Lost Halloween

"Ain't it hard
when the spirit doesn't catch you
Gravity's the winner
and it weighs you down
It weighs you down."-- Uncle Tupelo, Wipe the Clock

I had a run of four good Halloweens (I spent Halloween 2001 running after the company of my friends, as my father showed up sloshed at 5:30 p.m. then desperately wanted to hand out candy even though he could barely stand) that sputtered to a close last night.
The season isn't kind to my job. It's hard to summon the inspiration for a costume when pouring over the bios of political candidates, editing letters sent by their supporters/detractors and growing overextended by the schedule. Sunrise or sunset, I haven't seen many of either lately. I cannot claim to have missed much; at least autumn continues it rapid descent into winter.

Are these excuses for not throwing together a costume? Absolutely.

At least it will put me in the spirit of thinking about Halloween a little earlier next year, so I can offer something better than slapping on my fishing hat then claiming to be Henry Fonda from On Golden Pond.

Whistlin' through the obits

Heavy on the elderly and the tragic, the daily obituaries are no longer leisure reading as my owe life goes on.
I can’t skip them. The eye always moves directly to the age, or the photo if it depicts a child or anyone else too young for those pages. Often, it is merely a glory days photo of someone who died in their golden years.

But those last weekend it was an elementary-age boy who attended the MRDD program like my brother. Then came the 26-year old man whose scant paragraphs mentioned nothing about his passing. People at that age don't die of natural causes.
People at older ages don't either – a friend of mine died earlier at this summer at age 47 and an autopsy revealed his suspect heart attack came about because he popped methadone for the first time on his life’s last night. It stopped his heart. He died a careless, unnecessary death and I still don't know how to feel about that.

Subjects and sources from stories past come into play. A few years ago, I read the last words on a minister I interviews in 2001 as he celebrated his 60th year in the ministry. He asked for copies of the story and as so often happens, new deadlines swept away the vestiges of previous weeks, so I never delivered.

The worst obits don't deal with age; they're the ones that show a person survived by no one.

Back when I first started reading them, I stumbled upon a short write-up on a man who spent most of his life in a group home and later a retirement center.
Only deceased parents and siblings were mentioned. Outliving everyone who cares about me is not a life goal, and only reinforces the need for new friends at all times.

There might be something morbid in wanting to know more about complete strangers after their deaths. The brief details laid out in tiny newspaper print don't provide a picture so much as a corner torn off a snapshot. Maybe the daily dose of mortality just keeps me honest.

Bent gender

Percy proved the appropriate name, as the cat I took in a few weeks ago turned out to be a boy --- well, more boy than girl, more eunuch than boy, since his absent owners neutered him. And no matter how many books, he tosses off my shelves, he isn't going anywhere now.

It's amazing what little tricks a new cat-minder (no one really owns a cat) can learn in an hour at the vet's office. Orange peels and other aromatic scents will turn a cat away from house plants. Outdoor cats commonly contract ear mites, which quickly run amok; a shake of Percy's head as they administered the treatment flung black chunks across the exam table.

And obviously, the best lesson: because of a cat's body frame, manhandling them during an exam doesn't really hurt them.

I'm betting he fares not as well when I return in two weeks for the cat's series of shots, including a rabies vaccination. He doesn't leave the house – but
shows great inclination to discovering what lies beyond the front door. With all the biting the kitten inflicts on my arms and legs, I can't wait until they stick him.

5K Survival Run

It pounded all day and chilled most of the runners to the bone as they awaited the starting signal, but the rain remained relentless (enjoy the righteous
alliteration). And the hundreds who braved the slick, leaf-matted cobblestones survived not so much a fun run, but a bizarre October doldrums endurance trial.

The sprinkles and runoff alone had turned my shoes and socks moist by the first mile; the flooded out portions of the bike path coldly drenched them into
autumn. And there was this realization: body warmth works against that cold water, so long as it doesn't happen again.... not so fast. Five minutes out of the water was enough to realize how cold it really was with the next splash.

Cops yelling out directions to the runners added to the bootcamp feel - there's just something about law enforcement barking orders in a downpour,

Cramps struck all around on the way up the final hill, and for the first time, I wondered if a little purging might ease that pain. I didn't wonder for long, crossed the line just after the 28-minute mark and sauntered off for Gatorade and thoughts of a warm shower, because even at the finish line, the rain
loitered on.

So long, monster

My death penalty stance goes case by case.

