dash board of my car. I honked and then I beeped the horn. To no avail. There was some reasoning far greater than I could figure running this guy. Traffic was probably backed up passed Allegheny River Boulevard to Toronto, Canada. Eventually, a car that must have started several hours earlier in downtown Pittsburgh came slowly down the very empty ramp from Route 28 North made a right turn and moved in the opposite direction up and off the bridge. And, Ay God, there was a still a hesitation from the fine officer. He must have then figured that we had served enough of a jail term, so he smiled and waved us on. I swear, right hand up to God, one more block and a second cop stopped us for another line that coming from the East must have been backed up with cars longer than a freight train.
Did you ever see the cop on Candid Camera? Vic Cianca. He was downtown at various intersections. He could move traffic. Isn't there film of his hand signals, his body moves even the expressions on his face somewhere for study? Can't the Police Academy structure a course; Move the Traffic Along 101, based on his moves. Vic are you up there shaking your head?
I hope they're pouring concrete tonight. I can't take a whole lot more. For now, I'm pouring some wine!
Backyard - Picnic Table - Squirrels- Trees- Wine. You know the drill, except I have on several layers of clothing. Across the valley the local football team is making sounds like boots in basic training. WhoHa!
COPS!
No, this isn't going to be a tirade. Never once will I use the word PIG except ........ I know a cop's job is hard and thankless. Hell, I couldn't stand it when I was a patrol boy in the sixth grade and a cute little first grade girl cried because I looked so threatening goose-stepping up and down the aisles of the bus. I think the principal chose me for duty because of the imposing flab of my body in the first place. After countless afternoons of her tears, I got a kind of Frankenstein complex. I examined my head each night for bolts. Nothing was ever there, just a fat neck, a shiny badge and a white belt. Yet the little girl still cowered in her seat when all I did was, well, patrol.
Don't think I don't have empathy for people who wear shiny badges and can give you tickets because you break some irrelevant law that some governmental father figure thought would both protect us and keep us from having any fun. I don't hate 'em, honest! I understand 'em. What I don't get is; why don't they train them.
On the north side of the Allegheny River was started this summer in merry may a project that completely dismantled the roadway. I mean, only the concrete pillars were left standing. The entire bloody overpass came down and since we are not up yet to Jetson flying technology, the rotten sniveling bastards from across the river came in hordes over to my side and totally screwed up traffic. I did and do consider it a personal affront. "Damn Tourists!" I hiss every morning as they pour off the Highland Park Bridge on to my personal roadway. It just ain't fair. But I learned to live with it and it is October and the other side of the river now sports happy new steel beams sitting proudly on concrete pillars, but not yet any roadway.
This morning traffic was abhorrent. As I approached the Fleming Bridge from the south I noticed that cars were backed up all the way across the bridge and out on to the Butler Street. My mind goes numb in situations like this. If I lived in England where the people queue up if someone stands still for an instant, I would long ago have been taken away, my arms secure against my side, billowing a spray of spittle and howling like a wild hyena. If a fast food restaurant has a line of, say, more than two people I walk out in disgust. I am irrational about this. I know it. But it doesn't stop the knot in my stomach which reaches to a kink in my brain.
There was nothing for it this morning. I sat on the bridge while I conjured up images of cars falling into the river and the means that I would use to get off the bridge when it happened. There must be an accident. I thought. Dead people and crushed cars. Surely the ambulances were blocking traffic. I ticked off all the possibilities. I was in a Twilight Zone episode where time stopped. I was in Hell where you wait in line for everything and never reach the front. Then it came to me and I knew what was going on.
There was a cop directing traffic! And sure enough when I got close to the end of the bridge. A traffic officer!
I don't know if the guy never had any logic in school, or if he was hopelessly flummoxed by a Rubik Cube, or if Big Blue beat him badly in a game of chess, or if was the only job that they could find for him. I sat and watched the sad spectacle. Until that is there were no cars at any of the other sections of the intersection except for mine. We sat. No one moved. The cop was looking every direction but mine. I pounded the dash board of my car. I honked and then I beeped the horn. To no avail. There was some reasoning far greater than I could figure running this guy. Traffic was probably backed up passed Allegheny River Boulevard to Toronto, Canada. Eventually, a car that must have started several hours earlier in downtown Pittsburgh came slowly down the very empty ramp from Route 28 North made a right turn and moved in the opposite direction up and off the bridge. And, Ay God, there was a still a hesitation from the fine officer. He must have then figured that we had served enough of a jail term, so he smiled and waved us on. I swear, right hand up to God, one more block and a second cop stopped us for another line that coming from the East must have been backed up with cars longer than a freight train.
