Researchers at a prominent research institute have concluded that the daily consumption of Irish whiskey promotes a longer lifespan and stronger bones.
"The results were staggering," says Johann Fitzgerald, a research scientist. "Replacing one of your daily meals with a large glass of Irish whiskey hardens your bones and lengthens your lifespan. It may even reverse the symptoms of certain sexually-transmitted diseases."
But do the health-benefits of whiskey outweigh the possible risks? "Oh, absolutely," says Fitzgerald. "I encourage everyone to incorporate this into his or her lifestyle immediately."
But how?
Be creative, says Fitzgerald. "Instead of milk on your cornflakes, why not whiskey? Instead of Gatorade after a run, why not whiskey? There are as many ways to incorporate whiskey into your diet as there are stars in the sky."
Simply put: the research is conclusive.
Have you had your whiskey today?
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Friday night reviewed
I’ve been sleepy all night, but the Tisdales are such a loud band-- the sound is almost physical: it fills you up, elbows out whatever else you might have been thinking and feeling. So I get up, stretch, I walk to the front by the stage. It's me, a bearded man with a serene, Jesusy face to my left, and two girls ballroom-dancing to my right. I don't recognize any of these Tisdales songs. But they're all good! Especially the one that Rich Mattson sings midway through, with the boogie-woogie guitar line that makes everyone bounce. Let's hope that's on the next record.
Are you reading this, Rich Mattson? Put that one on the next record.
One of the girls disappears and it's just me, the happy-bearded man, and the dancing girl. She is a lovely girl. She has sharp, wandering eyes and a rapt expression. She's wearing a black-and-white checkered dress. I'll bet she shops at Vintage Duluth. I'll bet she knows things about organic produce. I'll bet she paints watercolor portraits in her spare time. She keeps yelling at the band between songs--
"Again! Again!"
--and doesn't once stop moving: dancing, running to the bar, running to the bathroom, going outside, finding people she knows, talking with her hands, swaying her hips, her eyes closed, her arms waving over her head, her face lit up. She is so alive, this girl, so full of joy, and I can't stop looking at her.
Tony Derrick is talking between songs. "You need to dance to this one," he says. "Everyone. Seriously."
Okay, Tony Derrick. I sway to his song, which is fast, catchy, aching, in the way that all Tony Derrick songs are fast, catchy, and aching. I shuffle my feet. I do this thing where I hunch my shoulders, shut my eyes, and slowly walk backward. This is how I dance.
And then, shit, the dancing girl is back and her arms are around me! A little charge fires through my chest and I grab her and we dance. But I do not know how to dance. We trip a lot. I keep stepping on her. I try to do that thing where you spin the girl around, but I twist her arm and we need to let go and start over.
And then she lets go of me and starts backing away. This is part of the dance. Okay. I back up too. And then she’s running toward me and I look around but she’s coming at me and then she jumps into my arms! I stagger backward, let go of her. I wasn't expecting this. It's a different song, now-- Rich Mattson is singing and it's heavier, slower, more jagged-- but we keep dancing anyway, inventing our own beat. I still don't know what I'm doing, and I wish I did, my God, I wish I did, I want to put my arm around her waist and narrow my eyes and do something easy and graceful, something astonishing, like Fred Astaire might do, but it’s okay because you're humoring me, dancing girl, and I love that you're humoring me, meeting my eyes, smiling, your mouth falling open, your eyes rolling back, like you're staggered by your good fortune, by the beauty and hilarity of everything-- the Tisdales, the bar, me, everything-- and something hot and electric is pouring from my chest and filling me up, my arms tingling, my head swimming, and I keep dancing, I'm so excited, this girl has transformed me, I'm not sleepy anymore, I will never sleep again, I will devote my life to dancing and music and let the world fill me up with its wonder.
She backs up again and runs toward me but I still don't understand, still haven't grasped the concept, and I grab her shoulders and stagger backward. She shakes her head. No, no. And then I get it. I'm going to catch her and spin her. Okay. I can do this; I will lift with my legs. She backs up again. I back up. We're at opposite ends of the floor, our eyes locked on each other. And she starts running, hell, sprinting toward me, her arms pumping, like she's going to try to jump over me, and she bends her knees and thrusts herself off the floor, going horizontal, her feet in front, she’s a missile, this girl, and I swoop in, catch her, brace my knees, and draw her toward me and spin and spin and fill my lungs with her perfume--lilac, Pabst Blue Ribbon, sweat-- and spin and spin and spin and the music fades and the lights dim and she leans back her head and closes her eyes and her face is rapt and she's so light in my arms, I am a superhero, I am so strong.
And then I set her down. She waves goodbye and disappears into the bar.
No!
I watch the rest of the show-- swaying, singing along when I know the words-- and go home, to fall asleep in Scott's basement.
And now I'm in Marquette, Michigan, grading papers, eating bagels.
Just wait until I come back, Duluth. I'm going to know how to dance.
Are you reading this, Rich Mattson? Put that one on the next record.
One of the girls disappears and it's just me, the happy-bearded man, and the dancing girl. She is a lovely girl. She has sharp, wandering eyes and a rapt expression. She's wearing a black-and-white checkered dress. I'll bet she shops at Vintage Duluth. I'll bet she knows things about organic produce. I'll bet she paints watercolor portraits in her spare time. She keeps yelling at the band between songs--
"Again! Again!"
--and doesn't once stop moving: dancing, running to the bar, running to the bathroom, going outside, finding people she knows, talking with her hands, swaying her hips, her eyes closed, her arms waving over her head, her face lit up. She is so alive, this girl, so full of joy, and I can't stop looking at her.
Tony Derrick is talking between songs. "You need to dance to this one," he says. "Everyone. Seriously."
Okay, Tony Derrick. I sway to his song, which is fast, catchy, aching, in the way that all Tony Derrick songs are fast, catchy, and aching. I shuffle my feet. I do this thing where I hunch my shoulders, shut my eyes, and slowly walk backward. This is how I dance.
And then, shit, the dancing girl is back and her arms are around me! A little charge fires through my chest and I grab her and we dance. But I do not know how to dance. We trip a lot. I keep stepping on her. I try to do that thing where you spin the girl around, but I twist her arm and we need to let go and start over.
And then she lets go of me and starts backing away. This is part of the dance. Okay. I back up too. And then she’s running toward me and I look around but she’s coming at me and then she jumps into my arms! I stagger backward, let go of her. I wasn't expecting this. It's a different song, now-- Rich Mattson is singing and it's heavier, slower, more jagged-- but we keep dancing anyway, inventing our own beat. I still don't know what I'm doing, and I wish I did, my God, I wish I did, I want to put my arm around her waist and narrow my eyes and do something easy and graceful, something astonishing, like Fred Astaire might do, but it’s okay because you're humoring me, dancing girl, and I love that you're humoring me, meeting my eyes, smiling, your mouth falling open, your eyes rolling back, like you're staggered by your good fortune, by the beauty and hilarity of everything-- the Tisdales, the bar, me, everything-- and something hot and electric is pouring from my chest and filling me up, my arms tingling, my head swimming, and I keep dancing, I'm so excited, this girl has transformed me, I'm not sleepy anymore, I will never sleep again, I will devote my life to dancing and music and let the world fill me up with its wonder.
