Nightless Cave

The 'raise-the-alarm and spread-the-panic' machines have been consistent and loud enough, that I suspect most people have already heard that the US economy is a huge, smelly, loaf of a turd, and that it's — presently — circling the toilet-bowl (I'm paraphrasing).

The Question Of the Month, seems to be: "Who Flushed?" There are many fingers being pointed. I suspect two groups of individuals hope nobody bothers to look for fingerprints on the flusher handle: House-Flippers and House-Floppers.
You may be a flipper, you probably know one, you certainly watched a TV program (or six) that showed it being done. Amazingly, every show contains a false-stress/fabricated-time-line, constantly-shoddy craftsmanship, and a: "just get it good enough for the TV camera," mentality.

The flipper premise: Buy an old Piece-O-Shite house (Pour). Spend a little to make it attractive to buyers during their brief walk-thru (White-Wash). Sell it for tens of thousands over cost (Rinse). Repeat.

The House-Floppers bought (new, old, recently-flipped, and fixer-upper) homes, with the intention to 'flop' in them for a couple of years and then sell to make a profit. You may be a flopper stuck in a home you wanted to sell, you probably know a few, you certainly live near a dozen foreclosed houses or condos that were previously owned by twelve of 'em.

The flopper premise: Obtain an interest-only loan for a couple years at a low, variable, interest rate on a house that is...maybe-probably...double what you then-knew and now-know you could actually afford. Live in it (and maybe fix it up). Before 24-months lapse (when the loan jumps to its normal interest-plus-principle and the interest rate adjusts to a variable one), sell for more than you paid. Repeat.

The banks were to blame for making this type of loan an option (but I don't believe there were any big-bad loan officers coercing buyers; individual greed was sufficient).

When circumstances made re-selling for profit impossible — for flipper and flopper alike — hundreds of thousands of people were forced to bankrupt their 'Flipper LLC', and/or have their flop foreclosed out from under them. In every case, these homes now belong to banks. And will be re-sold, in the future, for much less than what they previously sold for. This is their 'NEW value'. Since the banks can't sell any of these homes for the previously jacked-up flippers' and floppers' price(s), they will take losses on all those mortgages, which could force them out of business (buying high and selling low is NEVER good business). The government — obviously — can't allow all our banks to fold. Thus, the bail-out.

Vet. single . . . cash

I (we) chose to move to Portland, Oregon, three months ago, on not much more than: gut-instincts, a hope that serendipitous events of yesteryear were precursors not coincidence, and the urgent desire to flee the southwest. This last reason was the strongest.

In '06, chance and circumstances caused us to set ourselves adrift from employment in: Payson, Arizona—where our personal belongings stagnated, along with my creativity. The mean age of the residents in this forested, mountain town were people who were eligible for social security (I'd use the term average age, but it fails to engender the words: vacuous and ill-tempered). This is not to imply that most northern-Arizona elderly are all... ...well, yes it is.

Because, if most Walmart shoes fit most people, and most people will shop at a Walmart if a store is close, then the statement most vacuous and ill-tempered people wear cheap shoes is indubitably correct. Or have I missed a step in my logic?

I suspect, somewhere in the back of my foolishness, that there is something catching in them-there Arizona hills. The only outward sign of being body-snatched was silver hair. As my temples began to turn, I cried, "We need to flee!"

Now, as a citizen of the pacific northwest, I find Portland mentally comfortable for the likes of me. I may have traded-in some sunshine for rain, but it was a small price to get my creativity back.

On the heels of that preamble...I read an article in a Portland newspaper, which surmised that the local homeless population were possibly all members of some collective organization (like in Fritz Lang's film: M). The author said he would be more willing to provide a donation of money if he knew the scruffy guy at the stop light was not part of an organization. This idiot surmised the existence of: vans, schedules, time-clocks, supervisors, and treasury clerks. He figured it was acceptable to give the "vet" (his quotes, meaning he doubted the claim; ...oh, it's such an effective ruse) a sandwich or a bottle of water, but money would certainly only be fueling some addiction. And, he heard there were instances where "beggars" lived in nice homes with families/automobiles (...and two cats in the yard...) and that they "could be making more than the rest of us poor working slobs".