This morning, I was as big a supporter as I ever was, when the state of Ohio killed cult leader Jeffrey Lungren.

He and his followers killed a family of five in Kirtland, the town next to Mentor, my boyhood home. After dinner one night, they brought the Avery family out to their barn one-by one (they had 3 daughters, the youngest was 7) and shot them, then buried them.

It shocked all of Lake County, that this offshoot Mormon cult was operating in our backyard.

His lawyers appealed up to the end, though their client remained unrepentant, saying he was doing God's word.

Rather than rehash the other nasty business conducted under Lungren's lead, I'll just say this: Good riddance.

Percy's song (or scream, depending on the moment)

So finally, I write about the six-pound beast roaming my apartment, trying to share in my dinner, spreading potting soil on the carpet, killing plants softly with its claws (killing them softly) and demonstrating no fear for splashed water.

Part of the delay - the non-frustrating part- was a name, and after a few sputtered on the lips, I arrived at Percy, for any number of reasons,the most important being that she's damned persistent. No matter how many times I set it on the ground while I'm washing dishes, the cat will jump right back up every time.

Persistence ... Percy ... no? Well, I'm out of ideas. Say it's for the poet Shelley instead. Or novelist Walker Percy. Any of them work, or none of them. This time, the name stays.

I think the beast is young and still capable of learning ... as much as any cat accustomed to living outdoors can in a few hundred square feet.

If not, all I have to do is open the door - to the pet carrier, and any number of people will be willing to succeed the rubble of my attempt as owning a pet.

Carryout confidential

How quickly the mind moves from one thing to another sometimes.

While feeling good about finding a pilsner from Erie (nostalgia has its powers), I noticed the couple at the register buying smokes going a little overboard with the PDA ... to where the guy was actually picked his girlfriend and leaned over the counter.
The clerk-owner noticed at this point too.
In heavily accented English, he yelled at the flanneled man to knock it off.

Then it started.

A lot of profanity bookending the typical phrases: Go home. Go back to Iraq. This is my country. I'm an f'in Marine Come out here and swing that baseball bat (I never saw one, but it would not have taken much to hide one beneath the counter).

The clerk-owner just swore, except to end it by telling the flanneled man to never return.

A tense few moments that for a few seconds looked as if the yelling might cave into something worse.

Now, I frequent the carryout and yes, its owners are Jordanian by birth (yeah, I know, like Zarqawi ... or I like to remember, King Hussein, one of the few good guys to pass through Middle Eastern leadership)and have been in the U.S. for more than 20 years. They're citizens. How do I know this? I asked. One night while grabbing a sixer, we got talking and I asked him, just as I often ask cab drivers.

I'm not naive to buy the Anne Frank line about everyone being good at heart, but I do believe that if people actually ignore politics and talk to each other like humans, differences don't always seem so insurmountable.

Anyway, that sort of killed the tinge of excitement about the beer (Presque Isle Pilsner, if you're keeping score).

Odd of voting Dem in 2008: Dropping all the time

The usual gaggle of unnamed sources report Mark Warner will announce he won't seek the presidency later today.

So one of the few viable options to a sure-to-lose Hillary Clinton or John Kerry redux (really, who's he kidding) is out.

I still maintain the Dems will only win back with the White House with a Red State governor. Tom Vilsack from Iowa is still an option, but Warner was my guy. And seeing him drop out so early is concerning..

On office coffee and nothingness

Somewhere in every office's confines sits that coffee pot that every caffeinated employee cringes at -- usually as they pour their fourth of the day.

Slightly burnt, poorly measured to be served as water's tan cousin or strong enough to make a Brazilian think twice, people rally around it.

But I can't. I know what dark secrets lurk in the heart of those ground beans (my apologies to The Shadow). Sometimes, when the choice is bad coffee or fighting sleep behind the wheel, it can be tolerated. The daily routine fails the qualify. A dose of cream cannot make swill palatable.

Now that a roaster and wholesaler moved in down the street, I take to the curb whenever the coffee urge strikes and brave the edge of the road in our light industrial district. This fine brew doesn't require my customary milk or cream to cool it down. Sugar for sweetness? Not with the Sweet Yellow Bud. Today's taste of Ethiopian had a heavier presence and left me slightly jittery. Good coffee should have enough flourishes in its taste that dressing it up is unnecessary.

It's worth the walk. Even if, as this morning proved, breeze on the short walk proves my sweater no more warming than a T-shirt. Doesn't matter - the way back was warmer. I'm pulling for my friends at the roaster. If they go under, I go coffee-less.

