To all the beloved penis enlargement pill merchants and confusing Russian criminal spy-like creatures of the LiVEJOURNAL community, look--I'm not dead, after all! And yes, I would love some penis enlargement pills; thank you for repeatedly asking!

For anyone else who may have followed a clue from the real and modern world to this website: how sweet are you? Anyway, here's my full postcard summing up my unsuccessful week. The literal details of how extravagantly I screwed up assorted things are incredibly tedious and not worth bothering any living soul with. This is, too. Enjoy!


For my next trick, I shall bungle
bascially everything. and whatever tiny bundle
escapes this show unbungled
soon bigly botched will be.

Always a bungler, never a burglar.
I can’t even pick my own lock, not even with its key.

Always a bungler, sometimes uncomfortably
in the company of ham-faced burghers, but not quite.
Screeching their feasting apparatus in and out of place,
hoisting collapsed
troughs and tables down & out
of sight. Leaving behind crushed thumbs in some.
A very beri beri glare about my face,
and cooing clawing chaos in my gut.

Every day I’m bunglin’. Why once I swatted away thick
flocks of ruby-hot life opportunities with a single broom. Then dropped a mop
and doomed whole crops of apricots to rot.

Bungling through the rubble of old my archived bungles, as grow
in all those lonely closed-down rowboat showrooms, crumbling slowly
tumbling bungalows—some jungles flush
with fungal furs. Minky molds and mildews
attracting bumblebees.

And I’m entirely tired of Time
with all its always going
and always going faster faster
billowing faster
vaporous bastard.
What is it now, December?
Whatever.

For my next drink, I shall sulk across the desert
on my little sister’s bicycle.

And when I stumbled through your doggy door
to mumble something more about how truly hungry I am,
wasn’t ploying to pilfer your pity
or purloin your pearly veggie burgers, just begging
deep inside you might just smooth
this last crumple with a half-
forgiving glance.

Tags: bungle bungalow burglar apricots time fa
Current Mood: unsatisfactory

First of all, I'd like to make clear that the main theme I hope to drive home in this year's deathbed chat, is that I've fallen out of my deathbed. Somebody, please hoist me back into my deathbed! Oh, God, and be gentle with my deathbedsores!

Oh, how I wish I had ever gotten around to writing about my Christmastime return to the Inland Empire. One day, once I have obtained the correct cocktail of stimulants and stem cell therapy, I hope to belatedly do so. The love affair that has arisen between myself and Riverside since we parted is, in my opinion, one of God's sickest miracles. I'm totally like a soap opera heroine that falls eternally in love with this brute that once ravished her a long time ago, but only after he really truly repents and becomes essentially an entirely different character. And we have a baby!

Did you hear me, dammit! I have a baby! And it's mine, dammit, mine, and no one's gonna take it away from me!

Anyways, moving right along...

After returning, I returned to my usual routine of going to work, smoking cigarettes, washing dishes, and clinging to the idea of mortality as the one great and constant comfort in life. Oh yes, but this semester, I'm also taking a super-general basic beginner's psychology class at MCTC. Which is nice cuz it's very easy, but it's still some new and interesting stuff to know. Probably really all the information my frozen withered brain could absorb at this moment in life anyway. And I totally love MCTC. I think I may well be having the chic-est damn community college experience possible. The school has a vibe and look sort of like if Mary Tyler Moore ran a high school that was a space station. She also designed the space station--I mean, I assume that goes without saying. Fortunately, it's a space station high school where you can smoke cigarettes, and large numbers of students do so in the specially designated areas, which are pretty lovely, looking out on a big beautiful space park. Even though the space park is frozen and barren, since the nearest sun-like object is a very distant cold blue star. Don't give me none of that "blue stars are the hottest" crap--we middle-aged space kids have had up to here with those Earthling superstitions!

Other exciting news: I finally had one of my most grotesquely, morbidly decayed teeth begin to crumble. To be fair and modest, really all that happened was a sizable chunk in the back of one just was shorn off by an especially ornery chunk of cereal. The box for that cereal did portray it as a rather extreme breakfast (it was called "Optimum Power," or some such, for God's sake), but I foolishly took this to be mere bravado. For which, I paid the ultimate price: the loss of a small part of a tooth (small, you know, in the scale of the cosmos; in the scale of teeth, I don't know for sure).

But anyway, I eventually went into a brief panic--though, after some delay, as I hadn't noticed that the toothlet had chunked off, so I spent a while chewing a mixture of my tooth and the cereal, wondering why this one piece of the cereal was so uncomfortably hard. Then realizing my tooth didn't seem to be the same shape, and I couldn't solve the problem by sucking or picking out some chunk of food mired in the decayed recesses of the tooth. No, sir, there is a crater there, with a rather sharp edge.

But the bright side is that, after years of dreading this day, and having plentiful nightmares about it, and imagining it as this horrific catastrophe, with the tooth crumbling into excruciating rubble and blood gushing out and being in horrible pain and sobbing and stumbling down the street all bloody and weeping and screaming and in pain. But no, it turns out it's not necessarily such a big deal. Fortunately, I think my teeth are so dead down to the core there's no living nerves to send out that much in the way of pain signals to my withered brain, which, unless I get me a steamin' pot of hot stem cells and a fat line of ritalin, is halfway dead anyway. And the new and improved shape of my tooth seems fairly stable for the time being. And I kind of like playing with it with my tongue at work. It's like I got a badass tooth-piercing. It feels kind of like a coral reef inside my dead broken tooth. So, you see, I win! Now I must change the subject, because thinking about it for too long is making me terribly afraid again.

Next up in the cavalcade of adventures...

So in the real big news department: Eric and I went to New Mexico for Spring break--daring to pose the question: Is New Mexico the new Mexico? Anyboob, I have officially declared New Mexico my third favorite State, something which I think has brought great joy and comfort to everyone there, or at least everyone who is literate enough to read the blimps which I assume have been hovering over the state (No small feat, considering that, according to a mug I bought at the airport, New Mexico has the 5th largest area of any state. I understand if you also feel initially surprised to learn of New Mexico's surprisingly imposing size--I was skeptical for the first few minutes of looking at the mug, but I have yet to think of more than 4 states that are definitely, obviously bigger than it, off the top of my head. So, whoomp, New Mexico wins!

First of all, I lied to you, and really, to myself, when I spoke of an airport. Albuquerque has no place for your silly human "airports." It's a Sunport. A sunport is different from an airport, in that it is heavily into a turquoise-acqua and kind of peachy-pink, that gives it the majesty of a giant 1980's Coco's, or an '80's hospital, perhaps one where Dr. Harry Weston, of "Empty Nest" fame might pursue a career of healing and laughter. Along with this color scheme, it is also super chill. MSP is a pretty chill airport, as there's never anyone there, and you have your various statues and pictures of animals and other natural things in generally subdued lighting. But man, you have not experienced true relaxation until you have boarded or deboarded an aircraft at a certified sunport. It's like taking a bubble bath in a bubbling bath of melted chocolate! With a delicious strawberry shampoo massaged into your scalp, and you can eat the shampoo! And the conditioner, which is also strawberry (made with real strawberries, naturellement!) and soooo creamy! MMM... I'm sorry, where was I?

So I quickly fell in love with Albuquerque, which above all, you must know, is the weirdest looking place ever. The desert is weird, the mountains are all cool and weirdly shaped, with all these weird protuberances and squiggly lines--but if you try to take pictures of them, they magically disguise themselves as normal mountains. The buildings are all really weird and random, and arranged at weird angles on weirdly intersecting streets, and a lot of them are really dilapidated and/or officially closed with a condemnation notice posted in front of them. God knows how I love unsafe, squallid condemned buildings--I have a natural instinct to burrow into them and live there for years on end.

Now, I don't really know much of Route 66, besides what I saw in Albuquerque (where the Route goes by the nom d'amour of "Central Avenue," like the shrewdest of coquettes), and the stretch of Foothill Blvd. in Ontario by where my aunt's home health care office was located, which was pretty bitchin' in its own way. But based on this wide frame of reference, I would have to say Albuquerque wins for having the very greatest segment of the legendary Route 66--a road immortalized by the Depeche Mode song of the same name. Among everything else, lots of early Cold War in Space type buildings, most of them crumbling and condemned, like so many full-length dressing mirrors arrayed around me. Lots of neon. Also, a crazy number of people with motorcycles, like seriously driving motorcycles, very noisily, often in packs, up and down Central, so everyone else could see and hear their motorcycles as they drifted by on their own noisy motorcycles. Also, there were, for a non music-video scenario, an abnormally large number of people just standing by their weird purple DeLorean-like cars with doors and windows opening in all these weird directions, that they just parked by the road to play music out of while standing nearby with some other people.

