[Her final appearance anywhere… except in the novel provisionally titled “Jenny”]

As Leslie and her sister Veronica leave the Ritz Five movie theater at 2^nd and Walnut, Leslie is developing one of her piercing headaches. No doctor or ophthalmologist that Leslie’s mother has consulted could tell them what the problem is. Leslie wonders why there is no “f” in “ophthalmologist.”

The girls have come to watch Polar Express because it sounds like fun and stars Tom Hanks. The  movie is showing on two of the Ritz Five screens. The other screens are dedicated to “art” films whose posters make Leslie nervous. She has never watched a movie in a foreign language.

Near the corner they are met by three young males with somewhat unsettling grins. The trio’s middle grin belongs to one of Leslie’s sometime boyfriends. She doesn’t know the other two. Veronica recognizes none of them.

“Hey,” says the sometime boyfriend.

“Hey,” Leslie echoes.

“Doin’ down here?”

“Watchin’ a movie.”

“Which one?”

“Polar Express.”

“Kids’ stuff, huh. Any good?”

“It’s all right.”

The quintet form a pentangle partially blocking the north-facing crosswalk. Evening jaunters mutter “excuse me” and brush past. 

‘Ya wanna, I dunno, get somethin’ t’eat?”

“Could. But gotta get home by 10. My mom gets all upset.”

“Boy does she,” Veronica adds, her version of talkative.

“Jim’s Steaks, down South St.,” says the non-boyfriend on the left.

“That’s blocks, half a mile. Issit safe?”

“We’ll pertect ya,” says the non-boyfriend on the right. He giggles.

“I dunno,” says Leslie.

Veronica shakes her head and pulls her earlobe. “Not me. We’ll get late.”

A bulky young Black bulls his way through their obstruction, lightly bumping boyfriend’s arm.

“Watchit, you,” says boyfriend.

“Shove it, fratboy, you hoggin’ the whole fuckin’ sidewalk.”

“Talkin’ like that in front my girl?”

The Black looks back over his shoulder. “That what she is?”

Boyfriend takes a step forward, but Leslie pulls his sleeve. “No. Gotta get home, told ya.”

“Hey, ya know what we can do?” asks lefthand non-boyfriend. “Right here? We can sing.”

Leslie seeps into confusion, “Whaddaya mean? What sing?”

“A trio. Us three.”

“How?” asks the bewildered lab tech.

If you have listened to Alan Lomax’s capture of Genoese longshoremen bursting into sublime, controlled cacophony, what these three produce is not that. It is, instead, the edge of heaven tipping toward a tired, stumbling city, at the upper edge of South Philly.

Leslie listens, the trapdoor of her mind drops open and the headache relents as she tumbles into a state of superbity as sure as a smack of magic mushroom, an enlightenment that suffuses a part of her never before encountered, so completely and so into all the further days and years of her life that you have no need to hear more of Leslie. 

*  *  *  *

Those attempting to communicate during a bout of hacking and coughing can be said to be speaking Phlegmish.

*  *  *  *

An interesting thing with the English language is that almost all words ending in “ump” have a negative connotation. So, from here on, when I find myself facing the misfortune of mentioning the latest president of the United Stoats, I will refer to Dump, Bump, Thump, Pump, Stump, Lump, Chump, Clump, Crumpet [a bit of leeway there], Frump, Hump, Jump, Rump, Slump and Sump. Probably missed a few, but these allow us a fine verbal smorgasbord.

I should also note that Lump is appealing all his convictions, which makes him simultaneously the most appealing president in history, and the least appealing human being on the planet.

*  *  *  *

Confirmed fact: Nearly all companies involved in AI are already run by Artificial Intelligence, otherwise known as Crass Stupidity.

*  *  *  *

Dream #11

I am having a conversation with Einstein at a gathering, He then comes to stay for a few days at my brother’s. Einstein is very old and being honored for something. He laughs a lot and seems to be enjoying himself, but we talk about nothing significant.

I think the conversation had mostly to do with apologizing to him for having to move his bedroom from one room to another. The physical details were clearer than usual for me.

*  *  *  *

My favorite line by the Scottish rock band the Mekons: “Keep on hoppin’, oho, little stunted arms and legs out in the big wide world.”

More so every day.

*  *  *  *

Noses are red, dear

Earlobes are blue,

Angles in heaven

Wish they could screw.

