Perks of Being a Pleasurable Person

Hey all, didn't do the timeline so forgive the lapses and inebriation. Love and kisses, h.

1. Of course I'm getting a ride to the hotel. Of course it's from my folks. I am 35-years-old.

2. Dad asks me about the wedding, and I tell him the couple's names who are getting married, Bens marrying them. Him: I like her and Ben; they're a cute couple. Me: (actually don't have the heart to tell him): Pa you have the worst gaydar ever, you're a fucking pastor, marrying=officiating. He goes back to weeding. I pour a stiff G&T.

3. Jailbreak! Sis is taking me to the hotel. This is mostly a smoke break for the two of us, but also a moment, for me, to reflect what I'm walking into. The White Stripes are on--this evening shall be caustic.

4. Hotel: nap time!

5. The shower has these three other shower heads coming out the rear end. I don't know if I should be singing "At the Carwash" or "Maniac"

6. No Tommy Boy fans? Seriously?

7. I'm lost. This fucking fuckly fuck is fuckity fucker fucked.  Minneapolis is too organized. You need  directions by bars. So say we all.

[40 minutes later]

8. I'm here. There is literally nothing except Grumpy's. I reason if nothing emerges: grab a drink at Grumpy's, walk back to the hotel, pick up a bar maid and go to bed. Then there is a stupid sign saying this is the place. Fuck.

9. I'm sweating like a fat man's fart. For my moist handicap I take a respite to the bathroom. I don't know anybody. This was a mistake.

10. This is truly a Wisconsin wedding, flush with beer and healthy looking people who will enjoy a Big Mac and a side of mayo on their way home after polishing off fifteen beers. You can't stop them--just needs let them run their course.

11. Dear friends, this is the land beyond the singles table. I had anticipated this being akin to the music video for Passion Pit's 'Constant Conversation'. I'm playing my part by staring out the window, but it's only a ploy to make myself seem interesting and deep. These sheep herders are all wise to my shallow and derisive ways. When in doubt accoutrement!

12. The same two fucking women who guided me in are still outside! What's worse, Tonic is here as well. I smoke my accoutrement, facing the other way. I favor them by lifting the suit coat jacket to show them the goods.

13. They have left. *sigh* still got it.

14. Plying my alcohol intake towards the nuclear option.

15. Thank God for the gays. Any asshole (ha!) who doesn't love them should rot in hell. Nate rescued me to the fire escape. But drat. "Mmmhm Beer"  [We've actually done clinical studies, and it's nothing against her, but this is the way she thinks: beer or mmmhm] is here. At this point beggars should not be choosers as far as who he talks to. The rain dripping off the wall is still far more interesting than her. Must needs grab her a beer.

15 1/2. forgot to tell you about a conversation with two lesbians about the worst three words you could ever say to a woman. They are: "moist", "panties" and I forget the third...

16. So J says hello. I guess that's cool. I remain quite bitter. Eh, who cares. This is the antithesis of the entire party:  a simple game of who isn't talking to whom and how to piss off those who actually are talking to whom. [allow four measures to yawn]  It's simply exhausting, but maybe a good weight loss program. It's not working for them, but keep trying!

17. Let's do the time warp! I'm chatty, making friends with everybody. A women out on the fire escape drops her purse. She's wearing a skirt, and I'm waiting for a perv to walk out of Grumpy's parking lot and look up. Good life choices.

18. I do the photo booth with groom's dad but think it's the bride's. I tell her as much and she reminds me her dad died a year ago, and couldn't walk her down the aisle. Now I'm the asshole.

19. Dance! Strange partners emerge in front of me. A silver hair rips off my tie, shimmying me to the tune of John Lee Hooker. I'm obviously only doing this for an audience of one.

20. Party is winding down and we jump a shuttle back to the hotel. The bride and groom are fighting. This is usually the measure of a successful wedding.

21. The modern age as explained via text... me: Take care of the bride 533;  me: By that I mean I'm in room 533; her:  Funny  just got back to my room; me:  Sounds boring; her: Perhaps. Have a corkscrew?  I'm in 814...

22. Smoke 'em if you got 'em! We slam against the wall before the door shuts. She's mouth raping me in what would best be depicted by a  scene from the former reality show "When Animals Attack".  I play her like a Stradivarius; she's, well, there?

23. I do not like waking up when it's dark out. The curtains were drawn for modesty, and she's in the bathroom. I can't leave after the last time, so: yay, here I am.

24. Released and now comes the realization that all of my cigarettes were left in her room. Again to the maze of Minneapolis and the fresh new layers of hell this will bring.

25. At Team Liquors (actual place, I took a picture!), admiring the fifths of booze the bums will buy. Now I understand why they have a security guard working the door at 10 am.

Coda: I'm driving, smoking, working the stick shift in the truck while talking to V. I'd been planning on listening to a certain set of songs before she called, but their absence makes this realization more poignant. I describe the night, telling her what happened, but can't describe why I feel so hollow. Inadvertently I text G that I've slain another dragon then delete it-- it wasn't the right statement; it was just Tonic. The stupid search for the girl all the songs are for continues... V. and I always say we only want the people who don't want us. I tell this to G, and he comes back that maybe I do want something better or at least I found worst better.

Time to head back to Saint Paul.

Datenight MPLS

Well, let's check the scorecard, done to Trivial Pursuit.

(all of these have been scientifically weighted, obviously--0-6 scale).

