We All Bring Something to the Job...

It’s Friday, it’s practically summer, and I've lost six pounds.  Do I ask for much more? I do not. Ladies and gentlemen, join me, won’t you, in giddy anticipation of the end of the work day and the beginning of a two-day foray into free-style sock-folding and hours-long expeditions into my own mind.

I turn to my iPod, Harmonic Harbinger, Aural Oracle, Tuneful Tarot, and ask it: this morning’s playlist? What’s it say for the weekend?

The Sweet Part of the City by The Hold Steady*

Carry On by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

GettingDown by The Kills

DisasterButton by Snow Patrol

Bella Donna by The Avett Brothers

She CriesYour Name by Beth Orton*

Well I don't much care for the look of this, do you?  Sweet, nostalgic, and sad.  Prepare for weeping, peoples.  

I'm sorry.  I calls 'em as I sees 'em.

Best to just work it off, don't you think? Because I’ve been working for a long time. A very, very long time. Since birth, I believe it was – straight out of the womb and onto a factory line. Those were good times.

One of the first jobs I ever had was working as a busboy. We were ALL busboys back then, by the way, regardless of gender, just as we were all paperboys, a job I also held. The sexual orientation, in those days, of the lower-ranked help was of no interest to anyone but that of the lower-ranked help, but I digress.

I’ve served and cleaned up pizzas, subs, Mexican food, truck-stop food. It was at the truck stop that I met a fellow waitress who claimed that she could not vacuum at the end of her shift because, and I quote, “I don’t know how.”

She didn’t know how to vacuum.

It wasn’t a trick vacuum. There was a canister, a hose, and an on/off button. That’s all it had, technology-wise. It didn’t sweeten the air, it didn’t make anything any freer from allergens – the lousy thing barely sucked up dirt.

But she didn’t know how to vacuum.

You’d think there’d be a test for that sort of thing before hiring, wouldn’t you?

Needless to say, I was forced to kill her and bury her in the back with the other brain-dead waitresses.

I told you all that to tell you this:  I have a serving job tonight.

And while I can’t tell you what kind of stupidity will occur – it may be nothing at all! people can be so unreliable – odds are good that there will indeed be some kind of stupidity.

I remember the last job like it was several months ago.

“Why don’t you and I fill the glasses with ice water? The reception’s supposed to start at 7:00 and we can have them done by 6:30.”

“Hmm. Yeah, sure,” says Crystal/Tiffany/Amber. She was cute as a button, a little plump, perhaps, in a white shirt stretched tight enough across the bosom to threaten to launch buttons to all four corners.

“Help me grab the water pitchers. We can fill half of them with ice and half of them with water, load them on to the carts, and pull them into the dining room.”

“What’s that now?”

“Ice,” I said. “And water.”

We got a couple other servers to help us while still others loaded creams and sugars into little glass dishes, made coffee, inspected silverware for unpleasantries.

“Fill the water glasses completely with ice and only half-way with water,” I told Crystal/Tiffany/Amber. “That way when the people get here half an hour from now the water level will be perfect.”

“What’s that now?”

Twenty-four rounds of eight. One hundred and ninety-two water glasses.

I’m sure you can see where this is headed.

By the time we had finished, the water glasses on Crystal/Tiffany/Amber’s end of the room threatened to breach the rim. She had filled them without remembering the 30 minutes they would sit.

I was astounded. The hours before a large party are hectic and there’s no time for do-overs. I fought the urge to stare at her accusingly and settled for pursing my lips and looking put out.

Crystal/Tiffany/Amber’s big brown eyes registered mild confusion followed quickly by blank blinking. Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  Notorious for her ability to snack almost continuously at any job, her mind was on the plates of hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen.

Between the suspected balloon smuggling going on under that tiny white shirt and her passable and flirtatious Spanish (kitchens being predominantly Spanish-speaking), Crystal/Tiffany/Amber did pretty well for herself.

We took care of it, of course, and neither our boss nor the wedding party witnessed the frantic pouring-off and wiping down of the cresting glasses of ice water.

No harm, no foul.

I don’t work as many of the serving jobs as some of the gals, but I hear that Crystal/Tiffany/Amber doesn’t get called in to work anymore.

I don’t miss her.

But I’ll bet the kitchen staff does.

Hold On. Let Me Call My Agent for You.

You!  What if I were to tell you that I have, within my reach – and, most importantly, absolutely free of charge! – the power to tell you about your immediate future?

