tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83885992024-03-13T14:48:41.329-04:00Extra Special BitterLife is bitter. Hops are bitter. Coincidence?extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.comBlogger1197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-44406723964538993182015-03-15T14:19:00.001-04:002015-03-15T14:19:19.211-04:00Meet me over thereI've already got 2 blogs going at Wordpress, and a third with only a few meager posts. I'll give it a try <a href="https://pauldavidmena.wordpress.com/">over there</a> to see who shows up. Join me, won't you?extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-36668789198624708052014-08-17T18:13:00.000-04:002014-08-17T18:13:01.058-04:00Another Hour You'll Never Get BackNot content with a mere 15 minutes of fame, my recent contribution to <a href="http://wmbr.mit.edu/">WMBR</a> earned me 45 minutes more than that, specifically an hour of air time on <a href="http://www.drivingthedeathcar.com/">The James Dean Deathcar Experience</a> this past Saturday. It was my fifth consecutive year darkening the air waves over Cambridge, and as usual, it was a blast. This time around I decided to eschew my penchant for two-minute power pop masterpieces in favor of extended jams - not the self-indulgent solos of the sixties and seventies, but rather garage rockers growing up and stretching out. Here is the play list:<br />
<br />
The Reports - <i>Dinamo Cambridge</i> (Dinamo Cambridge)<br />
764-Hero / Modest Mouse -<i> Whenever You See Fit</i> (Whenever You See Fit)<br />
Alan Vega / Alex Chilton / Ben Vaughn - <i>Fat City</i> (Cubist Blues)<br />
Public Image Limited - <i>Poptones</i> (Second Edition)<br />
Polvo - <i>El Rocío</i> (Shapes)<br />
<br />
To hear a podcast of the hour's festivities, go to <a href="http://www.extraspecialbitter.com/deathcar_20140816.mp3">this link</a>.extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-54254144029326487022014-04-10T12:56:00.000-04:002014-04-10T12:56:34.332-04:00dream sequence - part 28I didn't dream about trains last night, although I did manage to get lost in an old office building - also a recurring image. This isn't about that dream, however.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Minutes later I was in a field overlooking the ocean. There was a steep cliff at the edge of the field, with rocks meeting the waves below. Several strangers were with me. Suddenly there was a commotion directly above me. In an otherwise deep blue sky, explosions of earth took place against a background of blue ocean. Within seconds, the earth was formed into a lush green island, which, with the surrounding ocean, was suspended a seemingly safe distance above our heads. Knowing that all of this was impossible, I wondered if I was imagining it, but the others all around me saw the same thing.</div>
extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-65265919237608936582014-04-09T08:21:00.001-04:002014-04-09T08:21:57.640-04:00dream sequence - part 27another day, another dream about trains. once again this took place in a nightmarishly-misconfigured South Station, where I was waiting in a crowd of people for word that my train was boarding. When the track was announced, the entrance to the boarding platform was blocked, causing a confused throng of commuters to walk the length of an adjacent platform in an attempt to gain entrance from the other end of the train. Having never approached the trains from this direction (not even possible in real life), I was disoriented, but I followed other people who looked like they knew where they were going.<br />
<br />
When the next stop was something other than Back Bay, I knew that I had boarded the wrong train. Before I could find a conductor to ask where I was going, the train continued to the next stop. Walking the length of the train, there wasn't a conductor to be found. Truth be told, I was the train's only passenger.extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-57358671673881916312014-04-04T11:25:00.000-04:002014-04-04T11:25:12.555-04:00dream sequence - part 26I haven't commuted via train to Boston for over five years, but I'm suddenly having a lot of dreams about them, most of which involve me chasing after a train that is leaving without me. Ironically, this rarely happened to me in 10 years of commuting, as I pride myself on being prompt and always try to leave myself plenty of time. In my dream world, I'm far less in control than I'd like to be.<br />
<br />
