To be, or not to be...

Here she is: 4417 Garwood Way!

You'll have to excuse me for the cheap citation of an extremely over-quoted Shakespearean line, but that certainly is the question that plagues my mind daily as I desperately ponder whether the little two-story row house located at 4417 Garwood Way in Lawrenceville, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania is the house for me.  It's only the third house that I've toured and I just can't get the image of it--the potential, the renovation ideas, the wistful "if I had a million dollars!" architectural overhaul fantasies, the visions of a hip working-class urban neighborhood on the upswing--out of my head.  The first two houses that I visited were clearly, definitely, unquestionably, outrageously spectacularly not the ones for me.  I knew that from the start.  However, with this house in Lawrenceville that I've already taken to calling mine, I'm experiencing something else altogether. 

Some context including neighboring houses.

The house is indeed appealing.  It's cute, it has personality, and it's a solidly built structure 111 years old.  Granted, it has not yet been inspected, so I have no way of knowing what unforeseen problems and disasters-to-be await me; but, by all appearances, this house is more or less move-in ready except for its lack of a refrigerator, washer, and dryer.  (Those items and more can easily be purchased at Casper's Scratch & Dent in Homestead, I've been told.)  It has a new, very solid deck attached to the back, which is essential as I require a place to work on my sunburn during the summer months.  There are two full bedrooms on the second floor, an extra finished bathroom in the basement, and the finished attic--complete with high cathedral ceiling and two dormer windows--is a perfect additional suite that I could rent out.

Then there's the location.  Lawrenceville is fairly central to the city and convenient in terms of accessibility; it's within walking distance of the Strip District, downtown (a bit farther), Bloomfield, and Friendship.  I would still be able to walk to work and back every day, and Shadyside is also a mere half-hour's walk.  Lawrenceville itself has a lot to offer as an urban community.  There are galleries, antique shops, restaurants, bars, and at least one music venue that I've visited several times and plan to in the future, Thunderbird Cafe.  The well-known hipster hangout Brillobox (which I have not visited yet, although I went in a few times back when it was called Zooty's) is five minutes away and a large grocery store is only fifteen minutes away.  Importantly, the house is directly across from Children's Hospital.  The enormous, relatively new hospital's presence may not guarantee that upper Lawrenceville will continue to get safer and cleaner, but one immediate benefit is that Garwood Way has no houses on one side of the street; it's all very nicely maintained lawn and saplings with a giant parking structure behind it.

Look at this nasty mess--one of many challenges that I face.

There are a few issues, however, that cannot be minimized.  There's an abandoned house with a smashed-in back door, a sure invitation for crime or inappropriate loitering otherwise, just two houses down.  (No scalawags, riffraff, delinquents, or derelicts on my street!)  A few of the adjacent back yards are trashy as hell--totally abused and neglected, and a sorry view to behold, which is to say, a view that I would really rather not behold.  The house behind 4417 Garwood, as you can see in the photos, is more than a bit slummy with its dilapidated, completely unusable porch / fire escape threatening to drop away from the structure and right onto my deck.  (There I go again, my deck!  You know what I mean.)  Underneath that sorry wooden atrocity is an assortment of trash, old wood, and a ruined dresser.  Sorry, but if I'm going to buy 4417 Garwood, all of that trash has to go and stay gone.  I've gone to war with negligent neighbors before and I'll gladly do it again if necessary.  As for the junky fire escape, I've already reported that and the city fire inspectors are taking action.  Ultimately, if I buy this house, I will insist upon building a high fence along the southwest property line.

I hope to have made my decision by no later than the end of March.  My parents are both tentatively willing to lend me money to cover the down payment since I unfortunately have little in the way of savings.  In the meantime, I'm still researching apartments, considering other houses--remaining receptive to every possible option.  This whole process has been exciting, enlightening, and a tremendous source of motivation--a prospect for major life change that is both frightening and invigorating. I likely won't get to vacation this year if I buy the house, but it's a sacrifice that I'm willing to make.  Wish me luck!

Cosmos, tell me what shall be: is this house the one for me?

The Month of Change

Oh, blog, it has been too long! Such major changes have occurred since last we connected. Where shall I begin?

