Trenton Trenton Robespierre

Trenton Trenton Robespierre, the ill-faced boy, with the pallid complexion, was in the manufacturing biz, specializing in the systematic manufacturing of religious icons and tupperwares. At ole’ PS 217, they were eating from the Shroud of Soup Tureen, a collected residue of various culinary oddities, spiced with salt and tomato paste from plastic, bottled by mechanical arms, hands and digits, crusted at the bottom, looking like maps of the European coasts. In the realms of reds and yellows and greens, splotches intermittently scattered, there could very easily be discerned a face, resplendent albeit slightly moldy.

They said it had been there since the beginning of time, when it was pieced together to their most exacting specifications which was, oh, about 4 years ago, to the day, barring those damned leap years and other temporal variations that are the bane of teachers, Savior to the ecclesiastical education classes with the tired drawls and vapid eyes.

All had been just peaches and cream till tricky Tommy Twotoes hop-skoped right in the Tureen, swimming in the veggies and beef broth and diced celery (added to give it just the right ZING of sabor, said the old Spanish chef with his lilting lisp and half a tongue, blown from his mouth during the war), whose entry went unbeknownst to the chef who promptly placed the flaky golden crust over the pot, (it was a pot-pie, you see) and in went little Tommy Twotoes who came out just a bit less tricky though especially more crispy.

T.T. Robespierre came and sampled the pot, two days after, to the day, and he said it tasted just fine. Took another look and saw the face of God, phoned his brand-spankin’ new agent, and said, “I do believe, Henry, that we have the opportunity here to make ourselves quite a prophet.

(To be continued…)

A Philly Christmas Comes Early

I fondly remember the Christmas mornings of my youth with a lilting nostalgia: the boughs of the evergreen spread with tinsel and stale popcorn laced on red yarn, scores of packages beneath the tree like tiny villages buildings wrapped in paper and ornate bows, only to be dismembered shortly after by the grubby, ever-grasping hands of children.

Apparently, at the area surrounding the University of Pennsylvania, Christmas sometimes comes in May.

Upon first glance, it appeared that the busted appliances and spotted bed sheets in the mammoth dumpster across the street had sprouted legs and were crawling, delicate and unsure, among the mounds of their discarded brethren, and a Tutu wearing sprite, an intrepid diver of the perilous and grimy polyester deep. There was wind rustling deep within the trees, footsteps rummaging in the dumpster.

But the story isn’t about tutus, nor is it about the search for bargain rubbish on a fine Christmas evening in May. No, this story is about yours truly (though more accurately it’s about the shoddy maintenance and blatant disdain of customer satisfaction).

But perhaps I’ve started too far along in the story…

To begin: as the days wore on after my initial move-in on May 23 to the house at 40th and Baltimore, I witnessed a phenomenon that I first imagined to be an illusion. Almost every morning when I awoke, eyes bright and starry with just the slightest hint of over-pronounced blood vessels, I came downstairs to find that the living room space had grown smaller during the night – a continually diminishing space that appeared to be gradually fading from the throes of tangible existence.

At the end of the week, there were the passers-by – window shopping addicts of the holiday season – who passed along the sidewalk wrought with cracks and crabgrass, their faces looking in at the amassed heaps of crap, the ever-mounting testaments to consumer proclivity strategically placed to fulfill the image of a flea market gone to hell. There was certainly too much to list here, but I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the following: a makeshift pyramid of polyester and plaid upholstery, the dismantled armoire, the nude mannequin lacking arms and a head, and what appeared to be a pair of miniature palm trees that had taken root in the midst of it all.

Now the question invariably becomes: Why were there approximately 13 peoples’ belongings in this space that had once been called a ‘living room’ (rather ironic since it was no longer possible to live there with the surplus of furniture)? This was a question I found myself asking throughout the week that I spent in there, but I believe that I may have answer.

It’s a veritable man-made fucking phenomenon, an annual recurrence caused by a radically negligent policy of a property company who owns the vast majority of residential housing in the area bordering the UPenn campus.

Basically, what happens is that residents who do not re-sign their lease are instructed to vacate their homes of all possessions and persons so that the residence may be cleaned during a span of a week (most often in the last week of May). Even in the case that old furniture is purchased by the incoming from the outgoing, it still must be removed for that time.

In lieu of this annual event, there are two questions which inevitably arise as a result:

First of all, what options are available to students who want to keep all that crap which they intend to use the following term or perhaps even later? The answer came to me, a brilliant epiphany as I walked down 40th when I saw half of a couch perched on the lip of a construction dumpster, a stake of its wooden innards protruding through its bottom.

The second question, and frankly the far more important of the two, becomes what is to become of the students themselves, especially those who come from out of state (or out of country) for that week in which they find themselves without a proper place for living?

As far as I can tell, there is no answer either of these questions

If you have an answer to either of the questions, I would very much like it if you could enlighten me.

(Full Disclaimer: After speaking with the company, I’ve verified the fact that residents are expected to find a place for their persons and their stuff; yet, even though this is something that must be dealt with by each person in this situation, it’s not something that happens all at once. Rather, it depends on the pre-arranged move-out date that has been agreed upon by the tenants).