A funny little zombie poem to whet your appetite

I'm a little ashamed that I haven't posted anything new in months. Nothing informative, nothing clever, nothing insightful. Nothing. Then suddenly this zombie poem idea comes along and I figure that I should post it just to see what happens. (Certainly, the dead will not rise as a result of my desire for attention on the Internet--at least not this time.) In the past few months I've become enamored with AMC's The Walking Dead for numerous reasons, like so many millions of other zombie-lovers and TV-lovers in general. It's a harrowing, approachable, highly addictive post-apocalyptic narrative of surprising depth and restrained programmatic saturation (which is to say, each season is limited to a relatively small number of episodes); horror fans are guaranteed to crave the impressive realism of the gore and makeup effects as well as the suspense and the timeless appeal of a familiar modern American landscape--in this case, downtown Atlanta and surrounding rural environs--transformed by total zombie plague, while those who appreciate dramatic television writing will find themselves easily attracted to the substance of the program's characters: easy to identify with, relatively non-cliched, and refreshingly genuine.


Recently I thought that it would be amusing (at least to me) to write the synopsis--essentially in the form of a theatrical trailer's creepo Vincent Price-style narration or the description on the back of a video sleeve--for a highly ridiculous fictional zombie film called Lighthouse of the Living Dead. Why a lighthouse?! I don't know. I like lighthouses. I love the ocean. I'm intrigued by the idea of a seaside town besieged by hungry walking corpses. There's a lot of atmosphere in just about any seaside environment, you know. Especially when the weather's gone foul. Anyway, the synopsis became a bit unwieldy; I wanted to pack too much detail into it, and my tendency toward rhythm and sound-play--brimming with alliteration and internal rhyme as so many of my poems are--began to foster a beast that was something more than a long-form movie tag line. So, folks, here you have it: the lovingly polished (and utterly melodramatic) description, in prose poem form--divided into quatrains because I don't know why (other than they looked good at the time)--of a movie that almost certainly will never exist. And if it ever does, I want to work Justin Bieber in there somewhere in a breakout role that will blow the world's feeble celebrity-drunk mind. No, Justin Bieber will not appear naked in the film. The only thing that will appear naked--many times over--is the juicy abomination of human victims' eviscerated digestive tracts strewn in steaming piles across brine-coated tide pool rocks beneath the early morning sun. Cheers! 

Lighthouse of the Living Dead

Beneath the cruel indifferent darkness of night,

guided only by the moon's deceptive glow

and the distant pulsing beam atop their trusty

seaside landmark, they risked deadly cliffs

and biting winds in a desperate flight to survive—

to witness the sun’s triumphant rise into a new

tomorrow, a better world.  A chance to start again.

They prayed the relentless fetid zombie masses,

horrific shambling shells of former family

and companions Hell-bent on their quest for flesh,

would never find them there.  The lucky few

who reached that ancient brick bastion of might

against the gales and tides believed they’d be safe.

But the light betrays them.  The goddamned

lighthouse beacon.  Round and round and round

it turns, cutting miles through the night.

Round and round and round.  And round.

(And round.)   Panic rises when the townsmen find

there's no way to turn the bastard off—

stairs to the lamp room chained and locked,

keeper hanged from the rafters in despair

by rigging rope and a suicide note lying crumpled

on the floor by his corncob pipe.  Outside,

amidst the swiftly shifting sea oats just beyond

the wave-wet rocks, there’s alarming movement

all around them barely visible in the blackness,

evil groans and shrieks carried on the wind

growing closer by the moment.

Now they are pretty fucked.

House progress -- photos and notes

Warning: this post probably won't be very interesting to folks who don't know me and/or are not even remotely interested in following progress on my house. However, if you are interested, this post is just for you!  Yes, you!  That makes you a very special person indeed.