Did you ever see the cop on Candid Camera? Vic Cianca. He was downtown at various intersections. He could move traffic. Isn't there film of his hand signals, his body moves even the expressions on his face somewhere for study? Can't the Police Academy structure a course; Move the Traffic Along 101, based on his moves. Vic are you up there shaking your head?
I hope they're pouring concrete tonight. I can't take a whole lot more. For now, I'm pouring some wine!
Saturday, October 06, 2001
Saturday, October 06, 2001 7:51:06 AM
Panera Monroeville - Pumpkin Bagel, Hazelnut Coffee
Trying to think of a topic for the Blog
Hey! how about last night’s meeting?
Lackzoom Legal Remedies
Dean, Foley and I sat down last night after a swell dinner of cat fish (not straight from the Mon)(Marc lives in Boston where you can get scrod, but you can't get a river fish) potatoes, avocados , California string beans, Chambersburg Peaches, Coq Au Vin, a soupçon of Neapolitan Minestrone, the second liver of a Venusian Gutter Snipe, and great greasy glasses of Griesedick, okay so I got carried away, we only had the first three, which were great, but didn't seem to make such an impressive list while I was writing this morning..
After the food we cleared the boards and sat down to fifteen pages of torturous legal prose in the form of a contract from www.mp3.com known as "we" or "us" and Lackzoom Acidophilus know as "you". It took a couple hours which I bet any lawyer worth his gelt could read, and more incredibly understand, in a short order. But Dammit! this is important! we kept saying to each other as one or the other of us would nod off or would have a flight of fantasy about retiring with scads of money falling from our pockets as they (tearful and groveling fans) lower our jewel encrusted gold plated coffin into the ground.
And important it is!
Because we are making our tentative steps out of the undifferentiated sea of comic obscurity on to the shore of the continent of commercial virtual realty. (Believe me, it ain't reality, friends) Our behavior, I assure you, will necessarily remain incontinent.
We have, at great cost ($7.95 each a year), reserved not only www.lackzoom.org but www.lackzoom.net and are looking for a place to (to keep to the seafaring metaphor) anchor them in the tempestuous wash of Internet swill. They will, when active, at first point to this blog and to ...possibly mp3.com, if we so choose, but surely someplace where folks will be able to hear (please click on the audio file) the various and sundry bits of comedy that we have for the last year been producing. But there are grand plans hatching for this web site. It will take time, treasure, and talent, two of which we have in varying quantities.
Decisions will be made in the next couple weeks. Hell, yeah! you should stay tuned. It's important!
Panera Monroeville - Pumpkin Bagel, Hazelnut Coffee
Trying to think of a topic for the Blog
Hey! how about last night’s meeting?
Lackzoom Legal Remedies
Dean, Foley and I sat down last night after a swell dinner of cat fish (not straight from the Mon)(Marc lives in Boston where you can get scrod, but you can't get a river fish) potatoes, avocados , California string beans, Chambersburg Peaches, Coq Au Vin, a soupçon of Neapolitan Minestrone, the second liver of a Venusian Gutter Snipe, and great greasy glasses of Griesedick, okay so I got carried away, we only had the first three, which were great, but didn't seem to make such an impressive list while I was writing this morning..
After the food we cleared the boards and sat down to fifteen pages of torturous legal prose in the form of a contract from www.mp3.com known as "we" or "us" and Lackzoom Acidophilus know as "you". It took a couple hours which I bet any lawyer worth his gelt could read, and more incredibly understand, in a short order. But Dammit! this is important! we kept saying to each other as one or the other of us would nod off or would have a flight of fantasy about retiring with scads of money falling from our pockets as they (tearful and groveling fans) lower our jewel encrusted gold plated coffin into the ground.
And important it is!
Because we are making our tentative steps out of the undifferentiated sea of comic obscurity on to the shore of the continent of commercial virtual realty. (Believe me, it ain't reality, friends) Our behavior, I assure you, will necessarily remain incontinent.
We have, at great cost ($7.95 each a year), reserved not only www.lackzoom.org but www.lackzoom.net and are looking for a place to (to keep to the seafaring metaphor) anchor them in the tempestuous wash of Internet swill. They will, when active, at first point to this blog and to ...possibly mp3.com, if we so choose, but surely someplace where folks will be able to hear (please click on the audio file) the various and sundry bits of comedy that we have for the last year been producing. But there are grand plans hatching for this web site. It will take time, treasure, and talent, two of which we have in varying quantities.
Decisions will be made in the next couple weeks. Hell, yeah! you should stay tuned. It's important!