What would that be worth to you, purely in the name of gratitude and/or the desire to keep me away from your front door, like I told the cops I would?  Would you buy my first booklet (see PayPal link to the right!)?  Would you pop by and mash up some of that delicious guacamole you keep talking about?

What ever you decide to do, just know that ol’ Pearl is here for you.

Shh.  Let’s listen.

Game of Pricks by Guided By Voices

Lonely Boy by The Black Keys

Rudie Can’t Fail by The Clash

Things You Can Do by TV on the Radio

Sequestered in Memphis by The Hold Steady

Open Sesame, Pt. 2 by Kool and The Gang

Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti and Spearhead

And there you have it:  it’s a game of pricks, lonely boy.  Rudie can’t fail, there are things you can do!  Sequestered in Memphis?  Well, open sesame because, hey!  I love you!

And yes.  We’re going to stick with that.

Back when new clothes meant Levis and a red sweater (Go, Cardinals!) and I semi-regularly stunk of sliced onions (stupid sandwich shop), the worst thing you could call someone was a “poser”, or, its more upscale term, a “poseur”.

Posers were sad, confused creatures who lip-synched to records during school-wide talent shows and spoke with British accents despite having lived their whole lives in the Midwestern United States.

But why, you ask yourself, is this an issue? Am I quitting my job to take up full-time lip-synching? Am I finally through practicing my British accent, ready to bring it to the world?

Nope. Better.

Ladies and gentlemen, MC Mutter is back on the bus.

Do you know Mr. Mutter? You may even have one in your city. Look around! There he is, hunched forward, eyes narrowed with concentration, grooving to his iPod, his lips moving along to a song only he can hear.

“Awww-huh-huh-huh. Awwwwwwwwwwww yeah.”

Oh, yeah? And a ring-a-ding-ding to you, too, big fella.

The poor li’l SOB. I feel for him. Because I know – being just as delusional myself but too self-conscious to make it manifest on a public bus – that he believes that we are looking at him, not because he’s rocking back and forth, lips twitching, approaching what just may be an epileptic seizure, but because we admire his rhythm, his musical talent, his flow.

The girl sitting next to him is posing, too, and will be reading for the part of Rapper’s Girl #3. She's put effort into that outfit.  Frankly, that’s a whole lot of cleavage happening for 6:24 a.m.

The man sitting across from that pair is having a hard time reading his paper today.

Just wait until she stands up again – did you know that her butt is “Juicy”?

At least that’s what the seat of her pants say.

They got off at the light rail, those two, no doubt taking their show to the Mall of America, where they will impress others of their kind, gathering in rambunctious groups of saggy-pantsed and Juicy-butted angst.

Crazy kids.

We'll Move Down South

We get up early, brush our faces and wash our teeth.  We persist in our wearing of pants in public. We cover our mouths when we yawn, we resist the urge to get involved in situations that do not require our input.

And now we’ve come to our reward.  Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the weekend, the dewy, precious days where the air is sweet and our time is our own. 

What shall we do with this time?  Will we sleep in?   Will we in the northern climes bother to repaint our toenails?  Will we ever make that eggplant rollatini we got all excited about a couple weeks ago? 

The answer to these and other questions lie within the mysterious confines of my iPod; for as I continue to insist, my iPod, set on “shuffle” and played during my morning’s commute, foretells the future.

Shhh.  Let’s listen.

Los Angeles by Frank Black

Barracuda by Heart

Howlin’ for You by The Black Keys

Lovesick by Lindstrom & Christabelle

Boots or Hearts by The Tragically Hip

Different When it Comes to You by Bruce Cockburn

Conventional Wisdom by Built to Spill

The weeken's prognosis? Frankly, I just don't know.  At this point, I've got over 50 hours of work in this week.  My imagination is shot, and I need a nap.  If you'd fill in the blanks here, I'd appreciate it. 

And to top it off, the escalators just inside The City Center weren’t running this morning.

I don’t need them, of course, having been walking on my own since the tender age of 11 months, but the sight of the non-escalating escalators gave me pause.

I stop.

Hammer time.

Since childhood, deserted streets have been my friends. Do I see zombies? I do not. I see freedom. This may shock you, but I’ve got a pretty sturdy little imagination on me and it absolutely loves scenarios like this…

I pause to survey the scene.

It is 6:45 a.m. and the end of the world that we've been hearing so much about has finally happened.

I am, of course, on time for work.

I move in my usual direction, like a cow leaving the milk barn and heading to pasture, in search of coffee. Eight years I’ve been doing this. Something’s not right, and it’s not just the non-escalating stairs.