Though we were told by some random very relaxed cigarette-smoking girl at the hostel, who might have worked there or something, that this was an especially big moment for all the motorcycles and parked cars, since it was Sunday, and Sundays and Friday nights are big times for everyone to go do that. In all fairness, there's only so much you can do in New Mexico on a Sunday, since most things are closed on Sundays, in keeping with it being Spain. It turns out in Santa Fe, most things are also closed on Mondays. And after 6 p.m. We saw an ad for a place in Santa Fe called "Late Night Burger," but then realized it closes at 11 p.m. More like "Slightly Past the Bedtime of a Small Child Burger."

But even despite the rigorous respect being paid to the Lord's Holy Day left and right, we found plenty of fun to have by simply wandering around in the middle of Albuquerque. And this is how I came to know, within an hour of two of landing, that I would love Albuquerque forever. As we were walking by a bunch of condemned motels, these two guys--one classically homeless-looking, the other just random old-looking--started calling very plaintively to us. We figured they were just going to ask for money or something, but then we realized they were distraught about a bird in a trash can, and pleaded with us: "You've got to get him out of there... or he'll DIE!" They conducted us to a big blue dumpster, and I saw that there was a pigeon hanging around on a pile of trash at the bottom. "Oh, God, you have to get him out of there!" So I leaned over the edge and reached in. I worried about looking like the kind of snob who has issues with touching pigeons with his bare hands, but I tried to devise a way to lift out the trash the pigeon was sitting on, and then deposit him safely on the ground. But just as I had nearly gotten the pile of trash to the top, the pigeon wobbled off and tumbled deeper into the dumpster, which caused our new friends to wail aloud with dismay. So, I set my waist against the rim of the dumpster, and teetered over, thinking for a moment that this might just be an ingenious trap, and that maybe they would just grab my wallet (for what limited good that thing could do anyone), push me over into the trash, and run away, cackling into the desert. But, no, they just stood by wondering aloud about the tragic pigeon's fate, and I eventually gave up on finding a way to scoop out the pigeon with trash, and just picked up with one hand and dropped it out on the milk crate I'd used as a stepstool. The guys were very happy, but still wondered if the bird would be okay, it seemed like maybe his wing was hurt. I argued that he probably had a better chance outside the dumpster than inside, which seemed to comfort them somewhat. They thanked us and Eric and I resumed our stroll, while they stayed behind to monitor the pigeon's progress.

Well, that's probably enough for this installment. Stay tuned for the next installment, which will be printed on the backpage of the Lady's Millet and Barley Catalog of next Spring.

Tags: tooth decay pigeon albuquerque
Current Location: Back on the prairie
Current Music: "The Animal World"-Grandaddy

So, I had assumed I'd be too lazy to go join the local mass complaining cerermony about Proposition 8. Fortunately, about half an hour after it started, I realized I couldn't miss the chance to mill around with a bunch of random Minnesotans going "Wooo!" every so often. That is, after all, the only reasonable substitute for a social life that I have found, and immersing myself in crowds of Minnesotans always does uplift me greatly.

So, Eric and I got to the Government Plaza all late, but fortunately everyone was still standing around there listening to very sweet speeches, by some lesbian minister and some random kid and some guy from something called District 202--I didn't quite catch what exactly what that was, but something nice, as far as I could tell. And there was a lot of talking about how homos need to be really mindful about stamping out racism and classism in their own community. Again, going with my mysterious spiritual dual citizenship, it was interesting to be standing around in the Upper Midwest frigidity listening people to go on and on about their emotional reactions to a ballot measure in California, or their wedding days there.

As usual it was a fun, tender bunch of people of all sorts, with the mix of really sweet families with very gentle, plaintive signs, and strident kids with signs like "Fuck the Minnesota Majority," and the chant of "5, 6, 7, 8, separate the church and state" was here and there modified to "smash the church and smash the state." But everyone with their divergent rhetorical and pictorial strategies being very courteous to one another. The best sign, I believe, was the sign someone made that said "Prop. 8 is gay." There was also a dog painted with blue text about Prop H8.

I really need to invest eventually in some poster-making materials. I mean, some people made theirs out of unfolded Pabst boxes, but I don't even have any reliable markers. I'm always relieved at these things that the other Minnesotans have picked up the slack for me, and I can hide among their various skillfully executed signs, but I always feel a little guilty and ashamed of my loserhood.

And though it was slightly too cold, it was a very pretty, bright day to go walking through downtown and to Loring Park. And again, even though everyone was obviously quite sincere and feeling strongly about the whole matter of equality, I felt again that people here excel at balancing that with an ability to having a genuinely good time while protesting whatever they happen to be protesting at the moment. Our weird route involved us at some point having to walk down through some parking garage ramp and then through some abandoned underground food court, and the organizer guy who was leading chants interrupted the one he was doing to say "Where are we?" and then yelled through the bullhorn "We will not be driven underground!" And one of the cars that passed and honked in approval had some little kid that was sticking her hand out the window waving, so eventually someone ran out into the street and gave her a high five, so everyone screamed. There was also some sweet old lady sitting at her window like 20 stories up waving to everyone and we all got so happy and screamed and waved at her. At some point, we started singing "All You Need is Love," and making the little trumpet noises, and then some lady appended, "And maybe some more civil rights, too, if you could maybe arrange that, please..."

So a very good day overall. Plus, Sarah made tamale pie, which made it arguably the best day ever.

The whole Halloween-Federal Election combo always runs me ragged, but what a doozy this one was, in the nicest way, generally.

Now, Halloween was nothing to sneeze at. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was too dumb to come up with and execute a costume once more, though Eric and I had toyed with the notion of dressing up like Hector and Wordsworth from the seminal "Heathcliff and Friends" television program. Though, whenever I would float this idea around the youth of today during our town hall meetings, their bewilderment would remind me that this seemingly "fun" idea actually dated me as the oldest asshole alive. I may as well be carrying around a crumpled clipping from a "Gasoline Alley" strip that I found especially humorous and asking nubile strangers to read it aloud to me once more, since looking at printed text gives my corneas a rash.

But then, at the very last moment, I had a flash of brilliance: I would build upon my blossoming love for the "Canadian tuxedo" to become the Man who Wears Way Too Much Denim. I tied another pair of jeans around my neck, and Sarah cut a leg off of her old pair of jeans, and I wore this as a sort of sleeping cap-type appendage. I was sad I hadn't thought of this soon enough to really do the concept justice, but I figured this was okay, as next year, I can simply bring it to the next level. I should at least also have a denim shirt, yet I also dare to envision a large floppy denim purse, maybe some sort of denim-based high-top sneaker shoe, or some such.

Now that I had a reasonably brilliant costume-concept, I was suddenly filled with courage to go to a party held by real people. Even though, I know full-well that my presence near or in a party of fun, living people does nothing for anyone but inspire sad reflections upon the subject of mortality. But people don't mind a little bit of that, especially if you have a funny costume. I did acquire a giganto jug of Carlo Rossi's award-winning Rhine wine to bring to this hypothetical party, but Eric and I never actually made it there. We met up with our lovely friend Ann Marie, and her husband, Dr. Ben (collectively, Ben-Marie) at the place with the bottomless glass of wine deal, so things kind of veered off in another direction. Though we did get a pretty dose of Halloween by standing around drunk and smoking on the street and becoming friends with other drunk people in costumes who happened to be stumbling by. Ann Marie makes this easy by just being drunk and accosting people and talking about their boobies and dancing with random people as they come by, and I really don't have to do much but stand nearby and be amused. A lovely system, really.

So we the people of Minnesota, in a heroic, collective effort, battled through all the hangover from that. I was grateful that Fate decreed I should spend the Day of the Dead all strung-out in this big silent bright white gallery with a bunch of fluorescent plastic skulls. Skulls, and fluorescent penises, and fluorescent birdcages and a bunch of other random stuff. Anyway, it was a little more spiritual than it probably sounds.

