End of the Movie; Mean Streets; She Was Young and Greek Once

Gosh, this is sad. News this morning is that *jeffreyp* has died. At 46 years old. With everything to live for.

In the way of Wellian relationships, *jeffreyp* was someone I met in the flesh exactly once, but who was of my cosmic littermates for many years. He and Cynsa started the GenX conference on the Well, which was just this amazing Post-Modern exercise in wit and insight. If I was ever tempted to rejoin the Well, it would be to read the GenX archives.

Jeffrey seemed like one of life's Golden Boys. He did everything right – from abandoning a career in journalism that was going nowhere and becoming a programmer to marrying the beautiful but eminently sensible Carole who appeared not to have a single neurotic neuron in her brain. They had two gorgeous kids, a beautiful San Francisco house. They did everything right.

He died of a heart attack in his sleep apparently. I have to assume that since they were smart and had health insurance, Jeffrey had regular checkups. What symptoms could he have missed? He was a big guy, not fat, but definitely carrying 20 or 30 extra pounds.

I'm at That Age. People I sorta, kinda know are dropping like flies. People in the immediate circle of my heart too, although that started 20 years ago when Tom died, I suppose. It's like the end of the movie. I can hear people shuffling in their seats on either side of me. The considerate ones, the ones with good karma, are picking up their empty popcorn boxes and other trash. A few may be trying to smuggle belongings too, but of course the Terrible Angels who guard the fire doors confiscate all that kind of stuff before they let you Outside.

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Poughkeepsie's got some mean streets. I tromped through many of them yesterday in blinding near 100 degree temperatures looking at prospective lodging. One of my prerequisites was that place has to be within easy biking distance of where I'm going to work since I will probably be without a car until October or November. I'll be working for a social services agency, running their at-risk youth program and (hopefully) generating some fundraising opportunities.

One of America's top culinary schools is about 20 miles away from Poughkeepsie, so my first fundraising idea is actually to see whether we could hook up with them do some kind of quasi-apprentice type thing, culminating in a dinner that the kids would put on. Of course, I haven't discussed this idea with anyone yet, but it seems pretty solid. We shall see.

Tromped around to four different places yesterday. I liked two. One of them was a beautiful painted Victorian owned by an artsy husband and wife. I liked them both, but the room — quite beautiful – was at the high end of what I want to pay, plus the husband was paying a little too much attention to me, which could get problematic down the line.

The other was in a house, owned – believe it or not – by a female Pentecostal minister. She was a total trip. We spent most of the time talking about the process through which God called her to the ministry and playing with her adorable Maltese. She's from Medford, Oregon so we have the West Coast in common, quite attractive too, and not at all interested in converting me. The room was very tiny, but also quite inexpensive which would allow me to pay off debts, save for cheap, serviceable vehicle in the $2,000 range – yes they have those in the Hudson River Valley! – and get the bankruptcy taken care of.

I'm going to go back next week to look at more places.

What to say about Poughkeepsie though?

I'd kind of thought Vassar: upscale college town. I wasn't anywhere near the college and no doubt, it is upscale there. Main Street, though, was just this row of structures built in the 1870s or so, once beautiful, now dilapidated, rat infested. It reminded me a lot of various towns I saw when I was on the circus. Clearly, Poughkeepsie was really prosperous 125 years ago, and then it crashed. Why? I suppose it was the demise of the foundaries, mills and other industrial sectors, abetted by the diminishing importance of the Hudson River as a transportation system in the age of trucks. Like Elmira, the town may also have been a stop on the Crack Cocaine Superhighway.

As I was walking back through the suburban enclave, I ran into Betty, the real estate agent who lives three houses down from Cassandra. At 9pm, it was still in the 80s,and Betty was circling around the block, through the fireflies, on her bicycle. She had this big happy smile on her face; it was really nice to see.

"I didn't know you bicycled," I said.

"Oh, yes," she said. "When I was in a girl in Greece, I spent so much time cycling from little village to little village, all the little white houses, always so beautiful."

And she chattered for 15 minutes or so about growing up in Greece while the fireflies darted around her. She was genuinely charming.