Come Here You Big Lug

One suited man sees another suited man.

“Come here you big lug.”  Exclaims the other man, decease “What do you mean ‘a big lug?!’”

The two of them proceed to do the manly anti-hug where they grab each other’s arms and smack each other on the back. The smack is so loud it echoes in my ears. Smack, smack, smack…

DSCN6439A man swaggers through the lobby wearing a vest and a brimmed cap of matching black leather. Is he a patrolman or a rock star? A white guitar case sits atop the bell cart. The man swaggers past again and I observe that it is the saunter-swagger of a rock star, help not a cop. There is a difference.

A woman who is on a working vacation walks behind me down a corridor. She says “Hello,” very kindly. I turn around to say hello back to her and I see she is on a cell phone. She asks me how I am doing and so I turn around, and notice again that she is on her cell phone. Fooled twice! “That’s okay, advice ” I tell her in my head, “I’m good, very, very good.” She says, “Awesome.”

There is a man who comes for a drink at the lobby bar about once a week. He is a cook and tells me he prefers to eat his food slightly charred from the grill. Even lettuce! At the kitchen where he works (no, he’s not a member of the Pfister staff) they won’t let him grill his lettuce, even though it only takes three seconds. I ask him about other vegetation that he might like to eat grilled. Pineapples, yes. Apples, yes. Cilantro, yes. Blueberries and strawberries? “Hmm, not yet. That’s a good idea though; I should try that this weekend. Perhaps I should grill the berries first and then make them into a syrup for my pancakes.” He will grill the pancakes too because “Anything that you cook on a stovetop or range can also be grilled, all you need is aluminum foil. It gives it a bit of a metallic taste, but you can do it.” He has been grilling on an open fire since he was ten years old.

The ice is being shoveled behind the bar. If I heard that sound alone, I would guess there to be a whole train boxcar of just ice behind the bar. It probably takes a whole boxcar to sustain the thirsts at this lobby oasis each day.

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“I traveled 86,000 miles with my dog,” says an author thrusting her business card into my hand. Jean Whatley doesn’t have time to chat with me, she has a private meeting in the lounge, but she wants me to inform you, the readers of this blog of her new travel memoir, “Off The Leash.”

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Northwestern Mutual is holding a conference. The attendees look like members of an ethnic tribe. They sport the longest multicolored lanyards I have ever seen. I talk to a few and they say that each year, they earn a new distinction in the company and that corresponds to receiving a new colored tag for their lanyard. You can tell who the tribal elders are: their lanyards nearly touch the floor as they walk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Giardiniera

A yoga instructor and a fashion designer walk into the Pfister. They are from Portland. This is not a joke. Well, generic maybe it is. Kimberlee and Ashley pose with baby Quinn in front of the painting of kittens in a basket. Quinn wants to hold my hand (and her mother’s hand) so that she can walk down the hallway backwards. They inform me that walking backwards is a metaphor. Everything is a metaphor. I already observed and wrote about this (we think alike!), ed but they point out to me how the marble steps look just like salami. The meat steps look downright appetizing though they are vegans. “They just need to add some olives to these steps.” I think about the sandwiches my Italian-American mother packed for me as a kid and remember that there is an olive relish that tastes really good with this kind of salami (I have determined the steps are made of capicola my mother’s favorite salami, not genoa which is my favorite) but I cannot remember the name of the relish.

Hey, I need a refill on this tea I am drinking.

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In the café a woman wears a watermelon t-shirt and dines upon a fruit cup. On the table beside the fruit cup is a banana. Her sweater is pink and looks ripe. Her name is Donna.  She lives in Chicago but has come to stay at the Pfister every summer for the past 29 years to attend Festa Italiana. The woman is FBI, full-blooded Italian, third generation. She doesn’t know the language and has never visited Italy, but she does know that the fried calamari at Festa is delicious. But at Festa even the nightly fireworks are delicious.

Every summer she and her family will rent 3 or 4 rooms at the Pfister. This year her two daughters and their families will join her. A total of nine grandchildren will be present. To amuse the kids, Donna buys unusual graphic t-shirts (such as the watermelon shirt she currently sports that has tiny cartoon ants crawling on the sleeves) at Festa and only wears them once a year when she stays at the Pfister.