Thursday, October 04, 2001
Fried Clams and Jailbait Installment #3
I looked closely into the deep black of her eyes. The pupils reflected interrupted light caused by a slow rotation of ceiling fan above and behind me. Her hair ruby, burning, cascaded down her back. The sweet shampoo that she used mingled with her subtle perfume to create a wonderful bouquet.
I sniffed deeply then shrugged my shoulders and moved forward in my seat tipping my wine onto the white table cloth. Only the little liquid left spilled and I dabbed at the growing red spot with my napkin. Emilio appeared; cleaning the table; fluffing a new table cloth in the air. Like a magician covering his assistant in preparation for some mischievous trick, he floated the sheet on to the table, whisked it twice with the back of his hand and gave us new service and a fresh bottle of Chianti.
The girl never said a word, just looked at me with sparking eyes. I apologized weakly as I pushed non-existent crumbs from my suit pants to the floor. I shrugged again and filled her glass.
“Would you like to order now, Signore Doctor?”
“What,” she asked her voice a knife cutting through the air, “You have to ask, Pappy?”
For a brief moment Emilio stiffened, lost his composure, and then he asked gently, “Doctor?”
“Why don’t you fix something special for both of us, old friend.”
He nodded his head, smiled and walked toward the kitchen.
"My name is Maria Petruzzi."
"Ah," I said, "of course! I knew your father!"
"Yes he worked here for many years."
I had not seen him for a long time. I said so. "How is he?"
She hesitated and my eyes fell toward the necklace that she was wearing that rested gold against the white of her blouse. "You knew my mother as well."
"I did?" Hanging from the end of the chain was a tiny locket. Figured with a lovely Florentine pattern engraved on the face of it‘s heart shape.
"Yes." she said it evenly, flatly. The light gone from her eyes.
"I never even knew that Enrico was married."
"He wasn't."
I looked closely into the deep black of her eyes. The pupils reflected interrupted light caused by a slow rotation of ceiling fan above and behind me. Her hair ruby, burning, cascaded down her back. The sweet shampoo that she used mingled with her subtle perfume to create a wonderful bouquet.
I sniffed deeply then shrugged my shoulders and moved forward in my seat tipping my wine onto the white table cloth. Only the little liquid left spilled and I dabbed at the growing red spot with my napkin. Emilio appeared; cleaning the table; fluffing a new table cloth in the air. Like a magician covering his assistant in preparation for some mischievous trick, he floated the sheet on to the table, whisked it twice with the back of his hand and gave us new service and a fresh bottle of Chianti.
The girl never said a word, just looked at me with sparking eyes. I apologized weakly as I pushed non-existent crumbs from my suit pants to the floor. I shrugged again and filled her glass.
“Would you like to order now, Signore Doctor?”
“What,” she asked her voice a knife cutting through the air, “You have to ask, Pappy?”
For a brief moment Emilio stiffened, lost his composure, and then he asked gently, “Doctor?”
“Why don’t you fix something special for both of us, old friend.”
He nodded his head, smiled and walked toward the kitchen.
"My name is Maria Petruzzi."
"Ah," I said, "of course! I knew your father!"
"Yes he worked here for many years."
I had not seen him for a long time. I said so. "How is he?"
She hesitated and my eyes fell toward the necklace that she was wearing that rested gold against the white of her blouse. "You knew my mother as well."
"I did?" Hanging from the end of the chain was a tiny locket. Figured with a lovely Florentine pattern engraved on the face of it‘s heart shape.
"Yes." she said it evenly, flatly. The light gone from her eyes.
"I never even knew that Enrico was married."
"He wasn't."
Monday, October 01, 2001
Monday, October 01, 2001 6:06:57 PM
This is one of the last days of the year when I can sit out here in the back yard with the laughing squirrels and the drooping sun flower plants. My mind turns, surely this evening, surely as a compass needle twitches towards magnetic north, toward Duke, the Wonder Dog!
A bit of history for enlightenment, please, maestro!
It was circa 1975 give or take a year, mostly take. The only comedy clubs in America were in San Fran, LA or New York and a tip of the hat to Second City. So we of Lackzoom, in the grand tradition of Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, produced our own shows. We would rent a barn like space, print posters that would get tacked to utility poles, and, if we were firing all three cylinders, a newspaper interview, just for the publicity please. There is a picture of me in a turtle suit and Marc as a Martian that made the late edition of - I think - the now defunct Pittsburgh Press. Definitely the big-time.
At first we were tentative. Didn't trust our comedic instincts. We would ask others to perform with us. I think the highest price we ever charged was $ 1.50 per ticket. Actually, we didn't have tickets just Gelt in Hand at the Door stuffed into a shoe box. The show would sometimes last four or five hours. The poor audience sure got their money's worth.