And then it was time for the Election. Everyone was so stoked. I normally get my vote on as early as possible, casting my ballot just as Apollo wheels his rosy chariot lustfully o'er my polling place, and all. But this year, I was just too lazy to be that cool, and spent all day pacing about the elegant, somewhat-space station like art galleries, itchin' to vote. And most of us were on that trip together. Like a bunch of virgin brides waiting on a woolen bench impatiently for our tawny bridesgroom to get home and unlock the bathroom so we can all pee. Oh, you know what I mean--don't act like such a prude!

But there is this one guy from the Ivory Coast, who went to vote before work. He was super-excited, because it was his first time voting, since he just became a citizen since the last election. So he was there before the poll even opened, and there was a line of like 5 people. He talked to the guy who was opening up the polling place, and explained that it was his first time, and asked if it were okay for him to be the first one in line to vote. The guy was all happy, and said "Are you serious? Is it really your first time voting?" and called out to everyone else in line, explained it, and asked if they'd mind letting this guy vote first. So everyone clapped for him and were down with it. Minnesotans are so frickin' darling.

And it was nice, cuz we in the gallery monitoring armada were talking and fretting and pacing about it all day, and then we were finally released, everyone was egging everybody on to be sure to vote, well beyond the point of heavy redundancy, and we all kind of gushed out as a crowd with a big sense of purpose. And climbing out onto Hennepin Avenue, dribbling into this long, thin trickling stream of Minnesotans marching off with their determination towards their civic duty. Again, a bit like some seminal dance sequence in Captain EO, with all the space people with funny hair marching to the beat and shooting little orange lasers out of our fingertips and toes at the corroded overpass pillars, causing other people with funny hair to emerge from the pillars and begin wobbling their pelvises about wildly, and strutting and jerking towards their respective polling places. Man, let me tell you, there's nothing quite like injecting mescaline directly into your eyeballs on Election Day!

So Sarah and I went and voted like an animal. Minnesota is so awesome. You can register to vote on election day, at your polling place, and even if you don't have any bills or anything with your name and the address, someone who knows you live there can sign an affidavit vouching for you. So, not only did I get to vote, I also got to sign an affidavit! I was like a giant octopus on a civic rampage! I could have easily gone on to stamp an invoice and notarize a certificate and ratify a treaty and still had tentacles free to fling schooners about in the air as I bellowed awfully. I did get all hung up on my old standardized-test anxieties, wondering if I was doing a good enough job of filling in the ovals, then wondering if I had filled in ovals on the other side too darkly, so they would show up as an incorrect vote on the other side, yada yada. I was totally worried about my crappy oval-filling undermining the exotic beauty of our representative democracy. Of course, the beginnings of the Franken-Coleman recount melodrama (more on that, much more, I'm sure, later...) have reassured me that even if you totally suck at filling in ovals, the kick-ass state of Minnesota will go to great lengths to make sure your vote gets counted. God bless it!

So, we went home all happy and all excited to watch the results with Eric and Ben-Marie and our leftover jug of wine. I mean, we felt pretty optimistic, but were still so worried, too. After living through so many, many depressing elections. And that last one, I felt like there was no way Bush would get re-elected. I mean, sure, even I couldn't really say out loud that I was voting for JOHN KERRY! without my facial muscles involuntarily twisting into a tiny frown, but I figured there was no way Bush could not lose. I felt hopeful, but I figured it would at least be another long, excruciating thing dragging well into the night, and waiting for one last state, for hours and hours and hours, and then McCain being President, and then him dying in the middle of his victory speech, and Palin grabbing the mic and saying something horrible and then the deafening din of people crying and gnashing their teeth everywhere across the whole planet. But then it was coasting along so nicely. Sarah and I kept our sacred vow to Phyllis at the SuperAmerica and went down periodically to bring her real-time election coverage results. At the point that Obama won Ohio, and so handily (it's amazing what a difference it makes when black people and residents of Cleveland are allowed to vote there!), we figured it was pretty much a done deal, so we went to let her know, and we all hugged, and Phyllis kissed Sarah on the neck. Then I went back home and nothing was going on forever and ever, then I went to go scratch my butt in the other room or something and when I got back, Obama had won 400 more electoral votes and was the President. And we were all so happy, but sort of in disbelief at how fast and easy and awesome it was. We ran back to let Phyllis know, and all hugged and screamed with joy some more, and then she came out to smoke cigarettes with us by the gas pumps and call her grandson on the store's phone, and a little clot of people formed sharing the news and high-fiving and laughing, including the semi-transient Native American comedian that wants to be my new best friend and some Army guy who was going off to Afghanistan the next morning, and we were all so glad that we'd all won. Again, Minneapolis frickin' rules.

So I went back home, and Ben-Marie departed and we were just enjoying the moment. In imagining this moment, I had imagined that some sort of mass celebration would spontaneously erupt, though I wasn't sure exactly how that would happen, or what it would actually look like in real life. I was kind of disappointed that I didn't immediately hear any big joyous clamor. But then within 10 minutes, it began to rage up, with a few outbreaks of honking and screaming. By the time I went out to smoke a cigarette and drink a dixie cup of Carlo out front, the party was getting into full gear, with a big crowd gathered within the little elastic perimeter of the Leaning Tower of Pizza's smoking patch of sidewalk, some with glittery New Year's Eve hats and others with signs, and one with a saxophone, and every time anyone passed by, everyone would scream and high-five and yell "We did it!" and if the person was in a car they'd honk a lot and wave, and people would run out into the street and high-five them and climb on their cars and dance. It was beautiful. Even though I was basically a few feet away from the Leaning Tower's officially elastic-delineated area, drinking more and more dixie cups and screaming and honking, at some point, I decided I had to experience being in the corral and screaming from within there. Again, everyone was hugging, and I don't know if I've explained this to the livejournal community, but Minnesotans don't hug that much. There's this weird system of tradeoffs with Californians and Minnesotans, as to who seems warmer and who seems colder. I generally feel that Minnesotans are a lot friendlier and more gregarious in many ways, but for some reason, they hardly ever hug anybody. Whereas in California, as soon as you meet someone, even if you don't actually speak to them or catch their name or particularly like them, you will probably end up hugging them goodbye before going your separate ways, perhaps forevermore. But everyone was hugging and giddy and rocking out.

Eventually, a report began to filter through our little intersection of rejoicing that there was an even bigger crowd rejoicing a few blocks down, so I eventually had to go to explore that, again, the whole phenomenon of public rejoicing being something I didn't particularly expect to ever live to see with my own shrivelled old eyes. There did indeed seem to be a bigger crowd there, and unfettered by any little tethers of seat-belt material, everyone was just totally dancing and running and climbing about, hugging and congratulating each other. At some point, around 2 or 3 in the morning someone was brilliant enough to bring a green boombox, and just to make the whole night perfect, at some point, they played "Beat It," which fulfilled my ultimate fantasy of dancing in the streets as part of a big unruly, but gentle and loving and left-wing crowd on account of a historic event. Crazy! I mean, I don't think I've really seen a happy historic event, except maybe when Alvin and the Chipmunks made the Berlin Wall fall down and then Jesus Jones watched it on T.V. and felt to inspired. But in real life, in my own country, in my town with a bunch of real live people literally dancing in the literal, concrete and asphalt streets of my neighborhood? And seeing all these random people you've passed by on your way to work or the liquor store, out jumping around and crying and embracing in a big ecstatic fit, and knowing from now on when we pass each other by we'll have this crazy intense shared moment together. It's just very beautiful. A little while after I left, I guess the cops came by just to ask everyone to be a little quieter, but I guess they started off by making that little squawkbox noise, then saying, in a super-robotic voice, "GO OBAMA," which I guess amused everybody and made them scream and jump around some more.