Blue Pie: Geography

showed up late (actually both of them did) +2,

lives in/appreciates Minneapolis -3,

did due diligence research on h. through various social mediums +1,

goaded h.  into, and probably considered his take on MPLS to be the low

point of the conversation +-even,

lived abroad +3,

Pink Pie: Entertainment

drinks well +3,

appreciates drinking like a fish +3,

is probably not a smoker -1,

probably doesn't appreciate smokers -4,

likes wine +4,

Pinot Noir is her favorite +-even,

appreciates bar food +3,

only drank Bell's Two-Hearted +-even,

honestly announced Stella Artois as her favorite beer, and

though-available-didn't-drink-it-to-assure-knowledge-of-other-beers

-1,

Brown Pie: Literature

is a an avid reader +6,

likes and can quote The Book Thief +5,

is part of club that reads 50 books; sees 50 movies a year +5,

was outdoors so much she couldn't complete the task during the summer -5

made up for it in the winter, competitive nature compulsory compelled

her to read 17 books +4

doesn't seem that much into music -5,

Orange Pie: Sports

ability to speak on general sports knowledge +5,

active in the outdoors -3,

a golfer -5,

more than cursory knowledge of sports +4,

a fan of Detroit teams +-even,

Yellow Pie: History

conversation felt well metered +3,

she didn't feel the need to make fun of her friends for humorous gains

-4,

brought up an ex -4,

is smarter than h. +2

has an accent thing (tough, was cute the way it seamlessly worked into the

conversation but could get old) +-even,

looked better than remembered +4,

Green Pie: Science and Nature (the bitch category)

moments of comfortable silence +1,

would enjoy talking to her again +3,

introductability to friends +3,

h.'s confidence in the ongoing interview to invite her to the Firkin not

once but twice +3,

her not immediately agreeing to go to the Firkin +-even,

no indication of a follow-up engagement -1,

has an 'M' name... fuck

the conversation was good enough I didn't feel like telling a lie for my

own amusement +6.

Greggy, if you'd be kind enough to work your excel black magic it would

be appreciated.

In summary: M and h. seem to be a good match so long as

Persephone is in the house of Hades. Should they have met during the

autumnal equinox rather than when time sprang forward they could exhibit a

"real shot", though they would most likely become bitter when the weather

turned warmer. As it stands, M is advised to counsel her superior

intellect in a "wait and see" method, leaning toward when her friends

arrive at the Firkin Fest and their impressions against her outstanding

plans--none are better than any. Though his ability to be a noble drunk is

admirable to M, h. is advised to cut down on his rhetoric

towards the Other City, and for fucks sake: smoking? Who the fuck smokes

anymore?

**UPDATE** From Greg:

Attached is my excel black magic. Please review and respond with any changes that should be made. It should be noted that all scores were positive.

Last March: New Ulm

7:12am This is early, damn early. In fact this time doesn't exist, neither does this delicious cigarette. I will now go layer on roughly four coats of sunscreen so that I can walk in the sun.

8:11 still not awake but am fortified with coffee. I have a feeling I will be making friends with deodorant today.

8:50 Systems are sort of coming online. I'm understanding roughly 25% of J and V's conversation--a markable improvement over peak. At best 37-40% of their conversation is advisable. There are a lot of trees here.

9:47 waiting in line to register. There are a lot of ugly people here.

10:57 Good new State Fair rule: first racially diverse person seen equals a point

11:11 I will junk punch the next person in a unitard with the hood masky thingy from Always Sunny in Philadelphia, or get Vic to make out with him. Sigh... wingmanning

11:15 I now have more arm, hair bands than I know what to do with. Stupid friggin' back group that doesn't want to walk at the grueling pace. Sure it kills the oxen in Oregon Trail, but it's sensible.

11:22 this is not sensible

11:42 finishing up the race. What is this odd feeling of sobriety.

12:01 the race is done, there is literally nothing else to report

12:27 having the first beer. It is refreshing. These will be my final words sober. I loved you all.

12:38 there is a white trash kid on a scooter. I am actively willing him to fall on his face

12:49 best exchange from the walk today--

P: So my [school] kids were asking me how old I am, and I told them 37. One of the little shits said that's only a year younger than my dad

V: and then you told him his dad is a whore.

1:07 fortunately the worst dj in the world (seriously, Johnny Cash to Pokerface!) is playing loud enough so the doucher kid on the scooter's parents, directly behind me can't hear.

2:38 yes, mother, I'm fully aware that I'm supposed to be taking a shower. But are you otherwise aware that this bar top is quality marble and feels excellently cool when I put my full face on it?

3:53 at the bar. I'm doing awesome

4:02 smoking alone. Wait, Gin and Ben ha!

4:26 much to the amusement of my fellow bar patrons I have, yet again, failed to find the bathroom. Another victory

4:51 P and I find the liquor store. More interesting people. There may be too much inbreeding in this town.

5:06 showered.  It was a solid plan. Unfortunately the nap idea was scrapped in favor of the bar, but... When in New Ulm do as an Old Ulmer

5:42 this has been a day of much waiting. Now we're in line for twenty minutes to register for the pub crawl where i might win a keychain. At least I have beer--please send cigarettes.

5:52 this town friggin' loves it the Blues Traveler. Wonder if they've heard of Home Alone 2. If you hear popping it's their minds exploding its me bringing them Blu-ray players

6:09 Snorts is pleased somewhere. I'm not drinking beer in favor of vodka infused something

6:45 smoking alone. Odd part, conversationed over with the non-smokers, but still have a quarert inch left. Ha, quarter chub. Yes, I'm almost drunky

7:00 Things are progressing well, the St Paul kids are saying I'm hanging out with the MPLS kids too much. There is only one other St Paul kid. Fucking J.

7:12 I text Greg who reminds me I'm supposed to be playing hard to get. The trouble is that the Minneapolis contingent is all smokers. As a friend of smokers this puts me in a further bind.

7:38 this bar is limper than an old man's penis with erectile disfunction who can only piss sitting down

8:01 smoking, in the patio section of course. I'd move here for this bar. Things are progressing well. I'm going to be alone forever. Send cats.

8:04 I've really tried to put this off for as long as I can, and at best it's an inside joke from 10-15 years ago. Greggy had a stupid shirt that asked you if you are wasted...

8:07 finally, yes I am. Thank you for asking, sir!

8:21 I feel myself absorbing more awesome. It's awkward for those around me and I'm sure, after review, it shall be awkward for me as well

8:37 I had dreams of grandeour of setting V up with some nice boy. He'd be cool and I'd hang out with him and we'd all go out for... not breakfast, thats only for assholes, but brunch. He and I would watch movies and be awesome. I mean yeah, but we'd have a standing Tuesday dinner. Dammit New Ulm, you're killing me.

9:05 I've lost everybody I hold dear. I was joking about moving here, now I might be here through assimilation

9:35 with A. She isn't drinking. This is where I always try to be the drunk friend of the sober person. For the love of God somebody please tell me to stop offering her soda or water.

9:38 please, also tell me stop talking about the sober person as a puritanical jackass behind her back

10:33 more emoticons from Molly, but what do they mean?

