“Uh-huh! That cat!” This was my helper, commenting on my first attempts at Chinese calligraphy. My work was simply a mimicking of what she’d just written on a scrap of brown paper bag. The whole improbable episode was prompted by a young friend passing along the market’s avenue, sporting a cap that bore the symbol of his college. Their mascot was a cat, but the Chinese writing on the young man’s cap represented a lion. My helper was quick to point this out.
“That LION, not CAT!” she said.
“Well, it’s supposed to be a cat,” he said.
“Not cat! Lion! Different!” She was pretty adamant about this, and I had to trust her, since this was after all her language the school was putting into play.
We were idling away the afternoon, with the market patrons paying little heed to my offerings, so I asked to see her rendering of the word “cat” in Chinese. Actually, the day’s customers had mostly bought up what I’d brought, and seemed unimpressed with the remaining items in the wooden cases, so it seemed a good time to digress from the regular market activities. She took a marker and produced some impressive lines on the scrap of bag she’d torn off, pointed out that she’d written the words for three animals: ‘Cat,’ ‘Dog,’ and ‘Lion.’
I took a thin and cheap pen, copied the lines for ‘cat’ as best I could, showed them to her.
“Uh-huh! That cat!”
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
GIANT TURKEY LEGS
I made my way through the huge art festival that descends on the city each year, plodding along with the mass of people flowing like a sluggish river in the moist July air. A man passed me eating a corn-dog, his baseball cap turned backwards in the current style. Beyond the man read a sign that said: GIANT TURKEY LEGS. I thought about the corn-dog, dismissed it, since I’d recently eaten before heading out to the festival. Otherwise, this might have been an attractive choice for my evening meal. Then I imagined myself with a giant turkey leg, nibbling at it in a desultory kind of way as the heat and masses of people enveloped me. It was all too much: I had to sit and shake the thoughts from my mind. The giant turkey leg oppressed me, as did the constant crush of people that I actually tolerated a little better than usual. I wandered over to a display, put out in front of the train station, that depicted images of happy, well-adjusted people, their eyes sparkling with contentment and fulfillment. It had a name like “City Happy People’s Faces Project,” or something like that. The others who were looking at the photographic portraits of course knew many of the faces.
“Oh, Look! There’s Ted!”
“Over there is Amy!”
“Here’s Josh and Sandra!”
I know many faces from the city, not necessarily their names, but recognized not one of these people. I started off again, the thought of a giant turkey leg still gnawing at me a bit.
Along a main thoroughfare of art and exhibits and other interesting things were some interactive displays. One little booth featured a broken-down set of drums and a keyboard or electronic instrument dating maybe from the seventies. You could sit at one or the other and put on a little performance. A man was playing the outdated keyboard, hammering out a melody, while another man struggled with the broken drums. I was interested in this display, because it was like a nightmare come to life. There have been times—long ago, but not recently—when I’ve imagined putting on a concert-hall performance with a big national band, my place being improbably at the helm of a gleaming set of chromed drums with exquisite wood and finely tuned for the best possible sound. There would be people around, minions, adjusting things and asking if everything was all right. We’re ready to start, I pick up the sticks, realize with horror and frustration that they are nothing but broken toothpicks—splintered into useless fragments. Nothing is too clear after that, but you get the point. The tableau playing out before me was like my dream, with the drums in this place all topsy-turvy, only a few hastily thrown-together cast-offs with nothing in the way of a snare drum, and the equipment for the most part non-functional. The encouraging sign read: “Be Heard! Play music!” or something along those lines. It could just as easily have read: “Welcome to My Nightmare! Enjoy!” For his part, the man at the electronic keyboards was actually playing something; the only movements on the part of the would-be drummer were those of a frustrated man trying without success to get the drum kit in working order.
Farther up the avenue was a real band, playing with a horn section and broadcasting their sound from high up on a stage in the middle of the closed-off street. I managed to catch the last bit of their last song, and they put on an energetic and captivating performance—with all musicians at the top of their game. The consisted of four horns, an acoustic bass, drums, keyboard, electric guitar, and maybe something else I’m forgetting at the moment. They had a fast honky-tonk or swing style that had a few people dancing in the heavy, sticky air. Their lead man, a charismatic fellow at the keyboard, was more than good at his instrument, and his vocals helped propel the sound along and tap into the audience’s enthusiasm. It was probably the highlight of the festival, and my thoughts turned no more to giant turkey legs.