In last night's dream, I had luggage with me, so my ability to move through a rush hour throng was inhibited. I was trying to remove some tag from my luggage when I saw the train pulling away from the station. I shouted and chased, screaming like a fool. Instead of accelerating away from me, the train kept a steady, glacial pace, just out of reach. I ran as far as South Station, which looked nothing like I had remembered. Winded and disoriented, I stopped running.extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-81599844451035748472014-03-31T08:25:00.001-04:002014-03-31T08:25:42.841-04:00dream sequence - part 25I used to spend much more time in airports than I do now, but for some reason I've been dreaming about them - mostly about getting lost in them, or otherwise getting lost on my way to them.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This morning I hitched a ride - presumably to Logan Airport - with a travel acquaintance who was dropping off his rental car. It turns off that the rental agency was off-site - presumably providing a shuttle service to the airport. This was yet another wrong assumption, as it turned out. "We're a routing station, not a full-service rental office" explained one of the workers there. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It seems the women were more interested in talking about an upcoming wedding than assisting me with my dilemma. I had a car parked at the airport but I was several miles away at a rental car office with no shuttle service. My travel companion was long gone, having retrieved his car from the "routing station". I asked to call for a taxi, and then was told that I could get a ride if I could wait until closing at 10 p.m. Naturally that was unacceptable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One of the workers turned flirtatious. "I can give you a ride right now if that's what you need".</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I woke up instead.</div>
extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-82824621064614085632014-03-16T21:56:00.001-04:002014-03-16T21:56:08.782-04:00I can radicalizeI can radicalize<br />
any time I want to,<br />
skinny fists raised<br />
in some gesture<br />
I can't articulate,<br />
my open electron shell<br />
brittle and transparent,<br />
doomed to the isolation<br />
of a universal solvent.<br />
<br />extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-73422324875333678632014-02-27T14:40:00.000-05:002014-02-27T14:40:21.416-05:00dream sequence - part 24It being a dream,<br />
there was no context,<br />
no back story,<br />
it just <i>was.</i><br />
I was living in a spacious loft in Brighton Beach,<br />
one I shared with many strangers who, like me,<br />
slept on the floor<br />
and shared solitary meals<br />
at a communal picnic table.<br />
When I located the owner of the space,<br />
I offered him money for my lodging,<br />
informing him that I had been there for two weeks.<br />
"Two weeks? Most of the people here only stay for a day or two".<br />
And having evidently overstayed my welcome,<br />
I promptly woke up.extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-33277706751845080932013-10-04T10:40:00.000-04:002013-10-04T11:21:26.457-04:00Reflections on Hispanic Heritage Month - Part OneI've mentioned more than once before that my relationship with my Latino heritage is, shall we say, "complicated". Technically I qualify: with 3 grandparents born in Puerto Rico, and a third in the Phillipines. Culturally, I'm suburban milktoast white, a resoundingly successful experiment in assimilation on the part of my parents. They escaped Brooklyn when I was only a few months old and embraced the sterility of middle class life with vigor. By the time I was growing up, I had no idea that there had been a dramatic transition only a generation before me. And while I came of age having zero sense of ethnic identity, only later in my adulthood did I begin to suspect that something got lost along the way.<br />
<br />
Mind you, I recognize that the aforementioned "loss" is by design. My grandparents, immigrants in Depression Era Brooklyn, knew that their accents and foreign-sounding names were impediments to success. They gave their children English first names, made sure they kept up with schoolwork, and - in short - let them become American. One generation later, the circuit is complete. I didn't know that my surname was Spanish until I was in Junior High School.<br />
<br />
<i>(It's my intention to continue this thread, since even in my 50s I find my identity to be a work in progress. Stay tuned.)</i>extraspecialbitterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07851478069639402984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-22586190905816497842013-09-01T09:03:00.000-04:002013-09-01T09:03:03.523-04:00dreams of who I amI've been told that I resemble my paternal grandfather, Julio Fairchild. Given that he died 13 years before I was born, I have only a small number of yellowed photographs as evidence. Then, a few nights ago, I dreamed that I was putting away chairs and tables after an outdoor wedding. A man slightly older than me, friendly and fit, came to my assistance. From the context of our conversation, it was clear that he was my grandfather, and that he was aware that he had been dead since 1946. But far from being surreal and spooky, he was merely catching up on what had gone on during the past 67 years. And while I was delighted to see the man to whom I have often been compared, our words were casual and nonchalant, as if this was the most common of occurrences.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