She backs up again and runs toward me but I still don't understand, still haven't grasped the concept, and I grab her shoulders and stagger backward. She shakes her head. No, no. And then I get it. I'm going to catch her and spin her. Okay. I can do this; I will lift with my legs. She backs up again. I back up. We're at opposite ends of the floor, our eyes locked on each other. And she starts running, hell, sprinting toward me, her arms pumping, like she's going to try to jump over me, and she bends her knees and thrusts herself off the floor, going horizontal, her feet in front, she’s a missile, this girl, and I swoop in, catch her, brace my knees, and draw her toward me and spin and spin and fill my lungs with her perfume--lilac, Pabst Blue Ribbon, sweat-- and spin and spin and spin and the music fades and the lights dim and she leans back her head and closes her eyes and her face is rapt and she's so light in my arms, I am a superhero, I am so strong.
And then I set her down. She waves goodbye and disappears into the bar.
No!
I watch the rest of the show-- swaying, singing along when I know the words-- and go home, to fall asleep in Scott's basement.
And now I'm in Marquette, Michigan, grading papers, eating bagels.
Just wait until I come back, Duluth. I'm going to know how to dance.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Royal Kozy
Nobody understands The Kozy but me.
Everyone suspects himself of possessing a cardinal virtue or two. Isn't that how that quote goes?
Well. That's mine.
My friends all have very level heads. But they're adventurous, too. They always accompany me. But always reluctantly, and only after making the requisite knifefight joke.
"Oh, okay. Let's get into a knifefight tonight. It'll be like we're in the music video for 'Beat It'."
Which is fine. Everyone enjoys knifefight jokes.
Once, as my brother and I jogged from the Brewhouse toward the Kozy for some Thursday night karaoke, a bald man staggered out of Carmody and started jogging with us.
"Hey!" said my brother. "Are you going to the Kozy, too?"
The bald man slowed to a walk, and so did we.
"Friend," said the bald man, his voice leaden, wise, Captain Picard-like. "Have you ever been to the Kozy?"
"No!" said my brother, who hadn't. "Have you?"
"I have," said the bald man. "And, friend: you don't want to go to the Kozy."
"We'll be fine," I said, cresting on a wave of Big Boat Oatmeal Stout. "It's karaoke night!"
"Friend," he said, stopping. "Have you ever been to the Kozy?"
And then he slipped into the Red Lion Lounge (r.i.p.).
But these people-- my friends and this drunk, bald stranger-- have it all wrong.
There are three sorts of people who frequent the Kozy. The Reluctant, as outlined above. The professionals-- the people who drink Steel Reserve tallboys, lock their bleary eyes on the wall, and sway to David Alan Coe (because the jukebox at the Kozy only has songs by David Alan Coe) from morning until they're asked to leave. And then there are the frat-packers. The backwards-baseball capped sorts whose stupid, abercrombie-cloaked spines tingle when they lock themselves in the men's room and send text messages to their friends at the Score: DUDES KICKIN IT AT THE KOZY HOPE I MAKE IT OUT LOL.
(And later that night, at The Score, they bring it up with the girls they want to have sex with. "I go to the Kozy all the time! It's not so bad, ha ha! The Steel Reserve is cheap!" (("Oh, that's cray-zee," say the girls, in that stoned, upward-inflected way that all girls at The Score speak, and who are all wearing florescent bikinis, because it's beach-foam night, and who would all be so lovely if their skin weren't orange from that lotion that oranges your skin and if their faces weren't blue and pink and purple as though they were each some terrible hybrid of stripper and streetfighter and clown and who are all so sad and ruined and desperate to be impressed... "You could get stabbed."))
These guys are the worst. I hope their luxury sedans all get keyed.
The Kozy actually serves a very valuable function. Not as a place to blow your government check. And not as a place to sneer at poor people. But as an in-between bar. The Kozy is the penultimate in-between bar.
Let me explain.
Maybe you're at RT's. Maybe it's Homegrown. And maybe the band there sortof sucks. And maybe you're tired of fighting through the wall of people to the bar to buy your Leine's original, only to fight back through the wall to your location directly in front of this sortof crappy band, arriving just in time to notice that you finished your Leine's original. And maybe there are forty-five minutes to kill before the Supertacks, whom you love, start playing.
So you go to the Kozy. You drink as many one dollar ice-houses as you can. You have strange conversations with the regulars ("Hey! You guys look like Beatles fans! I'll bet you didn't know that the Beatles made a masturbation album! It's called Beat the Beatles!"), and your night acquires that blurry, unreal tinge that all good nights-out have. And then, like magic, it's forty five minutes later. It's time to go see the Supertacks. You're so excited to see The Supertacks. Up and away.
Let's be clear: The Kozy is never a final destination. And it's never a place to arrive at sober. But there is no better, and no cheaper, place to drink away forty-five minutes of your life.
I was installing some banners at the Building for Women last week. At one point, I found myself staring across First Street at the Kozy, getting misty-eyed...
I'm moving away in three weeks.
Man, I'm really going to miss the Kozy.
And other things, too. Most other things a lot more, actually.
But the Kozy, too.
Everyone suspects himself of possessing a cardinal virtue or two. Isn't that how that quote goes?
Well. That's mine.
My friends all have very level heads. But they're adventurous, too. They always accompany me. But always reluctantly, and only after making the requisite knifefight joke.
"Oh, okay. Let's get into a knifefight tonight. It'll be like we're in the music video for 'Beat It'."
Which is fine. Everyone enjoys knifefight jokes.
Once, as my brother and I jogged from the Brewhouse toward the Kozy for some Thursday night karaoke, a bald man staggered out of Carmody and started jogging with us.
"Hey!" said my brother. "Are you going to the Kozy, too?"
The bald man slowed to a walk, and so did we.
"Friend," said the bald man, his voice leaden, wise, Captain Picard-like. "Have you ever been to the Kozy?"
"No!" said my brother, who hadn't. "Have you?"
"I have," said the bald man. "And, friend: you don't want to go to the Kozy."
"We'll be fine," I said, cresting on a wave of Big Boat Oatmeal Stout. "It's karaoke night!"
"Friend," he said, stopping. "Have you ever been to the Kozy?"
And then he slipped into the Red Lion Lounge (r.i.p.).
But these people-- my friends and this drunk, bald stranger-- have it all wrong.
There are three sorts of people who frequent the Kozy. The Reluctant, as outlined above. The professionals-- the people who drink Steel Reserve tallboys, lock their bleary eyes on the wall, and sway to David Alan Coe (because the jukebox at the Kozy only has songs by David Alan Coe) from morning until they're asked to leave. And then there are the frat-packers. The backwards-baseball capped sorts whose stupid, abercrombie-cloaked spines tingle when they lock themselves in the men's room and send text messages to their friends at the Score: DUDES KICKIN IT AT THE KOZY HOPE I MAKE IT OUT LOL.
(And later that night, at The Score, they bring it up with the girls they want to have sex with. "I go to the Kozy all the time! It's not so bad, ha ha! The Steel Reserve is cheap!" (("Oh, that's cray-zee," say the girls, in that stoned, upward-inflected way that all girls at The Score speak, and who are all wearing florescent bikinis, because it's beach-foam night, and who would all be so lovely if their skin weren't orange from that lotion that oranges your skin and if their faces weren't blue and pink and purple as though they were each some terrible hybrid of stripper and streetfighter and clown and who are all so sad and ruined and desperate to be impressed... "You could get stabbed."))
These guys are the worst. I hope their luxury sedans all get keyed.
The Kozy actually serves a very valuable function. Not as a place to blow your government check. And not as a place to sneer at poor people. But as an in-between bar. The Kozy is the penultimate in-between bar.
Let me explain.
