Farting around with Vonnegut.
Please excuse the infrequency of blog updates over the past week or so. I have been on vacation, road-tripping around the US of A (favourite sighting: a sign for boasting literacy levels at a school that contained the word "learnded").
While in New York State, I popped into the city of Schenectady on a mini-pilgrimage devoted to the late Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favourite novelists. I knew he had lived in Sch'dy (as natives abbreviate it) during his early years working as a PR flack for General Electric, and had been a volunteer firefighter in the area. He alluded to it in one of his best novels, God Bless You Mr. Rosewater. If you haven't read any of Vonnegut's books, I suggest you give it a try.
Though there seems to be nothing in Schenectady commemorating Vonnegut's tenure there, some helpful Schenectadites (Schenectatodians?) at a museum pointed me in the direction of a suburb where he lived in the 1950s. With more help from neighbours, I tracked down the house where he lived, and I probably confused the current residents by posing for pictures in front of it (they gave me a bit of the stink-eye). Also found the tiny volunteer fire department where he offered his services.
The point? No point, really. I did want to feel a bit closer to a writer whose work I've admired for years.
But mostly I was just abiding by this poignant little piece of the author's wisdom (a Vonnugget, if you will):
Now I'm off to fart around for a few days in Cincinnati. Catch y'all later.