Linda and I dropped by the Bullfrog Brewery in Williamsport for a Sunday concert and found the whole experience fun in a bunch of different ways.

Linda had checked online and saw that the Greg Burgess Trio, a group we knew nothing about, would be playing there two days after our 47^th Unofficial Anniversary. We had not settled on anything specific for the day itself, so we chose that as our mildly delayed celebration. 

You could order free tickets online. Linda did this, printed them out, and we hauled ourselves the 50 miles to Williamsport along Rt. 87, a lovely creekside road to travel with an almost total lack of cars on Sunday morning.

“They’re all in church,” Linda hazarded. As most of you would guess, that’s the last place I’d want to be, any day of the week.

The concert was on for noon, and we arrived about 20 minutes early to avoid any crunch. Lots of people there already, but most just seemed to be there to have a late breakfast out.

We showed our badly printed tickets to the young receptionist, who seemed mighty puzzled. “Tickets? I’m not sure what to do with them. I’ll check.” She scooted back somewhere and returned to say that, basically, nobody bothered with the tickets. She’d just seat us.

Maybe because the faux tickets somehow reflected our stalwart musical interest, she steered us to a for-some-reason vacant high-seat table… right next to the performers. 

We ordered our own late breakfast from an explosively cheerful waitress (I won’t call anybody a “server,” that’s the electronic device where your email messages squat while somebody you will never see reads them and laughs at the idea of “privacy”).

The trio was busy setting up, but at least I wasn’t in their way. I love music of all sorts, but I can’t play any instrument, so I always feel a little intrusive around true musicians… an interloper-doofus. 

Here’s what got me first: This was a geezer trio; by that I mean they were almost as old as me. As soon as they started playing, all other considerations went away. Through two sets of reinvented  jazz standards, they were spot-on musicians who perfectly melded style and personality. 

Burgess, on keyboard, has long, investigative fingers that each find their way across the keys with a sensuous certainty. He’s been there, he’s done that, and he’ll always do it the way it should be done, with, exquisite taste.

Bill Stetz plays standup bass like the instrument has been out surveying the world and come back bearing the truth. God, it’s good to see a real bass in action, huge, assertive, defining.

Drummer Jim Ruhf – I tend to focus on the dummer most times, because the best can carry any outfit from underneath –  is a master. His riffs are excellent, his flourishes inspired, but what got me was the way he places individual slaps and quiet ticks like he’d found them hanging in the air and pulled them down into their homes.

Along the way, especially during the second set, they were joined by friends who had been sitting nearby, nodding and tossing the occasional comment. Bill Kane took over the keyboard for a bit with a more pointed style that openly asked for the keyboard’s complete cooperation. Tony Konan joined to sing a few songs, and Paul Jozwiak’s delicious sax ignited the buzz.

I’m not a jazz fan as such, leaning more to folk, blues and whatnot (especially whatnot), but within jazz I’ve leaned toward piano masters, particularly Mose Allison and Ramsay Lewis.

That’s to say that I don’t feel competent to talk about how the Burgess Trio fits within the realm of jazz. I feel music as sound and sight without much nod to categorization. So if I kept on talking here about the music itself,, I’d slip further into bland muling and sputtering platitudes.

Anyway, the whole afternoon at the Bullfrog was a wide, delightful experience, besides just the concert. 

Between the sets, Stetz, the bassist, stopped over to chat with us. I was amazed, but shouldn’t have been. In group settings I blend into the woodwork – more as stained, aged oak than sunny poplar. But people gravitate to Linda, to her obvious openness and “thereness.” They trust her and want to know more.

Burgess soon joined Stetz and somehow I got into my lament that I’ve never been able to play an instrument (I stumble somewhat at kazoo). The intent to take any physical act forms in the brain and and has to flown through our neuron to prod our extremities to perform the action. With music, for me, somewhere along the run to the wrist or lips, it trips over the curb.

Altogether, what a fine time we had, with Linda especially delighted to hear a live concert for the first time in years. Same with me. During the ’60s folk revival (or whatever you call it), I saw almost ever coffeehouse performer or act in existence, but that was long ago. 

One final note: the Hat.

Linda made me a a winter hat that I’ve worn every frosty day for the last 15 years. It’s high, round, made of thick grey fleece – no, not fleas, they’d jump off – with a rolled rim and a muted blue ribbon circling about a third of the way up. It’s warm and feels right in my hand and on my head.