Maybe you're at RT's. Maybe it's Homegrown. And maybe the band there sortof sucks. And maybe you're tired of fighting through the wall of people to the bar to buy your Leine's original, only to fight back through the wall to your location directly in front of this sortof crappy band, arriving just in time to notice that you finished your Leine's original. And maybe there are forty-five minutes to kill before the Supertacks, whom you love, start playing.
So you go to the Kozy. You drink as many one dollar ice-houses as you can. You have strange conversations with the regulars ("Hey! You guys look like Beatles fans! I'll bet you didn't know that the Beatles made a masturbation album! It's called Beat the Beatles!"), and your night acquires that blurry, unreal tinge that all good nights-out have. And then, like magic, it's forty five minutes later. It's time to go see the Supertacks. You're so excited to see The Supertacks. Up and away.
Let's be clear: The Kozy is never a final destination. And it's never a place to arrive at sober. But there is no better, and no cheaper, place to drink away forty-five minutes of your life.
I was installing some banners at the Building for Women last week. At one point, I found myself staring across First Street at the Kozy, getting misty-eyed...
I'm moving away in three weeks.
Man, I'm really going to miss the Kozy.
And other things, too. Most other things a lot more, actually.
But the Kozy, too.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Homegrown retrospective, part one
Sunday: mellow vibe. Lake Superior Cacophonic Choir kicks off the festivities with an acapella song about boners. Later, I shout into choir member Paul Lundgren's ear, "songs about boners are great!". Immediately afterwards, I think to myself, "hey, why did I say that?" In reality, I don't feel strongly about boner-songs.
Little Gray House sings lovely, lilting folk songs about full moons and lost love. I learn what a bouzouki is. I take several blurry photographs before giving up. Rich Narnum is there. I'll look at his photographs later.
We leave after Little Gray House. It is Sunday. We're tired. We don't want to be quitters, but we don't want to crash and burn in the middle of the week.
On the drive home, we put on Starfire's Mix CD and play it loud. "This song is great because he's rapping over a banjo!", I shout over Crew Jones's, "Banjones". I stand by this statement.
Monday means plasma after work, which complicates my desire for immediate, Monday afternoon drunkenness. In addition to this, I also forget my bikelock at home. This means that I'll need to abandon my bike at work and walk to the west-end plasma center.
I don't make it back downtown until 7:30. I'm punchy from plasma-loss, the long walk with my pants stuffed full of marble trophy bases (an essential component to plasma-donation), and anticipation. I need sustenance. So I purchase a Subway Veggie Delite Sandwich (a product I would proudly endorse) and walk to my work. There, I drink a coffee mug of wine, eat my sandwich, and listen to a podcast by my hero, Tom Mischke.
And before I know it, hey: I'm kindof drunk!
Oh, yes, it's time to go listen to some poetry.
I walk into Teatro Zuccone, sit on the floor behind a photographer, and hear Ben recite a poem about teapots and some woman recite a poem about camping. I admire these people. They're so strange, and focused, and intense. I'd like to borrow some of their certainty sometime.
Later, I meet my friend at Carmody. I drink a Summit, she drinks a Full Moon (she'd had the foresight to ask the bartender what was cheap) and we wait for the music. At one point, she convinces me to buy a homegrown chicken t-shirt. They're only making seventy-five and they're eight dollars, she says, which is all the pitch I need.
The music starts after ten, and the room's edges begin to blur. I love this band, and I don't think it's only because their backup singer is pretty. I watch them from my barstool, which isn't an ideal vantagepoint (there's this pillar), but which is cool, anway, because I've never sat at the bar at Carmody before. It's like I'm a regular.
Three Song Sunday is this band's name, I learn later. They sing strummy folk music with big melodies and soaring choruses. I close my eyes and feel transported.
Things begin to speed up. We move to a stageside table and watch The North Shore Trio play right next to us, like we're their out-of-town cousins, or something. And then, all of a sudden, they're done! I try to shout something complimentary to the leadsinger as he packs up his guitar, but I think it comes out garbled and I think he ignores me.
My friend keeps producing beer. Todd Gremmels's band sets up and starts playing. Local soul music legend Fred Tyson shows up, and he's dressed like Space Ghost, of course. We keep threatening to dance, but never do.
I recognize all of these songs. Most of them are from The White Album. I sit and bellow along and watch Todd Gremmels and Fred Tyson strut across the dance floor. This town is full of such strange, confident people. I don't ever want to live anywhere else.
Later, we meet Todd on the sidewalk outside of Carmody. "Todd Gremmels, happy birthday!" I shout. He and my friend pose for a photograph.
There's talk of riding bicycles home, but my friend says this is a bad idea. "Yeah, you're right," I say. I keep stumbling. She walks into a parking meter. You've read all this before.
Her roommate shows up at Sir Ben's to drive us home. She drops me off at my house, where I steal a crapload of my roommate's peanut butter and bread before collapsing into bed.
It is two o'clock on Tuesday morning. I'm drunk, my ears are ringing, I reek of stolen peanut butter and beer, and I need to wake up in five hours.
This is exactly what your life should be like on a Tuesday morning during Homegrown.
Experimental Tuesday is the night of Homegrown I anticipate least. It's fun, sure, to hang out at the Blue Crab and watch some wild-eyed man beat on a stare drum and scream out poetry, but I don't really get much from it. Fred Tyson probably won't show up. There won't be a backbeat to dance to.
We arrive at Sacred Heart a little after seven. After we receive our weeklong wristbands (always a very exciting event), we walk in, gape at what a beautiful place Sacred Heart is, and find seats up front. Tim Kaiser is playing. We've been excited for him.
Tim Kaiser is a well-dressed man who stands on stage and creates soundscapes with all of the amazing electronic instruments he's created. My favorite piece involved an old microphone which he shushes into and a viola he'd built from the battery box of a minesweeper. The viola makes an ungodly grinding shriek when he saws it. I've never seen anything like this.
Afterward, we walk up to Tim Kaiser as he packs up his blinking, oddly-shaped instruments. I try to think of something to ask him. "I want to ask you things," I say, "but I wouldn't even know where to begin". I'm an English major admiring an engineer's work. There isn't anything to say. Just be amazed.
We go to get beer. I don't really want to pay four dollars for one, but it's cool to drink beer in a church. So that's that. We call our friend (who won't be able to make it), wander around with our beers, and sit down to wait for the Rivulets.
The plural is deceptive, it turns out. The Rivulets is one lanky, black-haired, haunted looking man who sings slow, seething songs that remind me of the band Low. I'm not into it at all. Until I stop watching him and notice the darkening stained-glass windows above him. I stare at the windows, let the sad music wash over me, and float on the sweet sad aching feeling that you only feel at dusk. You know what I mean.
The Rivulets finish and we decide to stay for Sight Like December. Sacred Heart is such an entrancing place. It's hard to leave.
I've been waiting for this all night, my friend says, pointing at the drumkit. What we need now is for someone to wail on that drumkit.
I agree. It'd make for a nice release.
Sight Like December starts out like any mellow band of twenty-something hippies. The songs are long. The vocals impassioned. There's a pretty violinist to give your heart to.
But I begin to fall for them. First off, their songs are better than those of most post-graduate stoner bands. Second, the saxophonist switches to a fucking didjeridoo for one song, and it isn't showing off. Not at all. That song needed a didjeridoo. And I'm still under the spell cast by the church.
And then the drummer switches from brushes to sticks, and, yes. He wails on his drumkit.
The band finishes, we stand up and scream, and they play us an encore. I liked their music, but there's something more. This band seems made up of such nice people. I like them so much, and want everyone else to like them, too. I want them to feel good about their show tonight. They look around sheepishly for a minute and play us another song.