It is then that I realize that there’s no line at the Starbucks.

Dizzy with pleasure, I walk in like I own the joint. “’Mornin’, Joe,” I say to the coffee dispenser. I help myself to a cup, jauntily throwing a quarter in the tip jar. “There ya go,” I mutter. “Although I’m still unclear as to why I tip you...”

Lawlessly, I cram my pockets full of Splenda packets.

I take a seat, prop my feet up on the table in front of me. I am making lazy plans to head out to a Winnebago dealership and drive one south when it occurs to me that the escalator has started up...

I shake my head, the daydream ruined, and my eyes focus on the moving stairs. In reality, I have not gotten my coffee yet. There is a man in a blue workman’s style uniform in front of me.

“Mornin’,” Pete says. You can tell it’s Pete because that’s what his shirt says.

“Got the steps moving again, I see,” I say.

He nods, almost bashfully. I smile at him to show him I mean no harm and proceed toward the Starbucks.

And I feel cheated when I see that there’s a line.

You Won't Need Your Brain for This; or Spreadsheets Are Totally Dope

Another day, another dollar, maybe dollar-and-a-half richer, and where are we?

Ladies and gentlemen, the end of the week arriveth, and the excitement is palpable. Will the downstairs neighbors continue in their scrumptious offerings of home-made treats? Will the cat upstairs ever stop screaming? Will my supply of tequila hold out?

And what about Naomi?

For answers to this and much, much more, let us consult the iPod, shall we?

As I do every Friday, I cling to the idea that the morning’s playlist during my commute has prophetic portents.

Shhh.  Listen.

You Cheated Me by Martha Wainwright

16 Horsepower by Black Soul Choir

La Fiesta by Maynard Ferguson

Tired of Being Alone by Al Green

Halfway Home by TV on the Radio

Vincent by Don McLean

Bird on a Wire by Leonard Cohen

Ah.  So it is like every other weekend:  the pursuit of passion, of purity of purpose, of perfect possibilities and personal ponderings.

Man, I need a nap.

You may have noticed, after all, that my eyes have recently taken on the gleaming, wide-eyed appearance of a West Coast game show contestant.

Welcome, one and all, to today’s episode of Bring Me a Rock, a mid-level office-drone game designed to mesmerize, stun, and/or transfix the lucky player into a state of bloodshot hypnosis.

Which, if you ask me, is the only way to work full-time.

What’s that?  You want to play, too?  Oh, you adorably foolish little worker bee.  Come.  Sit here, next to me.  No, no, no; there’s no need to bring your brain.  Let’s set that in my lunch bag, next to the jello there.  Your brain isn’t green, is it?  Good.  Then there will be no chance that we’ll mix those two up later…

You’re going to need some things.  Firstly, and foremostly, you’re going to need a spreadsheet.  Let’s use mine, shall we?  See how there are 3000-some lines?  We’re going to sort it: first by work group, then by sales rep, then we’re going to cross-reference it by toothpick vs. floss preference.

And now, we’re going to run through it, line by line, looking for mis-matched information.

I hope you’ve brought comfortable pants.  We’re gonna be here awhile.

Word of advice:  The faster you go, looking simply for differences in cell size, the faster it gets done.

As my brother used to say, we’re not paintin’ the Mona Lisa here.

Scroll!  Scroll, my pretties!

Wheee!  The data just flies by!  We’re going to have this done in just a -- Hold on there.  What was that?  Back up.

Nope.  Sorry.  My mistake.  Scroll on.

It’s about on the 500^th, 700^th line that things really start getting hinky.  Ha! Ha! Look at you.  What’s up with your eyes, anyway?  Why are you holding them so wide?  What do you mean, “because you are”?  I am not!  Oh, wait.  I guess I am.  Ha ha.  I hadn’t noticed that before.

Hey.  Look away from the screen quick, then look back and blink your eyes open and closed really fast.  Isn’t that funny?  Spreadsheet strobelight.  Don’t let HR catch you doing that, though.

Suspicious little group.

Hey.   You keep scrolling through the data, and I’m gonna flick the lights in the office off and on really fast.  Do you think anyone would notice if we YouTubed a little Ted Nugent?  Seriously, wouldn’t Stranglehold sound really good right now?

Suddenly I have the urge for a pizza and a six-pack of Mountain Dew. 

Look.  Why don’t you finish up, and I’ll go see if that cute guy in Editing wants to join us for lunch.