According to the hack's article, the guy holding the cardboard sign at the underpass was either:

• a hobo-first-class cog, in the big Collective Union of Panhandlers (CUP).
• a deceitful addict.
• a wealthy scam artist.

I'm not going to claim anything the "journalist" wrote was untrue, just that everything he said drew no conclusions and made no important observations (nor am I addressing—or attempting to make light of—homelessness or poke fun at pan-handlers).

Someone who asks passers-by for handouts, bothers me because:

• Their temerity and lack of embarrassment, when asking for money, embarrasses me.
• They ask for money in exchange for nothing (I don't think kids should be given an 'allowance', but paying for routine household chores is OK in my book).
• They anger me just like: telemarketers, door to door salesmen, and public-cellphone-shouters do, by disregarding my personal space and intruding into my non-verbally communicated (but clearly understood by society) desire to not interact.

My solution:

• I proactively put a dollar in the hat, or the instrument case, of every street performer I walk past (or the equivalent in foreign currency, outside the US).
• If they take a break, talk to the fuck-tard next to them, or tune strings as I pass, I keep my money (no matter, I heard their music upon approach).
• The music must be performed or sung live, and if they beg (or have someone else) I give nothing.

I think if everyone paid a small amount to street-performers and none to beggars, then eventually the message would spread. Just like, obviously, the word has spread that all recognized CUP members in good standing utilize: corrugated cardboard, black-felt tip marker and poor grammar—no matter if they are a member of the 'honest, self-deprecating' chapter; the 'pity-me' chapter; or the 'most uniquely bizarre' chapter.

When I said I was not going to poke fun a pan-handlers I lied.

Scathing Elves

Am I the only person who prefers an 'American translation' when reading British authors? This is only a book-reading issue. I prefer foreign films in their native languages and have no problem with subtitles—even those of obvious British origin. I also don't have a complaint with any other creative medium or form of communication (e.g. music, theater, poetry, graphic novels, or television programs).

However, when I am engrossed in a book, my brain trips and stumbles every time it crosses a British term. It's not like I can't decipher the meanings. I know if the character is 'going on holiday' she is taking a vacation; that his 'trainers' are running shoes; and that if he is 'going to the loo (or WC)', he's going to the toilet (or restroom). But every time I read the British words, my brain stumbles and it slows down. Then, I recognize I'm reading. Effectively, I exit the story for a brief moment and become aware of the page, the paragraph, the sentence, and my eye moving over words. It may be only a second, sometimes less, but it's enough to ruin a pleasant read if it happens three times a page.

I asked a few people about this and learned not everyone has this problem. I suspect one reason is reading speed. I don't read graphic novels or poetry fast and, therefore, don't stumble on "translations". But, if I become absorbed in a story, I am unaware of my surroundings and lose track of the passage of time (until our hero takes a torch out of her pocket and shines it down into the empty lift-shaft, illuminating a clutch of elves glaring into the light).

Are any British writers re-edited for US Markets (you ask, scathingly)? Yes. The Harry Potter books. They went too far when they changed the title of the first book (from Philosopher's Stone, to Sorcerer's Stone) but that's on the author for allowing it.

The following example (of a jarring British text) is excerpted from pages 133-134 of Steven Hall's novel The Raw Shark Texts (my proposed US-version immediately follows):

I found him by following the flex. The flex from the standing lamp connected to an orange extension lead which connected to a white extension lead which connected to another orange extension lead...

I found him by following the electric cord. The cord from the floor lamp connected to an orange extension cord which connected to a white extension cord which connected to another orange extension cord...