Donna’s husband is a retired restaurateur, but she says he is running a stand at Festa that sells military sweatshirts (he donates the proceeds to the USO), stuffed olives and giardiniera. GIARDINIERA! Hey, that’s the name for the stuff that I was thinking of a half hour ago! If you are like me you are wondering if the restaurant that Donna’s husband owned served Italian cuisine. It did not. He owned Moon’s Sandwich Shop, a popular inner city Chicago diner that has been around since 1933. It has 18 stools, a line of people waiting to sit on those stools and closing time of 2:30p.m. “It looks like a broken down pawn shop, but they make everything fresh everyday,” Donna reassures me.

La Belle Fleur et Le Verdant

La Belle Fleur (the beautiful flower), is a pear infused vodka recipe that Katrina is following today. She is still deciding on her own name for it, but knows she wants it to be French. She is teaching herself French from an application on her phone.

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Trois de poire (three pears) is the traditional name of this drink.

But what if she were to name it ‘trios de poire’ because there are three different pear varieties in it.

Or fleur de poire is elegant…

ménage à trois?

Someone at the bar declares, “I like that one!”

Fruit infused drinks are a new thing at the lobby lounge bar.  Recently Katrina made Rock & Rye, that’s bourbon infused with sugar candy, bitters, St. Germaine Elder flower and maraschino cherries. My goodness.

 

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She is so excited about the three-pear flower beauty infusion she tosses the bottle of vodka from one hand to the other as if juggling.

Katrina has been steeped in the art of bartending for six years and has a talent for knowing “within 30 seconds” what drink would match a customer’s personality.

What about me, Katrina? “I would guess you would be interested in a craft cocktail vintage style, or a French 75. You could be easily coerced into something with fruit forward or champagne. Maybe champagne cocktail, but it depends on the scenario. On a hot day after you’ve been walking around I think you would be more apt to The Verdant, a gin drink of a bright green color that contains chartreuse and some other secret ingredient.

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Katrina reads aloud from her potions book.

What is Chartreuse? Some green liqueur that only Carthusian monks in France can brew. It contains 130 different herbs and flowers from a secret recipe. The monks have been making Chartreuse since 1737. Katrina lets me sniff the bottle when I ask.

It took Katrina a long time to figure out the name for the Verdant, a drink whose secret ingredient (well, formerly secret) is fresh celery juice.

Other names she considered for it:

Flora’s elixer

Persephone

Garden Party

Verdant Valley

She has even more names that she considered listed on her phone.

Thank you, Katrina for providing a screen shot of your telephone's list.
Thank you, Katrina for providing a screen shot of your telephone’s list.

 

Also listed on her phone are all the songs she wants to sing at a karaoke night so that she will be prepared when she next finds herself in a karaoke situation. Included on her list are “I Would Walk 500 Miles,” and “Light My Candle.” She does not like it when people sing “Don’t Stop Believing.”

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How Young Paul Got His Name

One day I plop down on the couch near a woman and her family because they look like they are having a riotous conversation and I want in.

The woman is having tea with her former boss and her children. She cackles at my idea of him as the father of her children. “He’s actually the son I gave up for adoption many years ago.” Ah! That was my other thought, the significantly older brother to Jennifer’s teenage children. But no he’s not, he’s just her old boss. When Aaron, the old boss gets up to use the bathroom, Jennifer tells me, “I don’t know if you’re seeing anyone, but he’s available.”

Jennifer and her kids live in North Prairie. I ask, “Where’s that?” It’s in Waukesha, a suburb of Milwaukee. Her daughter, Joy says, that when they took a cruise of the Mediterranean she just told everyone that she was from a place near Chicago. “Overseas all people know about America is Chicago and New York,” Joy says matter-of-factly. Jennifer looks with surprise at her daughter, “Not L.A.? Don’t they know about L.A?” Joy says no, she knows what she knows. She’s been around the world and is well-read. She wants to write young adult half fantasy half sci-fi novels when she grows up. Jennifer pipes in, “Post-apocalyptic so your mother will read them!” Joy doesn’t want to write post apocalyptic, there is enough of that already. “Why not pre-apocalyptic?”

To me, pre-apocalyptic means non-fiction coverage of current events, just like I am recording in my notebook right now. “Maybe one day you will be the Pfister’s Narrator too.” In response Joy says something very non-sequitur, she says, “I think the world is based on Hindu philosophy, resting on the back of four elephants.”