10:39 fucking V! She just tried to wrestle my phone to start texting Mols. Even a drunk mule knows this is a bad idea

10:59 sweet Caroline. Greggy I wish you were here, make good life choices for me

11:20 shit I'm going to hell

11:36 yeah

11:49 and no. We keep on making choices bad if not choices. I think we care, but maybe we don't...

12:0somethjng P and I are goingto crash the wedding. This makes sense.

12:alone smoking, feeling awkward about to pass out. It's been a strange day. I feel like shit, I didn't do anything right today and... Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuxk.

12: G 

To the Newberry: A Love Letter

The polished brick floor has been smoothed with the passing of feet. Murmurs and whispers bounce off the arched ceiling, dancing with one another like a secret in a schoolyard. There is peace here, a quiet solace extending to all those who walk through the front door, seeking the comfort of the Newberry Library.

Facing southward, toward the oldest park in the city, near a century and a quarter worth of history stand the walls of this library, but ten fold those 123 years is housed in the knowledge within. When the library was first built, the architects felt this southern exposure would offer the learned scholars entering the gentle grace of sunlight. However it is also this same light, lack of temperature and environmental control that mired the books into trouble.

To preserve these tomes, the Newberry erected a ten-story, windowless construct to the north. This building is not to be made accessible, but more in the lines of a wildlife reserve; a place books might dream deep dreams in their ideal environs, awaiting the day they shall be called upon to reveal their contents.

The door to this building is pulled open, and the smell washes out, washes over, drenching the invader. Not in any crude sense, but a beckoning, inviting one as an old friend from some past life who is known instantly upon meeting. Perhaps this is the feeling Odysseus accepted while lashed to the mast of his ship, listening to the song of the sirens. The book’s call is no less powerful. “Just slip open the cover, flip through a few pages.”

The books placement seems haphazard, until it is revealed they are housed with their family. Now in the care of the Newberry, available to all, the spine backs remain in the same collection from the one so generous as to have donated them.

In the quietude, with the spell of the books still lingering, the fourth floor’s special reading room is revealed. Researchers sit behind glass doors, lingering over the paper in front of them. One such researcher holds up a piece of paper, marked in a purposeful hand for the next book he needs, and a curator walks out to retrieve it. A humorous, yet telling sign is left in his wake: “Please limit your book requests. I only have access to 10 million today.”

Exiting to a crisp fall day, with the lightweight of history still resting on the shoulders, it is possible to see the orators gather at Bughouse Square. The mind feels an ease creep over as a last ray of summer strikes through the fire branded leaves in the trees. Feet press on farther down the pavement, inspired by the journey so many others have taken here before.

A special thanks to my guide, John Brady, the Newberry’s Bibliographer of Americana.

Quatum Suicide

She's been talking for the past two hours, but he's tuned to a different station, believing what he wants to believe.

The publican is listening to the one a.m. lingua franca of a wreck regular. The elixir is poured, and a glass touches bar top, pressed to lips in a nocturnal kiss. The drunk's conversation resumes to the casualty at his elbow, "Listen to what I mean, not what I say."

They once called this pumpkin time--they don't anymore.

"He's not really that bad," the bartender assured. "Just comeback Saturday."

They paid a tab. He walked her home.

She hasn't said anything so he doesn't say anything.

A light was on in the front of her apartment. Their apartment.

They can't hug, so he is throwing an arm around her shoulders and she is grabbing his lower back. Silhouettes lay in the gutter, staring up at the three stars over Chicago.

Confessions strangled as they lolled on the tongue. Then dropped--all wrong. All wrong.

She left, walking up the steps to the apartment. He waited, watching the light, like a trigger, fire to black, taking all of the history with it.

St. Paul Part 7

He exited from East 94 onto Snelling and turned north. He grumbled in front of his house over Adam's car taking up his usual space and considered rear ending the bumper of Adam's car.

He parked, and not wanting to face them, not wanting to deal with it, he began walking towards the Fair Ground. His shadow from the street light walked in front of him, mimicking his stumbling steps. He cursed it but continued to follow.

Walking South on Snelling he stopped at the top of the bridge. The space separating Como from the Midway; the space that would now divide the Twin Cities. He looked to his right, towards shiny Minneapolis with its colorful skyscrapers casting illumination and flirtation to the sky, and he knew he hated it. He picked up a stone and threw it at the bright lights, watching it sail out into the night and land on the dying part of St. Paul. Exhausted by the effort he slouched down into the curb. He felt the cigarettes in his pocket and pulled one out.

And suddenly a voice came crystal clear from the back of his memory. A voice from neither a long time ago nor yesterday. A time ago.

"You still there?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

"Same thing since you left two hours ago."

"What are you watching?"

"This weird thing with a bearded lady."

"Me too! You think it's real?"

"It has to be, you saw the way they were yanking on it."

"I still don't get it."

"What's not to get? The hormones could effect even the farthest Y chromosome, I suppose. Besides, you've seen those girls with the light blond hair, imagine if they were a little Mediterranean? Obviously, they'd have to shave to hide it."

"How can she stand to have them pull on it like that?"

"Okay, now I don't think it's real. See the way that it's kind of breaking to the right. No human beard could--Oh, hey Adam. How you doing?"

"Is that Adam? Tell him hi for me."

"Courtney says--oops, he's already gone upstairs. I think he's pissed and wants to use the phone. Either that or else he smells the cigarettes on me."

"You need to hang up?"

"No."

There would be a pause.

"I guess I should go, anyway."

"Yeah, me too."

"Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Wanna come over and have one more cigarette?"

"Absolutely."

The memory, the voices stopped. He crushed out the cigarette and sat up on the curb, looking out across the bridge, looking east. And as he sat there the sun sparked its first light on the horizon, and he watched it rise over St. Paul.

St. Paul Part 6

"What happened to you?" Steve wanted to know, he had moved away from the speaker making conversation was possible.

"I had to go upstairs; the line was really long down here."

"No, Steve said, looking a little shocked. "You look like a train wreck, you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." To hear his voice answer Steve he actually believed he might be fine. "I think I'm just allergic to all this smoke is all."

And Steve laughed because that was a good enough excuse for him, and he moved on to talking about another girl over on the side of the bar.

"I should go, Steve."

"We just got here."

"Two hours ago. I need to drive home before I pass out. You going to stay?"

