Sunday - 2008-0511-2200 - Rain - Rainy Night in San Francisco; Framing Stained Glass; "Moonrise over Hernandez, NM," "Guernica," "Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall"; Searching for Spiced Chicken; Box Boys; Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California"; Fetishes; The Enigma of the Hearst; "Modern Times"; Neighbors to the north, cordiality, car loops, getting stuck in the mud; The general trauma of seeing your car in a ditch, some remarkable paternal behaviour

Rain - Rainy Night in San Francisco Larger Image An almost film norish view of a San Francisco street on a rainy night. A photo by Itinerant's buddy icon Itinerant's photostream at Rain in San Francisco.

Post lunch yesterday, I stopped at a branch of the frame shop I'd visited last week. Although the clerk at the first location had given me the code number of the frame I'd decided on, I discovered that the frames are not displayed in any order. But the numbers are listed on the bottom of the frame; of course, the wall only held about 500 frames.

Would it be possible, I wonder, to organize the frames in order. Ideally, the frame number should appear on the wall above each frame. Maybe there's a great ebb and flow of frames available, so this would necessitate a lot of re-ordering.

After some adroit calisthenics by the clerk, we found the frame. We did lots of measuring and examing and discovered that were two types of glass and two types of lead framing. Something of a puzzle.

I asked if they any prints, I want one more print for my living room, but he said that all they had was on display - maybe a dozen or so. One was an Ansel Adams, "Moonrise over Hernandez, NM October 31, 1941". I happen to think that I'd seen the original at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. (This larger version offers details not observable in the smaller image.) As I looked at Adam's photo, I wondered how he was able to position himself to catch the town, the clouds and the moon above.

When I first saw it, I was overwhelmed. It was so startling and spell binding I just stood in awe. And I still find it a very powerful work.

When I was at the Museum, Pablo Picasso's "Guernica" was also on display. The following Treasures of the World | Guernica explains how it came to be at the Museum and how it was returned to Spain.

I mentioned to the clerk that encountering "Guernica" and "Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall" were two of the defining moments of my life; not just aesthetically, but also as part of my psyche.

Talking with the very interested clerk was most enjoyable. And I really did not get the impression he was being polite because I was a customer. I've been known to miscomprehend that commercial sense of politeness as something more. For that matter, I'm always doing that with all kinds of people. And rejection and dejection is not uncommon.

Cooking is an art that I've never developed. Without those little icons on the microwave, I'd be lost. I've become very dependent of packages of spiced frozen chicken from WalMart. However, the last couple of times, they've not had it. And I'm hoping it has not been discontinued. I looked and looked at the other offerings but none were to my liking.

So I thought I'd see what Kroger had to offer. I think I've been to the store only once before. The store does not seem that large from the outside; but on the inside, it is huge. And surprisingly, they have a larger selection of frozen foods than WalMart. And I actually found something akin to what I wanted. However, their self check-out machines are a tad Teutonic. You must adhere to a rigid pattern, or the synthesized voice becomes surly and demanding.

As I was leaving, I noticed a very desirable "box boy." (It then struck me that WalMart does not have "box boys." The clerks at WM scan an item and then slips it into a bag on a carousel. A simple process that cuts down on the need for extra personnel.)

Whenever I think of "box boys," I think of a couple of lines from Allen Ginsberg's A Supermarket in California".

"In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys."

This has to be one of my favorite lines of poetry because of its telling ordinariness.

Box boys fall into my fetish category. As do Latter Day Saints missionaries in their white shirts and narrow black ties. Also, restaurant servers with floppy hair. Plant nursery workers. And anyone capable of an intelligent conversation. Guys with Scottish or English accents. Construction workers. My attraction is part sexual and part romantic.

I'd parked at the edge of the lot, and in front of me was a thicket of hedge between the Kroger parking area and the one next door. On the other side of the edge was a parked Hearst and two police cars; an incongruous scene. As the Hearst driver was exiting his vehicle, a plain, red panel truck backed up to the rear of the Hearst. The hedge prevented me from seeing anything too closely. But it certainly appeared that a coffin was being moved from the Hearst to the panel truck.

Certainly a strange, slightly surreal, setting. Was the Hearst disabled? Why the police cars? Was another Hearst not available? Did the police cars indicate that the Hearst driver was under suspicion? All very puzzling.

Early one day last week, at the hour of 5 or so, after feeding the felines, I was too awake to go back to bed, so I turned on the telly and watched about 45 minutes of Chaplin's "Modern Times."

I'm sure much has been written trying to explain the complexities of the little tramp. He exists without precedent; he simply is. Like a jinni, conjured from an unseen flask. His presence is always at odds with the mechanical and human devices of the universe. And always surrounding him is a metaphysical aura of poignancy. The sheer genius of Chaplin is in his ability to convey that tinge of melancholy.

My neighbors to the north are several college students with an assortment of friends. And in my casual conversations, I've been very surprised at how cordial and friendly they are.

The house sits on a lot slightly larger than mine. However, in their case, the backyard is akin to a field of weeds. About a month ago, someone drove in one night and decided to "explore" the back yard which consisted of making a number of loops. Although, I'd never thought of anyone doing this, I must admit the maneuver does hold a certain appeal. Somewhere in the looping, the car wandered into a large puddle of mud and immediately sank about a foot into the mire.

I could tell that they tried a number of tricks to extricate the car; all to no avail. I managed to miss the outcome, but a couple of days later, the quagmire was empty.

Friday evening, someone else decided to make some crop circles and inadvertently slid into the same hole. I know the poor driver was absolutely mortified by his "mistake." Again, there was much discussions of methods of extractions.Saturday afternoon I wandered over with two pieces of heavy lumber, two by sixes. But the truck was sunk so low that it would have been necessary to dig down about two feet to place the boards. As we walked back to the house, one of the guys commented that I was actually the first person to offer direct help. And he told me how grateful he was. (Again, I was surprised at the civility.)

Again, I did not see the outcome, but someone mentioned they had found a four-wheel drive vehicle and a strong chain.

There's something about getting your car stuck in a ditch, mud hole or any similar area that can make you feel downright ill. Years ago, I was in Monroe, Louisiana with a friend. As I flipped on my right turn signal and started to turn, I was hit from behind by a speeding car that rammed me into the car in front and then sent my car spiraling into a wide, deep ditch. I remember standing by the side of the road looking down at my new car ready to throw up at a moment's notice.

It took a month to get the car fixed, so I had to use the family car. And papa bitched and whined about it every single day. Gawd, he could be a neurotic bastard. At the time, I was teaching at a "minority" school. One of his memorable statements was, "I don't like you taking our car to that nigger school every day." Ah, what a wonderful way with words he had!

One day he demanded that we go visit the dealership to see what progress was being made. Obviously the car was not ready. But that did not stop him from screaming and yelling at everyone in sight. Jesus, this was one of many, many times that I absolutely detested the man.

(In Thursday - 2008-0511-2200 / Out - 2008-0512-2300) This entry was written in multiple settings.

Pax! Erin go braugh! Je accuse...