I heard from someone who had been driving through town that night, and said that basically every 2 or 3 blocks, you would come to another little node of people all getting down and being all noisy and ecstatic at the streetcorners. I wish I'd thought to call a taxi and had it drive me up and down Hennepin Avenue just to get a broader perspective on the whole spectacle. And as weird as it was seeing this kind of jubilation around town, then realizing it was going on all over the place, at least in major urban centers. And it was weird to think what a close, nail-biting election it had seemed like, but then it was over in a couple of hours, and then everyone in the country, and pretty much the world, immediately began flipping out because it was the happiest day of their lives, and ran out into the streets and parks to hoop and holler with just total glee. And as Sarah pointed out, that's kind of amazing, that with all these instant random crowds of people pouring into the streets all over the country in the middle of the night to go crazy, it doesn't seem like anyone really got out of hand or did anything bad anywhere, at least that I've heard of. I mean, we had a lot of late-night screaming, some broken beer bottles, and maybe a little bit of pissing on buildings, but everyone was cool enough to let it slide. I'll just assume that the liberal media is covering up the giant decapitation sprees that were going on that night, which will one day be properly remembered as "Bloody, Headless Tuesday."

Of course, the next day I was so tired and hungover, and I had to wake up early to do Biology homework. At moments like that, biology is always a bit of a drag, but this particular morning it was some sick statistical thingy, and just looking at it made blood vessels deep in my head turn black and die. On the bright side, the guy that does our biology lab, who usually seems a bit sloppy and strung-out, was super strung-out, too. He would just kind of scrawl unintelligible blobs on the board and frequently just stop and look exasperated and forget what he was talking about. So, again, we all got through it together. And of course, in the light of my being all tired and achy and wretched, the whole Proposition 8 thing was really gnawing at me. Again, not so much that I was sad, as that I was all annoyed. Like, honestly, California, when I go around telling everyone how dreamy you are, and that you broke up with me, not the other way around, you go and perform another one of your surprise dickslaps on my face, knocking out several more of my precious few, remaining teeth? But you know, whatever. It really is noteworthy that just barely more than half of the voters went in for this latest round of nast. That 48 or so percent would say no to it would have seemed impossible to me a few years ago. And it's pretty clear from the statistics, that we just have to wait a short spell for a few more people to die off and a few more to come of voting age, and this crap is done forever. I hope that a consensus builds that it would probably just be a counterproductive waste of resources to try to legally wind around this amendment, and attain whatever fleeting victories in the short run, rather than just sit tight for a couple of years and have it soundly voted back to Hell once and for all. I mean, I do think it's quite screwy that in California, it takes fewer votes to strip people of constitutional rights than it does to raise taxes, and that the fact that the constitution can be amended by a simple majority, it's basically like not having a constitution at all. But whatever. And it is also nice that CA has such heavy-duty domestic parternships, which makes this less of a really concrete thing, though no less irritating, as it basically amounts to periodically putting up a measure on the ballot that says, "Would you care to formally express your dislike for gay people yet again? Vote Yes or No," and that people keep voting yes over and over. But, by a surprisingly slim margin this time. I mean, at the beginning, I just assumed it would pass; it was only the subsequent uplifting polls that got me all optimistic. And if there was some gay "Bradley effect" or whatever, that some people voted for it who were ashamed to admit out loud to a pollster that they were, I mean--to have some portion of the people who voted for it, having some kind of conflict or shame about it, instead of being just totally unabashedly vociferously homophobic...maybe I'm just stretching for a positive interpretation here, but even that seems like a good sign. Kind of, possibly? Just kidding. Or am I? Am I? Please?

And it seems there's been a bit of hullaballoo stemming from the whole notion that increased turnout of African-American voters, about 70% of whom voted for it, made some difference. Which is kind of an annoying statistic, and I must confess to you, my brothers and sisters, and to the Lord our God, that I had some dark moments in my hangover of stewing over that, before snapping the Hell out of it. But of course, people who spend a lot more time on the internet than me had time to put up all kinds of really heinous, appalling outbursts on the subject, which led to heinous, appalling outbursts in return.

Honestly, for individuals who can't fathom the parallels between different minority groups' particular civil rights movements, the heavy involvement of the Mormon church should've been a helpful little clue--like, oh yeah, isn't that the religion that cherished a specific dogmatic faith in the inferiority of non-white people until the very end of the 1970's? But anyway, even though there is some discussion and working through that needs to happen, about the prejudices that members of different minority groups have towards each other, be they subtle and insidious or loud and unapologetic, and what can be done to get over that, it doesn't seem to be going down in a very reasoned or productive way at the moment, which I hope changes. And really, things quickly get very stupid, simplistic, sloppy and nasty when you start talking about people as monolithic groups--The Blacks, The Gays, The Working-Class Whites, etc.--and making dramatic declarations about them (though of course I think The Latinos are totally awesome, voting for Obama 2-to-1, even though McCain really is one of the few politicians of any party that has really put himself that much on the line to be decent to them and do right by the immigrants, and just barely tilting towards Proposition 8, despite being at least as religious as anybody else on the block. And The Asians rock, too). The coverage of this whole election has encouraged the analytical model of dumping millions of people into a demographic caricature, and then flinging whatever grand psychological and spiritual diagnoses you want at them. But it's a stupid, toxic thing to do, really. At the end of the day, I think that next time around, the marriage-rights crowd really needs to turn to Oakland for some leadership and spokesmanship, to actually get through to different people on Planet Earth. Because all the homicide aside, people there generally get how to get along with each other, and reject bigoted bullshit out of hand, even if it isn't directed specifically at them. And really, The Monied San Francisco Gays aren't exactly the ideal group to endear the queer community to anybody. But there I go again. It's addictive, but it sucks.

So after I had slept and drunk some water and generally returned from the shady netherworld of alcohol poisoning, I felt very happy again. I guess with my hopefulness about the election, I went a little hope-crazy, and got into the fantasy that, after so many elections where everything went not my way, this was going to be the magical election where everything happened just the way I wished, as if Santa Claus was cruising around above that red-and-blue state map sprinkling fairy dust on all the optical scanning machines to make them record vote totals according to my prayers. Not quite, but pretty close. I mean, California's going to finally start building the high-speed train between the Bay and San Diego? Who ever would have thought that would pass ever, let alone this time around? If I can't be officially designated as married in California right now, I'll totally settle on having a really fast train to tide me over for a couple of years. And after an initial letdown when it seemed like sleazy-ass Norm Coleman got re-elected to the Senate, it turned out that it was actually crazy close, and there's going to be a big recount, which might result in him finally losing to Al Franken, but only after a somewhat longer, more dramatic fiasco. Even before the recount, Coleman's lead has dwindled to 230-some votes. And of course, Norm has popped up and said all kinds of stupid crap, about why we just shouldn't bother with the recount, even though Minnesota state law automatically demands a recount if the margin is less than 0.05%, and in this case it's like 0.01% (Well, actually I think 0.00007%, to be more precise. I mean it's a pretty crappy margin when you need scientific notation to efficently type it). First, he said Franken should call off the recount, so we could start the healing process, then that it cost too much money (it's like $90, 000), and he also came out and, with a perfectly straight face, declared that if he were the one who were behind by 200 votes, he would still demand that we knock off this silly recount business. Which kind of crystallized for me what a lying douchebag he is. There's lots of things a shady Republican could say against a recount which he might lose, which would obviously be bullshit, but could at least sort of be passed off as potentially true: it costs too much, I'd still win anyway, so why bother, and so on. But to be able to go out in front of a crowd and go to the trouble of saying, in your sincerest sounding voice, something which everyone in the whole building knows is obviously a complete lie --pretty creepy. On the other hand, though, it's kind of heartening to see how panicked he seems about it all. Like he's not just casually just trying to wrap it up really fast, and not take any chances, he seems just as scared as I would like to see him be.

So that's very suspenseful. I worry, because Minnesota does have a way bigger segment of the population than, say, California, that worries about being skewed or unfair, and thinks stuff like "Well, we have one Senator who's DFL, so we should probably make the other one a Republican, so we don't seem mean," as opposed to a more typically California viewpoint of "Screw all you Republicans/Democrats! Screw you all to Hell forever! I will strangle every one of you to death until the end of time and spit on you when you're in Hell!!! RAAAARRR!!!!" But maybe just maybe, Coleman was too flagrant a douchebag to squeak by on the sheer mercy of Minnesota's pity voters. And it makes me happy to think that the country will perhaps have to go on hearing about Minnesota a little bit more, whether it likes it or not. And that if Franken does win, he will get to have his own party in the streets of Minneapolis. By then, we will all be well-rested and rehydrated enough to run out and scream a bunch again.