The night that Duke performed there was a Magician, The Flying Zuchini Brothers, B Futz and his all Girl Review singing entr’acte, two sets of Lazkzoom, but before our first appearance - Duke the Wonder Dog!
I swear, I don't know how we found Duke and his Master. My suspicion has always been that they walked in off the street. The audience, by now molded into a crack comedy cluster, after being wowed by a magician, surprised by the antics of the Zuchinis and serenaded by Futz with his rendition of Hey, There Little Girl I Want Your Cookies was ready for anything as Duke took Center Stage . There were all kinds of paraphernalia on display. Step stools, boxes of matches, balls, open backed chairs, one of those pedestals that lions stand on in the circus, things that squeak in a mutt's mouth, most of all an aquarium and a raw egg! Duke was a mottled gray wonder of a German Shepard, Rin Tin Tin looking. Bright as all get out, unlike his Master.
Master: I want yins all to meet Duke, the Wonder Dog!
Audience: (Applause.)
Master: Say, hello, Duke!
Duke: Growl and Bark! (No you, nit, Duke didn't talk he was a Wonder Dog, not an escapee from Doctor Doolittle!)
Master: (with a grin) Hey, ye're simple Duke! (Looks toward the audience)
Audience: (An uneasy laugh! A cough or two.)
And then Duke goes through a couple of tricks. Lights a match! Smokes a Kool! Acts like a cowering cat. Barks America the Beautiful. Plays a drunk in a bar (Wait, maybe that was me later on).
Duke, pro marvel that he is, goes through the act, probably a little bored and definitely tired of being called “Simple!” and swatted on his back, which is causing a certain disquiet and an sympathetic backlash in an audience that is not particularly made up of animal rights activists, just plain folks with a great regard for Fido and Fluffy sitting peacefully at home with the kids and baby sitter. Duke was rapidly gaining their compassion.
The finale:
Master: As most of yins know dogs don't like to stick their heads unner water!
(Well, hell, I never knew that, but it made as much sense as anything we had seen. My mind and spirit went along for the ride)
The master with a water hose commandeered from the kitchen, begins to fill about a thirty gallon aquarium with honest to God Monongahela Tap while he patters on about the fact that it is hard for a dog to pick up a raw egg without breaking it between his powerful jaws.
(Sure! You can sense what is coming!)
Master commands dog to pick up the raw egg, proof positive, I suppose, that Duke is indeed a Wonder. Duke balks just as he is about to put his chompers around the frail egg. Master says (yep), "Y'ere simple Duke and shoves the dog's head down hard, smacking doggy jaw against the floor. The audience, who has been up until now patiently knitting, begins to erect a guillotine. Duke to his credit and to my anguish sucks it up and picks up the egg in his powerful jaws...then gently sets it back on the floor, unscathed. He's a Wonder! He growls triumphantly. Proving to everyone who the really simple one is.
A deathly silence fills the room as Duke's Master puts the slobbery egg into the bottom of the aquarium!
The audience begins collectively gasping for breath in the electric air as the sheer terror of what is about to happen simmers slowly into their consciousness.
Master: Duke! (The master commands, the dog isn't even looking at him any more) Get that egg!
Duke does not move a muscle.
Master: Grabs the dog's head. Lifts it up higher than the edge of the tank, over the water. It is clear now by the menacing canine growls of both Duke and the audience that they are all shocked beyond any relief and mightily pissed.
Master: And shoves Duke's bristling head into the aquarium!
Long suffering, Duke, is, at last, done. His drenched head comes out of the water sputtering. The sounds that he is making would frighten a pack of tigers on the prowl. His hackles up, Duke is at the end of his poor doggy patience and the audience is cheering him on!
I wish I could say that Duke tore the guy's arm off and that the people finished him, but Master Yins, even his dim bulb finally beginning a smoldering glow of understanding, senses his defeat, and pulls Duke by his choker toward the kitchen and the rear door. That was the last that we ever saw them. I still gnaw on the squeaky thing later at night after watching Lassie on the Animal Channel.
After a rousing intermission. We performed our comedy until about one AM.
This is one of the last days of the year when I can sit out here in the back yard with the laughing squirrels and the drooping sun flower plants. My mind turns, surely this evening, surely as a compass needle twitches towards magnetic north, toward Duke, the Wonder Dog!
A bit of history for enlightenment, please, maestro!