"No, I guess I should probably be going home too." Steve looked dejected, taking only a sip off of his drink. "What if we stay for one more song?"

One more song turned into three and they ordered a last round of drinks for the road, then waved goodbye. He could still hear Steve laughing back to his car about some girl that was there.

He piled in behind the wheel but couldn't find the right song on the radio. The car went right instead of left on Hennipen and he found himself cruising past First Avenue where the kids were beginning to file out of the late show. He turned the car around and lit a cigarette at a stop light, fishing in his pocket for his phone, trying to comprehend the small numbers. He punched in the speed dial for his wife, a smile tightening the cigarette into his mouth.

She picked up and he said "Hey sweety. I'm drunk."

"Where are you, we've been worried sick."

"I'm okay. I'm just--who's we?"

"Adam's still over." He heard her say, the tin of the cell phone accenting her voice. "He wanted to see you."

He pulled the phone away from his ear, aiming his finger for the button in the middle, hanging up on her. He threw the phone onto the dashboard and poked out another cigarette.

The phone began ringing and vibrating so he turned up the radio louder. He was yelling obscenities out towards Minneapolis, the Grain Belt Bridge, Noreast. The car found the entrance to the highway, and with a scream he gunned the engine and entered traffic.

St. Paul Part 5

They left work early and drove through Lowertown towards McGovern's. The bar was empty save for the smoking regulars sitting in their drinks at the bar. They ordered cocktails, and he lead Steve into a booth where he could keep an eye on the door.

They drank, and when Steve returned with a third round of drinks, he admitted "This place is kind of dead. Think we should check out a different one? What time is it, anyway?"

"Six o'clock, I guess." Steve said, looking down at his watch. "Why, you supposed to call the wife?"

He hadn't been thinking about it, but considered it. Then answered "No. She's probably busy."

Steve sucked on the last drops of his drink in an extremely annoying manner "Come on, let's go. I don't know the next time I'll get to do this."

"One more drink" he said, eying the door one last time. Then sat in silence feeling a cigarette calling him in his pocket. He pulled it out, placing it in his mouth.

"You smoke?" Steve asked him, letting the ice from his empty cup clink in the bottom of his glass as he put it down on the table.

"Only on the bad days." He inhaled, letting the smoke fall out of his mouth as he talked. "When do you think cheating happens? Do you think it's when two people fuck around with each other, or is it when two people, who are perfect for one another meet and can't do anything about it?"

"What?" Steve questioned, the nature of the argument not falling into his usual order of thinking.

"Nothing." He replied, stabbing out the freshly lit cigarette into the ashtray. "You're right, we should go."

Steve lead the way westbound down 94, pulling off on Cedar towards the heart of West Bank. Parking their cars proved to be a task, but they found one another in front of Grandma's and walked into the pile of writhing college students on the dance floor.

"Aren't we a little old for this place?"

"Nonsense." Steve asserted, pushing his way towards the bar. "What do you want?"

They drank their first drink and the second went down even easier. By the fourth and fifth drink they were ordering two at a time so as not to waste time wading through the masses.

"I wonder why Emma didn't come out?"

"What." Steve yelled, hearing him but not taking his eyes away from the girl working the beer tub.

"Emma. Coffee Shop Girl. I wonder why she didn't come out tonight?"

Steve, whose head was plastered to an over sized speaker, turned a drink and a smile towards him.

He informed Steve, "I need to use the bathroom."

Ordering another drink he looked at the long line waiting to use the bathroom. Knowing his usual inability to perform under pressure he found himself walking up the stairs towards the bar on the second floor.

A couple was making out in a booth, and a lazy bartender was playing with the channel changer, yawning. The bartender looked at him for a second, sizing him up to make sure he was all right, that he needed nothing, then went back to the television.

He went into the bathroom and washed his hands, pulling out his phone to look for messages. He placed the phone back in his pocket, re-scrubbing his hands. And a sudden mental image came to him. Adam bending his wife over the kitchen counter, taking her from behind. Her face winced as she finally felt the touch of a real man while they ground together.

She deserved better. Not his life. Not him. He felt himself readying to release all that had been consumed into the bathroom sink; the slick feeling of metallic growing up from his stomach. But then another body entered the bathroom, and he quelled it all back down.

He washed his hands again, splashing water on his face then wiping it off with a paper towel, while the other man let forth a glorious stream. The drink found his hand, and he trembled it off of the porcelain counter and back out the door.

St. Paul Part 4

"That'll be nice if she comes out." Steve said, looking at Jimmy. But Jimmy had already removed himself from the conversation.

The office hadn't changed in their absence, and he grumbled out a good-bye to Steve to sit in his own chair, staring at the phone. He figured his wife would be having lunch right now. Probably the fettuccine, or at least that's what she used to always eat when they'd go to the little Italian diner on the Eastside. But he didn't know, he supposed Filio's wouldn't serve a meal that inexpensive. He thought about calling her, justifying it wouldn't be to interrupt her meal so much as he didn't want to bother her at work, and did want to see if she would want to catch a quick drink later on. But then he remembered she hadn't said yes to anything he'd asked her in the past couple of weeks. He thought out loud "Why start now?"

He stood from his desk, walking back towards the elevator and punching the down arrow. He emerged on the second floor, walking towards the convenience store only to find his mouth mumbling out "Pack of cigarettes."

"What type?"

"Does it matter?" He looked down, looked at his fingers on the counter. "Better make them lights, though."

The employee muttered something and handed over the cigarettes. He paid then rapped the top end of the pack into the palm of his hand, waiting for change. He asked "Do you have matches?"

"Just lighters."

He handed over more money and walked down the stairs into the outdoors. The cars were stuck in a jam all the way from the end of the street down to where the capitol stood. The creepy lady from payroll stood behind him, taking long drags and hacking good, phlegmy coughs.

A cigarette popped out of the pack and he looked it over, searching it for imperfections. He placed it in his mouth but let it hang there. His hands moved into his pants pocket, removing the cell phone in hope before replacing it.

Hands cupped around the end of the cigarette, even though it was a windless day, and he inhaled. The smoke streamed into his mouth, down his throat like he was meeting a friend who had been gone too long. A slight hint of nausea came back to him from four years ago, but he repressed it. He took another drag and sat down to watch the world roll by.