First, and most importantly by far, my sister Kathleen's adorable, healthy daughter Giuliana Helene Galatro came into the world on Sunday, February 20th, just one day before the projected due date. (Take that, weather man!) Grandma--jeez, I can't believe I'm calling my mom this!--accompanied in the Honolulu delivery room while dad, an officer aboard a nuclear submarine currently deployed in the Pacific, received real-time updates by phone; grandpa and Aunt Beth are flying to Hawaii in a few weeks to join. Unfortunately, Uncle Mike has neither enough PTO days accrued nor the money saved to grace the family with his eccentric, highly sentimental presence this time. Luna and the snake kids and I all send our best, though, and Giuliana will be receiving a Mike Jehn original, oils on canvas, as a welcome to the world! gift.

A few months ago a friend of mine who tends bar at Gullifty's in Squirrel Hill lent me a little tome called The Uncle Book: Everything You Need To Know To Be a Kid's Favorite Relative by author Jesse Cogan. Let it be known that I'm not one to pick up self-help or how-to books; but this one was cute by appearances, peppered with humorous anecdotes, and a quick read. A lot of the content was intuitive, really no-brainer material--perhaps not so much for people with duller minds or a less refined intuitive sense, hence my inability to fully appreciate the material?! At times, the author described the uncle role in such terms that his advice began to resemble a corporate business strategy. He used the term buncle, one of the silliest (translated: stupidest) words I've ever heard, to describe the uncle bond with niece or nephew. (I know, I'm just an old grump...) I do not need to employ "positioning" to market a particular activity to my niece, as if family bonding activities were products on the market forever competing with similar enticing products. Further, I hardly need to be mindful of the so-called USP--unique selling proposition--to facilitate or participate in "firsts" for the child because, hell, I'm already creative enough, eclectic enough, downright wacky enough to easily offer a whole menagerie of unique, perhaps even enviable first-time adventures. Considering my active lifestyle, extensive range of interests, artistic nature, penchant for knowledge-sharing, enduring connection to my own inner child, effortless knack for relating to kids, and unabashedly dark sense of humor (don't worry, I'll save the really bad stuff for the teenage years!), I don't think that I'll have any problem whatsoever--other than geographical distance, that is. All of this being said, I did learn a few things from this book, and would recommend it to anyone who is genuinely concerned that he might not be up to snuff as great--even average--uncle material. Or anyone who's bored on an airplane and needs something to read other than the SkyMall catalogue or the passenger safety manual.

By the way: as far as I'm concerned, an uncle will never, ever be a kid's favorite relative, although he may come close. Everyone knows that grandma is a kid's favorite relative. Got it? GRANDMA! It's a rule of the universe. Find me a provable example to the contrary and I'll buy you a drink.

I mentioned earlier that little Giuliana will receive a painting to admire and treasure for always (or, for all I know, sell on eBay to fuel her future shopping habit). Unless I am struck with inspiration--and a spare afternoon--before my dad and sister leave for Hawaii, the one on the left is the chosen candidate. It's called The Virgin Mary Shops for China Somewhere in East Texas. I don't know why; it just seemed like a funny title. Is east Texas even a good place to buy china? I wouldn't know.

Whew. I was supposed to list all these big changes and I kind of got sidetracked. Can you blame me? My new niece is on my mind. To be honest, the only other big change--the only other really big change--is that I've decided to buy a house. The reasons for this decision are many, principal among them the knowledge that, nearing the age of thirty and having finally decided that I'd like to stay in Pittsburgh for several more years, it would be more beneficial to invest in my own property than to continue renting. I need a house to call my own--my own project, my own sanctuary, my own vision, my own rules. I need a place that I can walk around naked in, where I can dance in the living room and listen to the radio in the morning while making breakfast--a place where a cat might even co-rule as long as it promises not to piss on everything in sight and terrorize my reptiles. I want to learn useful homeowner skills, like drywall installation and basic electrical work. I welcome the challenge and boldly invite upon myself the hardship and sacrifice that is sure to accompany this drastic new responsibility. I envision great renovations and architectural experimentation that'll set my house apart from the others on the block. Have I made the right decision? I'm not sure yet, but I think so. I hope so. No use living at all if we're not willing to jump headlong into the vast unknown from time to time, right?! I've looked at three places so far and hope to delve into house #3 a bit more in my next post, photos and all. Until then, rock on!