Paul, Jennifer’s other kid is very different from Joy. “Paul is very mechanical,” explains his mother.   Paul was named after Jennifer’s Austrian grandfather, Pius (pee-use) who hated his name. He was always the only one around named Pius, so he changed it to Paul at the start of his American life. He got a job at a shop on Mason street right by the Pfister. He sold wigs, cut hair and gave permanent waves. “They charged $1 a curl. That was really good money. Women would get 80 curls and that was rent back then,” notes Jennifer.

Another thing of note about Paul’s great-grandfather Paul: he pretended to be French when he moved to Iowa because it sounded classier. Classier than to be from Austria where he remembered a loaf of bread literally costing a bushel of money. At one point Paul’s cousin in Austria was captured by the Americans and transported to captivity in the states. Paul visited his cousin until the war was over and his cousin was allowed back home.

The conversation turns to explore Jennifer’s artistic streak, “I think I got it from my Uncle Paul who was a carpenter. He made signs and polished stones.” He learned how to polish stones shortly after joining the army. “He also got married right away so that he could get a toilet to himself. He couldn’t poop with the open toilets.” Jennifer went to art school at the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design back when it was in a different building. “They had an elevator that would get stuck once or twice a week for like an hour because those Otis guys were sloshed.”

Jennifer, her boss and children consent to me taking a group picture.

We Are The Larvae Eaters

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“Next year we we’ll have 120 pounds of honey coming outta the two hives, rx ” says Brian Frakes, Pfister head chef and as of this year, beekeeper. He takes me up to the roof; where 24 stories above the ground the bees await their sugar water refill. He lights the burlap in his smoker and climbs into a suit. I ask him how long the smoke sedates bees and he replies, “Twenty minutes. My understanding is it doesn’t actually sedate them; it stops them from being able to do their panic communication with each other. Therefore sedating them.”

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So far he’s only been stung once and yes, hospital it was as bad as he feared, “I did not like it. I was more upset with myself because it was my fault. I was by myself and he was riding on the back of me, I didn’t notice him and I pulled off my suit like a sweater.” When Brian went out of town for two days one of the banquet cooks, Marco suited up and fed them “Which was very brave of him, because no one is jumping out of their skin to mess with the bees.” Brian’s trick for checking if there are any bees on him when he is up here alone is to “Look at my shadow and see if there is anything flying around.”

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He points to the hive on the left, “These bees are very kind and very productive, and that’s why they are further along. But these bees on the right? These bees are always mad!” The same variety of bee resides in both of the hives but like most families each one is a little different. Which family did the bee that stung him come from? “I don’t know it was someone that was outside, but I’m going to say yes, the bees that stung me came from the mean family. Let’s not say mean, they are very aggressive, protective.”

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Lifting the cover off the protective family he warns, “They are possibly coming to attack you.” I step back, and indeed, a bee flies straight towards me, gets near my head and then hurdles back to its hive. Will the protective bees’ future offspring be as passionate? “Just because grandma was nuts doesn’t mean all her children will be.” Brian scrapes the excess honeycomb. “Wax. That’s the bee business. They need a place to make a lot of babies.”

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With the recent Pfister bee media frenzy, Chef Frakes put some of the honeycomb into a clear container so that the reporters could get close to it. Later he stored the container with the comb in his office and was watching as one of the bee larvae came to life. “It finished the larvae process and turned into a bee in one of these containers rather than in the hive. It was born anyways! Pretty incredible. It gave me chills.” He also ate one of the unborn larvae just to be weird and primal. “It was creamy and a little crunchy. Not overly pleasant, but not horrible either.”

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I ask so many questions about his larvae eating that he invites me to try one that he’s been keeping in his office. It’s cold and wet on the tongue, and reminds me of buttered corn-on-the-cob.

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The Godfathers

The first time I ever went into the Pfister was when my godfathers (I have two) spontaneously invited me for a hamburger in the café. I didn’t know regular people from the local population could do that sort of thing, and I was nervous to be dining at an establishment I assumed (wrongly!) was designed only for travelers. That and I was wearing blue jeans and plenty of cheap plastic necklaces, which I feared (wrongly! So wrongly!) would prevent me from being allowed in. After that first time though, I did not hesitate to return when they offered me another hamburger at the Pfister.  Today, I’m strolling through the hotel on a docile afternoon hunting for a willing guest to chew the fat with and who do I spot?  The very men who first alerted me to the existence of this luscious lodge!