In all the previous years, I can’t remember anyone commenting on this hat. Then, in the last couple weeks, three people spontaneously declaimed they liked my hat, each in the same simple words: “I like your hat.” 

Bill Stetz made it four, as we got up to leave – “I like your hat.”

The hat’s the same. Have I changed? Has my head flattened?

It was the kind of day when everything I could think of went the way it should go, along with a whole rittle and rattle of happenings that I had no reason to expect, but that incidentally blessed me and Linda.

OK. Linda is the blessing of blessings. The next 47 years should be a gas.

[The selection below is from the novel I’m working on. It is noted in the story as an incident that may or may not have happened to a character of little interest. I’m particularly fond of it. That’s odd.]

For $13 Leslie buys a summer gingham dress with short, puffy sleeves, She thinks the blue and white pattern goes well with her blonde hair, and this may be true, but she has no real reason to think so. Leslie’s thoughts go off on their own without her encouragement or by-your-leave, enjoying an independent and fuller life than they are likely to find when closeted in her mind.

She tries to picture herself walking down Chestnut St. wearing the dress, but fails. She should have kept it on after trying it in the fitting room, but she never does this. Perhaps it’s a fear of the checkout clerk thinking she is going to steal it, put it on and leave wearing it without paying for it. But Leslie always pays for anything she wants to keep or eat or drink, she has never stolen so much as a penny in her life.

She also thinks the dress or any article of clothing she buys may need adjustment, so that wearing it in the street might make her look unkempt. It’s a funny word, “unkempt,” where did it come from? But at home, with her mother and younger sister, she can put it on again and her mother will “realign” the difficult parts. Leslie has never learned to sew for herself, though her mother has tried several times to teach her.

On the other hand, Leslie is a good cook. She cooks simple dishes, always exactly the same way every time, and always tasty. “Very tasty,” her mother will say almost every time Leslie cooks a meal. Her sister, Veronica, never comments on the food except to occasionally remove some small item that she doesn’t like, or what she will later claim is a “bug” that had fallen in.

Her mother wonders aloud why Leslie has never been promoted at Dr. Folger’s lab, though she has been working there now for at least four and a half years. “I don’t think anyone’s thought of it,” Leslie suggests, though she herself does not think of it except when her mother asks, because Leslie has all the money she needs to buy what she really wants and can always find a short-term boyfriend to take her to a movie or a small restaurant. None of these boyfriends stay with her for long, but she doesn’t mind. What would she say to them every day if they were with her every day?

Leslie shows her mother the gingham dress and her mother says, “Very pretty,” though she thinks it plain and undistinguished. She never wants to hurt Leslie’s feelings. Leslie puts the dress on, her mother appraises its length and the evenness of the hem. She suggests no improvement or rearrangement except a slight tuck at the waist. Leslie has a slim waist over average hips.

All her life Leslie had said her bedtime prayers until one night, about a year ago, she realized that she could not picture God and so could not find a way to talk to Him. She did not say anything about this change to her mother, and of course never said anything to Veronica about anything that mattered.

Now the idea of talking to God has faded to forgetfulness. As she pulls the sheet up to her chin, she pictures herself in the gingham dress but still cannot picture herself wearing it out on the street.

The picture is just Leslie, herself, in the dress.

*   *   *   *

Recent headline: “Chess: Carlsen disqualified in New York after refusing to change out of jeans

“The world No 1 was defaulted from the World Rapid Championship”

Who set up such a rule?

The King, the Queen, the Bishop?

Did the Knight ask him to change into armor?

Did the Pawns have a say?

*   *   *   *

Blue is the official color of conservative parties in Western Europe, with red the liberal shade.

Over here, the political colors are the opposite.

How did red come to signify the right in the US, considering the anti-communist chant of “Better dead than Red” in the 1950s?

*   *   *   *

Back in the heyday of Morton’s pot pies, they had planned to market a one-person serving to be eaten alone, in your private room.

It would be called Morton’s Chamber Pot Pie.

*   *   *   *

To celebrate the coming New Year, we bought a bottle of

Christian Brothers Ruby Port.

I now plan to establish my own brand: 

Atheist Louts Gutter Red.

*   *   *   *

Song of the week:

My wild Irish nose

Has the greenest snot that flows,

You may search ev’rywhere, 

But none can compare 

With the phlegm

From my wild Irish nose.