When Weingarten is reporting a story, according to everyone, he’s focused on that and nothing else. He ceases to be a human being—he becomes, in his own words, “the machine.” He hoovers up information and that’s it. Maybe he sleeps. Maybe he eats a sandwich. But mostly he does what he does until it’s done.
Tom Bartlett. “How Do you Explain Gene Weingarten?”
There’s nothing more to worry about. An apple, thought to be lost for 125 years, has been found. The Hewes crab apple, one of three apples specifically cultivated in Thomas Jefferson’s orchard to be pressed for cider, was found on an estate outside of New York City. Branches have since been mailed around the country and grafted onto thriving root stock. We’ll be drinking the same juice as Thomas Jefferson in no time. Read more here.
Charlottesville’s Jimmy John’s customers are freaked out. The subs made and delivered “so fast you’ll freak” just got faster. David M from North East, PA just landed a gig delivering orders by bike. He’ll balancing a catering order, with a pickle in his pocket, or with a drink in the water bottle holster. With the new guy on the scene, customers should be prepared to freak a little bit more.
The new pedestrian bridge by Wayside Chicken opened today. The wood planked path crosses over the infamously noisy railroad tracks. It is the nicest foot bridge in town, and the construction dudes know it. Go give them a thumbs up.
Two weekends ago, a song—presumably sung in a foreign language—radiated from UVA’s Scott Stadium parking structure. The secret singer was nowhere to be heard last weekend, likely due to the victorious homecoming football game and tailgating festivities. UVA is hosting another game this Saturday, so don’t expect a free, late-night musical interlude until the following Saturday when the Cavs will be partying it up elsewhere. They don’t have a game that day.
Waldport, OR. Early to mid-August, 2011.
My fellow crumbs and bums, and brothers! Beautiful.
Today an arborist scaled the majestic pine on the corner of Chelsea Drive and Shamrock Road. A series of ropes and knots held him high as he dismembered the tree from top to bottom. He scaled it a second time to deconstruct the trunk in six-foot chunks. Finally, the gaunt, pony-tailed dude hopped to the ground, but the pine’s remains still stood one story in the air. His crew wrapped a noose around it’s neck and they heaved and hoed and it cracked at the base. As the tree timbered down, it dominoed into a parking sign, which also snapped at its base. It was a small one detailing towing probabilities and hours of enforcement. Each man in the tree team settled into a wide stance and laughed and laughed. I tried to score some firewood from the scene, but one of the rope handlers told me that I’d need to split it, and I’d need an ax to do it. Does anyone on Chelsea Drive have an ax?
It’s one of those days, down at the fancy bank in town. The manager strolled the floor. His hand grazed many backs and when there was no one left to touch, he spun a three-sixty on his wing-tips and veered into the corner office. I waited fifteen minutes, and he finally came out to graze my shoulder and invited me to sit at his desk. I updated my account and made to leave. But first he told me, “It’s one of those days. I’m popping Sudafed like candy and I’ve drunk enough cold medicine to kill a small child.” What is one of those days anyways?
Southeast of Charlottesville, in Newport News, VA, a smoky flavor has tinged the air for the past several weeks. I first took the odor as an ad for a local barbecue festival. Actually, the seasoned air is drifting north from a fire raging in the Dismal Swamp. In the Tidewater area, life has become one serious BBQ party.
Josephine Baker. Don’t Touch me Tomato.
At the U.S. Embassy in Paris, France, a twenty-seven year intern posed as an invader in the building. The marines swarmed the scene, practicing their handcuffing and detaining skills. Fortunately for all by-standers, the live action role play participant could not contain her giggles.
In Charlottesville, VA, residents are looking forward to the Great Thaw of the Summer of 2011. After weeks of scorching temperatures, which have been accompanied by record low air conditioning averages inside homes and public buildings, people are ready to discard their winter wool sweaters for summer tees and tanks. Many agree that upon exiting a temperature-regulated space, their body needs upwards of fifteen minutes to thaw back to a comfortable state.
It is suspected that the slender egg vendor at the City Market has had a recent break up with his partner Kim. He has diligently Sharpied out her name, which appears on every printed sticker affixed to his egg cartons. Her name can still be made out under the ink line.
Eighty-six years ago this year, solid carbon dioxide entered the U.S. market going by the name of dry ice. It has enabled gobs of products to criss-cross and cross-hatch the country and world, arriving at their destinations fresh or frozen, depending. Today, Jeni’s splendid ice cream was shipped from Colombus, Ohio and received in Charlottesville, VA, ice cold. Yum.
Nina Simone “Ain’t Got No…I’ve Got Life”
The cops may or may not have been notified about the wrath of the beast, a firework set off last night at an outdoor pizza party. Many enjoyed the surprise, carnival-like light, while its prolonged bangs and pops shot pangs of grief through some guilty guests who promptly departed. Neighbors, know that those pangs were felt but that the joy was great.
Not far from the firework launching, local businesses are facing financial trouble. No one has bought a Pepsi product from the soda machine that is nestled against the barber shop. It juts into a parking spot, taking up just enough space that a car cannot fit. This machine charges fifty-five cents a pop—a great deal on both sides of the Appalachian ridge, of course. But luckily business is seriously booming fifty feet away, where you can get a can of Dr. Pepper or ginger ale for fifty cents flat. Fifty cents! This machine holds its ground between the neighborhood watering hole, Durty Nelly’s and a couple of defunct gas pumps. Sadly, Durty’s—the bar’s unofficial nickname—is not faring so well. Luckily the PBR’s on tap, which means you will surely find something you like.
In spite of the summer heat, Judo practice is still held on the concrete terrace, the one tucked between the old and new Chemistry buildings on McCormick. The group ranges from six to ten practitioners. Lose yourself in your opponents gaze. Sense their energies. Anticipate their intentions. All are probably welcome.