Godfather Bill Lemieux has shared meals in this hotel with John & Jackie Kennedy (for whom he worked), the Carters, Henry Jackson & Al Gore. He’s eager to share this fact with me as well as each passing member of the wait staff. He has also dined with Peter Yarrow from Peter, Paul and Mary several times at the Pfister. Another fact: Bill introduced Peter Yarrow to his wife. He won’t say how, but he does explain that in 1960 when Peter Paul and Mary came to perform in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, three young people from out of town asked him which restaurant they should eat at. He joined them and didn’t realize who they were until he went to the concert a few hours later and they greeted him from the stage.

“The most important thing in life is not that you have lived, but that you are living. All the things I‘ve done are yesterday. They are memories. Memories that are shifting.” Bill says this before taking a long silence. Godfather David Subat teases, “Then why do you keep talking about them?!” David tells a story of yesterday, thirty years ago in Oshkosh when he was a student. It was St. Patrick’s Day and there were cars turned over and burned in the street. Ruckus. Snowballs with stones in them were being thrown at the dorms. David turned his head behind him and saw 50-80 policemen in full riot gear, shields, clubs… “I told my friend Darren, ‘Darren, I think we should get the blank out of here.’”

And here we are in the Pfister, not on St. Patrick’s Day, not in the snow and not in danger of getting beat up. Relief, but only for a second before Bill brings the snow of Oshkosh back. “In college we had a massive snowstorm at the end of winter break. The roads were too perilous for many of the students to return to campus, but the president refused to close the college. I gathered everyone who was around outside the President’s building and we snowballed all the windows. The president came outside and said, ‘Alright Lemieux, I’ll close the college.’”

Bill starts to fabricate poetry on the spot, which he delivers aloud at a speed slightly too fast for me to record. It is meant to be heard only once, but that start of it goes, “In moments when sitting with a lady on black…” It was a very decent poem. I request another and beg him to include the topics of beavers and Mr. Pfister. Bill quickly recited a historically accurate account of Mr. Pfister admiring another man’s beaver skin top hat. “Memory is not consistent, it is constant,” says Bill.

 

 

For You, For You, I Skitter-Skatter In The Dark

At my desk I get a good view of the lobby flowers that get changed regularly. Two weeks ago they were a purple irises. Back in the day there used to be a whole courtship code that was communicated by flower arrangements. If a suitor gave me a bouquet of purple irises one hundred or more years ago it would have meant, cialis “your friendship means so much to me.” Three days ago the lobby sported tiger lilies.   If my beau gave me those in 1893 he would have been showing off, as tiger lilies symbolized wealth and pride. Today, I see white roses. If I were given those it would probably have meant I had a secret admirer with a careful nature, seek as white roses symbolized secrecy and innocence.

I am clacking some of my own secret thoughts at my typewriter when a man climbs up the steps to stare for a while. He cranes his neck at an uncomfortable angle to read what I am writing as I type it. I rip the page out from the roller and it makes a loud “thwish!” I then hand it to him with more confidence than I feel, for I feel that no one should really read what I am writing. He sets his beer on my desk to read with both hands. The beer he is drinking is in a glass growler. A growler holds half a gallon of beer. I decide that anyone who happens to be drinking half a gallon of beer is in the ideal condition to read what I have been writing. He reads half of it, hands it back to me, states, “This is definitively stream of consciousness,” and then picks up his growler to take his leave.

A woman fills in his place next to my desk, curious as to what I am up to. We talk and soon she requests me to write her a love letter for her husband.   He is not with her at the hotel at the moment, because the conference she is attending does not permit the presence of spouses. They both live here in Milwaukee, but she misses him terribly, so much so that she plans to sneak away (entirely illicit) from the meeting to go hear music with him at Summerfest.