I passed by the many booths set up to serve food, didn’t even buy a lemonade on this sweltering evening. I headed back to the car, which I’d fortunately parked in the immediate vicinity of the festival. This is almost unheard of, and I relished my good luck as I wended my way through the packed thoroughfare, with the thumping of rap and hip-hop emanating from some unseen stage, and people yelling things through loudspeakers. I began to feel just a little dizzy, maybe from the heat or want of sleep, and decided to make a real effort to retrieve the car without getting lost. Awash in a super-heated and slow-moving river of humanity, it is easy to lose one’s bearings. At least, it is for me. I got headed in the direction of the big Ferris wheel they’d set up for this thing, and managed to cross the light rail line without getting snagged by a passing train. They had officers there whose job it was to blow whistles and signal the safe take-off and stopping of the trains, and to make sure that no one walked in front of the rail cars. Then it was just a block or two to the car, with again the shouts of merrymakers and sidewalk revelers providing an accompanying soundtrack to the hot July evening. I was glad to get in the little station wagon, turn the key, and head out to the street for an unimpeded drive back home.
“Oh, Look! There’s Ted!”
“Over there is Amy!”
“Here’s Josh and Sandra!”
I know many faces from the city, not necessarily their names, but recognized not one of these people. I started off again, the thought of a giant turkey leg still gnawing at me a bit.
Along a main thoroughfare of art and exhibits and other interesting things were some interactive displays. One little booth featured a broken-down set of drums and a keyboard or electronic instrument dating maybe from the seventies. You could sit at one or the other and put on a little performance. A man was playing the outdated keyboard, hammering out a melody, while another man struggled with the broken drums. I was interested in this display, because it was like a nightmare come to life. There have been times—long ago, but not recently—when I’ve imagined putting on a concert-hall performance with a big national band, my place being improbably at the helm of a gleaming set of chromed drums with exquisite wood and finely tuned for the best possible sound. There would be people around, minions, adjusting things and asking if everything was all right. We’re ready to start, I pick up the sticks, realize with horror and frustration that they are nothing but broken toothpicks—splintered into useless fragments. Nothing is too clear after that, but you get the point. The tableau playing out before me was like my dream, with the drums in this place all topsy-turvy, only a few hastily thrown-together cast-offs with nothing in the way of a snare drum, and the equipment for the most part non-functional. The encouraging sign read: “Be Heard! Play music!” or something along those lines. It could just as easily have read: “Welcome to My Nightmare! Enjoy!” For his part, the man at the electronic keyboards was actually playing something; the only movements on the part of the would-be drummer were those of a frustrated man trying without success to get the drum kit in working order.
Farther up the avenue was a real band, playing with a horn section and broadcasting their sound from high up on a stage in the middle of the closed-off street. I managed to catch the last bit of their last song, and they put on an energetic and captivating performance—with all musicians at the top of their game. The consisted of four horns, an acoustic bass, drums, keyboard, electric guitar, and maybe something else I’m forgetting at the moment. They had a fast honky-tonk or swing style that had a few people dancing in the heavy, sticky air. Their lead man, a charismatic fellow at the keyboard, was more than good at his instrument, and his vocals helped propel the sound along and tap into the audience’s enthusiasm. It was probably the highlight of the festival, and my thoughts turned no more to giant turkey legs.
I passed by the many booths set up to serve food, didn’t even buy a lemonade on this sweltering evening. I headed back to the car, which I’d fortunately parked in the immediate vicinity of the festival. This is almost unheard of, and I relished my good luck as I wended my way through the packed thoroughfare, with the thumping of rap and hip-hop emanating from some unseen stage, and people yelling things through loudspeakers. I began to feel just a little dizzy, maybe from the heat or want of sleep, and decided to make a real effort to retrieve the car without getting lost. Awash in a super-heated and slow-moving river of humanity, it is easy to lose one’s bearings. At least, it is for me. I got headed in the direction of the big Ferris wheel they’d set up for this thing, and managed to cross the light rail line without getting snagged by a passing train. They had officers there whose job it was to blow whistles and signal the safe take-off and stopping of the trains, and to make sure that no one walked in front of the rail cars. Then it was just a block or two to the car, with again the shouts of merrymakers and sidewalk revelers providing an accompanying soundtrack to the hot July evening. I was glad to get in the little station wagon, turn the key, and head out to the street for an unimpeded drive back home.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Basement Windows
July 16, 2008
Today I spent most of the hours available puttering about with the one window I’ve removed completely down in the basement. As I fooled around with the different materials and pieces of wood I’d chosen for the project, it became apparent that I had absolutely no idea of what I was doing. Nothing was going to fit right, that much I knew. And it is pretty important to make a window fit as snugly as possible in the wall. Then those dreaded scenes came creeping into my mind: A crew of a few workers—or even one or two skilled installers—knocking out the whole job in less time than I was spending on one fucking window. They would come out, remove all the old windows in a few minutes, have the new ones installed in about an hour or less, and tidy things up with some new trim to get everything looking nice and modern. All five windows would be done, and they would have expended about as much brainpower on the project as it takes to open a can of soda. Maybe less.
