Moved!

Hiya! If you're looking for me here, I've moved on. Hop on over to www.susannahfelts.com. Thx!

Fire

How strange to wake up and smell smoke--from fires burning in the next state over!

Some coworkers said they could smell it one day last week, too, but I had a cold then and was smelling-impaired.

This morning, however, I didn't even have to get out of bed to smell the smoke.

The Entertainer!

OMG.

I just heard an ice cream truck outside.

Playing "The Entertainer." Not "Turkey in the Straw," or the whatever clappy-clap song it was that went with the little voice that called out "HELLO!" every spring/summer night on the Near West side of Chicago, and not that really weird melancholy one we heard every once in a blue moon over in Ukrainian Village, but still: an ice cream truck.

The sound of an ice cream truck is, like, a straight mainline shot of Chicago-apartment-life nostalgia.

I've never heard one here before. (Uh, obviously.)

(The fountain is still off! Well, trickling now, but not audibly, really. Trickly is A-OK with me.)

Ohhh, that was good. That was weird, and that was good.

OK, yes, I know, really, they're everywhere, them 'cream trucks. This is not such a surprising thing to happen, not at all. But somehow I never really encountered ice cream trucks until I moved to Chicago. And oh, encounter them I did, from that point on. Nightly. Nay, often daily and nightly.

Who could forget the WINDY FREZEE?

(sob)

Oh, Entertainer, what a sweet treat you were, here in Alabama on a quiet Sunday eve.

Encore! (And yes, I want my $1 soft-serve cone too, please.)

Locoaudio, part two

Well, duh.

I realized tonight why the train music seemed especially lovely last night. It was because I could actually hear it clearly. And that was because the fountain in the "pocket park" below our apartment had been shut off. It's kind of crazy that I spend a good deal of time gritting my teeth over that stupid fountain's incessant white noise, and then didn't exactly notice when it went away. But that was just because I was noticing all the other, infinitely more enjoyable sounds.

We suspect the whole point of the fountain is to mask train and traffic sound for people who live in this building and don't fancy that sort of thing. In all likelihood they're the majority. People like to install fountains in their yards for the sound of the burbling/crashing water, right? I'm probably the resident weirdo who doesn't want to screen everything else out with the racket of crashing water.

Why is it so nutty to want to listen to the sounds of the environment you've chosen to live in? I just don't get it, but not getting what a lot of people don't seem to even think twice about is sort of a recurring theme in my life. And I'm afraid it will never make me rich (as not getting it sometimes does, for some people); in fact, the opposite is probably more true.

Still, I think I may have to write the management peeps a letter, a solitary (perhaps) plea to leave the thing turned off for good. What if they actually granted my wish!? (What if, dream of dreams, they actually receive additional requests for same?)

Not only can you hear train music (and, maybe, some industrial backing notes from some plant/factory of some sort on the other side of the tracks; as for traffic, honestly, there is none worth screening out), you can hear birds. The birds were totally drowned before.

("Dear Jemison, Please don't drown the birds. I mean, please don't drown them out. Best,...")

This brings us to the reason that the fountain is off. At first I assumed "broken," because a lot of things have broken around here recently. But then--a-ha moment!--I thought, "drought." Quite likely that's it. And good for you, Jemison peeps, for shutting the thing down to save agua, if that is indeed what you did. Of course, I also feel uncomfortable with the fact that something good, for me, may be coming of the drought. What is more preferable: a dangerously dry summer with no fountain, or the fountainy status quo and healthy doses of rain? It's true that I despair to see staggering, shriveling living things; I can practically hear their wails, a tinny chorus of parched little throats screaming help meeee, feed meeee...

(shudder)

But drought or no, couldn't--shouldn't-- they just shut thing down? Wouldn't money be saved, not to mention a natural resource? Well...okay, there's probably not a lot of water usage in a fountain; perhaps it just cycles back through. I don't know. But let's assume for the sake of this blog post and my need for train music in my life that we're talking massive water waste, here. If they did shut it down because of the drought, it must be wasting some water.

So, OK, let's assume then that there are more popular reasons than train music to kill the damn fountain once and for all. If I write my argument essay-letter, I shall focus on these, not my affection for chugging engines and the screech of giant knives being sharpened and the wail of violins like Charlie Daniel's band of demons startin' in and the tolling of bells (though I doubt I'll be able to resist tucking in a plea for them, too, near the end). Meanwhile, I best get out the recording equipment, because it also occurred to me tonight (again, duh) that no decent recording could be made with the fountain doing its thing.

Will we have a summer sans infernal wet static? Stay tuned. I certainly will.

Locoaudio

I have decided that I've got to start writing down the ways the freight trains sound. I need to record them too.