the conversation</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I never had</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
with Grandpa</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-40549168739650368582013-08-19T08:41:00.004-04:002013-08-19T08:41:55.940-04:00Another Hour of ObscurityNot content with only 15 minutes, my contribution to <a href="http://wmbr.mit.edu/">WMBR</a> earned me 45 minutes more than that, specifically an hour of air time on <a href="http://www.drivingthedeathcar.com/">The James Dean Deathcar Experience</a> this past Saturday. Fifteen tracks of shimmer and shake, mostly from bands you've probably never heard of.<br />
<br />
Here's the playlist:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Ultra Cindy - 18 Stories Down</li>
<li>Exhaust - Wool Fever</li>
<li>Mark Eitzel - If I Had a Gun</li>
<li>Boris - Feedbacker</li>
<li>Cobra Skulls - Hasta Los Cobra Skulls Siempre</li>
<li>Neighborly - Vandalized</li>
<li>Furguson - Heat</li>
<li>Tripping Daisy - Got a Girl</li>
<li>M.I.J. - The Swingtown Pledge</li>
<li>The Hang-Ups - Curtis</li>
<li>The Panderers - Dig</li>
<li>Royal Fingerbowl - Nothing But Time</li>
<li>Beulah - Don't Forget to Breathe</li>
<li>Sunday's Best - The Salt Mines of Santa Monica</li>
<li>Mars Classroom - Wish You Were Young</li>
</ol>
<div>
Should you wish to experience it yourself a podcast of the 60-minute show can be found <a href="http://www.extraspecialbitter.com/pdm_20130817.mp3">here</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Please drive safely.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-53311143287446607682013-06-19T14:32:00.001-04:002013-06-19T14:34:28.939-04:00denouementIt turns out that the moment of surrender is the hardest part. Nearly forgotten amid the inevitable pangs of regret is the realization that the tentacles are beginning to loosen. Before long you find yourself questioning whether hope abandoned was ever really hope at all, hardly worth writing about — until you do.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-65782066686133496002013-04-28T10:51:00.000-04:002013-04-28T10:51:44.396-04:00Todos Santos dreamWe were in Todos Santos, but not for a hit-and-run vacation; our dog Tito was with us. It seemed that we were there to stay, except that we were in some sprawling resort - the type that doesn't exist in Todos Santos - and were still getting the lay of the land.
Helping us in our transition was none other than Cesar Millan, sporting a Skrillex-like haircut and seeming not at all like the confident, macho Dog Whisperer. He was weepy and nostalgic and unable to keep Tito from jumping on him. When I tried to engage him in my elementary Spanish, his reply was always much too fast, so we kept reverting back to English.
At one point he saw some children playing nearby, and was close to losing his composure. "We're going to have children soon - maybe in a year". His girlfriend seemed doubtful.
He snapped to attention when the subject came to lunch. "Tortas," he said. "I know just the place." He pointed beyond the horizon of condos made to look like the mansions of plantation owners, the Sugar Daddies of another era. He confirmed the directions and the schedule of the restaurant on his iPad.
He was right. It was the best Torta I had ever tasted - in the Todos Santos of my dreams.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-33372153645890967592012-08-19T11:59:00.001-04:002012-08-19T12:00:53.573-04:00One More Dark Hour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHM7uds6zCA44zL6m-NR0E1asTh95X8JiAY7JGoFWZW54_RJpb9A6o1Z56t8YTzlUzkrrvn6WTqlkkJxWiDSjyOk1IzI-rwxiXh7GqESyuwPj0eBF3qE5x2UuL9WE4ADYb3UA7A/s1600/pdm_at_wmbr_20120818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHM7uds6zCA44zL6m-NR0E1asTh95X8JiAY7JGoFWZW54_RJpb9A6o1Z56t8YTzlUzkrrvn6WTqlkkJxWiDSjyOk1IzI-rwxiXh7GqESyuwPj0eBF3qE5x2UuL9WE4ADYb3UA7A/s400/pdm_at_wmbr_20120818.jpg" /></a></div>
<p> </p>
Actually there were more than a few lighter moments — starting out with a four-song bluesy, rootsy set, meandering into dreamy, drony noise, and wrapping up with some crisp, melodic power pop. An MP3 of the hour’s festivities can be found <a href="http://www.extraspecialbitter.com/pdm_20120818.mp3">here</a>.