What do you mean it’s not anywhere near lunchtime?

Am I the only one around here that could use a break?

You Can Take Her With You, But You Probably Shouldn’t

What, Friday? Again?! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the day where I foist, upon the unsuspecting readers of my blog, my demented belief that my iPod foretells the future.

What? Well of course it’s true! Would I say it if it weren’t? My iPod, set on “shuffle” and played during my morning commute has all the fresh, oracle-y powers of, say, a tea cup’s up-ended remnants or the jumbled spattering of rolled chicken bones…

Just watch.

Speed King by Deep Purple
Voodoo Cadillac by Southern Culture on the Skids
Two Against One by Danger Mouse (feat. Jack White)
L.O.V. by Fitz & The Tantrums
D is for Dangerous by Arctic Monkeys
Tiger Mountain Peasant Song by Fleet Foxes*
Theme from The Tiki Wonder Hour by Combustible Edison
Everybody Knows by Leonard Cohen

And there you have it. Avoid cars, the alphabet, hippies, and anything to do with brooding consciousness.

You can thank me later. I would not look askance at an offer of a free beer.

So! Do we have time for a cat story?

Because Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) is an absolute hoot, albeit a cruel one.

“Don’t look,” she hisses, her paw covering her mouth as she sips delicately from the Mai Tai she insists she have with lunch. “But I think I saw that woman over there suspended by guy wires and sandwiched between Mighty Mouse and a high school marching band at the last Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

Of course this sort of thing always makes me spit my beer out with laughter, even if it is inappropriate.

But what do you want from the world’s most dangerous kitteh?

For she truly is dangerous.

How else would I describe her, aside from “dangerous”? She is a small-pawed and symmetrically-striped kitty, a stealthy and bright-eyed kitty, a kitty capable of lifting your wallet while winding herself about your ankles.

A kitty with sharp eyes and a sharp tongue.

Sure we’ve had our issues. She has repeatedly cost me money (usually in the form of financial settlements in lieu of litigation) and she once dangled a gerbil on a string out the front window just to see how high the neighborhood cats could jump (for the record, the answer would be “quite high, really”).

We are sitting at Psycho Suzi’s, on the Tiki Deck. Summer has arrived, and with it Liza Bean’s penchant for umbrella-ed drinks. She sips, the straw held delicately between her little black lips. Tiny white teeth appear and disappear as she talks around the straw.

“I mean, really,” she says. “Are those pajama bottoms? One goes out in public, and one dresses for the occasion.” She laughs behind one well-manicured paw. “How much will you give me to go over there and tell her naptime’s over?”

How much will I give her? Nothing, of course, as I’m afraid she’ll do it for free.

The last fight she got in cost me the money I was saving for a flatscreen TV.

“Oh, never mind,” she purrs. “It’s too lovely a day.” Her eyes, half-lidded in the afternoon sun, glow an emerald green.

“We have cream at home, don’t we? I do so enjoy a little cream in the afternoon.” She sighs. “I just love these little outings. We really should do this more often.”


* Feeling mellow? This is a nice mellow song.

Mary Gets Rubbed

Lurching headlong into a weekend, newly-freckled and be-blonded by the Florida sun, I return to Minneapolis wondering what will happen next…

If only we knew.

And then I smile. Because of course we know. My iPod! Why, set on “shuffle” and left to its own devices during a Friday-morning commute, my iPod tells the future!

Sic semper tyrannis! E Pluribus Unum! Eenie meenie jelly beanie, the spirits are about to speak! (Sorry, Bullwinkle.)

21st Century Schizoid Man by King Crimson
Rose Garden by Southern Culture on the Skids
Totally Nude by The Wallets
Blue Rondo a la Turk by Dave Brubeck
You Really Got Me by The Kinks
Sing a Song by Earth Wind & Fire

You see that, kids? Happy weekend.

So quickly, before I lose you to naked dancing and air piano, a quick thought…

Because there we were, as we so often are: black-pantsed and white-shirted and side-by-side. Neatly coiffed, hands clasped behind our backs, Mary and I rock gently on our heels, striving for a look that says both “I’m here to serve” and “Please don’t ask me for anything”.

We are standing in the banquet hall, just outside the swinging kitchen doors.

Church service over, a 30-minute bar/reception follows.

Christmas dinner is right around the corner.

“You look nice,” I say.

“No, you look nice,” Mary says.

Ice waters filled to a three-quarters height, butter pats and creams center-table, silverware inspected, we await the storm that will be the next four hours.