Terrain in vain, and surviving without a sprain

Hills and flatland change the scope of any run/bike/race. That is the lesson of the second 5K, as flat leisure path proved eminently more runnable than muddy ravine slopes. I've pounded running into the pavement on this running account of my life, so it earns a much-needed break after this post.

I can hear the three of you who read this regularly sighing feverishly.

I'm taking next week off (unless I feel overly compelled to try Powell's 5K for some charity I've never heard of; after the charley horses that hit me last night, I doubt it). To paraphrase Ivan Drago as he shrugged off the Communist Party bosses in Rocky IV, this weekend "I run for me."

Anytime you can drop a Rocky or Karate Kid reference into everyday conversation, that day is looking up.

Overnight sensation at 82 dies at 94

He never played a inegrated minute in Major League Baseball (he scouted and coached after his long Negro League career ended), yet Buck O'Neil spent the last decade of his life as baseball's greatest ambassador to its past. One of the last connections to the Negro Leagues, and ultimately, the resource that allowed the league's contributions and players to be enshrined at the Baseball Hall of Fame, O'Neil died Friday.

Made famous through his appearance in the Ken Burns documentary - he held the thing together, in many places - he was really the final tie to an era of baseball consigned to the history books.

O'Neil had been an institution at the Negro League museum in Kansas City, MO, up until the end. A baseball fan could not forget his keen mind and memories of Satchel Paige and other Negro League greats. This was the guy who as a scout signed Lou Brock and Ernie Banks, both in the Hall of Fame, for the Chicago Cubs.

This year was seen as the one in which O'Neil would finally get his plaque at Cooperstown, what with a committee handing down recommendations on Negro League officials worthy of enshrinement. Yet he missed the cut by a single vote. That was a true slight on the part of the Hall of Fame. How can the man who ushered so many forgotten stars of baseball's segregated days not get in?

O'Neil was quoted as not being upset about the snub. But everyone else who made a contribution to the game at that level is already in, so there's no logical reason for this man to be stuck outside the gate. I'm sure it will happen posthumously, but the guy lived for 94 years. The Hall's Veterans Committee already had plenty of time to find Buck O'Neil a spot.

The journalistic bolt from the blue

For as much as I hate my job Mondays, Tuesdays and paydays, we get perks. People send us crazy things: books, food and even a toilet seat (the benefit went to my friend the Homes Editor).

But flipping through the brochure for the first Columbus AleFest last week, I came to the conclusion the $30 admission probably wasn't in the budget. Too bad, because as a lover of well-crafted beer, I though it might be a neat event. A small beer festival at the North Market a few weeks ago deftly spotlighted what our locals produce in small batches (though Gordon Biersch's presence is a mystery--last time I checked, it's a chain), and this larger festival seemed to cover a different scale entirely. But it wasn't in the cards.

Then my boss walked through the newsroom with the letter and a pair of passes.

Start pourin', barkeep. Start writing, commentary editor.

Only for Jenny Lewis

Two trips to Cleveland in ten days. Both up and back in the same night. And until Thursday morning, I still hemmed and hawed about going.

But life is short. So is Jenny Lewis, especially compared to bandmates The Watson Twins, but she unquestionably led the group through an affable, eclectic set of songs well-known to the few hundred people crowded into Cleveland's House of Blues.


Just Lewis' happy presence made a difference in the show. The energy and songwriting shone through the simmering gold dresses Lewis and the twins switched into during an interlude from her fine backing band.

Bands with one album have it rough on the concert circuit. Lewis never delved into the Rilo Kiley catalogue and stuck to Rabbit Fur Coat interspersed with new songs.

The show barreled right into a short encore with the album's title track - Lewis couldn't contain a smile as the audience yelled out its praise. Concluding with her spot-on cover of "Handle with Care" by the Traveling Wilburys (best supergroup ever - Dylan, Harrison, Petty Orbison plus Jeff Lynne), she did what every artist aspires to: left the audience wanting a whole lot more. New songs are great, but we need a little more than an hour next time, Jenny.


The Cleveland-Columbus shuffle grows old quickly, and the schedule has no more must-see shows that are skipping a capital performance. Because I can't run around tired like this all the time. Coffee can only serve as a crutch for so long. But as someone reminded me, it was self-inflicted. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Something about sirens

Miles of farmland box in Columbus to the west and east (hundreds if you count the whole of Indiana). So the tornado sirens wailing before sunset should not surprise anyone.