<br><br>
All in all it was a great time — the hospitality of <a href="http://www.drivingthedeathcar.com/">Lisa</a> and everyone at <a href="http://wmbr.mit.edu/">WMBR</a> is a recurring dream come true.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-48370725957974088642012-06-23T18:45:00.000-04:002012-06-23T18:45:38.711-04:00Puppet and PoetryI have written literally thousands of haiku since the mid-90s. Most of them are archived, thanks to a program called <a href="http://www.hypermail-project.org/">Hypermail</a>, which converts individual emails to individual HTML files. Ever since September 1999 I have been emailing my haiku to a special email address, which, in turn, saves it in a dedicated email folder. Every so often I'll execute a shell script to process the haiku in the folder using the aforementioned Hypermail. I put the resulting HTML files in a directory and then ftp it to my website so that I can view archived email at <a href="http://www.haikupoet.com/archive/">www.haikupoet.com/archive/</a>.<br>
<br>
You'll notice that the archive starts at the beginning of the year. That's because Hypermail runs more slowly as more files are added to the folder. I got around this by renaming the archive folder at the end of each year and starting from scratch on January 1st. I have a separate folder for each year dating back to 1999. This made it easier to search archived haiku based on date, or sorted by subject (in my case also the first line). But if I wanted to search based upon a word appearing anywhere else in the haiku, I had to resort to onerous finds piped into greps - or primitive shell scripts.<br>
<br>
Not one to reinvent the wheel, I contacted <a href="http://haikuguy.com/issa/aboutme.html">David G. Lanoue</a>, whose <a href="http://haikuguy.com/issa/">Kobayashi Issa website</a> includes a nifty search feature. Each of the Haiku Master's 10,000 poems were saved in a single CSV file, which were then searched using PHP code. My haiku, however, were not saved in a CSV file, but in individual HTML files, stored in multiple folders.<br>
<br>
I busied myself with writing yet another shell script to process the the HTML files into a single text file. I added some post-processing using sed to translate unprintable characters and to strip extraneous text from the file. Then I taught myself just enough PHP to write a very simple search function, which I then added to <a href="http://www.haikupoet.com/search.html">my website</a>. Victory at last!<br>
<br>
...except that I still had to email each new haiku to myself and then use Hypermail to convert it to a new HTML file; and that I still had to process the resulting HTML file into a new line of text to be appended to the ever-growing file. The fact that I still write haiku daily - often several times a day - means that this is not a static archive, but rather a living document. I couldn't help think that the primitive techniques used to aggregate my haiku and make it available for searching mirrored some of the challenges I saw every day in the workplace. Scope creep: what had been a simple archive had evolved into a searchable archive; Scalability: what worked for dozens or hundreds of haiku is insufficient for thousands; Maintainability: the tools being used may not be around forever, after which the whole process breaks down.<br>
<br>
There's also the issue of execution - it's in two parts. The shell script that invokes Hypermail was written in 1999. I usually run it manually at the command line, but I used to run it via cron - that is, until I decided to make the archive searchable. Now I have another more recent script that calls the first script and then concatenates all of the HTML files created this year into a single text file. I could "automate" this by running it once a night via cron, but what if I write several haiku during the course of a day and want the archive to be as up-to-date as possible at all times? What if I don't write anything for a day or two? The cron job is running in vain. Why isn't there an easy way to sense when I've added a haiku and then append it to the existing archive without a time trigger or a manual process?<br>
<br>
Enter <a href="http://puppetlabs.com/">Puppet Labs</a>. Their flagship product, <a href="http://puppetlabs.com/puppet/what-is-puppet/">Puppet</a>, is software that enables systems administrators to automate configuration management and application deployment. <a href="http://www.constantcontact.com/index.jsp">My employer</a> uses it for this and more, deploying and maintaining systems and application software to hundreds of servers in a sprawling, complex enterprise. Surely it's up to the task of automating updates to my haiku archive.<br>