Afterward, we eat a free cookie and skip to the car. Off to Pizza Luce. Rich Mattson and one dollar tacos await us.
And ultimate fighting, it turns out, which plays on the television at the corner of the bar. We divide our attention between Rich and the fighters and finally drive to our houses, brimming with tacos and transcendence.
I go to sleep sober, not in my clothes, and before midnight. Which is fine by me.
Little Gray House sings lovely, lilting folk songs about full moons and lost love. I learn what a bouzouki is. I take several blurry photographs before giving up. Rich Narnum is there. I'll look at his photographs later.
We leave after Little Gray House. It is Sunday. We're tired. We don't want to be quitters, but we don't want to crash and burn in the middle of the week.
On the drive home, we put on Starfire's Mix CD and play it loud. "This song is great because he's rapping over a banjo!", I shout over Crew Jones's, "Banjones". I stand by this statement.
Monday means plasma after work, which complicates my desire for immediate, Monday afternoon drunkenness. In addition to this, I also forget my bikelock at home. This means that I'll need to abandon my bike at work and walk to the west-end plasma center.
I don't make it back downtown until 7:30. I'm punchy from plasma-loss, the long walk with my pants stuffed full of marble trophy bases (an essential component to plasma-donation), and anticipation. I need sustenance. So I purchase a Subway Veggie Delite Sandwich (a product I would proudly endorse) and walk to my work. There, I drink a coffee mug of wine, eat my sandwich, and listen to a podcast by my hero, Tom Mischke.
And before I know it, hey: I'm kindof drunk!
Oh, yes, it's time to go listen to some poetry.
I walk into Teatro Zuccone, sit on the floor behind a photographer, and hear Ben recite a poem about teapots and some woman recite a poem about camping. I admire these people. They're so strange, and focused, and intense. I'd like to borrow some of their certainty sometime.
Later, I meet my friend at Carmody. I drink a Summit, she drinks a Full Moon (she'd had the foresight to ask the bartender what was cheap) and we wait for the music. At one point, she convinces me to buy a homegrown chicken t-shirt. They're only making seventy-five and they're eight dollars, she says, which is all the pitch I need.
The music starts after ten, and the room's edges begin to blur. I love this band, and I don't think it's only because their backup singer is pretty. I watch them from my barstool, which isn't an ideal vantagepoint (there's this pillar), but which is cool, anway, because I've never sat at the bar at Carmody before. It's like I'm a regular.
Three Song Sunday is this band's name, I learn later. They sing strummy folk music with big melodies and soaring choruses. I close my eyes and feel transported.
Things begin to speed up. We move to a stageside table and watch The North Shore Trio play right next to us, like we're their out-of-town cousins, or something. And then, all of a sudden, they're done! I try to shout something complimentary to the leadsinger as he packs up his guitar, but I think it comes out garbled and I think he ignores me.
My friend keeps producing beer. Todd Gremmels's band sets up and starts playing. Local soul music legend Fred Tyson shows up, and he's dressed like Space Ghost, of course. We keep threatening to dance, but never do.
I recognize all of these songs. Most of them are from The White Album. I sit and bellow along and watch Todd Gremmels and Fred Tyson strut across the dance floor. This town is full of such strange, confident people. I don't ever want to live anywhere else.
Later, we meet Todd on the sidewalk outside of Carmody. "Todd Gremmels, happy birthday!" I shout. He and my friend pose for a photograph.
There's talk of riding bicycles home, but my friend says this is a bad idea. "Yeah, you're right," I say. I keep stumbling. She walks into a parking meter. You've read all this before.
Her roommate shows up at Sir Ben's to drive us home. She drops me off at my house, where I steal a crapload of my roommate's peanut butter and bread before collapsing into bed.
It is two o'clock on Tuesday morning. I'm drunk, my ears are ringing, I reek of stolen peanut butter and beer, and I need to wake up in five hours.
This is exactly what your life should be like on a Tuesday morning during Homegrown.
Experimental Tuesday is the night of Homegrown I anticipate least. It's fun, sure, to hang out at the Blue Crab and watch some wild-eyed man beat on a stare drum and scream out poetry, but I don't really get much from it. Fred Tyson probably won't show up. There won't be a backbeat to dance to.
We arrive at Sacred Heart a little after seven. After we receive our weeklong wristbands (always a very exciting event), we walk in, gape at what a beautiful place Sacred Heart is, and find seats up front. Tim Kaiser is playing. We've been excited for him.
Tim Kaiser is a well-dressed man who stands on stage and creates soundscapes with all of the amazing electronic instruments he's created. My favorite piece involved an old microphone which he shushes into and a viola he'd built from the battery box of a minesweeper. The viola makes an ungodly grinding shriek when he saws it. I've never seen anything like this.
Afterward, we walk up to Tim Kaiser as he packs up his blinking, oddly-shaped instruments. I try to think of something to ask him. "I want to ask you things," I say, "but I wouldn't even know where to begin". I'm an English major admiring an engineer's work. There isn't anything to say. Just be amazed.
We go to get beer. I don't really want to pay four dollars for one, but it's cool to drink beer in a church. So that's that. We call our friend (who won't be able to make it), wander around with our beers, and sit down to wait for the Rivulets.
The plural is deceptive, it turns out. The Rivulets is one lanky, black-haired, haunted looking man who sings slow, seething songs that remind me of the band Low. I'm not into it at all. Until I stop watching him and notice the darkening stained-glass windows above him. I stare at the windows, let the sad music wash over me, and float on the sweet sad aching feeling that you only feel at dusk. You know what I mean.
The Rivulets finish and we decide to stay for Sight Like December. Sacred Heart is such an entrancing place. It's hard to leave.
I've been waiting for this all night, my friend says, pointing at the drumkit. What we need now is for someone to wail on that drumkit.
I agree. It'd make for a nice release.
Sight Like December starts out like any mellow band of twenty-something hippies. The songs are long. The vocals impassioned. There's a pretty violinist to give your heart to.
But I begin to fall for them. First off, their songs are better than those of most post-graduate stoner bands. Second, the saxophonist switches to a fucking didjeridoo for one song, and it isn't showing off. Not at all. That song needed a didjeridoo. And I'm still under the spell cast by the church.
And then the drummer switches from brushes to sticks, and, yes. He wails on his drumkit.
The band finishes, we stand up and scream, and they play us an encore. I liked their music, but there's something more. This band seems made up of such nice people. I like them so much, and want everyone else to like them, too. I want them to feel good about their show tonight. They look around sheepishly for a minute and play us another song.
Afterward, we eat a free cookie and skip to the car. Off to Pizza Luce. Rich Mattson and one dollar tacos await us.
And ultimate fighting, it turns out, which plays on the television at the corner of the bar. We divide our attention between Rich and the fighters and finally drive to our houses, brimming with tacos and transcendence.
I go to sleep sober, not in my clothes, and before midnight. Which is fine by me.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Let's Get Elegiacal (part one)
I bought my copy of Consumption by The Rank Strangers when I was eighteen years old. It cost two dollars, I liked the scribbly cover art, and I'd heard of them from somewhere. Sold!
I listened a couple of times. "Rayner Park" was my favorite:
We'd go to Rayner Park
Where all the burnouts would park
and play the kind of basketball
that would make the city kids laugh.
I grew up in a suburb, too! I was restless and unrequited and I wanted something more. Just like the narrator, who sees Dwight Yoakam play at the Palace of Auburn Hills. "I saw no hills," he reports. "I drank no booze. That concert was a snooze."