The clouds swirling unnaturally and the disparity of color in the sky -- pinkish blue sky struck through the obsidian stormfronts -- were the only real surprise as the TV squawked about viewers getting to the basement. I never moved -- the pink and purple splotches on the radar never came close to my territory (that is, my few hundred square feet).

Big chunks of hail fell, reports of funnel clouds were repeated ad nauseum. Something about tornado sirens makes the TV weathermen all tingly. They preempt the world news and spare viewers more bad news from the Fertile Crescent.

Not a bad deal for people in the only profession where you can be wrong 90 percent of the time and have no fear of losing your job....

Limitless in our limitations

Last night I stood over the stove, stirring baby red potatoes irregularly and waiting for the chicken to cook through, when I realized this meal, one that I once ate routinely, had not been on the menu for at least six months.

Following upheaval with my living situation earlier this year, those stellar eating habits went straight to hell, a sandwich from a franchised kitchen became the norm. Any cooking skills I claimed before then had decayed. So last night was the first step to returning to the track. Frozen veggie burgers can only sustain for so long.

But the memory thing reminded me of this quote from author Paul Bowles, one which he reads aloud at the end of the film version of his novel The Sheltering Sky:


“Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”

It's scary to think that the things we treasure the most happen so rarely.

I like cooking for other people, and haven't since I moved, discounting the hummus and pasta salad I put together for an underwhelming party back in July (I picked a bad weekend).
But the stove is back on, and it's only a matter of meals before some new guest arrive.

Abandoned verse

I was once a poet. Some days I still try to be.

But overall, the muse has been revoked. Inspiration is a whore who's run off to whoever's pandering the most.

I could blame writing all the time in other mediums; between the column, the blog, the random prose and spotty fiction, there's not a lot of room left for verse.

Good verse, that is. For all the poetry I churned out daily in college, I sputtered through a lot of bad lines. But now the good is much harder to find; just crafting more than a half-dozen lines proves Herculean. Also scary is amount of repeated lines from other poems I've written than snake their way into the stanzas.


When visiting a professor at Mercyhurst, he reminded me that Rimbaud quit poetry at 19 - an uncomfortable thought for someone who still wants to put the words on the page -- Not mention Keats, who coughed out his last breaths next to Rome's Spanish Steps at age 26 (and mine at the time- way to show compassion, Doc Schiff).

I'm not giving up, though. I still see some of them making it into a journal before I die. The biggest problem is the way I write; it doesn't match up with modern poetry too well and the language grows too dense too quickly. Maybe I just need an editor with a machete

Poetry groups have proven too limiting- people tend to take a greater interest in my last name than what I read.

The hills are steeper, the verse more elusive, but there's always a muse. She's just choosing to travel well-veiled these days.

Little scenes from life too easy to drive past

To keep the knees from screaming, I've adopted a simple exercise schedule: Day 1, I run; Day Two, hit the bike; Day Three, I walk.

The first Day Three arrived yesterday, so I meandered across Clintonville at a brisk power-walking pace that carried me home just after dark. An hour after I returned home, I might as well have walked in mud.

Aside from restoring the soreness to my legs, I grasped a lot of detail that would have escaped me had I driven through the same stretch and only exercised my driving foot.

Charter school children trying to raise cash from commuters (okay, they were coming up to cars at the red light; that I would have noticed).

A glut of historic markers, so weathered and barely legible that they're footnotes threatened to vanish beneath the elements.

An overgrown path through a small woods where two streets terminated and the city never bothered to connect them, so pedestrians did anyway.

A little boardwalk leading down into one of the major ravines, sparing walkers from the steep, winding road cars whip down.

But the one that caught me the most was a familiar building with its busiest hours in the evening. I spotted someone else's family and friends hugging outside the funeral parlor, headed inside for a wake.

By the time I doubled back, the cars were streaming away from its lot, away from an inherently melancholy place.

Two lungs coughing right up

Well, the 5K of the Jogging Melville Era is in the books, the second is set for next week, and my breathing is back to normal.

Not that the last part came easily. Rattling off -- which is to say "plodding through" -- 3.1 miles with a pair of steep inclines in the middle was tough, but I endured. I had a little anxiety before the run, since I had no accurate measure for distance on my recent spat of jogging, I knew little about where this path would lead.

Aside from coughing all the way back to my first cigarette, I was fine. And am feeling better about running all the time - yes, even the knees agree.