Adventures in Bacon: April Ships Me to Ft. Walton
I had a blast during the most recent Spring Break (2008). It would have been more exciting if I had spent more time out of control without a shirt; however, I still think I had some worthwhile experiences. I was able to document most of these experiences with a digital camera, either mine or my Aunt Kristi’s. I used my camera to document my jaunt to Florida to visit P-April.
Barclay and Kirsti Venture up North With the Children in Tow (Quite Literally)
I meant to then take that camera with me to New York City; but I forgot, necessitating the use of Kristi’s camera. There are also some pictures from the Barrerases camera in there. Please enjoy.
My friend Joey Jo Jo, seen here handling his toy dog Luigi, received his matching papers telling him where he will be doing his residency after medical school. Univision was nice enough to do a report on that topic, and he got interviewed, as did his mother. Check out the video here.
I am really proud of my friend, and you should be, too.
A few weeks ago, I went on the first of two hunts for thrift stores within walking distance of my home. In the course of this adventure, I saw many interesting things. A house on Bainbridge exploded due to a large gas leak outside the house. Fortunately, nobody was injured, but the house was destroyed. I saw the melted car that had been in the garage at the time of the explosion. On top of it were children’s crayons, which were blasted out of the house. The actual living structure had already been torn down by the time I took this stroll.
As I was walking in the area, I encountered a presumably homeless woman on the street corner, not exactly an odd occurrence in Philly. She held a hard-cover copy of a trashy romance novel in her hand. She was disheveled; her t-shirt and jeans were well worn; and she had clearly spent a great deal of nonleisure time in the sun. As I walked toward the intersection, a female pedestrian about 5 rods in front of me crossed the street. As she reached the opposite curb, the homeless woman addressed her. She was trying to sell the book to the pedestrian. At first, the homeless woman simply tried the cold sell, addressing the pedestrian and asking her if she would like to purchase the book. The pedestrian refused. The homeless woman was not so easily deterred, though. She came back immediately, armed with facts as to why not buying this book would be a mistake. Apparently, this particular romance novel would probably not be available in book stores. Even if it was, the female pedestrian would not be able to get it at the low price for which it was currently being offered. Still, though, the pedestrian would not be swayed, and she power walked away. This scene as I witnessed it seemed to be a combination of odd and sad. It was odd because I have never seen a homeless person sell a random book on the street. It was sad because selling objects at inappropriate locations, like a street corner in Bella Vista, indicates a deep level of desperation in one’s life situation.
This story affords me the opportunity to recall some other odd street characters I have encountered in my last year-and-a-half in Philly. I will list a few below:
The Cigarette Trader
A couple of months after I moved to Philly, one of the math professors offered to give me his nice futon frame, as he really needed the space in his house for other furniture. The only caveat was I would have to acquire some sort transport vehicle to pick it up from Manayunk. I did not know anyone with a truck at that time, so my only option was to rent a Uhaul van. I got the van from a Uhaul satellite running out of a gas station. The futon acquisition went smoothly. Since the professor came back to my apartment to assist with the heavy lifting, I quickly delivered him to his girlfriend in West Philly before taking the Uhaul back to its “motherâ€, a greasy man with a ponytail. Prior to turning the keys back, I pulled up to one of the gas dispensary machines to refill the Uhaul’s tank back to the appropriate level. While filling the tank, a man approached me. He first offered me assistance in filling my gas tank. When I refused, he wanted to wash the Uhaul windows. That was just stupid. Since I was filling my tank at the place where I needed to return the Uhaul, I was somewhat trapped. This man was completely nonthreatening, but I still did not like being unable to remove myself from this situation in an unfamiliar (at the time) part of town. The man talked to me, giving me tips on how to get the right amount of gas into the Uhaul tank. Then he started telling me how he did not have enough money to get on the bus. Generally, this type of story would lead to a direct plea for some monetary help. However, this man threw me a curve ball. He explained that he needed me to purchase a certain brand of cigarettes for him so that he could sell the cigarettes on the street, thereby acquiring money to ride the bus. This story seemed preposterous. I could not even imagine a person naive enough to actually think this reasoning made sense. Normally, I would just tell the person that I will not purchase these cigarettes and move along, but I was stuck filling my tank at the place where I had to return the Uhaul. Therefore, I simply grunted, not giving an indication either way as to my intentions with regard to these cigarettes. Once I filled the Uhaul tank, I had to move it back to where the other Uhaul trucks were kept. This man asked if I needed help. I declined his help. After parking the van, I retrieved my bike and backpack from the back. As I walked back to the store to turn in the keys and get a receipt, the man reminded me what brand of cigarettes he wanted me to purchase. I turned toward him and explained that, as a rule, I do not purchase cigarettes for people off the street. I do not really have that specific a rule, but I believe it falls under the umbrella of not purchasing ATF related goods for unknown strangers. The man seemed to take my rejection quite well. He simply said, “okay,” and left the parking lot. I turned the keys into the counter person, hopped on my bike, and got the hell out of there as fast as possible so I could bask in the glory of my new futon.