It's a great song. It's a great album. But I was eighteen, and just starting college. Consumption got lost in all of the misspent angst and tepid melodramas of freshman year. Plus, there were those fifty other albums I bought with my graduation money. It didn't stand a chance. I shelved it and didn't return.
Until. Until! Two years later. I was twenty, grounded, and well-acquainted with Duluth and its music scene. I spent each weekend at Pizza Luce or the Brewhouse, discovering bands, meeting people, drinking water doled out by irritated bartenders.
These were very heady times.
One Saturday night, scanning the Transistor (or The Reader? I don't remember), I saw that The Rank Strangers were playing at Pizza Luce. Hey, I remembered them! I put on Consumption and reacquainted myself.
Following standard procedure, I immediately called Tyler. Tyler enjoyed music and complimentary water nearly as much as I did.
Tyler, I said, let's go to Pizza Luce. The Rank Strangers are playing.
I can't, said Tyler. I'm on my way to Wal-Mart. I'll probably be a while.
I expressed disbelief, he reaffirmed his decision, and I hung up the phone.
I called Nicole next.
Sure, said Nicole. Come and pick me up.
We arrived fifteen minutes early, and Pizza Luce was empty. We grabbed a back booth.
It was weird, sitting at a candlelit booth in Pizza Luce by ourselves.
Wow, Richie, said Nicole, I've never looked at you in candlelight before. It stirs up all of these feelings inside of me.
I know, I stage-whispered. But let's rein in our passion. This is a public place.
We flagged down a waitress and ordered some artichoke dip.
As we finished up, Nicole's friend, Tony, joined us. And then the music started.
We moved to a table by the stage. Aside from the three of us, four women shouted and laughed at a table in the corner behind us. And one woman, who seemed so familiar but whom I couldn't place, sat alone at the bar, reading a book. (Fun fact: this woman turned out to be the novelist Norah Labiner, whose reading at a library in Minneapolis I had attended two years earlier.)
The Rank Strangers were a revelation. Never has such strange, urgent, exhilarating music been performed at such an unlikely place. Mike Wisti-- a flanneled, non-descript sort of man-- was the most intense performer I'd ever seen. He didn't just sing and play his guitar. Rather, he accused. He exhorted. He pleaded. He preached. He jumped in place, dropped to his knees and played his guitar with his teeth. He pointed at us and shouted, his eyes big and wild like he was hexing us. And his rhythm section, staid and stolid behind his wild exhortations, backed him at every turn.
And the eight of us seated in the audience clapped politely after each song.
And what was he preaching about? We only caught snippets, and they never added up. "Pawn Am-e-r-ica!" "Lazarus leans towards the light! Just like Lucy and Linus and Christ!" "Just smash it! Smash it, smash it, smash it!"
That guy's crazy! shouted Nicole. I'd played her Consumption on the drive down. We were expecting shuffling, midwestern, mildly-eccentric roots-rock. We were expecting Soul Asylum. But we got John the Revelator fronting the Replacements.
After their last song, after the scattered applause died out, I said to Tony, That was the best thing I've ever seen. Yeah, it was good, said Tony, not as moved as I.
As the band packed up their gear and made way for the headliners (The Rakes), I walked across the floor to where Mike Wisti hauled away his guitar. I still hate talking to musicians after shows-- I turn starstruck and stuttery, like I'm a sixteen year old girl with a stack of Tigerbeats under my bed-- but I felt changed, like I'd never felt after a show. I wanted to convey this to him.
That was amazing, I said.
Thanks, he said, and shook my hand. He gave me a brief history of the band-- their beginnings, their "shit-hot" former lead guitarist, their different albums. Everything's good, he mused, except our first album. I won't even sell you that one. It's terrible.
Mike Wisti turned out to be a very even, polite, self-deprecating man. I'd expected the usual brief and peremptory "thanks for coming see you next time gotta go" sort of thing . But he loved talking about his band! We spoke for ten minutes.
And how do you get a good show up here? he asked, looking around at the seven of us scattered around the bar.
I don't know, I said. I wish I knew.
He gave me his email address and let me have a seven-inch record for three dollars.
I sat down next to Tony. You got a seven! said Tony. Cool!
I don't remember much about The Rakes, other than that they were the band I expected The Rank Strangers to be. They wore button-up shirts and sounded like Paul Westerberg. Fuzzy guitar solos ruled the set. It was good background music for a Saturday night with your friends.
But it didn't stand a chance! I'd just been converted, after all, allowed a glimpse into a brasher life, one brimming with art and energy and heedless confidence. This is how I wanted to live!
I've had several a-ha! moments throughout my life. One was Norah Labner's book-reading. One was reading my first story in Joe Maiolo's fiction class. Another was gettiing my first article published in the Ripsaw. But The Rank Strangers' barely attended performance on November 11, 2004, tops them all. Whatever I end up doing with my life that I'm proud of-- if I turn into a good teacher, if I publish a book, if I live in the sort of urgent and happy manner I mean to-- this night gets a little piece of the credit.
Thanks, Rank Strangers.
I listened a couple of times. "Rayner Park" was my favorite:
We'd go to Rayner Park
Where all the burnouts would park
and play the kind of basketball
that would make the city kids laugh.
I grew up in a suburb, too! I was restless and unrequited and I wanted something more. Just like the narrator, who sees Dwight Yoakam play at the Palace of Auburn Hills. "I saw no hills," he reports. "I drank no booze. That concert was a snooze."
It's a great song. It's a great album. But I was eighteen, and just starting college. Consumption got lost in all of the misspent angst and tepid melodramas of freshman year. Plus, there were those fifty other albums I bought with my graduation money. It didn't stand a chance. I shelved it and didn't return.
Until. Until! Two years later. I was twenty, grounded, and well-acquainted with Duluth and its music scene. I spent each weekend at Pizza Luce or the Brewhouse, discovering bands, meeting people, drinking water doled out by irritated bartenders.
These were very heady times.
One Saturday night, scanning the Transistor (or The Reader? I don't remember), I saw that The Rank Strangers were playing at Pizza Luce. Hey, I remembered them! I put on Consumption and reacquainted myself.
Following standard procedure, I immediately called Tyler. Tyler enjoyed music and complimentary water nearly as much as I did.
Tyler, I said, let's go to Pizza Luce. The Rank Strangers are playing.
I can't, said Tyler. I'm on my way to Wal-Mart. I'll probably be a while.
I expressed disbelief, he reaffirmed his decision, and I hung up the phone.
I called Nicole next.
Sure, said Nicole. Come and pick me up.
We arrived fifteen minutes early, and Pizza Luce was empty. We grabbed a back booth.
It was weird, sitting at a candlelit booth in Pizza Luce by ourselves.
Wow, Richie, said Nicole, I've never looked at you in candlelight before. It stirs up all of these feelings inside of me.
I know, I stage-whispered. But let's rein in our passion. This is a public place.
We flagged down a waitress and ordered some artichoke dip.
As we finished up, Nicole's friend, Tony, joined us. And then the music started.
We moved to a table by the stage. Aside from the three of us, four women shouted and laughed at a table in the corner behind us. And one woman, who seemed so familiar but whom I couldn't place, sat alone at the bar, reading a book. (Fun fact: this woman turned out to be the novelist Norah Labiner, whose reading at a library in Minneapolis I had attended two years earlier.)