My secret, the gemstone in the bottom of the boot pocket secret, I sneak out from this old world “no spouses allowed” 100 year anniversary company sales meeting, yes, I sneak out in my business casual saunter to the eastern lake breeze where I cannot be followed by national sales meeting spies because there are too many Ray Lamontagne fans like us protecting us from the hooks and grabbers of workplace responsibility & dutiful spouseless chastity and though there are many other persons in this crowd I can find you by smell. Your smell is half your charm the rest of your charm exceeds halves and quarters but is composed of well folded intellect, sideways swing humor, abundant love that reflects upon me, your wife, and here, here my dear, I hold a mirror. See yourself? You are with me always even when the parental forces of the national sales meeting say, “you two may not be.” Not true. I will be with you even if I must wear damp socks or lie about my whereabouts tomorrow. For you, for you, I skitter-skatter in the dark.

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Without Getting Even Slightly Frazzled

Dr. Hollander likes to talk and play at the same time. This afternoon he invites me to pull up a chair and keep him company.   He hasn’t any sheet music with him but there’s no song he can’t play on the lobby piano. Aware of this, I ask him to play “when the red, red robin comes a bob-bob-bobbin’ along.” He does a fast tempo ditty that is extra-extra upbeat and cheery that leads into a whole medley of songs all by the red robin songwriter, Harry Wood. The lounge rapidly vibrates with a goofy joy so infectious that 1920’s flappers flap right out of the curtains of the nearest window to tap dance upon some of the empty tabletops.

Dr. Hollander doesn’t seem to notice the flappers as he plays and talks. He tells me that Harry Woods was born without fingers on his left hand. Even though he didn’t have ten fingers, he learned to play the bass and wrote many songs. He was also a brawler who’d use his deformed hand to bash people repeatedly in the head. Still, let’s remember that he was the songwriter of the wildly popular “Try A Little Tenderness.”

Dr. Hollander talks and plays the piano at the same time without getting even slightly frazzled. “I can just express my feelings in all situations, historical, literary. I can escape from the real world, most of the problems just vanish when playing,” he sighs.   The more he plays a song the more he finds new ways to play it with his emotions. People ask home to play “Over the Rainbow” and “As Time Goes By” all the dang time, but he doesn’t mind. He finds a new way to play them each time, and it always matches his mood.

When Paul McCartney stayed, he asked Dr. Hollander to play “The Very Thought of You.” It was a song McCartney had heard a lot as a boy in Liverpool. Today a hotel guest requests him to play the “matchmaker song” from Fiddler On The Roof. And this is when I must report that Dr. Hollander did make a boo-boo. He started playing a cautious rendition of “Chim-chim Cher-ee” from Mary Poppins. However, he knew he might be wrong and asked us what it was he was playing. We told him what it was and then sang for him the right song, “Matchmaker, matchmaker make me a match, find me a find…” and Dr. Hollander started up with the correct song. He then played the entire song, including all the complicated bits that I forgot were in there. I am enthralled with the complete anthology in his mind.

Anthology enough to give those he meets individual theme songs.   Like how the night time manager, Chris gets “The Music of the Night.” Dr. Hollander will play a person’s theme any time he sees them enter the lobby area. He may be playing a different song, but he will instantly integrate the theme’s melody into the song he is playing. A large portion of the Pfister staff can claim their own theme song, but Dr. Hollander frequently remembers what out-of-town guests request too, and when he sees them in the lobby lounge again months or years later, he will play that song. Their song.

Dr. Hollander says he always hopes that Mr. Pfister (who is right by the piano) approves of what he plays.
Dr. Hollander says he always hopes that Mr. Pfister (who is right by the piano) approves of what he plays.

They Seem Very Busy

The woman does not want to be identified.

The woman can make you an iced coffee.

The woman frequently makes me an earl grey

with a side of questions concerning Harry Potter.

 

She first read Harry Potter as a high school student

back in her homeland, viagra the third major island

of the Philippines’ 7,107 total islands.

“I think every kid was inspired by Harry Potter,

he’s not perfect, he has a lot of flaws,

but the people around him make him strong.”

 

This management, accounting and law school graduate

has been in the states for a year now

working at her first job of all time

and has observed:

“Things are cleaner over here, purchase

and the people here are on their own always

instead of compounds of families all living together.

Things are very peaceful here,

but people have no time for other people

they seem very busy.”

 

She would tell me more

but a line has formed,

it is three in the afternoon

and everyone wants

a medium cappuccino

or some other brown dessert drink

that requires rituals & cream.

 

I go away to become busy

and am reminded of something

Joe Charney described before parting ways:

the ‘zombie grocery store,’

where Joe goes to get his food,

is a place where people go to ignore each other.

