Pepper of the Earth – The Home Office Record & Mostly Daily Gazette

This year's Tribute in Light 9/11 memorial, taken from the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Two women watch and talk in the foreground.

Please stand by. The trouble is not in your set. The trouble is all over the floor of my apartment, in sullen stacks, and I have to go through all of them to get stuff ready for the accountant. This happens every year and I never get any better at it. No posting til Brooklyn, as they say.

Mind you, I managed to procrastinate all the day away yesterday, but I didn’t get anything organized or productive done. That seems to be OK – de rigueur, really. But writing a coherent blog entry would be wrong. /shrugs

New York City dancer Ms. Tickle, angelically dancing at the Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekend competition show at the Plaza Hotel & Casino, in Las Vegas.

Previously, on Lost…

You know, a guy reaches into his pocket to check if his pen is still there, and turns around once or twice, and reckons that he should remember to charge his cell phone tonight, and all of a sudden it’s 2010. It’s some sort of rough magic, I tell you. We’ve made it through thickets of the Noughties and out into the jungle of whatever we’re going to call these next years, a little shabbier for the wear.

It feels like it took an awfully long time for so little time to pass, but at least it was over in a flash. Plus, I can’t believe it’s already 5771, it seems like only yesterday it was 5760. <- ObJewJoke

Since we last appeared in this space, lessee. Pierre continues to single-handedly support the entire local music scene in New York City, just about, with an ardor that makes up for me not going to shows any more (after a decade in and near the Biz, I just got tired of the whole kitchen, stewpots and all).

I take a lot of pictures, and have settled in to a more or less permanent vigil at the BAMcinématek, where I for my part see so many movies that it makes up for Pierre not having been to the cinema since about 1999, when he refused to see Fight Club on the grounds that he doesn’t like “boxing movies.” And so the Cosmic Balance is maintained.

And why maintain the Cosmic Balance if you’re not going to blog about it, right? So when I can I’ll post some pictures, and talk about some movies. Let’s see if we can make this work.

It’s a summer Monday, after a brimming hot busy head-spinning weekend. I’m at the office, considering subterfuge. My lord, I have a cunning plan.

Linus: Um, hi, I was just coming to see you.
The Office Manager: Yes? What’s up?
Linus: Barack Obama just called. He, uh, he wants to show me something.
The Office Manager: Really! And where is Barack Obama right now?
Linus: Coney Island.
The Office Manager: Imagine that. And what does Barack Obama want to show you out there in Coney Island on a Monday afternoon?
Linus: He didn’t say. Maybe a nice shell?
The Office Manager: Well I think you should head right out there. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting. Maybe he’ll give you a job. Since you’ll need one.
Linus: Right. Well, back to work.

I do my best today to convince our Office Manager that actually coming to work is the least important part of our jobs.

Think of it this way. The social and economic aspects of the world run on agreed, consensual standards. A two-dollar fare gets you on the subway in my fair city because someone sets that as the price point, and though we may all hate him, we don’t actually kill him. If we do kill him, the next one along sets it at a buck fifty, crosses his fingers, and hopes for the best. The rule isn’t external, it’s self-imposed.

As it is, we didn’t exactly say yes, but they’re all still breathing. Which sometimes amounts to the same thing.

So I’m thinking that if we all just stay home, things should work out fine for everybody. The thing is, ALL of us have to do it. If Smitty from Accounting comes in while the rest of us are out and makes snarky remarks for the rest of the month, then the whole thing is off. Everyone has to do it all at once. And then later we can all say, yeah, I was there, wassamatta dinya see me? Whole day, just like every day. Except really, we are all at the movies.

The Office Manager looks at me blankly. “I don’t get it,” she says. “Where would the money come from?”

I shrug. “What do you mean?” I say. “Where does it come from now? It’s all just arbitrary.”

“No,” she says. “No. You work, and then you get paid. If you don’t work, you don’t get paid.”

“Right,” I say. “But why? What’s the difference? They could pay us just the same, except we wouldn’t be here. And if no one else is at their jobs either, how would anyone know? The money isn’t coming from anywhere in particular anyway, it’s just going back and forth. Except instead of sitting here we’d all be at the movies, which is ideal because it’s dark in there, and you can get by without seeing the other people you might be working with if you weren’t at the movies.”