In conclusion, ladies and gentleman of the jury, and esteemed executioner, I am feeling unusually happy to have lived to see all this, and I feel especially honored and fortunate to have lived through Election Storm 98 with the people of Minnesota, which is one of the best places ever, in the universe, even better than that planet made of hot fudge, with a bunch of talking beluga whales that swim in the hot fudge and come up for air and to give you spiritual and nutritional tips in rhyming couplets. Actually it's a lot like that goddam planet, and you know, people say it gets cold here, but average daytime temperatures on that planet are around -194.551 degrees Celsius, and that's during the Summer! Which is 44 years long! Dude, I hate that fuckin' planet.

But I digress. It has been magical sharing this weird, intensely emotional trip with the Twin Cities, and I love everyone here, even though I am too scared to initiate, or even continue, a conversation with any of them. It's a little sad to be reminded of various people I love and actually know that I don't get to spend this moment with, on account of them being incredibly far away. It was excellent sharing such special, intense mass mourning and horror trips with them, and the Bay Area, but it seems a little unfair to not quite get to see what it's like to be together at a happy time. But it's all good. I just need to not be a douchebag and talk to people. Though it's starting to get too cold to go outside and talk on the phone. Oh God I don't even know. I'll figure it out.

Well, that's all the Halloween and Election recapping I can stomach here at the Minneapolis/St. Paul bureau. My doctor told me not to spend too much time in the World Wide Web, or I'm liable to get a charley horse, so I'd better go and put a hot bandage on my crow's feet.

Good night, and God bless America (Yeah, it weirds me out, but I'm totally feeling that way. Who am I? Where am I? Are you my Mommy?)


P.S. Immediately after finishing this excruciating and tedious typing exercise, I went out to smoke the cigarettes before doing a quick proofreading, and was almost immediately smoked out by some random drunk guy from the pizza place. God bless Minnesota extra-hard!

Tags: decision 2008 obama jubilation denim rec
Current Location: MN Senate District 50B (or maybe 50A?)
Current Mood: a tad delirious
Current Music: "A Song From Under the Floorboards"-Magazine

Oh, God, I'm such a vast and billowing douchebag. I'm like a huge marshy wetland of douchebags stretchin' out as far as the eye can tell. Only instead of being full of delightful storks and what-not, this douchebag-based wetland has nothing living in it, except for giant hornets. And stunted, pigeon-sized vultures that eat the giant hornets when they finally die. Oh, heavenly Lord, when will these giant hornets finally die!

So much has happened since I last wrote about anything in you, my dear diary, like, for instance the invention of bronze. But I have been too busy stewing in my rich, greasy douchebag solution to so much as "give a shout-out" to the "Blogodome." Like being physically touched and surrounded by the whole RNC thing--such a rare opportunity to be slimed by history. Or a mildly humorous footnote thereof. Yes, one day, I shall have to give a full accounting of my most intimate feelings, and my most controversial, yet freshly sassy, opinions about the rich pageantry of national politics that had lain unfurled before my astonished and youthful eyes. Oh, Lord, if only I could still see shapes anymore! God, why!

But anyway, that day cannot be now. I fear it would seem too "timely" and "hot off the presses." Best wait, and slowly piece it together in time to be read at a special ceremony to commemorate the death of the last human being in the world.

I was very happy because my sainted brovers came pissin' and roarin' into town. It was so nice to see them again, and having everyone returned alive from all these faraway and exotic lands, together, again, "If Only For One Night, When Dreams Can Come True, If Only In Your Dreams." (C., Micha-Prom Industries, 1993). I just regretted, and still do, and probably always shall, that when they finally made the epic journey across the giant frozen ice canyon to see me, I was the sickest person ever born, and even less fun than usual, since I was all going through a month of drowning in my own mucous until the last few days. I don't really know what to do to have fun, since all I ever do is sit around rubbing linaments into my aching ligaments and crying out to Our Heavenly Father, about how much postage stamps cost nowadays. But I thought it was a lovely extended birthday miracle. Oh, yeah, I'd shown a tremendous (many have said, "Heroic..") resolve through the weeks leading up to, including, and following my birthday, to keep on drinking through the debilitating illness. This may have been imprudent, and, arguably, a bit impudent. At any rate, Eric and I also got to have a very sophisticated after-theatre dining experience at this awesome Italian restaurant along Hennepin. They have pizzas and sandwiches and stuff, that's a little pricey, but not so bad at all. But, the main thing, is they have a bottomless glass of wine option for $6.95. You get a little glass that says "Vino" on the side, pick red and white, and then get essentially unlimited free refills of wine while you're there. Here, I had stayed away out of some vague cosmic impression of the place being like a sort of Sbarro's, but in actuality, it turned out to be more like an Olive Garden in the clouds, where only angels are allowed to go. As if that wasn't enough, this guy working there was all into Eric's Green Lantern hoody, and finally, ladies and gentlemen, this waiter guy just asked us if we wanted three free bags of bread. I just barely managed to whimper, "Yes, please." before bursting into sobs, falling on the floor and bathing the young man's shoelaces with the frothy shampoo of my tears of gratitude. Golly, that was awesome having three giant bags of bread, to just be able to eat a piece of bread every time my belly ached. And good, sourdough bread, no less! I felt like the happiest prisoner in the world, instead of the saddest, hungriest prisoner. Until a few days later, when the bread ran out.

So, I'm still trying to learn biology. As Little Lord Jefferson has pointed out, I think it is helpful that my Catholic upbringing provided me with some of the awesome powers of disbelief-suspension needed to absorb all this stuff about magical pixie-like creatures called enzymes and mitochondria and what have you. Somehow I guess I'm almost halfway through that class--I had a test today, which I think I may have done shockingly well on, though not as much as the one before. I seem to have guessed very brilliantly a few times, and I don't know how I did on these questions about free energy, entropy, and some other goofy wizard-talk. Trying to figure out if I had guessed correctly about those after getting home, I think I read some passage in the book like "organisms are islands of relative order in an increasingly random universe," which I found kind of lovely, in a mystical, tinfoil-hat-wearing kind of way, though I still don't know if I got those questions right or not. Stupid, filthy books! Burn 'em all!

It's been exciting, because someone kind of down our street has developed some amazing lighting concept for their apartment, and when you walk by, you see this room lit up in hot pink and fluorescent purple lights, like it's a Miami Sound Machine video going on in there. Someone else a few houses down somehow procured, or else forged upon a steaming anvil, a big Obama neon sign and hung it in their window. This brings us all great comfort in our old age. Also, while I must admit that even I am growing a bit weary of this whole election, it has been nice to be going through it with the townsfolk of the Twin Cities. Like when the vice-presidential debate was going on, and I was all bummed, since I had to work, but then everyone was listening to it on the clock radio in the breakroom at work, and sometimes people would put a walkie-talkie on the secret hidden channel and hold it up to the clock radio, so people in the galleries could secretly listen to it on the walkie-talkies, and a bunch of people just stayed after their shifts were over to keep listening to it. And the awesome cashier-ladies at SuperAmerica (with whom, I am very happy, Eric and Jason got to spend hours of quality time during their day here, since that's Sarah's and my whole "scene") were secretly listening to it on the radio in their breakroom. And Phyllis, who also declared that she wants to do our dad (alas, I'll eventually have to give her that special talk, about the magical, mysterious world of gay dads), told Sarah that they should get up a bunch of womenfolk to take the governor out into the woods and beat her up. And while I do not condone her shocking remarks, which are disgusting, it was pretty awesome. That debate was being shown for free at a movie theater with beer, but I was too sickly to go. The next was also showing on the new T.V. at the coffee shop across the intersection from us, and they were advertising it on a chalkboard as "just like that time Mommy and Daddy got the divorce." As typically inane and annoying as this election season has become, I am so glad to be somewhere with a bunch of people that care a lot about reasonably important stuff, and in a similarly intense, but not entirely solemn, way. Honestly, I can't imagine that any New Yorkers working that night even thought to crank the dial away from the 24-hour Reggaeton Broadcasting Service and sit through a few minutes of any debate, especially when I don't think the subject of footwear came up once. Though, maybe it did while I was in the crapper. I guess there was a good deal of winking, who doesn't like that. Again, I will totally concede the debates were fairly stupid, and not nearly as humorous as I had somehow anticipated.