St. Paul Part 3

Steve re-squinted his eyes at the menu board, attempting to figure out the new type of drink he wanted to order. But his train of thought was cut short as the woman behind the counter asked "So, how are things?"

"Steve thinks he's going to order a different drink today." He said, letting his face play into a caricature of doubts for her benefit.

She switched her brown eyes over to Steve, pushing a wisp of hair behind her ear, "Oh really?"

"Yeah." Steve said still looking up at the board, oblivious to the grumblings in the line behind him. "I was thinking something sweeter."

She pretended to screw her mouth and eyes into thought, looking away from Steve with a wink. "We could throw some white chocolate in, flavor it with some vanilla and almond?"

Steve worried. "I'm not really a big fan of white chocolate."

"How about vanilla and almond? It tastes just like a Christmas cookie."

"Well, it's too hot out for Christmas." Steve broke his concentration with the menu, pulling out his wallet. "Better just give me the usual."

She relayed the order over to her barista and turned back to them. "I'm buying today."

"You bought yesterday." Steve said, throwing a generous tip into the bowl.

"Yeah, but that's just cos I like you guys. Jimmy, usual cuppa?" she asked, handing him the coffee she had already prepared.

"Thanks, Emma." Jimmy said, then thought about it. "What are you doing tonight?"

"What?"

"What are you doing after work?" he looked over at Steve for support, but Steve was already collecting his mocha. "The two of us were thinking about catching a quick drink after work. You should come along."

Emma looked nervously at the line or in a look to think this over more, he couldn't be sure. She said "I'm supposed to meet a friend."

Jimmy didn't waste any time, he just impulsed "Sounds boring. Bring them along. Come on, I guarantee good times. I haven't done that in years."

This time she brushed the strand of hair that was already behind her ear. "I'll think about it. Or, I mean, I'll, you know, I'll talk it over with my friend, and together, we'll, sorta, see what we can do."

"Five-thirty, We'll all meet at McGovern's. It'll be fun."

She smiled this time "Definitely maybe."

Jimmy and Steve left the line with their coffees, heading back through the skyway, listening to her ask the next person in line "So, how are things?"

St. Paul Part 2

The radio in the cubicle crackled with another report and again the topic was the merging of Minneapolis and St. Paul. According to the proposal, Minneapolis would annex all of St. Paul west of Snelling thus increasing the size of the states most major city and making it more national.

He stopped paying attention. He heard the name Minneapolis and thought about calling his old roommate Adam. Just a friendly call to see what was happening with Adam's life and his wife; how Adam's dad's money was still treating him. He removed his hand from the phone and went back to his keyboard.

Steve showed up, using his standard midweek salutation "Why, if it isn't the most miserable son of a bitch in the office. Aren't you going to take a break?"

"Yeah." He sighed, pushing the meaty part of his palms into his eyes to show the wear and tear, the stress level work was having on him.

"You want to grab a coffee or something?" Steve asked, playing the same sad part of the ritual out, then teased "If we go now you can see your coffee making girlfriend?"

The girl--woman now, of the coffee shop had graduated from the same college, the same degree and he was pretty sure she was smarter then him. She had chosen to go against the normal walk of work and started up her own coffee shop. They had been friends, it was a small enough school for that, but she had always remained on the outside, always with that boyfriend of hers.

"I think I'm going to order something different today." Steve said, craning his neck like all the other hopefuls at the drink menu.

"What are you thinking of?"

"I don't know, I'm feeling different, maybe something sweeter." Steve squinted his eyes, reading the fine print which explained what was in each of the drinks. Steve suddenly broke away, "Hey, what are you doing tonight?"

"The wife..." He tried to remember what he was doing, but all he could think about was Adam and his wife out for lunch. He did his best to push it back out of his head, looking blankly at Steve he said "I don't know. I don't think anything, but then again I don't run that part of my life."

"We could catch a drink or something?" Steve suggested.

"You could meet my friend Adam, then. He's taking my wife out to lunch this afternoon." He said it with a hope, wanting a weird look from Steve, something to say that this wasn't normal. Wives weren't supposed to go out with their husband's old college roommate.

Steve didn't take the bait, but went back to staring at the menu board "My wife is out of town, so really, I don't have anything. I wasn't thinking too late, just something to miss traffic."

He sighed, disappointed "Sure. This might turn into a regular thing if my wife gets her promotion."

"She's getting a raise?"

"Something like that. She's--" he took a second to collect his thoughts, group them together, let them fall out in the correct order. "She's prepping for the interview this afternoon with my old roommate Adam. Tomorrow she goes in to talk to her boss. She doesn't sound to worried about it though. She has Adam to help her."

"Well, that's exciting." Steve said, and his face clouded over as he did the math. "Hey, doesn't that mean she'll be making more money than you?"

"And she'll be out of town all the time."

"That's a shame." Steve said then moved back to the board. "You know what you're going to get?"

a note on st. paul and others to come

dear gentle coitusers--

i'm not proud of this story, but it does floor me for how much i understood at the time. much has changed over the ten years since this was written, or maybe it hasn't.

an explanation for the change of venue: i began reading melville's moby dick, and while i am a good way through it, my annotated copy is roughly 750 pages. so instead of letting the site go sans post i'll be putting up some old short stories of mine, ones that i have no hope of publishing. i discovered all of these in an old box i haven't gone through in some time so all the stories are ten years old or older. please grant patience and credence to a young, aspiring writer who was still swinging for the fences.

this first one is of particular interest as it is a story that has been banging around in my head since i was about seven. over the course of the last 26 years i have attempted it on multiple occasions, and it is (hopefully) coming to fruition in the novel i am currently working on. none of the characters in this short story emerge in the novel, yet many of the overlying urges and wants remain the same. it is interesting how little i knew about the city at that point.

i always hate it when a band comes out with a rarity b-sides album and expects the fans to buy it, but since these haven't been released i hope you'll enjoy them. while all of these stories are short stories, i believe blogs should be quick reads so all of the following short stories shall be released in serial form.

h. (i am old) richter

St. Paul Part 1

And as the soft blue light of morning slipped through the bedroom window he listened to his wife's soft snore, writing her another letter he would never send.