First, a few shots of one of the two third-floor bedrooms, AKA Wayne's Room, AKA the Pisces Room.  These photos were taken at the beginning of July and lovingly illustrate not only the criminally nasty green color of the room but also the scope of the necessary plaster repair work which took us more than a week to complete and was extremely messy during the sanding process (but turned out not to be nearly as torturous as one might think, especially after having had a fair amount of practice on a previous room).  Back in the day, when young Wayne Brown occupied the room, he was obviously offered a pretty generous helping of creative freedom and ran with it.  Zodiac Pisces was painted on the ceiling in purple splendor, visible in the photo showing my friend Dan working.  The walls were also pockmarked with approximately four million pushpin holes.  Thankfully, both third-floor bedrooms are now complete with fresh white walls and ceilings, newly painted window sills, and clean hardwood floors that don't even really need to be refinished.  (When I first bought the house, those hardwood floors were hiding beneath mid-century linoleum sheet flooring and quasi-zebra print carpeting that would blow your mind.)  All I need to do now is update the electrical outlets on the third floor, mostly so that window air conditioners can be safely installed (thereby rendering sweltering barely-inhabitable-in-the-summertime rooms comfortable for tenants!).

 

Next, the glorious back yard, also taken at the beginning of July.  Throughout much of June, and much to my embarrassment, a large portion of the back yard was a bombastic fast-expanding tangle of chest-high weeds--in other words, an honest-to-God Pennsylvania jungle.  Many hours of sweaty labor later (not to mention an extremely unpleasant case of poison oak that left pus-oozing sores all over my forearms and itchy rashes everywhere else, including above one eye and all over my male parts), the yard was tamed.  Since these photos were taken, the patch of grass in the middle of the yard has been trimmed; a compost bin has been purchased and placed in the back corner of the yard; several new plants have been added to the collection, including Northern sea oats (a type of tall decorative grass), chives, and a tiny little gingko sappling; and the rusty green steel pipe in the middle of the brick pathway has been removed and given to my neighbor to sell for scrap.  Next Monday, a gentleman from the Nine Mile Run Watershed Association will install a large rain barrel at the corner of the house, meaning that the innanely-installed PVC pipe running across the patio (and causing all kinds of erosion damage every time it rains hard) will be gone!

Finally, some recent photos of the front yard, a true obsession of mine in the landscaping project department and a seemingly never-ending work in progress.  (Wait, isn't that the whole house?!)  Little by little I've been acquiring large rocks and extremely heavy chunks of slag metal (mostly from a debris pile in Duquesne, PA, on a riverfront wasteland property once occupied by the Duquesne Works steel mill) to use both as retaining wall along the sidewalk and as decoration throughout the yard.  These unique objects, which look almost like rocks except for their oxidized surfaces and graphite-gray metallic textures, have turned out to be the ideal landscape feature for my yard--heavy enough to create a durable, permanent barrier and a fitting found-art tribute to Pittsburgh's legacy.  The red-brown pine bark mulch that I chose is also a perfect fit for the house, although as long as the retaining wall remains unfinished, and until I can reroute the downspout rainwater through underground pipes and out to the sidewalk, the mulch and much of the bare soil is at risk of washing into the sidewalk every time we experience a heavy downpour.  (This has happened twice now.  The first time it happened I spent almost half an hour shoveling mud out of the sidewalk and back onto my hill.  That kind of made me want to scream and break things.  Instead I got dressed and went to work and was bitter all day.)  Next spring or summer, provided that I have some money saved up, I plan to rebuild the entire front porch deck.  I'll feel a lot better about the house in general once that project's done!

About the means, not the end: a not-so-reverent travel account

-->This travel essay was composed while flying to New York City on June 22, 2011 to visit my amazing friend Amanda Amodio. We visited the Guggenheim and Whitney Museums, took a fantastic brunch cruise, met up with two other Carnegie Mellon alumni friends, soaked up some sun (and overheard lots of Russian conversation) at Brighton Beach, and attended a wedding held at the magnificent Alder Manor, an Italian villa-style estate built by a turn-of-the-century mining baron. Sure, none of this is particularly funny. However, the experience of traveling to New York was funny--HA HA! funny as well as You have GOT to be fucking kidding me funny--, and I hope that you'll be entertained by my description of the trip. Enjoy!

"Is it against FAA regulations to annotate the safety instruction card with snarky captions making fun of the illustrations?"
 

