Friends,
We are in our new house. It is ours. Everything is ours (except the mineral rights, for some reason, so I guess I won't be drilling for oil or mining for coal anytime soon). It is our land. I feel like a Christopher Columbus, or the pilgrims, except Alli and I did not kill or or lie to get our land--we inherited our ability to get land from those who killed and d and lied before us (they called it Manifest Destiny, didn't they?). Our hands are clean. And now, without the guilt of genocide on our shoulders, we own stairs and hallways and cement and ivy and electric bills and now, suddenly, a leaky faucet. I am going to have to learn how to fix a leaky faucet. I expect that I will have to buy the TimeLife series on how to keep up your house. All of a sudden I feel like Jack Arnold, Kevin's dad from that show The Wonder Years. He was a man's man. The only difference is that he could fix everything and I can't fix anything yet, except for grammatical errors. But soon, I will be the quiet tough guy who takes a ladder and cleans out his rain gutters on Saturdays; who slides under the car and stays there till the work is finished; who has more than a couple of spare nails in his tool box (I'm such a wuss). When Wifey asks me "How was work, Honey?" I will loosen my tie and say, "Work's work," then she'll poor me my glass of bourbon. It's all in the American Dream. We are living it out. My muscles are getting hard and strong, and my belly filling with beer, just thinking about it.
On move-in day, without any hesitation or planning--and within, I'd say, eighteen minutes of having felt somewhat situated--Alli went to Home Depot and came back with what she figured would work, and started painting. Maybe she's the real man around here. I admit that I did not help. And she didn't want me to. I had a friend over and we discussed our new literary movement that--in contrast to the real-smart-sounding movements like "Harlem Renaissance" or "Bloomsbury Group" or "Twelve Southerners"--we've named "Reggie." While Ian and I discussed our stories over a glass of wine and helped each other see the flaws of our narrating techniques, Alli was hard at work in the kitchen, unable to stop painting. She's some kind of war horse. She's the decorating equivalent to a binge drinker. Or maybe she's OCD. Within a couple of hours our kitchen was the color Desert Caravan which, to me, looks like yellow. Next is the living room and after that, the hallways and bedrooms. She is all about color. Feel. Ambiance. I am all about Reggie. But I guess I'll give up my vain attempts at becoming a literary giant in order to paint and fix the leaky faucet and give Alli the home she deserves. You should see her face when something in the house pleases her--it's magic.
I want--after having been here in Pittsburgh long enough to understand the culture--to talk about Pittsburgh. They are weird and wonderful. There are many Pittsburgh things that are not at all California things. First of all, at nearly every intersection, there is a No Turn On Red sign. Strange. Why not, Pittsburgh? Why no turn on red? Why not just have a sign at every red light that says "Turn Ignition Off While You Wait"? I mean, who ever heard of No Turn On Right eighty percent of the time? Jeez. And there is something called "The Pittsburgh Left," which is a left turn completed by the effing moron who is supposed to be yielding to oncoming traffic. As soon as the light turns green, this dingleberry who doesn't have the arrow, complete with Steelers jersey and Steelers hat and Steelers license plate holder and Steelers Religion--thinks that he has the right to cut off two entire lanes of oncoming traffic and make a quick left in front of you. I know it's coming everytime. I see it in their eyes. I want so bad, so so bad, to hurt them, to take 'em out, to make 'em enter a world of pain--but it does no good. The is halfway through his turn by the time I can even hit the gas. Sometimes, if you listen close, you can hear his Devil's cackle as you flip him the bird.
It is getting cold. It is regularly in the 30s and 40s out here in Pittsburgh, which, for those of you not so familiar with Fahrenheit, is pretty dang cold. It's not so bad, you know, not really. It's not Siberia. That's what I keep telling myself. It's not Siberia. But then, inevitably, I have to sit down, on unlucky mornings, on the toilet. Eventually, it's my cheeks versus the porcelain--there isn't any escape, unless, like Ray the Dog, I decide to pretty much go anywhere--and the horror; the horror. I'm just glad that it's only tongues on cold metal that stick. And I tell myself at these times, It's not Siberia, but it's close.
Over some drinks a couple of weeks ago, two friends and I decided to grow beards. I thought we were joking. It was my idea in the first place--and I KNOW I was joking. But all of a sudden these guys show up in class and they haven't shaved. So I tell them--I get personal--I plead. I reveal that I was what they call a late bloomer and ever since, hair on me doesn't seem to want to grow. Plus, even if my body were ready to grow a full beard ( which I doubt it ever will be), I don't exactly have good genes. I remember a couple of years when I was around ten when my dad tried to grow a mustache. By the time I was twelve, I think I started to see some real sprouting. Honestly, the hair on my face looks like that kid in sixth grade who doesn't yet know that The Change of Life is upon him. I look like that kid, only I'm twenty-seven. But now I hear there's a fifty-dollar bail-out fee on the beard-growing thing--these guys are killing me. Of course, this fee was not my idea. I am stuck--a victim. They say that we can shave at Christmas. I have been "growing" this "beard" now for almost two weeks. So far, this is what it looks like: the unshaved legs of a woman in winter. This is not a beard. This is humiliation.
