Talking Pensioner Blues

Liam Hinfey walked out of the Wayne County Airport, a bit lost, searching and scanning for a taxi stand. He hadn't been to the Motor City since Reagan was finishing up his presidency. Much to his consternation, his daughter had recently moved here to set up shop, with her husband to be. He didn't understand why someone would move to this city, as it had been one of the cities hit worst by the GFC.

After walking aimlessly around Liam found a taxi stand, where the taxi attendant asked him to move into Bay 8. A dirty run down yellow cab rolled up, stopping somewhere between Bay 8 and the next one up, Bay 7. This was Liam's taxi.

"Where to?", said the curmudgeon cab driver.

"Gross Pointe Farms. Going to see my daughter, she's getting married", said the seemingly retired passenger.

Once on 94, Liam looked at the cab driver, and realized that he was in the company of someone in his own age class. He was a strained breather with constant sniffs, that alway came in quanties of two. He was a bit hunched over, probably housing a herniated disk, much like himself. And he didn't seem overly happy to be alive.

"How's your day going", Liam asked the cab driver.

"Not bad, but I didn't want to get up this morning. One of those mornings where I didn't feel like getting out of bed. Cranky. Miserable. Achy", stated the cabbie.

"Yep, I know those mornings, and the older I get they become more consistent" Liam said. "How long have you been driving a cab?"

"36 years", said the cabbie.

"Wow, that's a long ..." started Liam but cut off by the cab driver.

"Just a couple of years, just a couple of years", said the cabbie with a wry smile now finally making eye contact with Liam.

"Oh yeah, just a couple of years," liam said.

They both shared a laugh, knowing if for nothing else, they were going to bond on this ride about having been around longer then most other humans alive on Earth.

"Hmmm, probably saw some stuff in your day, driving cabs eh?", said Liam, "how about you tell me the top five moments you've ever had driving a cab?"

"I couldn't even begin to think about that. Did I tell you I didn't even want to get up today?", said the cabbie, with the wry smile now gone from his face.

"Ah, come on you old man, live a little!", said Liam.

"Old Man?!?!? I bet you I'm younger", states the cab.

They agree to bet a George Washington on who is the older man but not necessarily wiser one. Liam pulls out his ID first. He's 68 years young. The cabbie pulls out his ID, showing an age of 64 years. Liam pays the young lad.

"Ok, I'll give you my top three, but you need to in turn give me your top three events in a cab ever," says the cabbie, "Deal?".

"Deal", Liam Answers.

Victor Rhia Strailya

I love Melbourne. I tell my friends this, I tell people I don't even know or care for this - that Melbourne is Australia's best kept secret.

To be fair, I don't often have the wherewithal to explain why I dig the second city of Australia. I often stumble about why I love with a sporadic number of reasons. It's the architecture. It's the fact it reminds me of a smaller version of the Northeast US Cities that I know. It's the hidden alley ways or the underground shopping centres. It's the burgeoning music scene not seen in any other Australian city. It's that the Melbournians have an incredible pride in their city. It's there Boston to Sydney's New York. It's each of these reasons individually and collectively.

Heading across the Bolte Bridge after arriving in Melbourne is also one of my favourite things about Melbourne. If you drive in from Avalon at night, just when autumn is turning to winter, the seagulls fly in the bright lights just off the left of the bridge. The lights are bright, seen probably from a gazillion kilometers away. The seagulls fly in circles. The seagulls are large and in charge, swarming several pancake layers tall. If you look close enough you can see the moths swarming to the light. It is those white tinged insects that have brought the Seagulls here, not the bright lights of the Bolte bridge. It is dinner and it is beautiful thing.

God I love Melbourne.

Silence Dogood

Running to the kitchen to grab a towel, I had to hurry to blot the water from the rug so the whole room wouldn't smell of that dank water spilled from my purple haze. It was a contraption that would bring happiness when used in its proper form. However, after knocking it over, often after being put into a stupor by it - it was bloody hell. The spillage was stronger in odor then the ammonia we used to wash the restaurant floors after closing time.

What's worse, my friends who were sitting on the couch in their own stupors, would just sit there and whinge about the smell all the while not bothering to try to help a brother in need. This wasn't just a beer spilling onto the floor. This wasn't just someone dropping there mac and cheese because they were so fuckered up. That could be dealt with swiftly or whenever. This was a two foot bong with water spilled onto my carpet like water spreads after floods. This was a fucking nightmare.

Bailey Street Blues

It was often that I circled the interior of the tavern at this time of day. I liked to walk the little circle surrounding the dining area and bar, so I can take a view of the 3pm barflies from different angles, seeing if in a different light or from a different vantage point I could draw seperate conclusions as they watched the TV. 3pm was a crucial time to do this, as this was the one time in the day that I could see every barfly's eyes light up. The look was one you see on people everyday, but not one you see often on any of these people's faces. The look was the one you've all seen before, it's the one where you know the person you are looking at feels good. They feel this way, albeit momentarily, because of whom they are watching on TV. See, it's Jerry Springer Happy Hour with 1/2 priced Lager scooners at the Bailey Street Cafe, and those at the bar just started chanting "Jear-ree", "Jear-ree", "Jear-ree". For a fleeting moment every Monday to Friday, those at the bar who need alcohol as much as want it, feel better about themselves as they watch Dawn beat up her sister Debra for sleeping with her husband Dave.

Jerry Springer Happy Hour. A sight to see.

Pigeontown

There are no pigeons in Pigeontown, the place that's been my home for almost all my teenage years. I lived in several other states up to my teenage years, but this place, named after the passenger pigeons that once frequented these parts is really all I know. It's a place where mostly well to do folks have come to set up homes and start or continue raising families. It's a place that a magazine like MONEY rates as one of the 100 best places to live. It's a place where parents like to raise kids, and kids want to raise hell because it's so fucking boring. It's a place where teenagers are trapped for the most part until driving age, because the closest malls are at least 5 miles away, and even then they might not have a vehicle to get around. So, kids are surrounded in Pigeontown by absurdly big homes, soulless business parks, eerily similar strip malls that pop up every couple of miles filled with your Subways & Quiznos or Dominos & Pizza Huts, and streets not lined with sidewalks. That my friend, is Pigeontown.