“Oy vey,” Mary says.

A man in a suit, comfortably nestled between “old” and “elderly”, is approaching with a surprisingly sturdy gait.

“Mary!” he shouts.

My head swivels to the right, where I watch a blush creep up Mary’s neck.

“You know this guy?” I say out of the side of my mouth.

“Everybody knows me,” she mutters.

The man in the suit wraps an arm around Mary’s shoulders, rubs her upper arm vigorously. “How’re ya, sweetheart? Say, I’m wondering what a guy’s gotta do around here to get a glass of ice water. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Mary, ever the sweetheart, can indeed get this guy a glass of ice water.

I follow her into the back. “No, seriously,” I say, “How does he know your name?”

She shakes her head. “When I was setting up that table just outside the double doors, he was out there.”

“Did he hug you then, too?”

“I’m irresistible to the old guys,” she says, wide-eyed. “They want to squeeze me.”

It’s true. “You’ll probably get a proposal out of the evening.”

“Shaddap,” she says pleasantly.

Thirty minutes later, and Mary comes flying into the back kitchen. “Ack!” We’d just finished serving the salads: huge, glass-bowled affairs passed around tables of eight, family-style. I hold out a piece of fresh fruit to calm her nerves.

“That’s not going to help,” she says, popping it into her mouth. “Mmmm,” she says, “pineapple.”

“So what’s going on?”

She dabs at her lips, checks her lipstick in the polished steel of the hand-towel dispenser. “Do I look like I want to be hugged to you?”

“I personally find you almost indescribably attractive,” I say.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Why I oughta…”

“Why you little…”

We laugh.

“You busy? Come with me. Watch this.”

I follow her out to the floor, where she is engulfed by old- to elderly men. “Mary!” they shout.

“You gotta meet Pearl,” she says, grinning. She pushes me forward.

“Pearl!” they shout.

One of them throws an arm around Mary, rubs her on the back. “You’re nice people, you know that? You’re just nice people.”

And we smile at each other.

Because, darn it. We’re just nice people.

Nice, huggable people.


Have a good weekend, everyone. Don't forget to come back!

That Alarm in Your Head is Meant to be Noticed

Ladies and gentlemen, cats and kittens, welcome to Friday, the day on which we ask ourselves, Why didn’t I get an education and ensure myself a better-paying job?

The answer, my friend, is that I don’t know. Everyone tried to talk to you about it, but you know how you are.

You didn’t listen.

But it’s not too late! The future is still before us. And now, through my steadfast and possibly erroneous belief in the oracle-y powers of my iPod, played on the Friday morning commute and carefully scrutinized, you, too, can predict your immediate future.

Aw, come on! Play along!

This Story by Eyedea & Abilities
What Does it Take (to win your love) by Jr. Walker
Television, the Drug of the Nation by The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprosy
House Party by The JB Horns
Will It Go Round in Circles by Billy Preston
Ramble On by Led Zeppelin
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised by Gil Scott-Heron

Hmm. Looks like a good weekend, with a decent beat and perhaps a horn section in the background. Drink lots of fluids and get plenty of sleep. Wait – that might just be for me, because, for the second time in under a month, I left work early Monday. Sick again, I took my throbbing head and increasingly stuffed-up nose out the door and to the bus stop.

Now, I would not describe myself as a paranoid person.

That said, however, I noticed the young man at the bus stop immediately.

He arrived moments after I did, but he seemed to be looking at the people at the bus stop more than he seemed to be awaiting a bus. As he approached me, I put my new Kindle in my purse, pull my bus pass from my purse and board.

It is as the bus is pulling away, that it appears he suddenly remembers that this is his bus. Waving his arms, the driver stops, the doors open, and he boards.

He takes a seat three behind me.

We are almost over the bridge when I hear him talking.

“Miss? Hello? Hello? Hellooooooo.”

I’ve got my earbuds in, but my iPod is not on. When I feel there might be something going on, something to listen to, I turn it off.

I’ve believed in my gut all my life, and my gut didn’t like this man.

I ignore him.

“Hello? Helloooooo! Miss? Miss?” The volume is somewhere between a whisper and a mutter, and I finally turn around.

He has a cell phone to his ear. He smiles at me. I turn back around. I know he’s been talking to me.

He’s not talking to anyone on the phone. I turn around, look at him again. The phone is no longer out.

He smiles.

Someone at the front of the bus pulls the cord, and I jump up and get off of it at the last possible second.

And I watch the bus, with him still in the back of it, go on without me.