Just look at me--prattlin' on like a damned old fool! When I should go clean out the ulcer in my goiter--I got a little trick, where I dip a Q-Tip in Milk of Magnesia, and kind of jiggle it around the inner edges, to scoop out the crystallized pus. Oh, why oh why won't my countless descendents come to visit me anymore?

Current Music: "Who's Johnny?"-El De Barge

Now, I'm used to a certain amount of flaming insanity permeating every moment of daily life, but today, or rather, this evening, has been so unusually chock-full of batshit craziness that it totally gives me pause.

Before I begin, I must acknowledge that I have left a terrible hole in the backstory. I haven't really kept the livejournal community abreast of my baffling friendship with my crazy Marine smoking buddy/stalker upstairs. Hee hee, I said abreast. Anyway, I will flesh that character out more later, at which point you will see that this situation is actually much weirder than that intro suggests. For now, suffice it to say that he has become exceedingly fond of using my computer to spend many hours every day on Myspace, like a teenager in 2004. Much of this time has been spent cryptically harassing a pregnant 21 year old. But yesterday, he announced his intention to marry this other girl, who has many teeth missing, which led me to assume of course that we are on the threshold of domestic tranquility and sanity--sweet, elusive sanity!--for all. All this came undone several precious hours later, when he came to "check his email real fast," which I fancifully misconstrued as a signal that he would check his email quickly, and then be on his way. O, and it was almost so, but then he discovered that he had received a Myspace message laden with extravagant death threats, presumably from the pregnant woman-child's current boyfriend, the other (known) potential babydaddy, who was declaring that he was going to break into my inexplicable pal's apartment and shoot him with some specific kind of gun (forgive me for not remembering the exact caliber). My dear friend (we'll just call him Sherman Helmsley, for simplicity's sake) quickly freaked out and decided to call the Secret Service, though his brand-new fiance and I repeatedly suggested that it might be more convenient to just call the local police. The myspace death threat concluded with a reference to the pizza place which is next door. This in turn led to Mr. Helmsley carrying my computer over to the pizza place to show the myspace message to the manager.

I realized there was not much use trying to talk him out of that part. What I hesitated on was whether to grant his wish that I again be the guy to accompany the crazy guy into a semi-public place to make a scene, making vague gestures of uneasiness and shame to give those assembled the impression that I am simply a crazy-person escort, a sort of seeing-eye dog. If seeing-eye dogs walked timidly behind their masters. Now, even though I have spent nearly a year trying to devise some clever plan to make the people at the pizza place like me, I went along to provide moral (ly dubious) support and embarrass myself, once and for all dashing any flimsy hopes I had of winning the bartenders' hearts and minds. The manager was an awesome sport, acting totally nice and respectful and sympathetic, even when Sherman expressed his eagerness to contact the Secret Service about this assassination plot.

With surprising speed and dexterity, a Minneapolis policelady appeared, and was waiting at my door when I arrived carrying a mighty heap of laundry. She seemed amused by how much laundry I was carrying, and generally appeared to be an amiable and charming person. They borrowed the computer so she could look at the Myspace message. Then, we all exchanged tender farewells, a few butterfly kisses, a wistful goosing here and there. And Eric and Sarah and I locked the door soundly and went back to pick up the pieces of our life and move on.

After a little while, we heard a bunch of rustling and crashing about in the lush vegetation just below our windows. I also forgot to mention, we have the Greatest National Wilderness ever springing up majestically on all sides of our apartment. I don't know why, I'm assuming it has something to do with glaciers. Maybe glaciers getting hit by meteorites. There also seemed to be an adorable doggie woofing somewhere nearby. "Clearly," we surmised, stroking our flowing, snowy beards, "some upright citizens are searching for a dog which has become lost in the majestic woodland outside our window!" But then people were yelling for someone to put their hands behind their head or something, and it became apparent that actually police were arresting some guy who was running through the earthly paradise between our building and the pizza place. Then they were looking about in the bountiful verdure for something that he had dropped there.

Sarah and I realized that our only hope was to go outside and smoke another 3 packs of cigarettes, at which point, we saw a silver minivan blocked perpendicularly by a police car with its sirens on, and a paddywagon nearby. There was a blonde girl sitting in the back of the police car, doing a breathalyzer and stuff. As Mr. and the future Mrs. Helmsley loaded a box of something into their getaway car, we gathered with a crowd of neighbors and concerned random people to speculate on the whole scenario. Was that lady the one racing through our green and fertile valley, though she sounded so manly at the time of her arrest? Were all these events connected, or was it simply a crime waving striking this corner of the block? Eventually we discovered that the death threat was separate, but the girl had been stopped for drunk driving, and then her passenger, a dude with a gun, went running down the sidewalk and then jumped down into our yard to flee the police. The gun guy was caught, of course, but drunk girl was eventually set free, and allowed to back her van up so it wasn't blocking the bus stop. She then got out and stumbled towards Sarah and I, offering us 10 dollars to drive her home. We both replied sadly that we didn't have licenses. Though we both flirted with the idea of doing it to make 10 badly needed dollars, this seemed like totally the wrong night to go driving without a license, what with the Minnesota National Guard cordoning off our square meter of savage anarchy.

When we next went out to smoke, we saw a taxi stop at the green light, and it appeared there was some tussling going on in the front seat. Soon, the passenger got out, took off his shirt, and made his way to the driver's door, yelling at him, alternating between challenging him to a fight, and simply requesting that the gentleman admit that he was a 52 year old cock-sucking pussy taxi driver. Eventually, the driver did step out of the vehicle, but some guy emerged from the pizza bar's patio to drag the topless warrior aside, so the taxi man could drive away, sadly without making the tearful confession which had been so eagerly anticipated by all of us.

Once the taxi was safely out of sight, and everyone on the corner was going back to smoking and/or drinking something, there was a loud plop, and we all noticed that some guy across the street had fallen down on the opposite corner. It promptly became apparent that the fallen hero was just incredibly drunk, but a guy with long hair crossed over to try to hold him back from wandering into traffic, as drunk guy seemed very inclined to do, and pick drunk guy up after each of his many very audible collapses. He was apparently trying to hitchhike, but was having a great deal of difficulty standing, so he ended up hugging and dangling from the traffic light pole a lot. But then he would start sticking his thumb out some more, and would begin to sag and ooze down and away from the pole again. Some lady at the bar said, "Come on, it's not even a full moon!", which I had actually thought to myself several minutes earlier, after looking up to check the moon, just to see if that would serve as an explanation for everything. Anyway, some friends of the longhair guy came up so he got to chatting with them and sort of forgot about drunk guy wavering into the street. So then more people drifted over from the pizza bar, forming a sort of discussion group sharing circle some distance away from the drunk guy as he reeled and squatted around the stoplight. At long last, one of the waitresses seemed to be guiding drunk guy to some kind of transportation, or so it appeared. Because Sarah and I realized we just needed to go inside again.

Of course, we went out to smoke once more, but nothing disturbing happened that time. At least not that I know of. And we all lived happily ever after.

Tags: myspace insanity fertile taxi gun marine
Current Location: the most dangerous living room ever
Current Mood: bewildered
Current Music: "Highway to the Danger Zone"

Dear readers and/or lovers, allow me to cut right to the chase. The other night, Sarah and I were stepping out to smoke snickerettes, as we are wont to do whenever we are not strapped down on a metal table inside a cage festooned with electrified barbed wire. We opened and passed through the door that randomly separates one half of the hallway from the other, everything seeming perfectly serene and jovial as it always is when I'm about to put something harmful in my mouth, when suddenly, a giant bat came flying straight at my head, with diabolical speed, from the front stairwell. I burst out with a surprisingly brief, discreet shriek, and then did this Matrix-like maneuever, instantly bending my entire body from the knees up back towards the floor, just barely dodging the giant bat which was about to collide with my head. Sarah at first didn't notice the bat, and wondered why the tiny scream and bending, but then saw it and screamed very slightly, too. Fortunately, the bat was a bit like a minor video game villain, and had to keep flying in a straight line all the way to the back door, then back towards the front door, and back again, all the while moving faster than the love of God, before it could attack us again, this time... FOREVER. So, we were able to run back to the door and open it, and Sarah slammed it shut just before the bat could get through. This was perhaps even more amazing than the recent smoking odyssey, when she slammed the front door shut just before this bolt of lightning, which was totally racing towards us, could hit us.