Snake Yummie Time

Have you ever watched a snake eat dinner? If not, you're missing out on a fascinating process. I understand that some people are a bit too squeamish to stomach it, or love little furry creatures too much to bear witnessing their demise--especially this demise, a matter-of-fact necessity of nature that involves the prey's final paralyzing tremble as it faces its killer, a spectacularly fast strike, slow strangulation, and gradual disappearance into the expanded gullet of a satisfied reptile. I am neither squeamish nor a rodent-lover, but I'm also not heartless. (I'll get to that in a moment.)

For most of my adult life I've held rats and mice in tremendous contempt. Mice have been trashing the inside of my parents' backyard shed for years, chewing through just about anything made of plastic, leaving their evil little droppings and piss puddles everywhere. (This is why I used to fill up buckets with garter snakes in the woods, bring them home, and unload them in the shed.) For months in 2009, very large rats wreaked havoc on my friend Allyson's beautiful Highland Park house, destroying the insulation of expensive kitchen appliances and creating unsettling noises day and night throughout the house that would leave almost anyone doubting his or her sanity. (Incidentally, I had to dispatch one of these rats myself with the sharp blade of a shovel after Pearl and Buck, the loyal household dogs, mauled it in the kitchen. The damned thing was 13 inches long from snout to tip of tail.)

Given my not-so-wholesome feelings for these creatures, I used to rather enjoy watching my first corn snake, Courtney, catch them with lightning precision inside her shoebox feeding habitat and swallow them down. However, I don't exactly feel so cruelly satisfied anymore. My current happy family of corn snakes--siblings named Demitra (because it's a great name that I'd like to bestow upon a future daughter), Lucinda (after renegade alt-Country rocker Lucinda Williams), and Callahan (Dirty Harry's last name)--need to eat. It's a fact of life. They're my kids and they must be fed. Furthermore, they deserve to hunt and incapacitate warm, live prey as per their naturely instinct, rather than swallowing those sad little thawed-out things you can buy in baggies from Petco--pre-packaged fast food for the captive reptile nation. Thing is, rats are amazingly pleasant creatures. It's easy for us to hate those nasty, cat-sized, dirt-covered vermin patrolling the New York subway system's rail beds and sneaking through the innards of our homes, but domesticated rats--the ones that are clean and inquisitive, happy to be held and entertained--make wonderful companions. Pet mice may not seem quite so possessed of intelligence or higher reasoning skills, but they're also easily loved when we know that they're content in their escape-proof cages most of the time and fun to handle when we want. (Same with animals that humans eat. Their context--whether grazing in a pasture, sniffing our hands at the county fair's petting zoo, or simmering on the grill--dictates our emotional connection to them.) Watching these furry little guys die by snake isn't quite as satisfying as it seemed to me when I was 23. Now it's just something that has to happen. My snakes aren't vegetarians, folks. Neither is Luna, my almost 14 year-old leopard gecko who mostly dines on crickets but occasionally enjoys a twitching pinky mouse. (Not too often! The high fat content is not good for a gecko's health.)

When I feed the snakes, I put on classical music. It seems appropriate for such a ritualized dinner party, but also somewhat morbid in a way that conjures images of Hannibal Lecter, aristocratic culture man who feasts upon human flesh. I silently observe my babies doing their thing; I honor the lives of those cute little mice or rats as they unwittingly sacrifice themselves for the sake of the snakes' survival. (Sometimes there's a bit of dinnertime drama because the snakes are often moody or seemingly uninterested and really need to be coerced into eating; Lucinda's been the staunchest feeding-time rebel since I got these snakes, but now she's bigger than either of her siblings.) When it's all over, the snakes go back into their terrarium, usually guzzling water lazily to wash their meals down. Rodents reproduce like we relieve ourselves, so I often say to myself Well, there are a thousand more where these ones came from.

By the way, if you're interested in a pet corn snake, let me know. I'm not looking for a buyer; I intend to give one or two of them away to responsible persons whom I trust. I was given these snakes free of charge, trusted to raise them, and I refuse to profit from them. Just send me an e-mail!

