Both the missus and I were busy puttering about the flowerbeds the other day when we heard a cheerful greeting over our shoulders. Standing under the arbor as if it were a dimensional portal--not too far off the mark if you knew the subject--was our old friend Sid, who has made it his habit to take the bus over from the blue-collar brick rowhive of Roebling, slowly amble up our street, and drop by unannounced.

Sid is easily one of the most charming, articulate and outright brilliant men I have had the pleasure of knowing--possibly the best conversationalist I've ever known--his inflections and turns of phrase conjure vivid imagery in the mind. By all rights he should be holding forth before throngs of eager young minds (were he living in ancient Athens that is exactly what he would be doing), but his restless, independent nature is unsuitable for institutions, or any other setting that requires a methodical personality (which is to say, everywhere).

Now before we progress, we should probably keep in mind that Sid is a member of that utterly feral (blank?) pre-MTV generation that is now just hitting fifty, which came of age in the recession-plagued, crime-ridden 70's that made the derelict cities such an ideal playground for those of an independent, reckless streak--Warhol's factory writ large. These kids played hard--so hard in fact that many of them didn't survive (The fact that Sid has been able to keep his faculties is something of a miracle). Those of us who followed led a rather tame, circumscribed existence in comparison. It's doubtful that there will be another "post-cultural watershed hangover" generation like theirs again anytime soon, which may or may not be a good thing.

On paper, Sid is an outright mess: He's had his driver's license revoked numerous times, and is virtually unemployable (his very tolerant wife has also come to this conclusion). He went through an alcohol-fueled Finnian phase in the mid-90's (he's Slovak I believe), but like all his other "phases"--like when in the early 80's he went by the name "Irwin," dressed in tweed suits and ran off to Puerto Rico and got into a great deal of mischeif, some of which required antibiotics--he eventually returns from his journeys, picking up where he left off five years ago, as if nothing happened. Largely self-educated, we have wonderful conversations in the backyard, sprawled about on the grass. One minute it is music, the next it is 'pataphysics--all with brio and enthusiasm. I always learn something new when Sid visits. He is a paragon of Affected Provincialism. A diasporan saint.

(Did I mention his given name is Craig? Just goes to show that there are given names, and there are true names.)

~W