<br>
So here's what it needs to do: 1) detect a new email sent to my haiku archive address, 2) convert the email into a format readable and searchable on my website, and 3) append it to the existing data. Pretty easy, huh?<br>
<br>
To do this, I'm going to need to know puppet much better than I do now. Like most lazy sys admins (which I realize might be a redundant term), I tend to copy an existing puppet configuration file and modify it for my own use. The puppet ecosystem we use in my workplace was put together by another team and handed to us. I've never built it out from scratch.<br>
<br>
HyperMail is still available for free download from <a href="http://sourceforge.net/">SourceForge</a>, but it hasn't been updated since 2004. Who knows whether or not it will continue to be available? Besides, now that the goal is a single repository of searchable content, there's no need to have an interim step consisting of converting individual emails to individual HTML files that are then concatenated into a text file. Instead, each email should be processed as it arrives, directly into a searchable format, and added to the existing repository.<br>
<br>
Puppet will work with an ever-increasing number of tools, so as the technology changes, the puppet code can change with it. I'll use puppet to detect the new email and to orchestrate its inclusion into the archive. Under the hood, I have some ideas on how to replace HyperMail (ActiveMQ? RSS?), as well as alternatives to a flat text file (MySQL? NOSQL?). The PHP code would need to change in order to search a database instead of a text file, but maybe I'll use a programming language like <a href="http://www.ruby-lang.org/en/">Ruby</a> instead.<br>
<br>
I don't know how to do many of the things I've suggested above, but I can't wait to get started...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-71088664617682032522012-05-25T19:53:00.002-04:002012-05-25T19:54:40.120-04:00every nightevery night<br>
I hear your voice<br>
and it’s taking longer and longer<br>
to remember you’re not there.<br>
it scares me to know<br>
that I want to fall off that ledge<br>
and will you back<br>
that I can’t and won’t<br>
let go.<br>
I’m doing this<br>
because I lost my perspective<br>
at the bottom<br>
of my favorite beer.<br>
I’m doing this<br>
because it hurts too much<br>
to say goodbye.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-15339555074749847652012-05-04T09:42:00.004-04:002012-05-04T09:44:44.446-04:00what's in a name?With a new grandchild born today, it’s time to determine how popular their names are. For reference, I went to the Social Security Administration’s <a href="http://www.ssa.gov/cgi-bin/babyname.cgi">Popular Baby Name</a> website. Here is a list of my grandchildren’s names, along with the popularity of the name in 2010. The rankings only go up to 1,000.
<br><br>
Righteous (born in 2006): > 1000<br>
Nevaeh (born in 2008): 25<br>
Gabriel (born in 2008): 21<br>
Charis (born in 2010): > 1000<br>
Zoe (born in 2011): 31<br>
Samara (born in 2012): 606<br>
<br>
My name, incidentally, was 17th most popular in the year I was born, but was only ranked #178 in 2010.<br>
<br>
You’re welcome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-89903954389924134422012-04-19T17:56:00.003-04:002012-04-19T18:16:46.735-04:00spring sunsetI was going to blog about the mid-April sunset as a metaphor for hope juxtaposed with the conclusion of another day. Instead, I’ll just look out my window on an unseasonably mild spring afternoon and write down what I observe.<br /><br /><blockquote>spring sunset —<br />a faded red ribbon<br />tied to a tree<br /><br />spring sunset —<br />a twig snaps<br />beneath the tire<br /><br />spring sunset —<br />a sigh of resignation<br />when the lawn mower starts<br /><br />spring sunset —<br />the next-door neighbor’s<br />noisy convertible<br /><br />spring sunset —<br />our old dog’s<br />heavy sigh</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-27991065836484217202012-04-17T20:56:00.003-04:002012-04-17T21:18:33.922-04:00vapor trailWalking my dog tonight, as I do five nights a week, I notice it’s getting darker later and later. Bonita’s age — she turns twelve next month — renders her more and more anxious to indulge herself in her favorite activity earlier and earlier. Tonight it was about a half hour past sunset, but still light enough to see the vapor trails from passing airplanes that are ubiquitous in the Suburbs. I had seen this phenomenon countless times before, but tonight it got me thinking, first of <a href="http://youtu.be/pVhNi5cU8mo">the classic song by Ride</a>, and then a myriad images of things ephemeral...