My mother never loved my father. Saturday mornings were the worst because he would work the early morning shift--maybe all days were like this, but this was the only one I was ever home for. Mom would sit next to me on the couch, holding me tightly while I watched cartoons. She never said much, but maybe that was because she was listening for the sound of the car pulling into the driveway. His key would fit into the lock and turn. She would squeeze me one last time, release me and walk gently, yet with purpose, into her room. I can still see her closing the door.

Dad would come in, and before he looked at me he'd look at the door to her room then let out this little sigh I've come to think of him as. He would walk over to me, scratch me on the head and walk into the kitchen to eat the lunch Ma made early in the morning. During her time.

They'd never yelled at each other; I wish they would've. I wish they would've just told each other exactly what they meant and then...

The letters were always left open ended which was his reason for never giving them to her, or this is what he told himself. He placed the scribbled over sheet methodically, carefully into his satchel. His hand paused over the rest of the letters, his greatest hits, and he looked up at the clock rationalizing how much time he had.

He excused himself from his desk, the letters and his wife, walking into the bathroom where he went to work on another morning ritual. A ritual that didn't last as long anymore, and brought him a lot less thrills than it used to.

After cleaning up with the usual guilt and trying not to make eye contact with the mirror, he made his way into the kitchen where he saw his wife's list of things to do. She had always been organized like that, always starting her lists with Courtney's Things to Do. He'd never been able to keep his life that organized, no matter how much she'd tried to help him.

He poured himself a mug of coffee letting his eyes glance over the list. There was the name: Adam. Adam, his friend Adam. Adam who was his old roommate in college, not hers. Adam who, since moving into his cushy Minneapolis suburban three bedroom, two bath bachelor pad had not left her Courtney's Things To Do. That day the note read Lunch with Adam at Filio's to prep for interview.

Adam: the name stared at him more than he stared at it. He contemplated crossing Adam's name off the list, and putting his own in its place. He even went so far as to take a couple of practice swipes across a piece of scratch paper to see if he could mimic her soft penmanship. These met with limited success and instead he did what he always did: cross off her Things To Do, replacing it with Others To Do. He hoped she would understand the subtle sarcasm.

The pen was placed back into his pocket, and he fished around on the counter for his car keys.

'the great gatsby' by f. scott fitzgerald

when i was younger i was enthralled by the romantic qualities of jay gatsby, but now i am older and see only the pathetic characteristics he possessed. the close of the book mentions being "borne back ceaselessly into the past", but for gatsby he never changed. the riches, the luster, even daisey herself meant nothing to him so much as that past.

the great gatsby is a book meant for the hottest month of summer. the perfect short read with a wealth of lines allowing the reader to forget the heat, the imposition of oncoming winter; it is a book designed for cigarettes and a gin rickey. it is a novel of little wasted words with all ideas building upon one another, clamoring towards the conclusion.

gatsby was not an idealist but a singular action. a dreamer of dangerous levels who set his life on a course where only the absolute would mean success. his problems perhaps are obliged by the fact he is not a materialist, but an extremely insecure man, basing most of what he views as success on the opinions others have. when he finds daisey it is less the woman he falls in love with, than others opinion of her and, in turn, her opinion over other objects.

this is not to say he was a man who wanted what he could not have; gatsby did not know what he wanted. he was capable of only creating an opulent desire and building on that desire until, eventually, he found a desire no one is capable of doing: turning back the hands of time. despite the fact he had daisey again, it was not enough for him to simply take her, he had to have her renounce the lost years.

it is impossible not to pity and love gatsby, despite the inability he had to give up, move on. should he have emerged from the pool on that pre-autumnal afternoon, he would not be able to believe it was all over. he was not a man capable of taking his own life, but his plans would have become more radical, more hopeless and desperate. if his own inattention to his and wolfsheim's business did not catch up with him, he would have continued on the trail of daisey. daisey's love for him, for whatever it was worth, would never live up to what he wanted, needed.

the book largely mirrors fitzgerald's own relationship with the chicago heiress ginevra king, who broke off a relationship with fitzgerald to marry, the also wealthy, william mitchell. while fitzgerald ended up marrying zelda sayer, perhaps his sweetest revenge came in immortalizing king forever in his works of fiction. the finest piece being a line he delivered to king after she asked him which character she was in fitzgerald's the beautiful and damned: "which bitch do you think you are."

the great gatsby never was a commercial success in fitzgerald's life. fitzgerald would grade his life as a general failure and himself a hack. the alcohol, zelda, tuberculosis all culminated in a massive heart attack while he was writing bit parts in movies for the quick cash he could get in hollywood.

perhaps the best way to remember fitzgerald comes from his off and on friend ernest hemmingway. this is one of my favorite quotes and comes from hemmingway's a moveable feast:

his talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust from a butterfly's wings. at one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. later he became conscious of his damaged wings and and their construction and he learned to think and and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.

'the book thief' by markus zusak

this book is like crack.

my sister gave me markus zusak's, the book thief a couple of weeks ago. since then there has been a night where i was up until four in the morning reading, the inevitable "i should go grocery shopping, but i could read one chapter more" scenario, followed by the undesirable druggie habit of looking at the stash and trying to make it last as long as possible.

the actual plot of the book didn't seem intriguing, even the title of the book put me off somewhat. the broad plot is an orphan girl in nazi germany living with foster parents that hide a jew. she steals books as her act of escapism, bonds with her foster parents and learns that jews aren't bad people.

but there is so much more. this is a book about words and less about stories. it's how words can change a life. the power hitler had over words in how he conveyed an entire nation of people. and how stolen words and given words have the ability to shape and make a life.

it is told from the perspective of death, producing a piece of enjoyable meta-fiction as most of the book is his recounting of the autobiography of the main character, liesel meminger. a character that author zusak claims took him three years to fully develop. death is a conceited character, one who has no qualms with beginning the book with how the story will end. because to the character death, beginnings and endings don't matter, it is how the time is spent living that make the human experience interesting. death fleshes out the life and surrounding cast of lives, covering a five year period of the nazi rise to power and the bombing of munich.

to read that statement back, it sounds like this is a blatant rip off of a kurt vonnegut book. but while vonnegut is constantly pushing the story, zusak allows the characters to develop, tantalizing the reader with each drippy sentence to read the next chapter.

perhaps this review is put best into practical terms by my friend audra, who stated this is the sort of book you don't lend out, you tell people about and expect them to go buy it.