Climbing A Thousand Stairs, or, How I Missed My Tower So

I wrote a while back that I would describe my recent tattoo experience in greater detail. It's old news by now; no long essay necessary. However, I'll say this much: the folks at Body Shop Tattoo & Apparel were fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that they keep a basket of markers in the bathroom for customers to scrawl graffiti on the walls with--and so fantastic that when I stupidly left my precious washers (the threaded hexagonal ones that I've been habitually wearing as rings, and constantly twirling around my finger, for the last six years at least) by the sink after washing my hands, they not only spared the washers from the garbage can but have been keeping them for me until my next stroll down Lawrenceville way. Oh, Body Shop also does really great tattoo work, by the way. 

(It's a bit tangential, but I've learned an important lesson about blogging: don't promise that you'll write more about a given subject, or indeed any particular topic, in a later post; there's a good chance that, by the time you finally get around to posting later, you'll either have lost interest in writing about that subject, or it will have been rendered irrelevant by that time.)

Okay, on to the main course: this week I finally headed down to Pitt's Cathedral of Learning, steel-framed beauty in fine limestone Gothic garb and second-tallest building dedicated to education in the world (behind an imposing and rather hideous Communist wedding cake of a building at the University of Moscow), to hike up the stairs. All several hundred of them. Over and over again. (I don't know how many stairs, to tell you the truth; I've never counted!) It's a 36-floor climb from ground level up to the handsomely appointed Honors College reception hall where you can take in exquisite views of Carnegie Mellon, Schenley Park, the Carnegie museum complex, Oakland, and downtown in the distance without paying a penny or even passing through security. Most sensible people ride the elevators up, but those of us who are drawn (or addicted) to that arduous climb--and there are far more of them than you might think--mostly use the elevators only for the ride back down.

Climbing the tower's stairs has been a routine training ritual for me for several years; it's a habit restricted almost exclusively to the first half of the year, a useful and surprisingly satisfying physical conditioning for the Race for the Cure and half-marathon in May (in combination with plenty of running), and culminating with the Rachel Carson Trail Challenge at the end of June (in conjunction with as much outdoor hiking as I can fit in before the hike). I hadn't been over to climb the tower stairs since last summer, and I was aching to return. Admittedly, I've also been experiencing a certain amount of guilt at having consumed so many Christmas sweets and alcoholic beverages over the holiday without much in the way of intense exercise to counter the calorie intake. My workplace is only two blocks from the tower, so it's extremely convenient for me to change into shorts after work, walk over to climb, then come back and change again before heading home. As I approached the tower on Wednesday evening, gazing adoringly up at this truly magnificent piece of architecture, my smile beamed; a push through the revolving doors and all the familiar smells, sounds, and vibes of hard-earned satisfaction greeted me like an old friend. I stretched for five minutes and headed right up.

Most of the time you're on your own in those 36 floors of stairs; but you're bound to encounter other climbers from time to time, especially at the top and on the ride down. (Some people walk or run down, but there's really no physical benefit in descending the stairs unless you're training for an intense backpacking trip or mountaineering adventure and are consequently hauling a substantial load. As far as I'm concerned, by running back down after every climb up you're asking for knee trouble and increasing the chances of a wobbly-legged fall or a tragic slip from one of the occasional pools of sweat accumulating on the stairs and landings.) The diversity of people who use the stairs for training is impressive; there are folks of many ages and persuasions, degrees of fitness and areas of athletic aptitude. Some sprint up the stairs like maniacs (and generally make me jealous); others torment slowly under enormous backpacks, grinding ever uphill like locomotives while bathing in their own sweat. I generally travel light, hike quickly--about six to eight minutes per ascent--, and aim for the maximum number of iterations.

It must be all that Vinyasa yoga I've been practicing since June, but I somehow pounded out five ascents in slightly over an hour total (which includes short pauses on 36, elevator descent time, and brief water fountain breaks). Actually, I'm not being entirely honest when I say somehow. The first four were planned, and the fifth was mandated by my ever-stubborn competitive spirit, refusing to duck out without a final go because I didn't want to seem like an early quitter to the other climbers. (There were five of us waiting to use the water fountain at ground level; how could I just stroll out the doors with these self-confident athlete types scrutinizing me?) Today, I went back over and climbed another five times in far emptier stairwells.