<br /><br /><blockquote>news of his illness —<br />a vapor trail<br />in the sky<br /><br />his faraway voice —<br />a vapor trail <br />in the sky<br /><br />my rising blood pressure —<br />a vapor trail<br />in the sky<br /><br />wilting daffodils —<br />a vapor trail<br />in the sky<br /><br />her graying muzzle —<br />a vapor trail<br />in the sky<br /></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-9580702627692301142012-03-11T11:27:00.002-04:002012-03-11T11:32:39.126-04:00Daylight SavingsI’d love to have that hour back.<br />Not that I object<br />to the manipulation of time,<br />but I’m better misconstrued<br />in honest twilight.<br /><br />hence the dilemma:<br />what I could do<br />with another sixty minutes<br />and the wisdom of another day?<br />swallow my words<br />without the bitter aftertaste<br />and stare without wavering<br />at the mirage before me.<br /><br />Original: 5 May 1996, Cambridge, MA<br />Revised: 11 March 2012, Cochituate, MAUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-45052529784677246972011-12-31T13:05:00.001-05:002011-12-31T13:05:40.050-05:00<blockquote>believing next year will be better<br />I open another beer</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-38351749920195310392011-12-31T10:40:00.001-05:002011-12-31T10:40:43.779-05:00<blockquote>New Year’s Eve —<br />an empty whiskey bottle<br />slumped against the curb</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-53880154316439750732011-12-30T09:41:00.003-05:002011-12-30T09:45:25.030-05:00dream sequence - part 23I was in a beautiful old downtown building for a meeting, surrounded by tall ceilings and marble floors. Two dozen or so of us were crowded into a small conference room. I didn’t recognize anyone, but they all seemed to know one another. Before the meeting started, about half of the room was dismissed on account of a high-priority project. At that point it was decided to move the meeting to a smaller room in the basement of the building.<br /><br />There were still a dozen of us left, but only one person seemed to know where we were going. He led us down a dark, narrow passage way through a maze of caves carved out of stone, climbing continually downward. Each cave was brightly lit and featured a whirlwind of activity — people walking every which way, monitors flashing and music blasting. We had been walking for several minutes and must have traveled several stories beneath street level. Sensing my apprehension, our self-appointed guide said “we’re almost there — it’s just around the corner.”<br /><br />I never made it to the conference room. You and I ducked into a small, intimate cave with a comfortable couch facing a large television screen. It featured a live feed from a camera mounted inside the lobby of the building facing toward the sidewalk to give us the illusion that these passers-by were almost close enough to touch. Suffice to say, your kiss took me completely by surprise.<br /><br />Of all the times for my phone to ring, I cursed the improbable reception of this underground hideaway. In reality, it was my alarm, returning me to the pre-dawn darkness of the awaiting world.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-52575076040838852052011-11-25T17:07:00.001-05:002011-11-25T17:07:42.931-05:00Black Fridayby the time I realized <br />that I was out of beer<br />it was already too late. <br />I had been standing <br />in the middle of the living room <br />with an empty six-pack in my hand, <br />taking to someone who wasn’t there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8388599.post-15641520968191664582011-10-18T08:41:00.002-04:002011-10-18T08:47:29.074-04:00for Jessica, Josiah and MeI found this on the old rec.arts.poems newsgroup, which is evidently archived by Google these days. I wrote it back in ’96, when both my son Josiah and Jessica Dubroff, who died while trying to become the youngest person to fly an aircraft solo, were seven years old. Josiah, now 22, has recently started his second four-year tour in the Marines.<br /><br /><blockquote>if not for the blinding sunlight <br /> I could see her <br /> high above the clouds<br /> but there was no sun that day —<br /> only a cold driving rain <br /> and a dark heavy sky. <br /> all that’s left <br /> is this long-winded mantra <br /> that she was destined to fly <br /> that to deny her <br /> was the ultimate cruelty. <br /> and so she flew<br /> and I wait for the rain <br /> to wash the blue-eyed dream <br /> from my outstretched hands. </blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0