The plane hasn't even left the ground and already there's been enough amusement, annoyance, hilarity and disdain to fill the average person's average day. I haven't flown for nine months, mind you, and I've unintentionally prepped for this particular journey by immersing myself in the delightful world of aviation disasters thanks to about three dozen episodes of Air Crash Investigation on YouTube. (I've been obsessed with airplane crashes for most of my life, so this shouldn't come as any surprise.) I trust this bird implicitly and the flight crew only slightly less. The way I see it, if it's my time to go, fuck it. I certainly won't be able to say that I didn't have any fun in this baffling and highly nonsensical mind-bender called life.

I'm sitting alone in the last row of this modest little Brazilian-built Embraer jet--18 rows of three seats each and only about half of them occupied--enjoying the warm euphoria of a dull whiskey high. (I'd asked the bartender for gin and I got a nine dollar double-shot of Jameson instead, God help me--and did I mention that I sat at the bar for a full seven minutes before any of the THREE bartenders paid me any mind? I could feel other patrons' stares penetrating into the cotton candy core of my insecurity like poison darts and was only moments away from walking out unserved. Can you imagine me walking away from a bar without a single drink? I swear, this plane could go down right now and I think I'd be laughing all the way to the ground!) Mere feet away from my head, positioned like a big round piece of minimalist contemporary sculpture just outside the window, is one of the two gas-snorting, air-sucking contraptions driving this hunk of metal through the sky. These big round dumb gray objects that most of us take for granted don't look like they're doing anything at all, especially when their turbine blades spin their mad dervish whirl so fast that they're not even visible; yet I know that this machine is inexplicably complex and enormously dangerous, capable of converting an errant bird (or a person) into red vapor and dime-size meat chunks in about three-tenths of a second. Speaking of bluntly morbid hilarity, ahead of me and across the aisle a kind of intense looking guy about my age is reading Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. Fantastic! Another Vonnegut fan! I haven't read this particular book, but I brought both Hocus Pocus and Breakfast of Champions with me on my trip to Hawaii last year. (My incessant satanic giggle raised more than a few eyebrows on airplane and beach alike as I devoured those sardonic, sharp-witted literary gems.) I considered striking up a conversation with the guy--"Hey, don't mean to interrupt your reading but I love Kurt Vonnegut!..."--and then decided against it.

For the first time ever, I ventured to add my own commentary to the safety instruction card tucked into the seat pocket before me. (Don't worry, though. If you should find yourself sitting in this very seat sometime in the near future, my scrawled nuggets of sarcastic contempt won't necessarily distract you from saving your ass as the plane settles deeper into the ocean and you're doing what any other sane, life-loving person would be doing at that moment: calmly consulting the safety instruction card.) Never before have I seen such tranquil acceptance, such satisfaction, on the face of a person clinging desperately to a seat cushion to avoid drowning. Never have I seen--thankfully--such an ugly little man-baby, here also seemingly content as a king while floating in a veritable shark cafeteria. Never have I seen a woman so evidently pleased to have to strap an emergency oxygen mask over her face. And, for Christ's sakes, how often does a commercial aircraft come to a tidy stop in a grassy field with its landing gear down, passengers dashing forth excitedly as if exiting a thrilling amusement park ride? This happy little document begged defacing!

Just after I got seated in my secluded back row seat, all spinny in the head and privately entertained by all manner of deviant thoughts fabricated to pass the time, I witnessed a most amusing choreographed dance by two of those runway traffic control guys--you know, the ones with the neon vests who wave the little orange mini-lightsaber flashlight things around. What made this brief moment of pure human joy all the more satisfying to me as the intrigued and tipsy spectator is that these guys usually appear, at least from all my years of experience flying, to be fairly damned miserable individuals (or just abysmally bored) who'd quite possibly rather get run over by a taxiing aircraft--thereby spending the next four months propped in front of a TV collecting disability from bed while pleasantly stoned on painkillers and afternoon soaps--than work this particular job for ten more minutes. No misery this time. It was a moment that seemed almost commercial-perfect, this unlikely duo circling their arms and kick-stepping in perfect sync, laughing like kids without a hint of self-consciousness. Ten minutes later, as my plane finally started to pull back from the terminal, I decided that I'd try to get the attention of one of the dancing lightsaber-waving Drive your airplane where I fucking tell you to! guys--the younger one, wearing shades that might or might not have been expensive and looking a bit too smart, a bit too model-pretty to be in this line of work. I waved the peace sign. When he saw me, he grinned widely and waved a peace sign back. It wasn't Okay, I'll humor the lame-o passenger just this once; it was genuine, and that made my day. Genuine anything in these cynical times is rare. It reminded me of how delighted we used to be as children when we'd make downward arm-pumping gestures to the engineer of an approaching locomotive and he'd blast the horn several times in return. (It was even better when they'd toss candy at us.)

