Strange Indeed!

I need to get into the nitty-gritty of this Strange Land business. 

I bought a DAB/FM radio last week. This is the second Liverpool radio I've bought. The first one just stopped working. I brought it back to the store to see if they could do something. They exchanged it for a newer model, still a DAB/FM. (I don't know what DAB means, but FM means frequency modulation. I'm not so sure what that means.)

Like most people of a certain age, I've owned a number of radios over the years. I like to follow the news or have some soft music playing to absorb the silence. I brought this new radio home and unboxed it. ("Unboxing" is a hip term I learned on YouTube). When I finally got the radio loose of all its various wrappings—they really pack stuff securely these days—I found a 12-page booklet, an instruction manual. I thought . . . why do I need an instructions manual for a radio? You turn it on, tune it to the station you want, and listen.  

I thumbed my way through the 12 pages. The type was tiny and a faded pale grey in color. Even with a magnifying glass, I could hardly read it. And I couldn't understand it. This booklet needs its own instruction manual. 

So far, I've only managed to get one station to play, techno-dance music that keeps repeating the same phrase over and over. It does get my old toes tapping though. 

Digital, could you step back a bit please? Stop chewing on my leg! Give me a rest from some of this stuff!  

Twenty-five years ago, the Internet showed incredible promise. And today, I love that I can pay for things with a tap of my debit card. I love the fact that I can Google most anything I want to know. I value the universal speed and convenience of email. I can do everything online now except hug a friend, pet a dog, or consume food and drink. 

But the way they keep asking me for yet another piece of information to identify myself is maddening. Didn't I do that yesterday . . . and the day before? I don't remember my mother's dog's maiden name! And I don't want to download and learn yet another version of some app I've been using that had no visible problems. Instead, why don't they do something about battery life? 

I was so upset by all this, I had to walk down to share my thoughts with Eleanor Rigby. Tommie Steele left her sitting on a stone bench about a block from me. Nell listened quietly but offer no advice. Well, she has troubles of her own. 

Let's hope I'm in a better mood next Sunday. I'll close with a positive image of Liverpool, one that I captured a year ago before the virus arrived. It was a simpler time.

 

Happy Feet

When I first arrived in Seville two years ago pushing everything I owned along in one large piece of rolling luggage, I had no slippers. Slip-on bedroom slippers, I mean, the kind most people wear around the house. I had a pair in Little Italy, but along with a lot of other things, they got left behind. My guitars and keyboards synthesizers were left behind. I hum a lot now. All my vintage film cameras, lenses, all those things we photographers use to help us take pictures, all left behind. Many boxes of color slides, audiotapes, and disks with the music I composed, two unfinished novels, and a nearly finished memoir, a closet filled with clothing, my furniture, kitchen utensils including a costly set of quality knives. All gone.

And, as I said, my slippers. 

Is the loss of the things that represented my past a great tragedy, a reason for self-pity? Not so much. Before the fire, I was thinking of selling the lease on my rent-stabilized Lower Manhattan apartment and moving out of the city. The fire made that happen.

I was planning to do digital conversions of a few hundred slides, my favorites. That would have been a lot of work that I now won’t have to do. The clothes would not fit the new thinner me. The furniture? Charity shops would not take that stuff. My efforts as a novelist and composer and performance musician? Those things were important to me for a time in my younger days. Looking back, I picture those areas of endeavor as large, bright rooms that beckoned, that I entered with enthusiasm, crossed, and then exited. I may still write the memoir. After all, I know the story. I still write and I still do photography. 

That will have to be enough.  

In Seville, I made a new friend—Velina from Florida. She is a super person, full of energy, very helpful, and for some unknown reason, she became involved in helping me find a suitable pair of slippers. Velina was helpful with many more important things (she speaks Spanish) and we had lots of enjoyable lunches together. The hunt for slippers didn't work out. 

She would text me or call and tell me she had seen some slippers I might like in a little shop just north of the Parasol or down by the Tower of Gold. I would go and look but there was always something keeping me from buying. Was the Spanish size right? Is that my color? Often they were just too fancy or too costly. So I never did buy slippers in Seville.