One Eye Angry Guy
I was riding my bike last year, running some errands in Center City. I was walking around near City Hall, and I crossed the street to get back to my bike. I was passing a large building to my right when in the distance, a man on the steps of that building started yelling. It was daytime and there were a bunch of people around, so I had no reason to think he was talking at me. He started this expletive-laden tirade, “Hey you! F**k you, you f**k. You think you’re so f**king great? Kiss my ass!” Variations on this theme persisted as I got closer. At a certain point, he changed it up a bit. “Oh, look at you with your fancy gold ring. Go f**k yourself. You’re not so hot!…” Now, I started to get a bit worried because I definitely wear the old Tulane ring that belonged to my Great Uncle Ernest, an electrical engineer who graduated in the 1930’s. I was not sure if this man was talking to me, but I really did not want to pass by him. However, my bike was at the next corner, and I did not want to turn to go the long way around. I figured since there were plenty of people on the sidewalk, I would just make as wide a path around this man as I could. As I got closer, I noticed that he was shabbily dressed and appeared to have one eye. His tirade continued until I was fairly close. Then he suddenly because quiet and congenially said, “No man, I really love you. Can you spare some change?” I had no cash or coin (it took me many months to get used to the fact that one always needs to carry cash in Philadelphia), and I do not believe I would have given him anything if I had possessed some change. Nonetheless, his was certainly the most unique strategy for garnering donations of a spare dime.
Trolley Lecturer
During the winter months, I use mass transit to get to campus for class. During my first year, this meant riding the Girard trolley. On one particular trolley ride, there was a man at the front of the trolley lecturing those of us in the front about how African Americans in Florida speak out of the sides of their necks and claim to know celebrities with whom they are actually not acquainted. I was later able to deign that this man was a veteran of the Korean War.
Trolley Stop Companion
The Trolley runs less frequently than buses, so my wait on the trolley stop was, at times, as along as twenty or thirty minutes. Often, I would share the trolley pad with this little elderly lady. She seemed quite friendly, and she is missing a good number of her teeth, much like Clark Gable. She spoke to herself most of the time that I spent with her on the platform. Frequently this speech was in Spanish. The first time I met her, she was pacing towards me and began speaking. I assumed she was talking to me and that I was not understanding her. I can speak Spanish fairly well, but I have great difficulty understanding it when a native speaker speaks it fluently. However, after I listened to her for a minute, I realized that I actually could understand her fairly well. However, what she was saying had nothing to do with me and in some cases did not really make sense. I politely smiled and nodded. I figured this would be the way of things. Then one day, in the middle of her monologue, I heard her comment in Spanish about how cold it was. I looked up and realized she was speaking to me. In Spanish, I replied with something to the effect of communicating my agreement and that I was happy to be wearing my jacket. The odd thing about this chitchat was that she did not ever stop talking to herself. She would simply make an aside in the middle of her monologue to chat with me, then go back to her rant until I answered her. This was our relationship. She usually would simply chat with me about the temperature and weather and then go back to her monologue. At first, I would try to filter which sentences were directed at me and which were simply were her internal memos, but eventually I just learned to operate on the premise that we would be talking about the weather and nothing more. Until the time it warmed up enough to ride my bike again, this strategy never failed me.
I have another coffee shop story. This also happened at Chapter House, my coffee drinking establishment of choice. Sometimes, it gets quite crowded and patrons have to share tables. That is okay, though; it offers a sense of camaraderie.
On one occasion, I sat down to share a table with a couple of young ladies. They seemed nice enough; and once we had made introductions, they went quietly about their business. The one sitting next to me was reading a book while the other one was writing. After a while, the girl reading asked the other girl what she was writing. She explained she was writing a letter to somebody. The intended recipient was a mutual friend’s ex-boyfriend, and they talked about him for a while.