As soon as we are painted and everything is in place, Alli and I want to have a housewarming party. You are all invited. But you can't stay the night in our house. There would be too many of you. For the party part, though, you could come over and give us a house plant or a framed print of Starry Night. But, the theme of the party is Bob Dylan. You have to come dressed up as something from a Bob Dylan song--it's an idea I stole years ago from the liner notes on one of his albums. You can show up as Einstein disguised as Robin Hood; Tangled up in Blue; you can "walk into the room like a camel and then you frown"; Napoleon in rags; a diplomat who carries on his shoulder a Siamese cat; all kinds of things. We'll have a great night together trying to guess each other's characters, and we'll have beer and wine and hot dogs and juice and for a few hours, a few hours anyway, Alli and I will be among the people we love, laughing above the music, Dylan's "Shelter from the Storm," about all kinds of things we know and love about each other, and we'll tell you stories you wouldn't believe, and we'll ask about your job or weekend or new baby on the way or how you have been feeling lately, and we'll touch each other's shoulders or faces saying "It's been so long, so so long--we've missed you very much," and I'll fill your glass with beer or wine or juice and Alli and I will show you around the house, then we'll step out on the porch and I'll show you the trees and hills and the lights from across the way; I'll point out our view and tell you how it feels to sit on my porch, then we'll sit on it together and you'll feel what I feel, out here in Pittsburgh, and we'll lean back and laugh at many memories and look at each without mentioning that soon you'll have to leave, soon you'll be off, back to California where you will be far away from us again; no, we won't mention that; instead we'll take in the moments, these rich and lighted moments, you on my porch holding your glass and me finishing my hot dog and juice, then us rushing back in from the cold (it is cold here in Pittsburgh, it can be very very cold at times) and then all of us together in the living room, first one--then anonther--and then all of us--standing up on tables and chairs and furniture and holding up our glasses to sing along, in voices better than Dylan's, not the song "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" but the song "To Make You Feel My Love" and we will all feel, at the same time, in the same way, the warmth of the light all around us.
We miss you and love you very much.
Carlos
We are in our new house. It is ours. Everything is ours (except the mineral rights, for some reason, so I guess I won't be drilling for oil or mining for coal anytime soon). It is our land. I feel like a Christopher Columbus, or the pilgrims, except Alli and I did not kill or or lie to get our land--we inherited our ability to get land from those who killed and d and lied before us (they called it Manifest Destiny, didn't they?). Our hands are clean. And now, without the guilt of genocide on our shoulders, we own stairs and hallways and cement and ivy and electric bills and now, suddenly, a leaky faucet. I am going to have to learn how to fix a leaky faucet. I expect that I will have to buy the TimeLife series on how to keep up your house. All of a sudden I feel like Jack Arnold, Kevin's dad from that show The Wonder Years. He was a man's man. The only difference is that he could fix everything and I can't fix anything yet, except for grammatical errors. But soon, I will be the quiet tough guy who takes a ladder and cleans out his rain gutters on Saturdays; who slides under the car and stays there till the work is finished; who has more than a couple of spare nails in his tool box (I'm such a wuss). When Wifey asks me "How was work, Honey?" I will loosen my tie and say, "Work's work," then she'll poor me my glass of bourbon. It's all in the American Dream. We are living it out. My muscles are getting hard and strong, and my belly filling with beer, just thinking about it.
On move-in day, without any hesitation or planning--and within, I'd say, eighteen minutes of having felt somewhat situated--Alli went to Home Depot and came back with what she figured would work, and started painting. Maybe she's the real man around here. I admit that I did not help. And she didn't want me to. I had a friend over and we discussed our new literary movement that--in contrast to the real-smart-sounding movements like "Harlem Renaissance" or "Bloomsbury Group" or "Twelve Southerners"--we've named "Reggie." While Ian and I discussed our stories over a glass of wine and helped each other see the flaws of our narrating techniques, Alli was hard at work in the kitchen, unable to stop painting. She's some kind of war horse. She's the decorating equivalent to a binge drinker. Or maybe she's OCD. Within a couple of hours our kitchen was the color Desert Caravan which, to me, looks like yellow. Next is the living room and after that, the hallways and bedrooms. She is all about color. Feel. Ambiance. I am all about Reggie. But I guess I'll give up my vain attempts at becoming a literary giant in order to paint and fix the leaky faucet and give Alli the home she deserves. You should see her face when something in the house pleases her--it's magic.