Six+ months in, I still take serious joy in listening to the many variations on metal-on-metal noise (and engine thrum) here, in Birmingham, a few hundred feet from the tracks and above the street. It's one of the small but good things.

And yes, I should start right here and now, but I've got other things I'm supposed to be working on. Ain't that always the case, though. . .

Vox Populi

According to the very friendly and very tan man who rang up my smoothie today, global warming's just not the big deal the media would have us believe.

So a leprechaun walks into a flea market. . .

We came home from a little deep South road-trip yesterday afternoon to find our tax forms in the mailbox, sent from the accountant in Chicago. And as good tax forms will, they bummed me straight out.

But I sat right down at the 'puter and found this and this--courtesy a friend in Seattle. And the world--no, the state of Alabama--was suddenly a delightful place.

So yeah, today this mini mall and the crackhead and the amateur sketch and the special thousand-year-old flute/pipe are pretty much keeping me going.

Hey hey. You heard me. We got it. You need it. Oh yeah. Don't stop. Come on now. To the left. To the right.

Don't be afraid, man. I'm just trying to help out.

Baaa

We don't really celebrate Easter. So it sort of came and went without much to-do, except for people at both our workplaces asking us what we were doing over the weekend. We did not much at all. We ate some fried chicken. Greasy-fingered heathens, we.

But it occurs to me now: No butter lambs. This was my first Easter in a long time without the sight of a refigerated display of fresh butter lambs at the Jewel.

Do they do butter lambs in Bama? Was I just not in the grocery store? I kinda suspect a lack of lambs down here.

What a difference four months can make

For the record, there is no part of me that is jealous of Chicago's current snowfall.

(We sure did choose an interesting year to skedaddle, weather-wise!)

I let this thing wither

And now I don't know if I can nurse it back to life or not.

Or if I even should.

Sweet Relief

"Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie."

(One of many great lines in a production of David Mamet's Boston Marriage, in which we saw our lovely friend Jill shine brightly this week as occasionally acid-tongued Claire.)

Retitled

I'm thinking about giving this thing a new name.

Sweat? No Sweat.

Well, fooey. I misspelled "phooey" in that previous post. I like the look of "fooey," though.

Yesterday I spent a few pleasant hours that offer an argument for why more Birminghamians should move downtown. I left our building and walked about two or three blocks, mailed a large package at the UPS store. Walked another two blocks and was at the YMCA.

I confess that this was my very first trip to said Y, and I am ashamed (or would be if my old pal-trainer Juan from the Logan Square--or rather, McCormick--Y knew this). Trips to the Y were a regular part of my week back in Chicago, and when we chose this apartment its proximity to a new Y seemed like a huge benefit. Indeed, I planned to hustle over there right away to resuscitate what was then already a weakened regimen, to practice yoga 2-3x a week too, etc. (How could I be expected to sweat and pant back in September and October? All my energy was tapped for crying jags.) Well. We've been here almost three months, and until yesterday all I'd managed were a couple of downward dogs and twists in the guest bedroom, and a couple of halfhearted appearances on the treadmill downstairs in our building, in a dim, depressing little room that is too cold and thus makes me wheeze. I partly stayed away from the Y for because money was tight, but let's be honest: I mostly stayed away because I got lazy.

So now, basic principles of cause and effect being what they are, I am squishy. (And, as ever, full of chocolate.) Can't take it anymore. Going downhill. Even the husband who never has neg word one to say about my corporeal self, has noted that, well, I feel kinda different when he cozies up to me before sleep.

So, back to the Y. I finally went, and was impressed. This Y is like a W hotel compared to the Holiday Inn quality of our little Logan Square outpost. I will maintain fond memories of that place, of course: The salsa music, the ex-cons among whom I tried to do my thing with the free weights, friendly Angel with his sweat band always in place, and most of all, Dominican-born Juan and the Abs class he taught in English so thickly accented none of us had any idea what he was saying half the time.

But check it out: The Birmingham Y offers me clean towels for free use. The ladies' locker room is stocked with a whole set of free weights for gals who'd rather not work out next to grunting macho men. There are mini-bottles of shampoo and other toiletries for sale. There's even a cafe with smoothies and Izze soft drinks. Yesterday, a sandwich with asiago cheese was the special.

Pilates, yoga, and a bunch of other group classes. Sauna and steam. A pool. An indoor track. In terms of amenities, this beats the McCormick hands down. Hell, it even beats New City. Maybe this explains why the membership is more expensive than in Chicago, though I still think that's odd. (See? It's nuts. Everything costs us more here!)