It's amazing how one's mind operates while climbing thousands and thousands of stairs, again and again, in stale old stairwells that have become so familiar--so much like a living being. I never glance up at the floor numbers painted on the door of each floor's landing. I memorize certain semi-permanent scuff marks and observe the locations of dust bunnies, candy wrappers, and discarded paper. I obsess over other climbers' sweat droplets. I let my mind wander; I never count. I use anger or obsessions or anxieties that I can't shake to fuel my determination. When I hear other climbers approaching below me, I speed up, pretending that they're predators trying to catch me or competitors who mustn't be allowed to pass me. I never wear headphones. (I don't have an iPod so why would I wear headphones? I don't think that I'd bring an iPod even if I did have one. I like working out unencumbered by earbuds because I prefer to stay sonically connected to my environment; it's a fundamental aspect of the experience. All those sounds in the stairs are a kind of music.) I sometimes offer upbeat words of encouragement to people I pass who are struggling--often out-of-shape or older individuals who deserve to be cheered on for their effort. I marvel at the physical prowess of certain people, sneer enviously at others, indulge more than a little superiority when I outperform sporty guys who look far more athletic. Good for the fragile ego, folks.

Me and my tower are back in business. It's going to be an awesome spring.

On the first good day of the year

Happy 2011!  Feel any different?  Me neither, so don't sweat it.  Like any voracious bibliophile riding a wave of literary bliss, I'm just anxious to crawl into bed soon with my latest read, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon.  I've owned this book for years but just yesterday got around to it.  (Now isn't that just the life story of anyone whose book collection expands at a rate far quicker than one's ability to chip away at said collection?!)  I don't want to reveal too much, but this book is awesome; it's one of those works whose reputation preceded it upon my first encounter with the title at Hunt Library a few years ago, and whose praise is well-deserved indeed.  It's proving itself a fast and easy read; I took it down from the shelf just yesterday evening and will finish by tomorrow.  The language is simple, direct, and flawlessly evocative in a very sympathetic way of the very spirit of our narrating protagonist's earnest, endearingly determined character.  I want to point out that it's the surprise this book delivered--the spectacular turn of events and resulting thematic blossoming of a story whose title and initial plot course suggested something more predictable, more crowd-pleasingly cute without much depth otherwise--that latched fast to my loyalty as a reader in the present and an enthusiastic praiser/recommender in the future.  Clearly, when I glanced the Boston Globe's front-cover pitch, "Gloriously eccentric and wonderfully intelligent," I was too quick to dismiss (at least the last half...), or perhaps just too jaded from such gluttonous literary praise printed on most best-sellers to pay these back-patting blurbs much attention.

Today was indeed a day to feel good about.  I had coffee at the 61C Cafe, relaxing to the sound of WQED's classical radio and reading in peace; when a couple of grumpy old stinkers who looked like professors but sounded like strung-out pundits came in and started to fill the place with their unbridled profanity and inflammatory political hate-talk (of the right-wing variety, I might add), I simply moved down to Te Cafe where I was the only customer for almost an hour.  The weather has been so unseasonably mild that one might be tricked into thinking that we've skipped ahead to mid-March.  (I even saw some tiny Dandelion blooms at the cemetery yesterday!)  One of the great disadvantages to such a dramatic and complete mid-winter melt-off is that it reveals just how much trash has accumulated on the sidewalks, streets, and front yards.  Whereas once I would've become infuriated to the point of violent anger and intense psychological despair, I now roll my eyes and simply accept that what I see merely confirms what I already know well of humankind.  However, as an obligation to my disgusted obsessive self, as a righteous duty to my community--and, perhaps, as a penance to counter my pride and my profound flaws of character--I spent half an hour in surgical gloves cleaning up Kamin Street and much of Wendover in the rain, enduring vapid stares from passers-by and receiving filthy ungrateful looks from two separate people who apparently find the idea of unglamourous community volunteerism positively repugnant or simply alien beyond reference to any reality they've ever inhabited.  (Those looks are part of my penance, I tell myself, part of my debt to society--and I sure as hell don't get down about it anymore!)

This afternoon, and into the evening, I edited all the photos that I took in the Homewood Cemetery yesterday.  In fact, I've spent more time on the computer in the past ten hours than I do on any given work day--but it has all been in the service of art and creative self-expression, by God!  I encourage you to check the photos out if you have the chance; you can find them at my Flickr page, www.flickr.com/photos/michaeljehn.  Below is one teaser photo that cannot be found in the collection.  Enjoy, and remember to try to find at least one way to make your today an adventurous one (even if the adventure is all inside your head)!