I don't know if you've ever had airplane coffee, but it usually sucks. However, it's coffee, and it's air travel, and air travel usually sucks these days anyway--and I need my coffee. I need my coffee like a Roman crowd in the Colosseum needs blood. (That and elaborate recreations of naval battles with lions and spiky-wheeled chariots circling around giant statues of dicks while their drivers try to spear other gladiators' heads off.) When the flight attendant finally got to me, I had my head down, concentrating on composing this very specimen of literary perversion, and she said "A beverage, ma'am?" I looked up and said "SIR?!" She was black as Diana Ross but her cheeks went sunset red. In order to defray any tension I said "I sure hope you've never seen a woman with sideburns like these!", tugging my outrageously overgrown mutton chops. "Sorry, it was your hair--the ponytail!" she laughed. Sipping bad coffee as we descended over the White House and the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial almost underneath us and the Capitol building in the distance, kind of made me feel superior to just about everything. (It also made me wonder, How do people really live in the White House anyway? I think I'd get more privacy, more quiet, in a tent in the back yard. Of course, if I can make it that far inside the perimeter gates, you sure as hell aren't holding me back from hot showers in marble bathrooms and fancy catered meals! I'll bet the coffee's better there, too.)

So here I am, sitting at my second airport bar of the evening--this one in Reagan International, named after the president that conservative loudmouth and all-around humanity hater Anne Coulter considers one of America's best ever. (You do understand he had Alzheimer's from about '82 onward, right?) Considering how chaotic the place is, how many passengers are clustered outside the restaurant scoping out empty seats, I'm damned lucky to have even scored a stool at the counter. The gray-haired guy next to me has his laptop out, showing off dozens and dozens of closeup photos he's taken of famous personalities to the younger guy on his right--Obama and Joe Biden, both Clintons, Tim Russert and Sean Hannity, even Marie Osmond. I could tell from their conversation that the guy's got an ego the size of planet Jupiter. (Possibly larger.) Even so, his stories are interesting and there's a certain quick, low-key, almost English-like bite to his humor. He strikes me as kind of a cool guy and kind of a douche at the same time, well aware that the same could probably be said about me. I order gin and get gin, but this time the bartender, a quirkily attractive middle-aged woman with a tasteful diamond nose stud who I've warmed up to nicely, initially got off to a rocky start (and I don't mean the rocks in my gin) when she checked my driver's license, turned away with a smile as I put it back in the wallet, changed her mind, asked me to produce my ID again, scrutinized the birth date a second time through squinted eyes, and said with a frown and a certain condescending upward hook in her tone, "You're too young!"  Clutching my gin glass like a hand grenade I responded, a bit more sharply than necessary, “May thirteenth. Nineteen. Eighty. ONE. That would make me thirty." A moment of awkward silence as she read the date again. "Oops!" she chirped, glancing at me with one of those whimsical Well whaddya know?! expressions. "I thought it said ninety-one!" I was flattered. Seriously. It's good to know you're aging so well that bartenders still think you're underage.  (And just when I was considering follicle implants and Botox...) I took a glance at some more up-close public rally shots of President Obama on the laptop; Mr. Showoff then had the audacity to turn the computer away from me as if I were trying to catch a precious glimpse of some critical top-secret government document. Yep, more douche than cool. No doubt about it.

Other than the close friend I'm going to visit, New York City is no place special--I mean, whatever happened there but some movies and mob hits and terrorist attacks?! (It's a joke, folks.) But this trip, this process of physical transferal to another realm of existence, will certainly linger in the strangely decorated hallways of my memory. Remind me of King Kong, Woody Allen and Lady Liberty, Marilyn's skirt flaring over a subway grate and ice skating in Central Park, Donald Trump and the Rockettes, Sinatra and the Macy's Day Parade, Wall Street debauchery and a miracle plane landing on the Hudson; I'll think mostly of how funny it is just getting to New York. You show up and a whole new symphony begins--a cacophony of horrors with a touch of serendipity, endless sidewalk clamor, and enough mad laughter to go around.