I want--after having been here in Pittsburgh long enough to understand the culture--to talk about Pittsburgh. They are weird and wonderful. There are many Pittsburgh things that are not at all California things. First of all, at nearly every intersection, there is a No Turn On Red sign. Strange. Why not, Pittsburgh? Why no turn on red? Why not just have a sign at every red light that says "Turn Ignition Off While You Wait"? I mean, who ever heard of No Turn On Right eighty percent of the time? Jeez. And there is something called "The Pittsburgh Left," which is a left turn completed by the effing moron who is supposed to be yielding to oncoming traffic. As soon as the light turns green, this dingleberry who doesn't have the arrow, complete with Steelers jersey and Steelers hat and Steelers license plate holder and Steelers Religion--thinks that he has the right to cut off two entire lanes of oncoming traffic and make a quick left in front of you. I know it's coming everytime. I see it in their eyes. I want so bad, so so bad, to hurt them, to take 'em out, to make 'em enter a world of pain--but it does no good. The is halfway through his turn by the time I can even hit the gas. Sometimes, if you listen close, you can hear his Devil's cackle as you flip him the bird.
It is getting cold. It is regularly in the 30s and 40s out here in Pittsburgh, which, for those of you not so familiar with Fahrenheit, is pretty dang cold. It's not so bad, you know, not really. It's not Siberia. That's what I keep telling myself. It's not Siberia. But then, inevitably, I have to sit down, on unlucky mornings, on the toilet. Eventually, it's my cheeks versus the porcelain--there isn't any escape, unless, like Ray the Dog, I decide to pretty much go anywhere--and the horror; the horror. I'm just glad that it's only tongues on cold metal that stick. And I tell myself at these times, It's not Siberia, but it's close.
Over some drinks a couple of weeks ago, two friends and I decided to grow beards. I thought we were joking. It was my idea in the first place--and I KNOW I was joking. But all of a sudden these guys show up in class and they haven't shaved. So I tell them--I get personal--I plead. I reveal that I was what they call a late bloomer and ever since, hair on me doesn't seem to want to grow. Plus, even if my body were ready to grow a full beard ( which I doubt it ever will be), I don't exactly have good genes. I remember a couple of years when I was around ten when my dad tried to grow a mustache. By the time I was twelve, I think I started to see some real sprouting. Honestly, the hair on my face looks like that kid in sixth grade who doesn't yet know that The Change of Life is upon him. I look like that kid, only I'm twenty-seven. But now I hear there's a fifty-dollar bail-out fee on the beard-growing thing--these guys are killing me. Of course, this fee was not my idea. I am stuck--a victim. They say that we can shave at Christmas. I have been "growing" this "beard" now for almost two weeks. So far, this is what it looks like: the unshaved legs of a woman in winter. This is not a beard. This is humiliation.
As soon as we are painted and everything is in place, Alli and I want to have a housewarming party. You are all invited. But you can't stay the night in our house. There would be too many of you. For the party part, though, you could come over and give us a house plant or a framed print of Starry Night. But, the theme of the party is Bob Dylan. You have to come dressed up as something from a Bob Dylan song--it's an idea I stole years ago from the liner notes on one of his albums. You can show up as Einstein disguised as Robin Hood; Tangled up in Blue; you can "walk into the room like a camel and then you frown"; Napoleon in rags; a diplomat who carries on his shoulder a Siamese cat; all kinds of things. We'll have a great night together trying to guess each other's characters, and we'll have beer and wine and hot dogs and juice and for a few hours, a few hours anyway, Alli and I will be among the people we love, laughing above the music, Dylan's "Shelter from the Storm," about all kinds of things we know and love about each other, and we'll tell you stories you wouldn't believe, and we'll ask about your job or weekend or new baby on the way or how you have been feeling lately, and we'll touch each other's shoulders or faces saying "It's been so long, so so long--we've missed you very much," and I'll fill your glass with beer or wine or juice and Alli and I will show you around the house, then we'll step out on the porch and I'll show you the trees and hills and the lights from across the way; I'll point out our view and tell you how it feels to sit on my porch, then we'll sit on it together and you'll feel what I feel, out here in Pittsburgh, and we'll lean back and laugh at many memories and look at each without mentioning that soon you'll have to leave, soon you'll be off, back to California where you will be far away from us again; no, we won't mention that; instead we'll take in the moments, these rich and lighted moments, you on my porch holding your glass and me finishing my hot dog and juice, then us rushing back in from the cold (it is cold here in Pittsburgh, it can be very very cold at times) and then all of us together in the living room, first one--then anonther--and then all of us--standing up on tables and chairs and furniture and holding up our glasses to sing along, in voices better than Dylan's, not the song "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" but the song "To Make You Feel My Love" and we will all feel, at the same time, in the same way, the warmth of the light all around us.
We miss you and love you very much.
Carlos
posted by Carlos Antonio Delgado at 2:10 PM
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