Also, there was the time that we were smoking in chairs, and we discovered that some giant prehistoric cicada-like beast lurking just a few precious millimeters from my brawny, yet no less innocent, elbow. Subsequent investigation with a stick proved the nightmarish creature to be dead, yet no less horrifying. Kind of like Stalin, but much, much worse. Of course, in those initial moments of terror and bewilderment, I leapt up screaming like a little girl-child being tazered, which revealed perhaps the greatest secret of all--that the whole time, I had also been sitting on a rotting fruit of some kind.

We had the extreme unction of attending another Twins game today, and boy, did it rule. The other games we have attended have been strangely subdued affairs, despite the encouraging quantity of loudly drunken teenagers in attendance. The last time, the focus of the crowd remained divided mostly between all the many beach balls bouncing around, and this desperate movement to constantly start waves. But this time, everyone was super-excited, and the organist/DJ was totally cutting loose, continually playing little tunes, or little clapping games, all of which everyone was totally into. Not only did T.C. Bear lead us in a singalong of "Friends in Low Places," not only is Nick Punto's theme song now, for some reason known only to him and his Creator, "Blue Monday" by New Order, but they even played "Everybody Dance Now!" at some point.

I suppose I should admit at this point that I finally filled in the missing piece of the Twins game puzzle, which is to get really, really drunk. It was a brilliant plan, so elegant in its simplicity. I simply began drinking rum before even getting on the bus, and brought a flask filled with rum in my pocket, which I successfully dumped into a large soda cup and drank real fast. It was kind of like the heavens opened, as I passed this test, proving my worthiness to be a real Minnesotan. And I think that everyone else in attendance (another pretty good 30, 000 + crowd) felt instinctually inspired by my successful "taking [of] it to the Next Level" to be all loud and yelling and clapping and singing and getting drunk the whole time. It was a fine game, too. It was all relaxing, because the Twins were playing Seattle, so it was more or less obvious that they would win, unless they did anything horrifically stupid, or all had strokes simultaneously. Which is nice in itself, because I hate Seattle, and I remember how frustrating it was when they were all good and won a lot, and they were always ahead of the A's, and when they'd play in Oakland, they'd win, and there'd be all these gross fat Microsoft employees with goatees and balding pates that would fly down to make people physically ill by wallowing in their Frasierian urbanity. But now it's awesome, they lose all the time, and they lost again. But it had just enough suspense; the Twins were ahead 2 to 0, then 5 to 0, but then all of a sudden in one inning, the Mariners got 6 runs. But of course at the very end, Minnesota got 2 more runs and we were so happy and drunk. I always love walking and standing among big crowds of Minnesotans, but it was nice to have the new experience of walking among a bunch of them from the Metrodome when the Twins have won and everyone is extra-jolly. Just as we got on the bus home, the skies let rip another little fleeting downpour.

The other day, Sarah and I went out to smoke when just such a downpour, but an especially intense one burst out. The right side of the sky was kind of dreamy orange clouds, but the left side was kind of sleek dark gray clouds crowding into the orange ones, and then there was a little patch of blue sky with Christian-bookstore-inspirational-wall-plaque-billowy-white-clouds a little bit behind us. So, then at some point, this big-ass rainbow appeared, spanning the two sides and making a perfect giant-ass arch across the sky, as rain blasted down, and then there was thunder, and then some lightning hitting the rainbow. It was like the awesomest Trapper Keeper cover design ever. I love Minnesota.

P.S. There's this guy who's taken to hanging around on different ledges and short walls in the area begging. As you pass, he offers to tell you a joke in exchange for money. Even after you decline this offer, he still insists on telling the joke, which of course is my personal favorite: "My wife's so fat, when she sits around the house, she really sits around the house." And he will do this to you over and over, several times a day, or even over the course of an hour should you happen to pass by him repeatedly during that span of time. I'm totally jealous that I didn't think of doing this first, but now I guess he implicitly has a copyright on that shtick. It's probably just that jealousy that I try to mask as mere annoyance, though the last time I got annoyed at hearing the joke again, he said I had to hear the next one. I begrudgingly agreed, and he said "I've been doing heroin for 25 years, and boy, are my arms tired!" Which did totally make me laugh, and I conceded to him that that was in fact a good one, and he explained that everyone always laughs at that one.

I love Minnesota.

Can you believe how much I suck? I blog less often than an illiterate, fingerless child in the 1980's. This is all the douchebaggier, as it has been the most sizzling summer on record since the invention of the fajita-flavored bikini. So, in an abridged and shame-soaked format, here is a handy guide to highlights of the last few months:

I went to Obama's victory speech in St. Paul. Most of what was previously posted about the Dolly Parton concert could be slightly modified to apply to this event, if I weren't such a lazy sack of toxic waste. Of course, I didn't get into the building, but following the stationary parade of adorable, giddy Minnesotans to try to find the end of the line, which took at least half an hour, was a really magical experience in itself. Also, it gave me a chance to circumnavigate just about every block of downtown St. Paul, discovering that it is indeed as handsome and charming as the learned astronomers of Minneapolis have long theorized it would be. Once the police drove by to apologize over bullhorns for the fact the stadium was full, I joined the rest of the surplus crowd in watching the speech on a Jumbotron outside. There was no sound, but there was closed captioning, so we all stood around reading in the darkened streets, cheering and screaming when we reached the end of a sentence that particularly appealed to us. At the time, I didn't notice there were that many people standing around reading with me, but when I saw the footage of us on TV, I realized it actually was a huge swarm of tens of thousands of people.

A gay pride festival also occurred, and while I've made it a custom to be scared of and grossed out by Gay Pride, this was actually really fun, especially since everyone in town, regardless of sexuality, was all into it. Like St. Patrick's Day, only gay instead of Irish, and not unbearably irritating. Even the Uptown mini-pre-pride subfestival, for a particular neighborhood of a city with less than 400, 000 people altogether, was a gigantic wonderful mess, with a huge mass of fun drunk people rocking out. It was hard not to compare this to the pathetic Brooklyn Pride festival we had woefully attended last year, where about 10 really bored and boring people skulked around while someone played half-hearted hip hop in the midst of the dullness. This being all the more pathetic, as we were constantly being reminded that if Brooklyn were its own city, it would be the 2nd biggest city in the country, or whatever. Anyway, the full-on Festival, occurring in the park across the street from my workplace was really big and oddly pleasant, with everyone in town showing up just because it was as good a reason as any to wander around in the park. I was working through most of it, but did stop by with Eric and Sarah to eat a bag of fried cheese curds. Though I did also see people paddling giant canoes around in the lake, the highlight was of course the En Vogue concert at the end. You had to pay to watch them from within this chain-link fenced area, but it was free to stand outside the chin-high chain-link fence. We turned out to have picked a very good spot, for we were among the first people to notice En Vogue making their appearance on a golf cart, which gave us the rare pleasure of running towards a golf cart full of En Vogue members while waving our arms and shouting. Naturally, they saved "Free Your Mind" for last, which ignited a powderkeg of hoopla, everyone singing along, denying vehemently that our fondness for tight clothing and high-heeled shoes meant that we were prostitutes. It all ended with the longest, most deluxe fireworks show I've ever seen.

One day, Sarah and I were riding the bus, and this woman got on carrying a gigantic fluorescent orange feather. She began wiggling it in the bus driver's face, while jokingly pretending this was an accident: "Ooops! Oh, sorry! Is my feather in your way?" She then took a seat across from a young mother, and began shoving the feather in the baffled and concerned looking face of this other woman's baby. She did this for a while, the baby and mother alike continuing to look rather disconcerted. Then, when the bus came to the next stop, the woman got up and dismounted the vehicle, apparently having gotten everything she needed out of the trip.

Well, I could go on and on, if I weren't as lazy as a cryogenically frozen log of tortoise crap. But I think from these choice tidbits, you can pretty much get the general idea of my world as it currently stands. Ideally, with this priceless backstory filled in, I will move on to providing more proactive, real-time updates on my life as America's most torpid buttmunch. Until then, goodnight and God bless.

I haven't entered the blogosphere, but Carrie has!

This week I got to thinking. Men. Women. Are we really that different? If you can't stand the heat, get out of my bedroom! Women, today, living in Modern Day Manhattan. Are we really in love? Or is love just a dream we dreamed up one day? Can you love women if you're really a men?