There’s a pause, and as she looks at me her brow furrows. “Aha,” she says. “Don’t you have something to do? I could always find you something to do.”

And there goes another revolution, crushed by the ruling elites before it has time to get off the ground. Note to self: Maybe wait until next week to discuss vacation time.

Fourth of July. For the past umpty-ump years (three) I’ve been a regular at Curly’s Fourth of July Rooftop Party™ for the fireworks, the better to gaze above the madding crowds and take pictures with the camera in one hand and a bottle of Rogue Dead Guy Ale in the other.

Alas, Curly moved last week, and the new place doesn’t have a roof — an oversight in the planning, to be sure, and it’s just a good thing she doesn’t live on the top floor. It’s out into the streets with the rest of the Citizenry if I want to see the fireworks this time around. Or I could stay home and gruntle about it, which in summertime NYC is always an option.

I love fireworks more than I hate crowds, as it happens. So I rough out a Game Plan. I’ll get there, I think, at 7:30 for a 9:20 F.O.T. (Fireworks Onset Time). I’ll bring, lessee. Water, of course. Camera, tripod, hat, umbrella. That foldy chair I bought from the Target in a fit on inspired industriousness and never took out of its carrying bag can make its debut at last. The current book is almost done, I can finish it off while I wait. Anything else? Field radio, GPS, decoder ring? Nah, it’s just a few blocks away.

The sky thunders over, the sky grays apart, the wind threatens and cajoles. At half past five I set out for the corner Barnes & Noble café, which is where I love lately to watch thunderstorms rage past. There’s no real threat of rain, though, despite ominous reports from NPR, and on a whim I swing up toward the Promenade to see how the crowd mechanics are developing.

Crowds, crowds. They just don’t fit where you put them. There’s a little river of people brawling down to the Promenade, and it’s clear that I can go get a spot now or stand in the back later. So much for the chair; at least I’ve got the camera gear with me. I dash back to Starbucks to hydrate and caffeinate, and settle in for the duration. It’s 6:15, or F.O.T. minus 185 long long minutes.

Mike from Bay Ridge turns out to be a classic New York waiting buddy — true blue, dyed in the wool, Old Skool. He knows how it’s done. I ease into place between his spot and the couple next to him (foldy chairs! dammit!), nonchalant, as if I’m not really staying. We ignore each other for 15 minutes or so, politely and casually casing each other for weapons and dangerous-looking combat scars. Eventually I slide forward, he makes room, and we nod. Fifteen minutes later he shuffles his paper, checks his phone, glances up at the indecisive clouds, and wonders aloud if it’s going to rain, which is the first optional gambit to start talking. I take him up on it, and by the time the fireworks start we’ve shared gum and established that we’re both straight, neither rich, and both a little “whatever” about The Waterfalls.

Best of all? At the end of the night, after we’ve talked and sat and looked around and been rained on — and after someone has been poking someone else with his umbrella all during the show, sorry about that — we turn to each other, both knowing what’s coming, with ready grins.

Me: So anyway, I’m Linus.
Mike: I’m Mike. Good to meet you.
Me: See you next year.
Mike: So long.

That’s how we do it in New York.

See a few more shots of the Macy’s 4th of July fireworks in my Flickr set.

It’s National Talk Like a Pirate Day, one of my favorite silly annual events (that and National Underwear Day can duke it out for my giggly appreciations).

We (by which I mean Pierre: this is that rare use of the Royal Pierre that you may have read about in grammar books) have whipped up a handy surly scurvy-dog text translater for those o’ ye who don’t speak Pirate. There are a few of these on the web, but ours is unique in that we only finished the first few hours of the Pirates’ Cant correspondence course. Which was enough. It’s a remarkably expressive tongue, and it boils down to just a few basic principles, and I think you’ll agree that we’ve pretty much nailed the rudiments of discourse.

Generate some Pirate Talk here on Pepper of the Earth with our jin-u-wine home-made first-generation Pirate Talk Convert-o-Lator. You’ll have the hang of it in no time. (Click on that link to start things off. Arrr.)

Sometimes I think I’d give anything to go back to Before.

Prints of the first photo above are available for purchase from the ImageKind online photo service. Buy a print, and support your local Peppers (me)!