another book review: 'the scarlet letter' nathaniel hawthorne

i have no idea why i picked the book up. it's been on my shelf for well over a decade since i've read it. perhaps it was a feeling of identification with hester prynne, but after reading it i feel a lot more like roger chillingsworth.

egocentric reading seeps in, no matter how disinterested and almost scientific a reader attempts to be--it is an impossible task to divorce oneself from. a fact that would have been a much more difficult subject matter for hawthorne's readers in the mid-nineteenth century, when so many of them loved the first part of the book, the custom-house, and were made clearly uncomfortable by the part of the text dealing with the actual dealings with the scarlet letter.

this was intentional on the part of hawthorne, who delighted upon his wife wife reading the concluding chapter of the work when: "it broke her heart and sent her to bed with a grievous headache--which i look upon as a triumphant success."

with that as an albatross it might be difficult to interpret the intentions for this writing, namely that hawthrone did not set out to write a feminist book, but to kick around the punchline of his time, puritanism, and perhaps more to write a book about what it is like to be alone. it's only through an anachronistic reading, and even then it seems thin, that a reader is able to pull a feminist track out of this.

perhaps this is best placed into context in the quote from the first quarter of the book: "but there is a fatality a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariable compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color to their lifetime; and still the more irresistibly, the darker the tine that saddens it."

ms. prynne is a strong feminine character, one that held to her beliefs with both pride and convictions. and it could be argued she triumphed in this adversity. but these triumphs were less for the female, and more so for the the individual. yes, it is given that she was a female, that dimmsdale, the other half of the sin, experienced a completely different reaction from the same population over the seven year course of the novella, and that this burden was laid upon hester on the sole account that she was a female and carried first the physical presence of a child out of wedlock, then the scarlet letter personified in pearl.

however, based on the context of the overall work, it is far more accessible to place the entire context of the work into the meaning of what the meaning of being alone is about, and how the human experience grows and adapts to it. no matter who the individual is within the text they are always alone, and the actions that they carry are crosses to bear on their own.

Book Review: 'Burgundy Stars' by William Echikson

the third of july was once a special time for chicago. a time when a massive amount of fireworks would be launched at the twilight sky, and the whole herd of the city would deposit themselves down on the lake front to watch the spectacle play itself out. but due to budgetary cuts this year the annual event was canceled.

thus, i found myself hanging out with my friend, meg, over at cafe fresco, a couple doors down from my apartment. we huddled on the back patio listening to the sound of the neighborhood firing off their fireworks all around us, confessing a mutual fear to one another of an errant firework blasting us in the head or the more unrealistic scenario of some punk kid with a gun taking the opportunity to disguise the noise of his gun to shoot us.

after that night, i had no real wish to drink, and whats more no real plans for the actual fourth. i locked myself in my white and black tiled sepulchre, only exiting to my fire escape for a much needed accoutrement when the fireworks began to pick up in rhythm. it was then that the curious artist living in the garden level of my building asked me to bomb down. not wanting to be blasted in the head by firework or bullet, i agreed.

over the course of cocktails, i told him of my interest in wine, especially french wine. he produced the wonderful book burgundy stars by william echikson which covers a year in the life of the french chef bernard loiseau and his quest for three michelin stars.

in the hands of a lesser writer, the personality of bernard loiseau would have taken over. but echilkson deftly takes this on, not pulling any punches towards loiseau's considerable ego. he takes time within the narrative to weave in the rich evolution of french haute cuisine, and brings further depth to the book by fleshing out the different surrounding staff of the restaurant, la cote d'or, and how much it means to the entire restaurant--the considerable expense each staff member undergoes to achieve the three star level.

living in america, home of such gastronomical entities as champp's, tgi fridays and applebees, where more care is taken to piling up a plate with enough to feed a family of three, it is easy to take food as art for granted. loiseau's love and care of food, the craftsmanship that went into both the design and application is handled by echikson with descriptions allowing each dish to fall off the page. the considerable insight he uses to describe the world of food reviewers is no less daunting to somebody that enjoys cooking and flavors.

i prize used books (well, read books) most of all. reading a book annotated by the previous reader makes reading seem more of a communal activity than carefully holding the spine of a freshly cracked work. and this tomb did not disappoint. included in it was the bookmark from a store in amsterdam where it was originally purchased, and also a follow-up story written by echikson for the new yorker on what became of loiseau.

there has been talk of whales here lately and perhaps the final coda that came as the last word on loiseau adds poignancy to it. the book concludes in 1991, by 2003 loiseau was dead. at the age of 52, after having maintained his three stars for twelve years there were rumors michelin was going to lower his ranking back down to two. they didn't, but by that point the fire was gone. loiseau had achieved what he had always wanted, but he discontinued to push himself for new excellence. he fell into depression, and in that depression he took his own life.

thorntown kids

there were these two kids from back in high school--forever ago. one, ziggy, was the classic underachiever with a lot of potential being held back by the people he hung-out with. the other, jones, was a "jerk"--not quite a "jock" not quite a "nerd" but somewhere in the gray areas of both.

one of them had the locker down by the gymnasium, the old gymnasium, that is, not the new one, and that's where they would congregate after second period. there they would discuss the myriad of subjects that scratched the superficial surface of their everyday lives (topics covered: the legendary adventures of hercules, star trek: the next generation and an ongoing drama of how to talk their chemistry teacher, mr. zuphyr, into letting them stay after class to ditch their next period).

they made an odd pairing despite this common ground they had constructed their friendship upon. it was after their junior year they found a new dynamic, where jones met people, leaving it up to ziggy to maintain these friendships. this was highlighted on an idle sunday afternoon when a friend of jones called him for ziggy's phone number. jones relayed the phone number, then called ziggy to find out what he was up to, only to find out that ziggy was going over to the other kid's house.

perhaps the strangest story follows the pair on new years eve where they had been slated to attend party ushering in 1996. they met a group of people at their friend kirsten's house, where it was immediately decided the ensemble should go downtown and try to get into first avenue. on paper this looked to be a good idea until a series of mishaps occurred, or at least for ziggy and jones. first was the transportation where the size of the group dictated three cars would be a legal necessity. secondly, was the amount of snow both falling and accumulating. last was jones' knowledge, or lack thereof, of the geographical locations within, and whereabouts of, the city of minneapolis.