It was circa 1975 give or take a year, mostly take. The only comedy clubs in America were in San Fran, LA or New York and a tip of the hat to Second City. So we of Lackzoom, in the grand tradition of Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, produced our own shows. We would rent a barn like space, print posters that would get tacked to utility poles, and, if we were firing all three cylinders, a newspaper interview, just for the publicity please. There is a picture of me in a turtle suit and Marc as a Martian that made the late edition of - I think - the now defunct Pittsburgh Press. Definitely the big-time.
At first we were tentative. Didn't trust our comedic instincts. We would ask others to perform with us. I think the highest price we ever charged was $ 1.50 per ticket. Actually, we didn't have tickets just Gelt in Hand at the Door stuffed into a shoe box. The show would sometimes last four or five hours. The poor audience sure got their money's worth.
The night that Duke performed there was a Magician, The Flying Zuchini Brothers, B Futz and his all Girl Review singing entr’acte, two sets of Lazkzoom, but before our first appearance - Duke the Wonder Dog!
I swear, I don't know how we found Duke and his Master. My suspicion has always been that they walked in off the street. The audience, by now molded into a crack comedy cluster, after being wowed by a magician, surprised by the antics of the Zuchinis and serenaded by Futz with his rendition of Hey, There Little Girl I Want Your Cookies was ready for anything as Duke took Center Stage . There were all kinds of paraphernalia on display. Step stools, boxes of matches, balls, open backed chairs, one of those pedestals that lions stand on in the circus, things that squeak in a mutt's mouth, most of all an aquarium and a raw egg! Duke was a mottled gray wonder of a German Shepard, Rin Tin Tin looking. Bright as all get out, unlike his Master.
Master: I want yins all to meet Duke, the Wonder Dog!
Audience: (Applause.)
Master: Say, hello, Duke!
Duke: Growl and Bark! (No you, nit, Duke didn't talk he was a Wonder Dog, not an escapee from Doctor Doolittle!)
Master: (with a grin) Hey, ye're simple Duke! (Looks toward the audience)
Audience: (An uneasy laugh! A cough or two.)
And then Duke goes through a couple of tricks. Lights a match! Smokes a Kool! Acts like a cowering cat. Barks America the Beautiful. Plays a drunk in a bar (Wait, maybe that was me later on).
Duke, pro marvel that he is, goes through the act, probably a little bored and definitely tired of being called “Simple!” and swatted on his back, which is causing a certain disquiet and an sympathetic backlash in an audience that is not particularly made up of animal rights activists, just plain folks with a great regard for Fido and Fluffy sitting peacefully at home with the kids and baby sitter. Duke was rapidly gaining their compassion.
The finale:
Master: As most of yins know dogs don't like to stick their heads unner water!
(Well, hell, I never knew that, but it made as much sense as anything we had seen. My mind and spirit went along for the ride)
The master with a water hose commandeered from the kitchen, begins to fill about a thirty gallon aquarium with honest to God Monongahela Tap while he patters on about the fact that it is hard for a dog to pick up a raw egg without breaking it between his powerful jaws.
(Sure! You can sense what is coming!)
Master commands dog to pick up the raw egg, proof positive, I suppose, that Duke is indeed a Wonder. Duke balks just as he is about to put his chompers around the frail egg. Master says (yep), "Y'ere simple Duke and shoves the dog's head down hard, smacking doggy jaw against the floor. The audience, who has been up until now patiently knitting, begins to erect a guillotine. Duke to his credit and to my anguish sucks it up and picks up the egg in his powerful jaws...then gently sets it back on the floor, unscathed. He's a Wonder! He growls triumphantly. Proving to everyone who the really simple one is.
A deathly silence fills the room as Duke's Master puts the slobbery egg into the bottom of the aquarium!
The audience begins collectively gasping for breath in the electric air as the sheer terror of what is about to happen simmers slowly into their consciousness.
Master: Duke! (The master commands, the dog isn't even looking at him any more) Get that egg!
Duke does not move a muscle.
Master: Grabs the dog's head. Lifts it up higher than the edge of the tank, over the water. It is clear now by the menacing canine growls of both Duke and the audience that they are all shocked beyond any relief and mightily pissed.
Master: And shoves Duke's bristling head into the aquarium!
Long suffering, Duke, is, at last, done. His drenched head comes out of the water sputtering. The sounds that he is making would frighten a pack of tigers on the prowl. His hackles up, Duke is at the end of his poor doggy patience and the audience is cheering him on!
I wish I could say that Duke tore the guy's arm off and that the people finished him, but Master Yins, even his dim bulb finally beginning a smoldering glow of understanding, senses his defeat, and pulls Duke by his choker toward the kitchen and the rear door. That was the last that we ever saw them. I still gnaw on the squeaky thing later at night after watching Lassie on the Animal Channel.
After a rousing intermission. We performed our comedy until about one AM.