On a slightly different, but similar, note. If a story has been transliterated from another roman (or latin)-based language (e.g. Spanish, German) why are proper nouns not translated? Each time this happens, the same 'hiccup' occurs: I'm jarred out of the story (because I'm being reminded, "Hey, this is a translation. This is not the language of the author.") For obvious reasons, this is never an issue with semantic/phonetic transcriptions of cyrillic or other non-roman-based alphabets.

Year one of my sabbatical

          In March of 06 my paramour Pam, and I, quit work and began a rambling shuffle of job-searching (for her) and camping journey (for us).

          A medium-good memory from that spring:  We were sitting in camp chairs, near the shore of Utah's Sevier River, just after waking (not much energy yet).  The fire was beginning to make warm water for our coffee.  We were facing each other.   Pam's back was to a scrub-bush and tree covered slope.  Movement caught my eye.  I looked up.   A red tailed hawk shot down over-through the brush and trees in a spitting-arc, toward us.

          It opened its wings WIDE in a braking motion.  As it's talons slowly (not slowly at all, this whole thing lasted three-four seconds) reached out from it's body to begin to land on the top of Pam's head....I began to react.  (Oh, how—now—I wish I'd the temerity to remain motionless.)  An intake of breath preceded my facial muscles beginning to squinch (the expression which usually precludes the word 'eww').  My shoulders began to hunch a little and I started to raise my hand (I think, maybe, I was going to point...?)  The hawk's eye-line shifted up from the top of Pam's head (isn't it shit-cream crazy how the incredible eyeball-brain-combo works? This movement of Mister Hawk's head lasted...well...maybe four-tenths of a second, and registered in my head as what it really was: the hawk's recognition of a mistake it was in the extremely rapid process of making.)

          It then saw me...moving.  It's force-trajectory had brought it three feet from Pam.  So close, the talons were no longer visible—blocked from my view by Pam's wonderfully pillow-tousled hair. Pam's sleep-addled brain correctly interpreted my movements as the beginning of a reaction to something I was seeing—and she started to turn.  The hawk's head snapped to the side, and (...exit stage left...) with a burst of wind from it's four-foot wingspan it darted away, out of sight.   My sight.  Pam never saw a feather.  The only proof she had/has, that I didn't make it all up, was/is: she heard the pop-burst of wind, which caused her to duck.

          Every time I retell the story she says, "You would have loved it if that hawk actually landed on me."  I can only reply, "True.  It is, currently, only a medium-good story.  For it to have become a great campfire story, the hawk and you would both have had to lose your collective shit."

          Fall of 06 we began an almost 12,000 mile looping-trek across the US; Arizona to Virgina, up to Maine, further up through Canada, and down through Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons, back to Arizona.  This was also a combined job-hunt/once-in-a-lifetime chance to see-the-sights.  No job landed.  Many sights seen.

          One (of many) notable moments occurred after many weeks in a cramped car, guest rooms, cheap hotels, and camps:  We stopped for the night at Lake Saranac in upstate New York and rented a cottage for one evening (a splurge).  Our hopes were on easing the tensions of our proximity-overload.  We basked in front of a roaring fireplace; soaked in a highly-effective hot tub; ate in a kitchen where Pam made one of our favorite meals; and....received some cat love.  We were missing ours.   A cabin cat showed up, came in, and snuggled.  To top off the night—we took a canoe out and paddled into the moonlight with the shore lights gleaming off the water.

(to be continued?)

Return!

Hello? I am in the process of returning to the mix. This feels like the right time for me to try. Although only a small part of me is peeking out,

more of me will be coming back ... soon.

I, actually, continued to peruse my favorite bloggers over the last two and a half years. At one point Davecat called me on it, but I diligently remained a mute specter.

It has been 30+ months since I turned this canvas to the wall, and much has changed since the Spring of '06 (details should, soon, be a-trickling), but I have continued to follow and love:

Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper;
Safe-T-Inspector and Arthbard (nee: Safe T Inspector);
Little Black Duck (nee: The Diner at Penda's Relm);
The Seventh Notebook (nee: Laughing Sky);
and Shouting to Hear the Echoes.