It became clear this man was in prison, which is why the letter was being written. The girl next to me finally expressed concern that the letter write was corresponding with inmate 49387574; let’s call him “Phil”. She feared that Phil would become too attached to the writer and seek her out for intense emotional support upon being released from prison. The writer offered extensive rebuttal of why that would not happen and that Phil needed her support since she was the only person to reach out to him. Furthermore, it was not like Phil was crazy and would pose a physical threat to the letter writer. The girl next to me agreed. She stated with a completely straight face and serious tone that, “it’s not like Phil is crazy or anything. He just flipped his shit for a moment and killed someone.”
Generally, that kind of statement would be made as a sarcastic jab, but I was right there. This was a serious conversation where the primary concern was not that her friend was corresponding with a psychopath to whom she is not related; rather the girl next to me was worried that Phil might become too emotionally dependent on the letter writer. I am not trying to ridicule these ladies; I just think that perhaps their concern priority queue is out of order.
Anyhow, this is what goes on in the background as I learn to numerically decompose matrices without large rounding errors. Yay graduate school!
I used to live just north of the Edgar Allen Poe House in the ghetto. Living there made it nearly impossible to take a walk after dark. Now, in the Italian Market, I feel comfortable taking a walk in the evening to go eat or study outside the house. For my out-of-house studies, I particularly enjoy sitting at the Chapter House. This coffee house boasts good music, local art displayed on the wall for purchase, and free wireless internet; all this for the price of a cup of coffee or tea. I find it quite reasonable for getting out of the house for four or five hours. It was my home away from home during my successful study campaign for the comprehensive exam I took in January.
I enjoy studying outside of the house because I enjoy taking brief mental breaks where I can people watch. Isolated studying can drive me crazy sometimes. Chapter House does not disappoint with its interesting cast of regulars and odd interlopers. This brings me to the subject of the post. Though the title might evoke the image of growing a six-year-old from some sort of bacterial culture in an incubation chamber, it actually refers to a wealthy socialite who brought her six-year-old daughter into Chapter House to give the girl her first taste of fine culture.
Both the woman and her daughter were dressed in clothing that would cost my whole monthly pay check. My ability to discern the quality of clothing is quite coarse, so the fact that I could recognize its expensive nature speaks to just how lavish their attire was. The daughter had clearly been instructed on how to carry herself like a miniature adult, and her manner of dress reflected this. Her mother escorted her slowly around the whole coffee shop so that they could inspect each painting. After making a couple of rounds, the child finally indicated that she was ready to select a painting for purchase. I do not remember what the painting was, and it was not really important. The mother summoned the barista (technical term for coffee purveyor, I have learned), and told him they wished to purchase the painting. The barista took the socialite to the front to complete the transaction and give her a claim slip to retrieve the piece at the end of the display cycle.
As the transaction was being completed, the socialite began to make small talk. She told the barista about how this was her daughter’s first art purchase. There was clearly a sense of pride in her voice as the mother spoke of teaching her daughter how to buy artwork; however, this situation clearly was not about teaching her daughter to appreciate art. The way the socialite described it, she was introducing her daughter to the wonderful world of artwork purchase by the wealthy. This was in itself amusing to hear and see, but it got even better.
While this conversation/transaction was being completed, the daughter simply stood in front of her new acquisition, guarding it from nefarious individuals who might seek to pilfer it from the wall. As it happened, this piece was hanging near my table, so I had a front row seat to the next sequence of events. Something on the ground suddenly caught the girl’s attention. I can only describe this object as an old piece of chewing gum that had collected bits of paper, hair, and dirt. It was not even adhered to the floor because of the hair and bits of paper. The little girl bent down and picked up this schmutz for closer inspection. She turned it over in her hands, giving it the same level of scrutiny that gave the artwork on the walls. Once it had satisfied some sort of secret criteria known only to the girl, she looked up to see if her mother was paying attention. The socialite was still engrossed in the transaction, elaborating on how she was culturing her daughter. The coast being clear, this six-year-old patron of the arts neophyte surreptitiously stashed this trash from the floor in her expensive coat pocket. It would be added to some sort of collection at a later time.
Just so the reader does not get the wrong impression, this happened within a matter of seconds. I did not watch this kid fiddle with garbage for two minutes without saying something. It was quick. I just wanted to share this story to make the point that this lady could have taught her kid all about high society and art purchase; but at the end of the day, the child was still a child.