 

The joys of home ownership -- updates from the new homestead

Okay, so the title of this little essay is a bit misleading on a number of points--a fact that I feel compelled to disclose for no other reason than that I am relentlessly detail-obsessed and a stickler for completion (which tends to drain the mystery out of things every once in a while, I'll admit).  First, the house that I just moved into isn't even close to new; it's 85 years old, the same age as my grandfather.  Second, although the adventure that I've recently embarked upon will eventually lead to home ownership, it's technically more accurate to acknowledge that Coldwell Banker mostly owns the house, and will continue to own some part of it for the better part of the next 30 years (or whenever I hand over that last mortgage payment).  Finally, although I intend to share several updates and observations about the house, I'm not actually writing from the house because I don't have Internet access set up there yet and probably won't for several more weeks.  I would disclose to you where I'm writing from but that could potentially get me in trouble.  (You know, misuse of company time and all that...)  Oops, I think I just gave it away.

Enough blabber and on to the details?  All right, all right!  The house is located in the very pretty Regent Square area of Pittsburgh, well-stocked with big old trees, brick streets, excellent beer (in vast quantities), gorgeous residential architecture galore, and a fine little theater.  There are other things in Regent Square, of course, but these are among the most important features.  My street is mostly quiet, carries very little through-traffic as it ends just one house down with the parking lot of an apartment complex, and is populated by scores of cats endlessly on the prowl and gazing lazily from front stoops.  (Then there are the ferocious middle-of-the-night cat fights that I refer to as lovers' quarrels...)  The house is a beautiful one indeed, dignified by design and possessed of solid bones, but it has turned out to be more of a fixer-upper than I ever would have imagined.  The front porch needs to be mostly rebuilt (not including the roof); both yards require a total landscaping overhaul; the back porch is in need of structural repair; almost every room badly wants a top-to-bottom makeover; the intricate stained glass window above the main stairway must be removed, repaired, and reinforced; and there are hardwood floors so badly saturated with urine from the previous owner's precious Foofy (or whatever the hell the little bastard's name was) that they're still damp and stinky and sweating brown-tar nastiness whenever the air is humid.  And that's just the start!

Right now, finding the patience to exist each day in this perpetual project of a house while remembering to embrace my new found freedom and without collapsing from stress--accepting that every project cannot be done at once, that the dream of a near-perfect, "finished" house will not be realized for years, that I am strictly limited by my financial means at any given time--is the greatest challenge for me.  I want everything to be done now but it simply can't be, and I knew this when I accepted the responsibility of home ownership.  Claiming ultimate dominion over my own property, which I can alter or enhance or neglect or brutalize in any way that I see fit (short of breaking the law, anyway), has brought me a sense of relief that I haven't experienced in a very long time.  Still, the task that lies before me is daunting, staggering in scale; I must consciously summon all the resolve and optimism and grace and fortitude within me--and I fear that I'm short on all of those ingredients--in an effort to avoid burning out or giving up on this house.  I know that happiness will be found there.  No, I can do better than that: it already has been found there.

So far, these are the major projects and tasks that are either complete or underway:

• All carpets have been removed from the house, as well as most vinyl flooring.  Although most of the floors are clean and presentable (thankfully!), the still-damp areas of wood flooring in the living room and dining room most badly damaged by dog urine saturation cannot be sanded until they've completely dried.
• One third-floor bedroom has been completely refinished and we're (my friend Dan and I) almost done with plaster repair in the other third-floor bedroom, which can soon be painted.
• The old chain-link fence has been removed from the front yard; I've located some large rocks and need to collect about four times more before I can begin landscaping.
• The back patio has been cleaned up and I'm beginning to battle the weedy jungle that is my back yard.
• I've acquired a dehumidifier that runs almost continuously in the basement.
• As soon as we can remove the stained glass window sash, I have already hired an expert to repair the window for me.
• The kitchen is clean and fully stocked with a hinged window that opens once again!
• One second-floor bedroom has been gutted of its wall paneling and drop ceiling; I plan to have a contractor remodel that room in the next month or so.
• I've begun repainting the original house number, carved into a piece of stone that's built into the brick wall next to the front door.