In mid-afternoon, with the fatigue of over-thinking this simple project weighing on me, I went to the big colosso-box that is the rival of the other colosso-box. Their motto is: “Our boards are longer and stiffer than theirs!” Their windows were no closer to the dimensions that I needed for my openings down there, and the people at Ritchie had already told me that I was not going to get basement windows from them. They would be happy to build custom windows for the upper part of the house, but not down there. I consoled myself by buying a tool that I’ve wanted for some time: It fires .22 caliber bullets so that nails and similar fasteners can be driven straight into concrete. I saw one at work once, and thought it looked like fun. I’ll need it down in the basement, where I will be fastening things directly to the concrete block walls. The way it works is like this: You put a special nail in the end of the gizmo, then load it with one of the shells. Then you close the firing chamber, which looks a little like a gun, but not quite. Now you are ready to shoot the thing. You hold the end against the material (in this case a wooden board), and tap the firing pin with a hammer. It emits a loud report and the nail is shot straight through the wood and into the concrete, along with an anchor to hold it fast. My hope is that I don’t shoot my foot with it—but you would really have to try to do something like that. It seems fairly safe, insofar as that’s possible where you have a tool that shoots nails at high velocity.
Back to the windows. I called someone who advertised a tool online that I can use to make a groove into which I can fit the new windows. They only want forty bucks for this tool, which is called a router, and I know that they are fairly expensive to buy brand new. The man told me that he would demonstrate how it works, since I’ve never used one before. The plan is to make grooves in the new lumber that I’m using to build frames for the store-bought windows. If all goes well, the window will fit precisely into the groove, and I can then install the whole assembly as a unit into the wall where the window opening is. I can also secure the frame to the concrete blocks with my new .22 caliber shooter. This project may be completed sometime in the next few weeks, maybe sooner. As long as I don’t shoot my foot off.
Today I spent most of the hours available puttering about with the one window I’ve removed completely down in the basement. As I fooled around with the different materials and pieces of wood I’d chosen for the project, it became apparent that I had absolutely no idea of what I was doing. Nothing was going to fit right, that much I knew. And it is pretty important to make a window fit as snugly as possible in the wall. Then those dreaded scenes came creeping into my mind: A crew of a few workers—or even one or two skilled installers—knocking out the whole job in less time than I was spending on one fucking window. They would come out, remove all the old windows in a few minutes, have the new ones installed in about an hour or less, and tidy things up with some new trim to get everything looking nice and modern. All five windows would be done, and they would have expended about as much brainpower on the project as it takes to open a can of soda. Maybe less.
In mid-afternoon, with the fatigue of over-thinking this simple project weighing on me, I went to the big colosso-box that is the rival of the other colosso-box. Their motto is: “Our boards are longer and stiffer than theirs!” Their windows were no closer to the dimensions that I needed for my openings down there, and the people at Ritchie had already told me that I was not going to get basement windows from them. They would be happy to build custom windows for the upper part of the house, but not down there. I consoled myself by buying a tool that I’ve wanted for some time: It fires .22 caliber bullets so that nails and similar fasteners can be driven straight into concrete. I saw one at work once, and thought it looked like fun. I’ll need it down in the basement, where I will be fastening things directly to the concrete block walls. The way it works is like this: You put a special nail in the end of the gizmo, then load it with one of the shells. Then you close the firing chamber, which looks a little like a gun, but not quite. Now you are ready to shoot the thing. You hold the end against the material (in this case a wooden board), and tap the firing pin with a hammer. It emits a loud report and the nail is shot straight through the wood and into the concrete, along with an anchor to hold it fast. My hope is that I don’t shoot my foot with it—but you would really have to try to do something like that. It seems fairly safe, insofar as that’s possible where you have a tool that shoots nails at high velocity.
Back to the windows. I called someone who advertised a tool online that I can use to make a groove into which I can fit the new windows. They only want forty bucks for this tool, which is called a router, and I know that they are fairly expensive to buy brand new. The man told me that he would demonstrate how it works, since I’ve never used one before. The plan is to make grooves in the new lumber that I’m using to build frames for the store-bought windows. If all goes well, the window will fit precisely into the groove, and I can then install the whole assembly as a unit into the wall where the window opening is. I can also secure the frame to the concrete blocks with my new .22 caliber shooter. This project may be completed sometime in the next few weeks, maybe sooner. As long as I don’t shoot my foot off.
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