Post-workout, I walked about a block to the bank. It was entertaining, as bank visits go. The other customer at the counter, a white man who looked to be in his 40s and wore some kind of paper name tag, noticed that two of the tellers were named Denise and Lisa. He proceeded to shout:

"Leeeeesie! And Neeeeesie! Neeeeesie! And Leeeeesie! Neesie and Leesie, Leesie and Neesie!"

Repeat about 20 more times and you'll get the idea.

Then just a few more steps to Zoe's Kitchen (which may get its own post here soon) for some lunch to go. And who was there, stocking beverages, but Leesie/Neesie man.

And then the final few blocks home.

If I'd needed, say, a new pair of tights and a bottle of Advil? I could've purchased those on this route too. If I'd had shoes that needed repairing, or wanted a latte instead of a workout? Also right on the way. Soon, I'll be able to stop in at Reed Books' new location--maybe unload some old magazines on him.

I would like to point out that I could never have accomplished all these things in a very short amount of time, on foot, in our old neighborhood in Chicago. (Sure, you could in lots of other neighbs, but not ours, not quite. Though we did have the godsend of the Rico on the corner, with, instead of a Leesie/Neesie man, the mute guy who hung around and made interesting sounds. And we had walking access to lots of restaurants, plus upscale nail salons, plus a bunch of boutiques we mostly couldn't afford to frequent.)

It was enough to get me all agitated, happily so. Birminghamians need to keep moving down here, parking their cars, walking the streets. Not just during ArtWalk and Sidewalk. And retailers, grocery stores, we beg of you: Come; come give us the opportunity to spend our money with you! There's vacant space all over this place, just waiting. I get so excited and frustrated all at once by the sight of it that I practically wet my pants.

Not in a few years. Now. Come on. The quasipedestrian life: Embrace it.

After the Break, a Con(te)stant

[There were six short paragraphs here of meta-blogging. I was probably wise to cut them; I'll probably be foolish enough to post them in the future anyway.]

Well, fooey. All I want is to rap about American Idol.

Two seasons ago I never gave it a passing thought. I don't remember how I got hooked in the first place, but now I unabashedly am, and for the same reasons as most viewers: reasons that have zero to do with the songs or the quality of the singing.

Idol makes me laugh; it makes me gape in horror; it rouses my incurably sappy side; it gets me thinking along the lines of inquiry I trod way-back-when, in pursuit of an American Studies degree (armchair theorizing almost makes TV time feel useful, don't it?); it makes me see aspects of my teaching self in Ms. Abdul (yikes). And I like looking at the outfits. Then there's the ecstasy-agony of smug little Seacrest's "........after the break" foreplay. They're simply making plain old shameless, good TV, those savvy bastids.

Anyway.

Last year I was drawn to Mr. Hicks, despite myself. I enjoyed the man. I did not root, but if I had rooted, it would've been for him.

Now I picture: our old living room with its big bay windows, faux fireplace, piles of New Yorkers slipping and sliding totally out of control, drifts of cat fur, early spring light waning. Myself and Todd on the couch with plates of Home Run Inn sausage pizza and glasses of red from the Rico. And Taylor Hicks on the boob tube. You are fucking charming me, I think, watching him holler and grin. I should maybe be worried.

And I picture: sheer white words, like ripped plastic in bare branches, floating above our heads: In eight months you'll be living in this dude's hometown, and an Idol-proud town it is. You have no idea. . .

We started watching Idol again last Wednesday: same couch, same tube, different view out the window.

Simon calls some scrawny big-eyed kid a bush baby, and the bush baby's obese, lisping friend comes in all hopeful and says I've got a great personality, and when the disaster's over you get a parting shot of the two walking away together, and I just want to cry for humanity, and it hurts real good, just like they want it to, and what I know is: I feel like an addict.

What I don't know is: What are the words above my head spelling out now?

A Dark Story

From an interesting New Yorker piece on industrial color consultants:

"Regional patterns can't always be explained by anthropology, but they exist," she went on. "Birmingham, for example, is a heavy brick market, so even the sided houses tend to be brown or brick red. It's a very dark story. You still see more colors in Birmingham than in Dallas, but the colors in Dallas are more diverse--grays, greens, yellows. Tampa has more stucco, so it skews very light. Washington, D.C., is beigeville."

Happy to learn we don't live in beigeville!

And now I also know that the funny, or funky, green chairs I recently adopted should maybe be called wasabi green, rather than lime green. Or else specified as one of fifteen different shades of lime green. I'm not sure which one. Help. I do want to be accurate.

The Good Kind of Blustery

Steve Chiotakis* on WBHM this morning: "If you're a fan of cold and blustery weather, this is your kind of day!"


*Looked up his name to spell it correctly and found out he's from northwest Indiana--Merrillville, to be exact--near Chicago. Know any Chiotakises, GK?