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.

FiFA LOVES THE SAMBA

I want to take this time to thank FIFA for allowing Brazil to waltz on thru to the Semi Finals.

I usually cheer for Brazil but it’s very difficult when on paper there competiton is non existent really.?! No disrespect to the other teams in that Bracket but C’mon !

All you Fantasy Team players should be envious,imagine you and your mates sitting at a Pub drinking Guinness discussing what you would like to see happen in the World’s Largest Sporting event and then making it happen.

Fifa puts together these Groups and Brackets and play percentages hoping that Sven gets the most Office points .

My question is I wonder what Germany, Spain, Argentina and Portugal did to piss them off.?

I’m really excited to see the Group Brazil gets Next World Cup, N Korea, Togo perhaps?? The possibilities are endless..

the rambler

i graduated from college ten years ago. i mean, really, i did graduate. you can't tell, but i did.

before that my profs smile, they tell me i have a gift. they site a mock prosecution i make, and i disagree. it's said i'm throwing away my god given talent if i don't become the lawyer like my uncle or my cousin would... like i was supposed to. and what can i say: i have a morale issue? i'm not capable of entering a system of defending or opposing something i don't believe in. i believe in constitutional rights; i don't believe in my ability to defend something i don't believe in. dad tries to make the best of it: i could work in immigration law. but i don't want to.

i find out i'm graduating over thanksgiving. this is after i've already made plans to live with jord next year, and the courses i want to take. going to grad school is all but a wash. all i ever wanted to be was a teacher. they try to sign me up as a newspaper editor, which is a laugh. they drag five of us in and wait for us to fail.

i'm not bitter, honestly. i love stories and fiction, almost too most--like anybody i've ever tried to love. but dad breaks his hip, grandpa and grandma need help, i find work at a coffee shop. the rest is/or was a love story, of sorts: history.

now it's ten years later and i'm hawking my soul to a private school to work in pr/ads. no grad school will touch me. i'm going to be in school with joneses 15 years younger than me.

i'm scared shitless.

fans

i do not like it when a window fans 'max power' option is directly next to the off switch so when the fan is switched on it zooms right to mach one thousand. instead, i like to work my way from 'low' to 'high'--it makes me feel like i'm really earning something.

or else i could just get an air conditioner...

2010 World Cup my first Sound off !!

Africa for the love of god !!!! Get it together!!!!

Let’s be clear the talent is there the teams can dribble for ever now gents let’s just get some more Goals .

Real fans of Futbol are rooting for you, even if they already have their Favorite team God Bless Nelson Mandela for bringing the game to South Africa because we all know if it were not for him, there would be no World Cup in Africa .

Anyway I need to sound off on a few people and Teams .

1. Sani Kaita – Thanks for pissing away Nigeria’s chances you big fucking Child !!Losing your temper when your ahead in a match ! And then you try and pretend that you are some victim . Do you not realize that the actions of the one sadly will reflect on the Whole . That’s right dumb ass when one African team loses or even ties , All African teams are generalized.
You Twat.

2.Switzerland – Thank you for shaking up the Tournament nuff said .

And last but not Least I have to Blast Uruguay!

I want to thank you Uruguay , for displaying your fucking unimportant complex and fucking up the spirit of the Games..

Yeah I get it.
You guys are a tiny country over shadowed by Argentina and Brazil

I know that must be difficult You’re the Canada of Latin America I get it , I get it , you feel like you have something to Prove .

Uruguay ! A poor Man’s Argentina !

I mean really? Couldn’t you just Tie the game on Purpose Like England did for the U.S .

four conversrations

people seldom do what they believe in
they do what is convenient
then repent.

-bob dylan

i smoke a cigarette thinking about those words; this is my last night in minnesota for some time. all my worldly possessions have been packed and are neatly stacked. most of the boxes contain books, some hold the ridiculous amount of cd's i've picked up, the rest is kitchen equipment. it's all piled expecting the moving truck i will pick-up, then load tomorrow.

these past couple of weeks have been difficult. it's the physical reality of what i have felt over the last two years with one foot in chicago and one foot in st. paul. it's been a realizations of waking up in a familiar room yet still trying to figure out what city i'm in. it's been defining relationships with friends, being honest with emotions and then building or re-building on it all.

it would be easier to stay in st. paul, and accept my failures and shortcomings. but scared or not, i am moving. the reasons for this might be explained in four conversations from four completely different women, all of whom have had remarkable effects upon my life; all of whom i still consider incredible friends: a, j, m. and b.

i receive a text from a. a week and a half ago. it's simple but states she's thankful we've always stayed friends. she cites examples of everybody else she has lived with, and how they've always abandoned her after they've lived together. my immediate, minnesotan knee-jerk reaction is to automatically feel guilty at this statement. a. and i don't talk that often, and when the two of us lived together, back in college, things were strained so much that there were nights she didn't want to be in the same room as me. back then, i didn't tell her i liked her, she didn't call me on it and we slowly dwindled to the married couple that stays together for the kids, or at least our apartment. but, we're both morons and the friendship endured.

j. and i haven't talked in a year. this is the opposite of a. where the relationship died, and we respected its death. she's a white sox fan, so obviously nothing could have ever come out of our relationship--a fact i stated at the onset of it. a year later she says that she appreciated my honesty that it helped her figure out her own life. i'm not in a position to doubt her or even call her on it. we resumed talking over the show lost; she was always a lost buddy. now she's doing well, dating a nice man that takes care of her and sees to her needs. even if something dies a newness might come out of it. relationships always needs to be defined, but it helps to have good footing to define them on.