The Rank Strangers were a revelation. Never has such strange, urgent, exhilarating music been performed at such an unlikely place. Mike Wisti-- a flanneled, non-descript sort of man-- was the most intense performer I'd ever seen. He didn't just sing and play his guitar. Rather, he accused. He exhorted. He pleaded. He preached. He jumped in place, dropped to his knees and played his guitar with his teeth. He pointed at us and shouted, his eyes big and wild like he was hexing us. And his rhythm section, staid and stolid behind his wild exhortations, backed him at every turn.
And the eight of us seated in the audience clapped politely after each song.
And what was he preaching about? We only caught snippets, and they never added up. "Pawn Am-e-r-ica!" "Lazarus leans towards the light! Just like Lucy and Linus and Christ!" "Just smash it! Smash it, smash it, smash it!"
That guy's crazy! shouted Nicole. I'd played her Consumption on the drive down. We were expecting shuffling, midwestern, mildly-eccentric roots-rock. We were expecting Soul Asylum. But we got John the Revelator fronting the Replacements.
After their last song, after the scattered applause died out, I said to Tony, That was the best thing I've ever seen. Yeah, it was good, said Tony, not as moved as I.
As the band packed up their gear and made way for the headliners (The Rakes), I walked across the floor to where Mike Wisti hauled away his guitar. I still hate talking to musicians after shows-- I turn starstruck and stuttery, like I'm a sixteen year old girl with a stack of Tigerbeats under my bed-- but I felt changed, like I'd never felt after a show. I wanted to convey this to him.
That was amazing, I said.
Thanks, he said, and shook my hand. He gave me a brief history of the band-- their beginnings, their "shit-hot" former lead guitarist, their different albums. Everything's good, he mused, except our first album. I won't even sell you that one. It's terrible.
Mike Wisti turned out to be a very even, polite, self-deprecating man. I'd expected the usual brief and peremptory "thanks for coming see you next time gotta go" sort of thing . But he loved talking about his band! We spoke for ten minutes.
And how do you get a good show up here? he asked, looking around at the seven of us scattered around the bar.
I don't know, I said. I wish I knew.
He gave me his email address and let me have a seven-inch record for three dollars.
I sat down next to Tony. You got a seven! said Tony. Cool!
I don't remember much about The Rakes, other than that they were the band I expected The Rank Strangers to be. They wore button-up shirts and sounded like Paul Westerberg. Fuzzy guitar solos ruled the set. It was good background music for a Saturday night with your friends.
But it didn't stand a chance! I'd just been converted, after all, allowed a glimpse into a brasher life, one brimming with art and energy and heedless confidence. This is how I wanted to live!
I've had several a-ha! moments throughout my life. One was Norah Labner's book-reading. One was reading my first story in Joe Maiolo's fiction class. Another was gettiing my first article published in the Ripsaw. But The Rank Strangers' barely attended performance on November 11, 2004, tops them all. Whatever I end up doing with my life that I'm proud of-- if I turn into a good teacher, if I publish a book, if I live in the sort of urgent and happy manner I mean to-- this night gets a little piece of the credit.
Thanks, Rank Strangers.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Cliffhanger Two
I don't know what it's like where you live. But up here, on the hinterland, teetering on the very brink of the civilized world, everything dies for about six months. No kidding: the color leaks from the world, the ice films over the lake, and the world around you becomes uninhabitable.
And except for the crows, and the traffic noise, and the fast food static from the Wendy's behind your house, all is silence. No kidding! It is like an Ingmar Bergman movie, only there aren't pretty, bonneted Swedish girls to share the weight of your existential dread. You drink, you squint at the lake, and you harbor squeamish thoughts about the emptiness of your life, of everyone's life, why, of Life Itself!, until these thoughts wear a groove in your brain so deep that your only respite is sweet, sweet sleep.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating. But only just.
And no matter how well adjusted you are, no matter how naturally sunny your disposition, no matter the strength of your will, of your prescription drugs, or of the florescent light you sit in front of each evening to stave off the darkness-- by, say, February, you'll find yourself going a little batty. You'll snap at people you like ("I'll do the fucking dishes tomorrow!"). You'll spend twenty dollars a week at Mr. Movies. There will always, always be pillow creases lining your face.
But thank God we're so resilient. Give me one sunny, temperate day, and I'll magically become a person again.
This past month has been rife with sunny, temperate days. Hey: we're having one right now!
I've taken to riding my bike again. There is a very elemental joy that comes with going somewhere on a bicycle.
Though slushy streets, coupled with drivers as yet unused to maneuvering around bicycles, has made it a little dangerous. I was almost flattened by a Great Lakes Coach bus just yesterday.
All that you had to do, Great Lakes Coach bus driver, was switch lanes. Did you think that I could go as fast as you?
And the parks. You'll want to visit the parks, of course. But wear proper footwear. What follows is a TRUE STORY. And if this true story is ever made into a movie, my part should be played by Sylvester Stallone. He may have to lose a little weight to make it believable, but these are the things you do to be taken seriously as an actor.
Last Sunday: it was a warm, breezy, sun-soaked Sunday. You know: you sleep until nine, you wake up with the sun in your eyes, you make coffee, and you sit at your kitchen table and stare at your lawn and think of all the things you might do.
Here is what I thought of: drink coffee until eleven. Ride my bike to the Positively Third Street Bakery. Score some discounted whole wheat bread. Visit Chester Creek, walk around, sit by a waterfall. Go visit the Electric Fetus and buy some records I've been meaning to buy for months. Go home. Eat a sandwich. Explore my options from there.
The bakery was everything I hoped. I bought bread, bagels, and the nice cashier, whom I see everywhere and whose name I really ought to learn (so I can say, "hey, [name]!" instead of, "hey...!"), gave me some burnt hot-dog buns for free. "Hey, thanks...!" I said, because I don't know her name.
Then I rode my bike to Chester Creek and walked the trail for a half-hour. I paused to look at waterfalls. I crossed and recrossed every footbridge. I walked under the eighth street bridge, and wondered if the bike Nick had long ago thrown from it was still in the creek somewhere (I didn't see it). A bit farther in from Eighth Street, I crossed another footbridge. This time, I meant to cross and follow the path on the other side of creek back to my bike.
But, hey-- on the other side of the footbridge, a dog was waiting for me! A golden retriever. A puppy, still, but big enough to reach my chest when he jumped up on me, which he promptly did. "Hey, dog!" I said, and pushed him off of me, crouching on the ground to pet him. It's always nice to meet a friendly dog.
I looked around for his owner. He was fifty feet down the trail, shuffling along the ice. "Hi!" I called out! "It's really slippery!" he called back.
The dog and I visited for another thirty seconds. "I was just introducing myself to your dog," I said to the man, who'd finally shuffled up to us. "Okay," he said. Then: "Be careful up there". And off he went with his dog.
And off I went. Until, all of a sudden, I couldn't walk anymore. See: I'd made a terrible footware decision-- I was wearing black, tractionless loafers. And so I couldn't move. I couldn't get any traction, and I didn't have any leverage. The trail was covered with ice.
Okay, I thought to myself. And I sat down. My plan was to scoot along on my butt until I reached dry ground.
Except. Except that the trail was sloped. And it was sloped toward the creek. Or, more accurately, toward the FIFTY FOOT CLIFF which rose up from the creek. And so, as soon as I sat down, toward the cliff I slipped, pawing at the ice with my mittens, inexporably scooting toward a grizzy, grizzly death-- or a bunch of fractured ribs. At least my mangled feet would be clothed in fashionable black shoes.
"Are you okay?" called the man with his dog.
"Yep!" I said, still scooting.
"It's really slippery!" he yelled back.