Acquiring this house would not have been possible without the support and financial assistance of my parents, Robert & Kitty Jehn.  I am also immensely grateful to Matt Goodman; Brian & Jennifer Hykes; Joanna Barr for lots of boxes; the Software Engineering Institute for use of the delivery truck (without which I would have been lost); my grandfather, Paul Herrle, along with my Uncle Dennis & Aunt Karen Herrle for support, advice, supplies, and Michigan yard sale hopping; my Aunt Betty Boyle; my real estate agent Jo Freedman; and especially Dan Wetmore, my partner in renovations, supply runs, and house visits all spring long, fellow wearer of dust and dirt, and constant source of motivation and optimism when I'm beginning to think that a millionaire or a Mr. Easy To Please should have bought the place instead.  Dan, you are the man, and I mean it.

Carnegie Mellon Unveils Design for Stunning Mixed-Use Tower

Okay, not really.  BAIT & SWITCH!  Actually, I am revealing a sketch of what I think CMU should build (but never will).  The Software Engineering Institute, where I work, is quickly running out of room to accommodate growth, and we're planning to construct a new building on Forbes Avenue, directly across Panther Hollow from the Collaborative Innovation Center--which looks kind of like a giant glass-paneled appliance on stilts--and across the street from such fine establishments as the perpetually smoky PHI Bar (Panther Hollow Inn), a sadly deteriorating concrete building of the Brutalist school that houses Navy ROTC offices, and a parking lot where a gas station used to be with a bunch of tacky cement urns in front.  The site itself, spanning from Craig Street to the Forbes Panther Hollow bridge, once sported a number of charming Victorian-style houses, a vintage threads shop called Crimes of Fashion, an Italian restaurant, and a gay bar called Holiday that always emanated a sickening smell like a combination of candy hearts and cigarette smoke from the front door.  Alas, those buildings were destroyed, and all that remains is a temporary experimental garden gone wrong (at least I think it was supposed to be a garden...), another parking lot, and a hot contender for America's Most Offensively Ugly Bank Building.  That last one, in my opinion, should be emptied and then burned to the ground in celebration whenever demolition time rolls around.

The building that I have in mind, as sketched during a staff meeting a few days ago, is 24 floors tall and would act as an intriguing and aesthetically daring architectural counterpoint to the Cathedral of Learning three blocks away.  The complex, in simple terms, can be broken programatically into four areas.  The lower half of the tower--about ten floors--would consist almost entirely of new offices for the Software Engineering Institute and Carnegie Mellon.  This part of the building assumes the shape of a truncated pyramid, sloping gently inward on three sides (excluding the back) as it rises, so the floor plates decrease slightly in size with each progressive floor.  The top half of the tower would contain high-end apartments and condos leased by CMU.  Next to the tower, fronting Forbes Avenue, would be a lowrise retail and restaurant complex as well as a tranquil courtyard space--a landscaped urban refuge.  In the rear, replacing what is now an unusable and unkempt plot overgrown with weeds and mangy trees that slopes down to the base of the hollow, would be a multi-level parking structure and delivery dock.  The whole ensemble would be finished in two or three varieties of handsome energy-efficient glass curtain wall, stainless steel cladding, metal fins bringing both sun shading and texture to the exterior, and smooth gray concrete.  Between the commercial and residential sections of the tower is a two-floor transitional zone that would contain a cafeteria and events area for CMU/SEI, an outdoor terrace, and a private lobby serving the residential floors above.  The top of the building features a public restaurant and bar, another outdoor terrace, and additional spaces designed for meetings and conferences.  Overall, the building would quite simply be the most awesome structure ever built by CMU--the Gates Center's hot new next-door neighbor with long legs and attitude.

As for the colors used in the quick rendering here, let's say that those are a bit exaggerated.  I would tend to use a unique type and color of glazing to visually differentiate the separate functional sections of the building, but pink and pea green are probably taking it a bit too far.  Varying hues and opacities of blue glass, along with subtle differences in the arrangement of mullions and spandrel panels (which mark where each floor is) would do the trick quite well.  I would also prefer to take the building height up another ten floors or so, but even 24 floors is most likely far higher than what is allowed by local zoning regulations.