while packing, i find a bunch of letters from m. these are from eight some years ago. i still don't know what to make of them. these are vague letters, or ones looking for strength. they're difficult to read. i stash them all in a wooden box, not sure if i should bury it or bring it. i pack it, reluctantly in a box to deal with later.

the conversation with b. is easy. we don't need to talk cos our friendship slips like a hand into a comfortable glove. we drive up from chicago with the radio turned to eleven stopping at the wine shop and sip on sampler wines.

i was afraid of moving back to chicago based on who i am, or was, and my motivations for moving back. i still don't know if this is the right decision, but it's what i believe in. this isn't a convenient choice, and i readily admit it might not be healthy. i am not repenting for past sins or seeking forgiveness for what i've done. in four conversations all i can do is accept what i've done, where i've come from and who i want to be.

when i was young i needed, but needs aren't necessities: they are things i needed for myself. now i'm older, and now i want. wants are desires i am incapable of reaching by myself, and in some way or form i need to ask others to help me.

i dropped b. off last week and drove north to pack. i listen to Green Gloves by The National for the first two hours of it before stopping at a gas station for cigarettes and to write this down:

slowly i unfold myself.
i might be in over my head,
or this is oxygen i'm finally tasting.
beginnings never really start,
ends never truly finish.
things just happen.
this is a come back story...

i believe it and have people that believe in themselves with me. this might hurt before it makes sense. but what's the point of life and love without...

by the green light of gatsby

two of my friends make love in the other room. this is pillow talk right now--who did what to whom. this is a month divorced from what happened. this is two and a half years divorced from what should have happened. this is now. not then.

different girl. x and h cut up the relationship. these are words spoken in soft, civil tones: defined--this is mucky business. this hurts but at least it's a foundation, a truth, the reality. there is an 'i' in 'reality' but there is no 'we'.

i throw-up what i didn't eat. i wouldn't believe this was possible if i hadn't done it before. this might be because of the cigarettes or the stress or it might be life. i have no idea. throwing up, though, feels like the right decision--the only time that i feel o.k. well, that's kind of a lie. at least when i smoke i feel like i'm doing something; working towards an end.

ah, dear coitusers, what is to be done? is it better to admit a dream is dead well after the chase of that dream has ended, or is there more honor in continuing the quest in some vain hope that one day we'll run faster, stretch our arms out further... and one fine morning--so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

hallelujah

lu, of course, did not appreciate the pomp and circumstance paid to her birthday: the wine, the birthday merriment--i drew a line and did not get her a cake. i did play her the song for which she's named, and her favorite game of bitey/scratchy. she liked it, but she's two and these things happen every day.

my parents have, by and large, given up on their eldest child ever having children, and have regulated themselves to my nephew and to my cat. which was why they made such a big deal out of the party, and asked me to stay up here, in the Sota, to celebrate. most of my friends have made the leap to parenthood or are dialed into some form of raging coupledom, so perhaps this is as close to a win as i get in that regard.

i understand this time of life; i get the inevitable conclusion to have children, settle down, find somebody that makes you happy. i've always been the oldest, the one to go through most things first. it's like being the lead-off hitter in baseball: you need to let the rest of the team see the pitcher, the bite of the breaking ball, the strike-zone this particular ump has.

i'm not afraid of children so much as i am afraid of my nephew. i watch him run around and don't understand what he's doing, moreover i don't want to be responsible if or when something bad happens. i fail to understand why it takes him so long to grasp concepts that seems so easy even an infant should be able to understand it. he seems like he is the last hope for my family, and therefore should be graded to a higher standard.

i'm not afraid of all children; i love kids. my friend sel has two of the most beautiful girls in the entire world, and nelly has an infant daughter that brightens up the entire world. a friend of mine even passed along a video of her niece and nephew wishing her happy birthday--the video was better than could've been written, down to them even forgetting my friend's name.

little hallelujah is now sitting on my computer, blocking my view. she wants the comfort of chewing on my sweatshirt and the knowledge that as soon as this is done i will scratch her behind the ears--the one place her little maine coon claws fail to do a descent job. i will, and next time i'm having a rough day she'll claw her way up, into my lap, and let me pet her or cry little tears into her waterproof coat. she's a good cat like that.

ghosts

i have long labored under the belief there is unfinished business in life. and this works for me on several different levels. there are things like how a cigarette tastes in chicago, how some nights taste like an evening in richfield (that sweet cusp of adulthood), or feeling the infinity when everything seems to fall into place. catching those moments almost feels like borrowed time or time given to me.

i think of this at a coffee shop cos the jones sitting across from me looks like an old grade school friend of mine. my folks moved the six blocks from st. paul to thorntown when i was eleven, forcing me to switch school districts, find new kids to bike around with, join a different baseball league. john was my best friend, but after i moved he slipped into the realm of mom reports, which were repeated to me after run-ins at the grocery store.

and it's not just old friends that come back to haunt me. there are times i see older or younger versions of family members, even myself. they'll be standing off to the side in a bookstore or down the bar. they never look at me as much as i look at them, and i wonder why they're there--if something special or horrific happens that day to if they get passes to come and visit me. still, a little direction from them would be nice.

john died probably twelve or fourteen years ago, meaning i haven't talked to him in well over half a lifetime. i believe he was one of two friends that threw themselves off the grain belt bridge in minneapolis--i've always felt too guilty to find out the specifics or, perhaps more importantly, the 'why-he-did-it'.

specters of the past, perhaps of the future, are around all the time. i know at this point of life there is no point in waxing sentimental about them. but it's comforting knowing they're there, that they're part of me. like john is now; he's happy, sitting on his mac, checking email--he looks younger than he should, but i like to think that's more of a personal choice.

Flight Delayed

If your still stuck in Europe due to the Icelandic Volcanic Ash blame Bjork .

That is all