Signs

"People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they dont deserve but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things. I dont recall that I ever give the good Lord all that much cause to smile on me. But he did."

-- Sheriff Bell, in Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men

--

Drove past the University today, en route to Chinese food after a daylong fast. Westward, on Taft, around the time it turns into Calhoun (a feast for you history buffs), I saw a young guy in a blinding white hoody standing beside another young guy in a snazzy camouflage outfit. They were speaking to each other but facing in different directions. Not looking at each other. As I passed, I saw their hands meet, and between their fingers was a wad of green dollar bills and a small baggy of something white. I checked the mirror when I was past them, and the first guy was already gone.

It's not the first time I've seen people around town and thought to myself that they might be dealing. But it is the first time I've seen stuff change hands like that. I don't know how to feel about that.

At the University, too.

--

When I first moved in my landlady told me that there wasn't any crime that lived on my street that didn't come from someplace else. She said that any break-ins, violence, or theft was the result of drugs. Just drugs. Not poverty or lethargy. Drugs.

She and I were smoking one night on our front porch. "That woman across the street," she told me, "runs a small dealing ring. I seen her do it. Her whole family, all dealers. And she's got some relatives living in a house on the other side of us, down that way a few houses. They're moving in, one by one, and I think soon they're going to force the landlord to sell. They're going to take that house, too. Crack. That's what they sell. Crack and weed, sometimes. I seen people drive up, hit the brakes for a few seconds, someone comes to talk to them, and something changes hands, and off the car goes, screeching. Every time, I call the police, but they don't do anything."

"Bigger fish to fry."

"I guess."

--

Cinci is up there in terms of drug use. Just take a walk in Over the Rhine. You'll see some cool cats, and some not-so-cool cats. Boards in the windows. There's a section of East McMillan where tons of streetfolk gather in and around the street, watching. For what I don't know. But they sit, and they watch, and I only go through that part of town if I have a craving for McDonald's. Otherwise, it's hell's bells, sirens in my head, thumps in my chest.

--

Mae is playing the Mad Hatter on Monday, and I'll be in Illinois, traveling. One of my favorite bands, and I'm missing them by hours. Shucks.

--

It's a payday, and in an hour I'm hitting downtown's Music Hall for another symphony concert. Some culture to go with the...culture. Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain, tonight, at that lovable student rate. Puttin' on the ritz, in a way, but for a price--a small, small price.

Tomorrow, we're performing in a tent three hours away. Hopefully, if we get back in time, I'll have my choice of what show to see in the evening: Hamlet at Cincy Shakes, Noises Off twenty minutes away, or Death of a Salesman fifteen away. Gotta love a city with some class and spaces.