And I've also done without slippers in Liverpool this past year. Today I solved the problem. Here are my new slippers. Okay, they're not exactly new. But that's not a bad thing. They're old and worn out, but they're comfy. They're familiar. They did their job as shoes and now they will have a second life as slippers.  

Can wearing slippers help us avoid the coronavirus? I hope so.

 

Those Mod Fashions

I fear I've been lagging a bit behind, fashionwise. I've always been a step or two out of step with things. In the '60s, I had long hair but I was never a hippie. "Don't trust anyone over 30," they used to say. Since I'm now over 80, I'm guessing I still don't qualify for trust. 

I woke up this morning with a germ of understanding as to where current fashions in Europe and the USA originated. TV and films, of course, those superheroes and sci-fi flicks . . . and 14 years of the Kardashians. Those are the main culprits. The K family's show is coming to an end. All that the world will be able to see in the future is about another 14 years of reruns. Out of step? Me? I guess so; I've never seen the Kardashians show. 

I worry about the heavily tattooed. Making a style adjustment from that won't be easy. But not all tattoos are bad. This nice Liverpool lady below allowed me to capture the stylish, tasteful bird she has on her back. Notice how the color on the bird's breast matches her hair color. 

The first time I'd seen someone heavily tattooed, head to toe I mean, was at Speakers Corner in London. That was about 1966. I was shooting a magazine story called The Sounds of Hyde Park. It's interesting that the tradition continues, even if the subject matter of the speakers has changed. 

There are many "speakers" on the streets in the Western World now. In Liverpool, they come as buskers, religious zealots, vendors, and simple beggars who just sit silently and hope for a donation. Here's one busker who works a Liverpool high street and shows up in a different outfit every day. The man can't carry a tune in a bucket but that doesn't stop him from sharing his painful attempts with us.

Even traditional Muslim women have added the most common new fashion accessory to their wardrobe these days—the face mask. Nice. I like that touch of blue amid the somber black.

Fast Food

Too fast or not fast enough? And what's the hurry, anyway? Taste and nutrition are what we're after. Where have those important things gone in the equation? 

Tomatoes are grown and picked to ship now, not to eat. Most chickens are unhappy prisoners in an overcrowded space. Their taste makes me unhappy. I paid real money for a wedge of  Parmigiano-Reggiano. It's tasteless and dry and hard as a rock. Pecorino Romano? Forget it. I've been forced to put an English cheddar on my pasta! The ghosts of the Caesars will haunt me. 

They now call fast food "street food." It sounds hip and jazzy. It doesn't improve the taste though. Real street food is sold on the street, not in a restaurant. Is street food healthy? Maybe some of it, maybe none. 

Liverpool is not a great restaurant town. It's better with traditional pubs but that's less important to me. San Miguel de Allende, a much smaller place than Liverpool, had far better bistros. It's not Lyon or Bologna, but I was impressed. In San Miguel, when you order guacamole, they make it from scratch. I also found better restaurants in Montreal, Lisbon, Seville, Galway, and even in Sligo. 

But Liverpool is a distinctive city of almost a million people and I've been here for a year now. I've found more than a half dozen places I like. Of course, the pandemic lockdown has not helped things. 

I've been alternating between three breakfasts at home—the one above with berries, yogurt, walnuts, and a broken-up muffin, and the one below, with scrambled eggs, ham, and a muffin. My third was pancakes with fruit. I've stopped that last one; too much sugar and too much white flour. 

Oatmeal used to be the top dog in my breakfast kennel. But I can't get the preps right in this miserable, little kitchen. I fear an oatmeal explosion of some kind. I hope to work things out.

* * *

I'm sure everyone keeps up with the International news regarding the coronavirus and the financial crisis. Here's the latest on Liverpool's partial lifting of the lockdown and my life on the periphery.

Shopping scousers are legion now. On the high street, they are buying and looking to buy again. Security will not let them into the shops if they're not wearing a mask. Bistros are different; you can't eat or drink with a mask on. 

Businesses here and everywhere have already been closing. More will follow. And Whitehall has yet to make a deal on Brexit. I went up to the City Council Office on the top level of St. John's Shopping Centre Friday to pay my tax. It was closed and a security guard told me it would not be reopening in the future. Oh my. I'm trying to give them money. Now I have to figure out how to pay my taxes online.