“They don’t mumble to themselves,

they pass each other,

but no action or reaction,

statement or thought,” he said.

People pushing their carts around

all demonstrate something he called, “the stare:

looking straight ahead, but not side-to-side.

They are unaware!

I often think that one of them could be stabbed

a little to the right of their field of vision

and they wouldn’t even notice.

Like horse blinders.”

 

I know what he was talking about,

but luckily here at the Pfister people greet each other

like in the elevator where I am asked,

“Hey, where’s your typewriter?”

And I say, “It’s heavy, I can’t lug it with me everywhere I go.”

“But heavy things are good for your muscles.”

“That’s true, but you see I have snake arms.”

I roll up my sleeve and expose my thin, straight arm.

The elevator rider laughs,

“Snake arms! I like that. I myself would call them ‘buggy whips.’”

 

Now there’s a term that is at least as old as the hotel,

pre automobile

and pre virtual fake reality network friendships.

‘Buggy whip.’

When horses wearing blinders

clomped down Wisconsin Avenue en masse.

 

I go back to the café and the line is finally gone.

I ask if I can take a picture of her tattoo,

and she says sure, it is not her face

though it has an eye of Horace

to represent restoration—

not bad luck

like some people think.

I think it’s pretty,

she got it here in the states

since in the Philippines it would be too controversial.

She tells me that both “The Da Vinci Code” author Dan Brown

and boy band “One Direction,”

have been banned from the country

she hopes one day to return to

though she now has a golden snitch

engraved on her arm to represent time flying.

 

25 Pedestrians of Milwaukee on a Friday at 4:30p.m.

On the twenty-third floor I go to the windows to learn about the pedestrians of Milwaukee.

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  1. A man is just off work from a job where they blast air conditioning, sick see his long sleeves? This man is free now but carries the burden of his day and his backpack as he wonders what lies underneath the manhole cover.

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  1. A car pulling into a parking garage politely avoids the fellow carrying a big soda.  Mr. Big Soda knows that though this particular car is polite, other cars might not be, so he must not sip his soda (no matter how massive it is!) until he is safely past the driveway entrance.

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  1. No hands.

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  1. Three friends all wearing plaid, blue jeans and backpacks. Very close friends. They also all appear to be very close in height and age.

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  1. Jogging man imagines he is Hermes with winged ankles, running through the Grecian skies with a news report for Zeus.

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  1. Woman just making sure the whole present is still in there. It would be terrible if she had forgotten part of it on the store counter when she bought all those rolls of tape.

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  1. He walks and texts, ignoring the sea of cement all around him.

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  1. A man jaywalks as bold and sure as the stripes on his shirt.

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  1. She walks so quickly she is almost out of the frame by the time my camera clicks.

DSCN588310. This woman has a water bottle that is so beautiful (of amber hue, with flower motif) that she carries it facing the hotel in the hope that the Pfister narrator will see it and extol its marvelous grace. Oh! And how I gasp!

DSCN588411. He thinks he can hide behind the “No Parking” sign, but he doesn’t know we can see his reflection in the window. Heh heh heh.

DSCN588812.  These two people don’t know each other, lead different lives and even walk in opposite directions in this realm, but in the land of the shadows they face the same way.

DSCN5889 13.  This guy has style.

DSCN589014.  This guy has an itch above his right ear.

DSCN589615.  I see so many people rolling luggage, carrying backpacks and bags downtown it appears as though there is a great migration taking place.

DSCN589916.  He doesn’t stop though he does consider the parking meter’s stasis.

DSCN590117.   Man clambers upon the motorcycle for a few thrilling moments and then gets off again. Its not his motorcycle.

DSCN590918.  Stylish bow tie fellow locks gaze with another man, as if to say, “You stay in the street. This curb belongs to me.”

DSCN591019.   Nice shoes, sir.

DSCN591420.  This guy knows that contrary to what the sign says, there is more than one way.

DSCN591621.  There goes number 21 and her green cell phone. It is amazing that I can see that she has a green phone all the way from the 23rd floor.

DSCN591722.  Woman has animated conversation with parked vehicle.

DSCN592023.  Everyone on this corner seems eager to leave it.

DSCN5927 24. This man takes wide strides as he walks.

 DSCN583825. Four people stop in the lot to pet this car. Good car, good.