So, in the last few weeks, I had two blockbuster cultural events. One was going with Eric to see a performance of Jesus Christ Superstar featuring Ted Neeley, the crazy screaming Christ from the film, which was, in my opinion, the pinnacle of 1970's cinema. Of course, the big draw being the hope that he would scream a whole lot as in the film. The fact he's rather old and plump made the prospect of him screaming like a crazy bitch all the more exciting. But in the first few songs, he curiously backed away from screaming, which caused us to worry--perhaps after so many years of screaming like a crazy bitch, he had so lacerated his vocal cords that it was no longer possible. I thought I sensed the same blend of concern, sorrow, and disappointment tingling through the rest of the crowd. But then, a few songs in, the Holy Spirit descended upon him and he began letting rip with the crazy, shrill screeching once more, and everyone burst into ecstatic applause and screaming immediately, proving to me again that I really am mostly on the same page as my fellow Twin Citians, and not just projecting my bizarre personal disorders upon them.

We also got to see Dolly Parton perform on the University of Minnesota campus, which was awesome even before the show started, as it was sort of like an Upper Midwest Mardi Gras. Everyone was so excited and intoxicated and costumed for the blessed event, the best being this very tall, stout Dollyfied drag queen who ended up standing in the semi-mosh pit at the front of the theater throughout the show, which was so comprehensive as to have an intermission. It would of course be futile to attempt to describe the awesomeness of being in the same building as Dolly Parton in words, but suffice it to say it was even awesomer than you would imagine. Not only is her voice as perfect as ever, she also spent a lot of time telling us little stories or musings, and I didn't know just how many instruments she can play. Over the course of the show, she operated a piano, a guitar, a banjo, a harmonica, a fiddle, and a dulcimer, all encrusted with white rhinestones. She saved "9 to 5" for next-to-last, producing one of the most exciting explosions of mass rocking-out I've seen in quite a while. It was kind of like the scene in "Sound of Music" where the dude is singing "Edelweiss" and everyone proudly stands up to sing their forbidden national anthem, crossed with the culmination of "Captain EO" where Michael Jackson is shooting people with lasers that make them leap and cartwheel and breakdance, except that it was more instantaneous, everyone springing up screaming immediately to begin leaping and flailing their fists around in the air. Of course, she closed with "I Will Always Love You." While this is always a damn fine song, it was just transcendent hearing it from Dolly's living mouth, surrounded by a crowd of angel-hearted Minnesotans. Looking around it was just beautiful, for as we were discussing with these two elderly lesbians at the bus stop afterwards, there was this amazing generational range of people there, united in Dollyphilia. Of course, there was an even more intense concentration of gayness than one already finds in any building in Minneapolis, but there were some straight people, too, and old people, and chubby moms with their teenage kids, and whatever the hell people like me are, and everything in between, all of us so happy and maudlin together in a big dark cavern together.

So, moving right along, I also went on an absurdly brief jaunt to California to see our friends Natalie and Joseph get married. It was absurdly brief, and kind of felt like it ended before it even began, but I am very glad I went. Above all, I just knew I had to be there to see them tie the knot, because they're awesome, and even though I only know them through Eric, and see them for a few hours every couple of months when making an absurdly brief whirl through the Golden State, it's always a very special occasion and I think they rule. I hadn't really thought beforehand how groovy it would be to meet their families, too. Since her side is mostly from the angsty world of inland California and his is from the Upper Midwest--rural Wisconsin plus some immigrants to the Twin Cities, it was kind of like a grand summit of my two favorite superpowers. I guess a lot of his relatives hadn't really ever encountered gay people before, but seriously, they were so thoroughly nice and friendly to us, I wouldn't have guessed there was anything out of the ordinary going on. And certainly, once we were well advanced into the drunken dance party portion of the evening, a perfect sort of harmonious communion was established. But the whole day was awesome, the ceremony was in these other lovely friends of theirs' backyard, and even though it was the sultriest day ever, and the dogs next door were barking ferociously through the opening of the ceremony, it was really genuinely beautiful. Weddings are a nice altered state of consciousness anyway, but it is a lot specialer if it feels less like an artificial ritual than a genuine expression of the personalities of the people involved. So, basically, it kicked ass.

We also got to briefly flutter back into Oakland for a few hours, which made me ever so happy, feeling as I always do when I'm back there like an old man who has come to see the beloved homeland he was exiled from just one last time before he dies in peace. I would have liked to see everyone, but again, having basically a few hundred minutes to spend, I think it was better to just concentrate on being with Kat and Nick again rather than trying to sloppily rig up some hurried exchange of small talk with a bunch of other long lost friends in that tiny peephole of time. Besides which, though many of my favorite people in the universe do live in San Francisco, I do always hate having to be in Fran Francisco. Especially when I have a very limited amount of minutes to spend basking in Californiality, it can be frustrating spending a chunk of that time in one of my least favorite, and I would say, least representative, pockets of that noble land. Anyway, that was beautiful, then the next day, after riding back along the Capitol Corridor, we got to spend a bit of time with our god-daughter Emily, who is so adorable and cool. The first time we kicked it, she seemed to be having kind of a rough day, besides which, all brand-new babies are pretty similar. But this time, she was totally in her own awesome baby groove. She likes to kick a lot, and makes these rad baby screeches (somewhat along the lines of the aforementioned Jesus scream), and crawls around rather like a seal. It would seem we are more alike than she would like to believe!

So then it was suddenly time to leave, and I felt way more melancholy than I had expected. I mean, I hadn't really planned, until the last possible second, to go anyway, but then I felt great sadness about it being over so fast. It wasn't like going back there from New York, of course, when I felt like I was being released from a dungeon flooded to knee level with cold urine for a short parole in a sunlit meadow of tulips and poignantly cooing doves, before being promptly dragged back into the dungeon. I was going from one place I loved to another, but it was still sad, mainly of course because almost everyone I ever knew is back there. I guess now it's more like being a ghost who can only descend from heaven to spy on a few loved ones on Earth for a few minutes during every total eclipse of the moon. Being poor, transcontinental travel has never been that easy a feat, but with it getting even more difficult and expensive, as modernity kind of crumbles around us, such chasms just feel more vast and impossible. I just wish, even more than before, that Minnesota and California could just be right next to each other. It would be most convenient if Minnesota could swap seats with Nevada, but not only would it then have to give up all its lakes and plant life, but the shapes just wouldn't fit together at all. The best would be if it could swap with Oregon and Washington. I mean, no offense to the Pacific Northwest, they just don't have the soul that CA and MN got going on. Some compromises would be necessary: I would be willing to have Idaho grow a little protuberance on its left flank, and WA and OR might have to be shrunk slightly, with their Eastern portions submerged in Lake Superior and Wisconsin, but I don't think anyone would mind that so much. So, yeah, that's my plan, and I'll get right to work on that.

Since any hope of brevity is lost, it is worth noting that I passed through Salt Lake City in the course of my epic voyage. I was apprehensive about this. For one thing, I assumed the airport would be especially unhospitable to smokers, given the state religion's theological objection to tobacco. But not only were there plenty of smoking lounges--they weren't even like the state-of-the-art smoking areas in Denver, they were just random rooms by the gates with no doors, not much ventilation, and lots of ashtrays. Nice. And I must say, that is one of the most fascinating looking patches of geography. The lake and abutting desert totally look like Jupiter or something--the lake's got all these little islands and veins of dinosaur salt between patches of lake of varying shades of blue and green, and this one weird trapezoidal stretch of bright burgundy water. It's all the weirder since there's this sudden cutoff between the Jupiter side, and then this (again) very Sound of Musicky scene of lush green mountains with lush green valleys. So weird. I would never want to live in Utah, but I wouldn't mind hovering over it a lot.

I was half-excited and half-scared, because I really thought it quite likely the plane would crash on take-off or landing. There seemed a perverse logic to me dying in Utah. But I did, of course, have the competing fantasy, that I would crash, ideally in the very center of the Lake, and then survive and swim across it to one of the alien shores. I thought that would be a mysterious metaphysical victory over Mormonism, imagining myself emerging triumphantly from that weird-ass brine to demand a lifetime of free round-trip tickets between MSP and LAX. Take that, Joseph Smith! In your comically whiskered face, Brigham Young!

Tags: dolly christ baby salt