as was documented by charles darwin in 1859's origin of species there is a hierarchy within all species. this would be expanded upon after darwin had ceased the mortal coil but could be constructed into a matrix that describes high school. and so while the majority of the group piled into two cars it was jones' car left most bare, containing only jones, jones' sophomore valet: bachmann, and ziggy, who joined them in an odd sense of loyalty despite the fact he had a girlfriend in one of the other cars that he had every intention, nay right, to make-out with at midnight.

the caravan started off well until the first two cars made a stoplight going across the grain belt bridge, leaving jones' car separated. despite the fact the location of first avenue, based exclusively on the name of the establishment, should have been an easy enough locale to find, jones quickly became lost and headed the wrong way on 35W into an area he would later discover to be the small suburb of richfield.

these were the savage days before cellular technology had become an economically feasible means to the masses. thus the three of them devolved into a game ziggy and jones had discovered the year prior, when neither of them had gone to prom. in it, they would take the same turns indicated by the car behind them until the driver of the vehicle became wise to their ruse and would lose them with a fake directional signal at the first available stop sign. these were the limitations of entertainment they had at their disposal.

in a ditch effort, they returned to thorntown, stumbling through the different abodes of their acquaintance in an attempt to locate their separated friends. they even went so far as to stop at the home of the girl jones was sweet on, which her mother had recently vacated the family from after she was re-married. at this, the lowest point of the trip, they managed to beach jones' car in the snow strewn driveway and had to push it out--ziggy took the liberty of writing 'shovel me' in the fresh powder.

with midnight approaching, they gave up hope, or at least ziggy gave up the hope of making out at midnight; for the other two their wasn't much hope to begin with. the three repaired back to jones' house to suffer the new year in, in a similar fashion replayed on many of the nights before.

and that is when the final breath of kindness from 1995 occurred. in one of jones' more understated comments he had confided in ziggy how he supposed most folk really only entertained him as a friend due to the liberal nature his parents subscribed to. this truth was complimented by the fact that every child in thorntown knew the location of the key to jones' house. thus, it should not have surprised them as much when they discovered the lost attachment of their group mingling in the basement.

in the end, ziggy got to make-out with his girlfriend at midnight, and they were able to usher in the new year surrounded by friends.

there is an interesting coda to the story. apparently the girls had secured several bottles of champagne upon the knowledge the girl jones was sweet on would have an empty house. they most likely would have gotten away with it, too, should there not have been tire marks gouged in her driveway, and so all the girls were suspended from the cross-country ski team. this did not earn jones any points.

where ziggy and jones are now is anybody's guess. ziggy, it was said, made something of himself and may be a mad scientist who plots at unleashing a biological creature of his own design upon the known world from his secret lair. jones fell further off the radar, and was last seen wandering the midwest; this is only speculation, however, based on the rise of disturbed and angry people residing there who most likely are living in his wake.

re: c-jack...

dear starbuck,

well, if you know j. then i'm truly sorry about everything. i thought i was doing the right thing, or what i believed in. i really did believe in it. i think she's forgiven me for it. i liked hanging out with all of you; you guys were great. j. seems likes she's in a good spot with s. and the times i've hung out with her she seems happy. i'm mature enough to be happy for her and do miss you guys.

answers are easy. realistically, there are only answers. i'm trying to make a point of being honest with everybody and expecting honesty out of everybody else. i removed myself from the 'Sota not to be independent, but not to be dependent. i've wanted this city for two years cos i've missed it. i want to be a better person.

if by "her" you mean m., my ex-wife, then yes i do love her even if it is what it is. i told j. i don't regret what i did, and she respects it. and look on the bright side, she's got s. so... yay!

oh! as for books, i'm reading Burgundy Stars which, thank you, you just ruined the end for me by having me look it up on wikipedia.... shit, that totally bums me out. anyway, nice way to go into depression...

yes, i think i am depressed. i've taken this honesty to extreme which has hurt and cost friends. i am alone. i don't regret it, i don't regret moving here, nor do i regret this depression. i would a thousand times over rather stand by what i want, what i believe in then the lies i used to make people feel comfortable.

and that's it. comfortable. i don't want to feel comfortable. i'm so sick of being comfortable with what i'm doing, who my friends are, what's going on. i don't want people with their pulses on the next big thing, or what everybody says is fantastic. i just want stupid satisfaction.

i want somebody to watch juvenile tv with, listen to a cranked up radio, cook with, pull the cork on a bottle of wine for the taste of it, somebody i can go to a movie theater with and realize there isn't a movie we want to watch and pick up a bag of movie popcorn to go home and watch something on our own.

i know... i'm stupid. i hope "refriended" isn't... honest to fucking God i hope "refriended" isn't.

alison

the slats in the fire escape look all the way down. technically, this measures only two stories cos it's at the very top of the second story, but at this point, all the stories have been told. there is only here and now.

the word "unfriended" doesn't exist in a spellcheck... well, yet.

there is a phone call. it's not as drunk as you would think it would be, but confirms a lousy week or maybe years. chicago is a city consisting of 2.8 million people, and yet a person might be ostracized from the community quickly.

the phone offers options in bars, as though it has thought this quagmire over previously: the first is 'the otter' on ashland, which isn't the right scene. the second is a bar on hoyne and charleston which the phone, ironically, cannot remember the name of, but is not a possibility for a myriad of reasons.

the phone hangs up with promises of calling the next day, which will never happen. it's another closed chapter.

a car makes a u-turn down ogden. people cross the street loudly, they seem happy as a cabby honks at them to get out of the way. to the east the loop has shut down. the hancock building has silenced the lights. the city sleeps. the song alison off of elvis costello's debut album plays at random. my aim is true came out on the day i was born. i am alone.

a memory fades in. i had gone into a record store to buy a new album, and when i come out the keys are locked in my truck--this happens to me on an alarming basis. my folks are in madison and everybody else i try calling either doesn't pick up or are in dispose. it's a 3 mile round trip to walk, pick up a spare set of keys and then come back, but there is the horrible feeling of being alone; on my own.

chicago is the city i want to be in--an irony as i only leave the apartment once a day to go jogging. i don't know if i made the right decision; i do not know how i will come out of this. i'm searching for a positive or uplifting way of ending this, but it doesn't exist. i'm here now. i'm listening to alison by elvis costello. i've never thought i suck at life more.