We can all dream, can't we?!  By conjuring up hundreds of fantasty skyscraper projects and super-contemporary urban dwellings that will never exist, as I've been doing for many years, sketching out ideas on cocktail napkins and notebook paper (and meeting agenda outlines...), I'm at no greater a disadvantage than the thousands of once-idealistic young architects out there who will never land a contract to design anything higher than three floors, more funky than a boutique interior, more progressive than some glitzy corporate headquarters sprawling over golf course-perfect grounds.  But hey, I don't mean to criticize; even those commissions have the potential to become singular works of architectural art bursting with possibility--and I certainly wouldn't pass them up if given the opportunity.

Chaos in equilibrium

Nothing is guaranteed in life--not happiness, not stability, not confidence, not satisfaction. This past week I paid over $300 for a professional inspection of the house that I had foolishly begun to think of as the one that I belonged in--the one that I would rehabilitate and breathe new architectural possibilities into while gradually fulfilling my tenure as a visionary neighborhood pioneer. The nearly four-hour up-and-down of that unassuming, neglected little aluminum-sided antique with sagging floors confirmed my worst suspicions and fears: there isn't one component of that house, as far as I can tell, that is not in dire need of repair or total replacement. (Okay, maybe the bathroom sink can stay...) So much for crusading on a woefully low income and borrowed funds. So much for instinct! I certainly do not trust my own, although I am at least honest enough to admit to myself that my own gut feeling is rarely correct--so rarely that its very incorrectness is consistently proven. This was a lesson worth learning the hard way, however; I gained a tremendous amount of insight from the inspection--enough to know not to delude myself in the future, to vigorously scrutinize future property prospects, and to rest assured that I chose one hell of a good inspector. (Tim Raufer of VBInspect, in case you're wondering.)

If you were to ask me to summarize the year 2011 so far, insomuch as it pertains to the particulars of my own life--my own experiences and perceptions of life--, I'm not sure that I could. I do not know whether I'm winning or losing. I can't say that I'm necessarily gaining ground or falling short of a modest vision with cautionary tendencies. I doubt that my integrity, my sensitivity, my conscientiousness, or my good intentions are getting me anywhere. I crave validation and praise; I yearn to be loved. I need a fucking hug. I am surrounded by people who have the things I cannot have--not empty material goods but genuinely life-enriching things--, and I cannot escape the suffocation stoked by their effortless contentment as it casts such an unflattering gray-sky light on my own pathetic struggle for dignity. Every triumph comes with an accompanying disappointment. I'm beginning to think that I ought to lower my standards, stop expecting so much, and shelve any prospects of greatness--or consensual late-night pleasures--to be exercised in another lifetime.

All this being said, I offer a new (and so far unrevised) poem that, hopefully, succeeds in capturing some of what I'm feeling and striving for. Its title is most appropriate--the subtitle of a book of collected essays that I'm currently reading.

Architecture In the Age of Uncertainty

Check the earthquake death toll--
     has it topped ten thousand?  Check around

for a better house, not one that's begging
     razing.  Oh, you joke, I saw the perfect home

floating off the coast of Japan on CNN,
     red tile roof and window panes intact.

The monstrous tsunamis put it there, voyaging
     alone like adventurous architecture

hoping to reach California by next week.  You know
     its owners are likely dead, damn lucky

if they're not.  Here in Pittsburgh we're browsing
     real estate, lamenting our limit of seventy grand,

whining we don't earn more.  Check the news again--
     in Japan these people have nothing left but sea

replaced by debris and leaking radiation.
     Search your heart, buddy--you feel their pain?

You sympathize?  Embrace a cottage economy,
     that's a good start.  Sell art for extra income.

Save, waste nothing, let go of what's not needed.
     The Japanese would be proud.  Patience, honor:

prouder still.  You know they don't riot and loot
     and kill and hoard like the desperate do here.

Find your perfect little starter house, bless it
     with incense, clean and silence.  Plant plants

and get a cat.  Pray your place stays away from
     earthquakes--lucky it's not near the beach.

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)!