"Yep!" I said. And, happily, caught hold of a rock sticking up through the ice, a couple of feet from the edge of the cliff. I gave the man a thumbs up.
And very, very slowly rose to my feet. And very, very wobbily inched my way back toward the bridge. Where I paused and watched the creek flow for a bit.
I tried to go back the way I came. But, my God, how did I make it this far? The entire trail was covered in ice! And sloped uphill! I couldn't get any traction. I was stuck. I recrossed the bridge and looked down that trail. I crossed again and looked again. And I formed a plan.
Chester Creek Park is in a valley. But, scattered at intervals throughout the park, there are steep sets of wooden stairs that climb out of the valley and into the backyards of rich people. There was just such a stairway where I was stuck.
I would climb the stairs. I would charmingly shrug ("what can you do?") at the bald man who would frown at me through his dining room window. I would cross his yard. And I would walk down the street to the safety of my bicycle.
So I sat down on the first step. Then, I flattened my palms on the next step , hoisted my ass, moved it up, settled my feet on the step below, and then did it all again. Upward I went, like a giant, slow-motion, backward slinky, for about fifteen steps. And then the steps disappeared.
I was still twenty feet from the crest of the hill. But the ice had become so thick that it buried the stairs, turning the stairway into a giant death-slide. I was stuck. And so, so far up in the air.
It took ten minutes to reach the bottom of the hill. To keep from sliding away down the especially icy first step, I clawed at some saplings sticking out from the side of the hill. This was an especially dramatic scene. I hope you're up to it, Sylvester Stallone's stunt-double.
But then, readers, I bucked up. I would need to return the way I came. I did so slowly, occasionally slipping and grasping at trees, but I did it. I climbed the stairs up to eighth street and walked the rest of the way on pavement.
EXHILARATED TO BE ALIVE.
And then I rode my bike to the Electric Fetus and spent fifty dollars on records. I would review them, but I haven't yet given them a fair shake. The newish R.E.M. album has some fun songs, and sucks way less than R.E.M. has for the past thirteen years. Lucy Michelle has a squeaky voice. Jolie Holland still sings like she's lost all of her teeth. And the new Robyn Hitchcock album has a beautiful cover. If it were on a poster, I would hang it in my living room.
See?
And except for the crows, and the traffic noise, and the fast food static from the Wendy's behind your house, all is silence. No kidding! It is like an Ingmar Bergman movie, only there aren't pretty, bonneted Swedish girls to share the weight of your existential dread. You drink, you squint at the lake, and you harbor squeamish thoughts about the emptiness of your life, of everyone's life, why, of Life Itself!, until these thoughts wear a groove in your brain so deep that your only respite is sweet, sweet sleep.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating. But only just.
And no matter how well adjusted you are, no matter how naturally sunny your disposition, no matter the strength of your will, of your prescription drugs, or of the florescent light you sit in front of each evening to stave off the darkness-- by, say, February, you'll find yourself going a little batty. You'll snap at people you like ("I'll do the fucking dishes tomorrow!"). You'll spend twenty dollars a week at Mr. Movies. There will always, always be pillow creases lining your face.
But thank God we're so resilient. Give me one sunny, temperate day, and I'll magically become a person again.
This past month has been rife with sunny, temperate days. Hey: we're having one right now!
I've taken to riding my bike again. There is a very elemental joy that comes with going somewhere on a bicycle.
Though slushy streets, coupled with drivers as yet unused to maneuvering around bicycles, has made it a little dangerous. I was almost flattened by a Great Lakes Coach bus just yesterday.
All that you had to do, Great Lakes Coach bus driver, was switch lanes. Did you think that I could go as fast as you?
And the parks. You'll want to visit the parks, of course. But wear proper footwear. What follows is a TRUE STORY. And if this true story is ever made into a movie, my part should be played by Sylvester Stallone. He may have to lose a little weight to make it believable, but these are the things you do to be taken seriously as an actor.
Last Sunday: it was a warm, breezy, sun-soaked Sunday. You know: you sleep until nine, you wake up with the sun in your eyes, you make coffee, and you sit at your kitchen table and stare at your lawn and think of all the things you might do.
Here is what I thought of: drink coffee until eleven. Ride my bike to the Positively Third Street Bakery. Score some discounted whole wheat bread. Visit Chester Creek, walk around, sit by a waterfall. Go visit the Electric Fetus and buy some records I've been meaning to buy for months. Go home. Eat a sandwich. Explore my options from there.
The bakery was everything I hoped. I bought bread, bagels, and the nice cashier, whom I see everywhere and whose name I really ought to learn (so I can say, "hey, [name]!" instead of, "hey...!"), gave me some burnt hot-dog buns for free. "Hey, thanks...!" I said, because I don't know her name.
Then I rode my bike to Chester Creek and walked the trail for a half-hour. I paused to look at waterfalls. I crossed and recrossed every footbridge. I walked under the eighth street bridge, and wondered if the bike Nick had long ago thrown from it was still in the creek somewhere (I didn't see it). A bit farther in from Eighth Street, I crossed another footbridge. This time, I meant to cross and follow the path on the other side of creek back to my bike.
But, hey-- on the other side of the footbridge, a dog was waiting for me! A golden retriever. A puppy, still, but big enough to reach my chest when he jumped up on me, which he promptly did. "Hey, dog!" I said, and pushed him off of me, crouching on the ground to pet him. It's always nice to meet a friendly dog.
I looked around for his owner. He was fifty feet down the trail, shuffling along the ice. "Hi!" I called out! "It's really slippery!" he called back.
The dog and I visited for another thirty seconds. "I was just introducing myself to your dog," I said to the man, who'd finally shuffled up to us. "Okay," he said. Then: "Be careful up there". And off he went with his dog.
And off I went. Until, all of a sudden, I couldn't walk anymore. See: I'd made a terrible footware decision-- I was wearing black, tractionless loafers. And so I couldn't move. I couldn't get any traction, and I didn't have any leverage. The trail was covered with ice.
Okay, I thought to myself. And I sat down. My plan was to scoot along on my butt until I reached dry ground.
Except. Except that the trail was sloped. And it was sloped toward the creek. Or, more accurately, toward the FIFTY FOOT CLIFF which rose up from the creek. And so, as soon as I sat down, toward the cliff I slipped, pawing at the ice with my mittens, inexporably scooting toward a grizzy, grizzly death-- or a bunch of fractured ribs. At least my mangled feet would be clothed in fashionable black shoes.
"Are you okay?" called the man with his dog.
"Yep!" I said, still scooting.
"It's really slippery!" he yelled back.
"Yep!" I said. And, happily, caught hold of a rock sticking up through the ice, a couple of feet from the edge of the cliff. I gave the man a thumbs up.
And very, very slowly rose to my feet. And very, very wobbily inched my way back toward the bridge. Where I paused and watched the creek flow for a bit.
I tried to go back the way I came. But, my God, how did I make it this far? The entire trail was covered in ice! And sloped uphill! I couldn't get any traction. I was stuck. I recrossed the bridge and looked down that trail. I crossed again and looked again. And I formed a plan.
Chester Creek Park is in a valley. But, scattered at intervals throughout the park, there are steep sets of wooden stairs that climb out of the valley and into the backyards of rich people. There was just such a stairway where I was stuck.
I would climb the stairs. I would charmingly shrug ("what can you do?") at the bald man who would frown at me through his dining room window. I would cross his yard. And I would walk down the street to the safety of my bicycle.
So I sat down on the first step. Then, I flattened my palms on the next step , hoisted my ass, moved it up, settled my feet on the step below, and then did it all again. Upward I went, like a giant, slow-motion, backward slinky, for about fifteen steps. And then the steps disappeared.
I was still twenty feet from the crest of the hill. But the ice had become so thick that it buried the stairs, turning the stairway into a giant death-slide. I was stuck. And so, so far up in the air.
It took ten minutes to reach the bottom of the hill. To keep from sliding away down the especially icy first step, I clawed at some saplings sticking out from the side of the hill. This was an especially dramatic scene. I hope you're up to it, Sylvester Stallone's stunt-double.
But then, readers, I bucked up. I would need to return the way I came. I did so slowly, occasionally slipping and grasping at trees, but I did it. I climbed the stairs up to eighth street and walked the rest of the way on pavement.
EXHILARATED TO BE ALIVE.
And then I rode my bike to the Electric Fetus and spent fifty dollars on records. I would review them, but I haven't yet given them a fair shake. The newish R.E.M. album has some fun songs, and sucks way less than R.E.M. has for the past thirteen years. Lucy Michelle has a squeaky voice. Jolie Holland still sings like she's lost all of her teeth. And the new Robyn Hitchcock album has a beautiful cover. If it were on a poster, I would hang it in my living room.
See?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Weekend Update
"Hey!" said the slurring fat guy in the Pickwick parking lot. "What are a bunch of guys like you doing with a hot chick like her-- wait a minute!" And here he touched my face. "It's a guy!"
"Okay," I said, slapping him hard on his back. "Have a good night."
"Where are you guys going?" he asked, touching Tyler's ass. (He was the sort of drunk guy who liked to touch guys he'd just met in parking lots.)
"Home," said Jake.
"Home?" he belched. "That's uncalled for!" And then he disappeared.
As Scott drove us home, we saw the drunk guy in the middle of Superior Street, flagging down cars. Then we saw a police cruiser heading his way.
So now he's in a drunktank somewhere.
I have a long history of being mistaken for a girl by strangers. Once, by a homeless man who called me "little lady" and asked for money. Once, by a police officer ("know why I stopped you tonight, miss?"). Once, an old woman at my parents' church told me it was a shame I was a boy. "You would have made such a pretty girl," she lamented, her eyes twinkling, her wrinkles beaming.
It's always bewildering to make this mistake. The police officer stammered for a full minute. "Some people like to have their hair long," he waxed. "Who am I say anything? People like lots of things. It's not my business." The homeless man giggled (a high-pitched giggle-- like a girl), blinked, said "Whoa, man! I thought you were a lady with your hair all down to here!" There were no hard feelings. I gave him a dollar.
It's lucky I have a buoyant personality. These things would sink someone weaker.
Then, today, outside of the bakery, Waqas saw me and said, "Richie, you look so weak! Have you lost weight?"
"Um," I said. "I don't think so."
"Oh. Maybe you're just tired, then."
This shook me a little. But only briefly. The sun was out. There was bread to buy.
And you're one to talk, Waqas! I'll eat my carkeys if you top a hundred ten pounds. A long winter locked in your office, smoking cigarettes and thinking about engineering, has weakened your frame. And your judgment, my friend.
Just wait until we meet on the tennis court.
Because sometimes Waqas and I play tennis.
Don't ever try to get reasonably-priced gelatto (sorry, Va Bene) in the greater Duluth area on a Saturday afternoon. "We don't have any ge-la-toe right now," said the pretty girl at the Italian Village, who knows better than you how to pronounce the word gelatto. "We only make it when we want to. Do you have a craving, or something?"
"Yeah!" I said. I didn't, really (do people get gelatto cravings?), but I'm always happy to listen to a pretty girl drop gelatto science.
"Well. Up in Hermantown? Past the Pure Pleasure... past the SA..."
"Up by the fish store!" I said.
"Yeah! At the Casa Latte. She makes her own ge-la-toe, and it's really good. Go there."
So we did.
But thirty minutes later, at the Casa Latte, we saw a blackboard sign that said,
"Hopefully gelatto will be back in April. Thanks for your patience!!!!"
We were disgusted. We had travelled so far. We shook our heads and walked away.
Off to Coldstone, where teenaged girls and their wealthy parents go to eat icecream, and where I spent five dollars on a little strawberry sundae. Never again.
At least I had the opportunity to show off my firmish grasp of Bible minutiae while playing Coldstone's Bible Trivia game ("where trivia isn't trivial"). Tyler wore an unimpressed front, but seethed inside. It hurts to lose at Bible Trivia.
DOESN'T IT, TYLER?
"Okay," I said, slapping him hard on his back. "Have a good night."
"Where are you guys going?" he asked, touching Tyler's ass. (He was the sort of drunk guy who liked to touch guys he'd just met in parking lots.)
"Home," said Jake.
"Home?" he belched. "That's uncalled for!" And then he disappeared.
As Scott drove us home, we saw the drunk guy in the middle of Superior Street, flagging down cars. Then we saw a police cruiser heading his way.
So now he's in a drunktank somewhere.
I have a long history of being mistaken for a girl by strangers. Once, by a homeless man who called me "little lady" and asked for money. Once, by a police officer ("know why I stopped you tonight, miss?"). Once, an old woman at my parents' church told me it was a shame I was a boy. "You would have made such a pretty girl," she lamented, her eyes twinkling, her wrinkles beaming.
It's always bewildering to make this mistake. The police officer stammered for a full minute. "Some people like to have their hair long," he waxed. "Who am I say anything? People like lots of things. It's not my business." The homeless man giggled (a high-pitched giggle-- like a girl), blinked, said "Whoa, man! I thought you were a lady with your hair all down to here!" There were no hard feelings. I gave him a dollar.
It's lucky I have a buoyant personality. These things would sink someone weaker.
Then, today, outside of the bakery, Waqas saw me and said, "Richie, you look so weak! Have you lost weight?"
"Um," I said. "I don't think so."
"Oh. Maybe you're just tired, then."
This shook me a little. But only briefly. The sun was out. There was bread to buy.
And you're one to talk, Waqas! I'll eat my carkeys if you top a hundred ten pounds. A long winter locked in your office, smoking cigarettes and thinking about engineering, has weakened your frame. And your judgment, my friend.
Just wait until we meet on the tennis court.
Because sometimes Waqas and I play tennis.
Don't ever try to get reasonably-priced gelatto (sorry, Va Bene) in the greater Duluth area on a Saturday afternoon. "We don't have any ge-la-toe right now," said the pretty girl at the Italian Village, who knows better than you how to pronounce the word gelatto. "We only make it when we want to. Do you have a craving, or something?"
"Yeah!" I said. I didn't, really (do people get gelatto cravings?), but I'm always happy to listen to a pretty girl drop gelatto science.
"Well. Up in Hermantown? Past the Pure Pleasure... past the SA..."
"Up by the fish store!" I said.
"Yeah! At the Casa Latte. She makes her own ge-la-toe, and it's really good. Go there."
So we did.
But thirty minutes later, at the Casa Latte, we saw a blackboard sign that said,
"Hopefully gelatto will be back in April. Thanks for your patience!!!!"
We were disgusted. We had travelled so far. We shook our heads and walked away.
Off to Coldstone, where teenaged girls and their wealthy parents go to eat icecream, and where I spent five dollars on a little strawberry sundae. Never again.
At least I had the opportunity to show off my firmish grasp of Bible minutiae while playing Coldstone's Bible Trivia game ("where trivia isn't trivial"). Tyler wore an unimpressed front, but seethed inside. It hurts to lose at Bible Trivia.
DOESN'T IT, TYLER?
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