I’ll catch a different one.

If You’re Going to Insist on Freezing

Psst. Hey. Hey you! Got a minute?

What if I was to tell you that my iPod, set on “shuffle” and played during my morning’s commute, told the future? Would you believe me?

You would?

I knew there was something funny about you.

Shh. Let’s listen:

Howlin’ for You by The Black Keys
I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You by Black Kids
Suddenly… (I Miss Carpaty) by Gogol Bordello
Electric Feel by MGMT
Learn to Fly by Foo Fighters
Low Rising by The Swell Season
I Can’t Get Next to You by The Temptations

So that’s it! There’s the future! What’s it mean, you say? Sorry – that costs extra.


Yes, sir, winter’s begun in earnest; and you know what that means.

It’s time to laugh and point.

Dear Fellow Bus Rider, why? Why do you persist in your ways?

You! Why do you insist upon wearing pants belted just below your butt cheeks? Why are you wearing an overly large parka, your arms pulled in, the sleeves flapping uselessly in the driving wind? You look miserable, truly miserable. What you’re wearing is the equivalent of wearing nothing at all. True, it lacks the entertainment quality of standing at the bus stop naked; but your enormous jeans and jacket are no match for a winter gale. I can see that you are – what? – 16? 17? Allowances for your stupidity have been made. Still. Wherever you are from, you need to return there, immediately, before they find your silly, frozen body on the sidewalk and we are forced to shovel around you.

But you! Lady on the Bus! Heels? Heels?! You’re old enough to know better.

And before you go imagining an elegant woman, long-legged, fashionable, and from a part of the world that knows not the ways of the winter, let me assure you that Ms. It-Says-“Juicy”-On-The-Seat-Of-My-Pants is from here.

This ain’t her first time around the ice rink.

Part of me – the smug, warm part of me, liberally layered in wool, down, and occasionally, cats – wants the bus to break down, to be told that we need to walk to the next stop and that it’s, oh, a mile away. I, Nanook of the North, will trudge bravely forward, cracking my whip at the sled dogs and shouting encouragement while Ms. Three-Inch Heels totters down the steps of the bus and plants herself face first into a snow bank.

This is where the laughing and pointing part comes in.

It’s Minnesota. Our heating bills are sky-high, the days are six hours long, and exposed flesh freezes.

Otherwise, go about your business, fellow commuters. I have no strong feelings about this.

Mary's Been Hurty, or A Good Deed Comes Home to Roost

A hush falls over the office, the kitchen, the bus, as we contemplate the completion of another week of our lives and the approach of the weekend.

If only there was some way to know what to expect. If only we could be, say, forewarned so as to be forearmed…

But wait! Didn’t I tell you? My iPod! My iPod, set on “shuffle” and played during Friday morning’s commute holds the key to all of our questions!

What? Yes, really. Oh, humor me and play along. I have so little…

Suzanne by Leonard Cohen
Tiger Mountain Peasant Song by Fleet Foxes
New Orleans is Sinking by The Tragically Hip
Province by TV on the Radio
Tiburon by Stan Kenton and His Orchestra
The Crunge by Led Zeppelin
Since You’re Gone by The Cars
Without a Fight by Janelle Monae


Uh-oh. A sense of melancholy has just slid in under the door. That isn’t you, is it? Someone’s heart is going to be broken, I just know it. Luckily it won’t be mine, as I had it removed in splinters some time ago…

So! Do we have time for a story?

You remember Mary, don’t you? Mary, the woman with believes, like me, that Zantigo’s is a proper reward for hard work, a woman whose imagination jumps immediately to the ridiculous, the woman with whom I’ve considered becoming a sit-down comedian, has had a serious problem.

Mary needs to have a tooth pulled.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? But it isn’t. Not when you have no money and no insurance.

For the last two months, Mary has struggled, consuming up to 16 Advil a day.

The left side of her face eventually became quite swollen.

“Looka be,” she moaned through clenched teeth. “I ab so hurty.”

The first dentist, whom Mary feared she’d have to pay in foot rubs and popcorn hulls, diagnosed the wisdom tooth as abscessed, gave her a course of antibiotics, and sent her out the door with a figurative foot to the small of her back.

“We’ll take it out when you’ve finished the pills!”

With two days of the pills left, however, the tooth, Mary swears, slid off her jaw and deposited itself under her tongue.

I went to visit her.

“Awb tellin ya,” she slurred from between clenched teeth, tears in her eyes, “dat guy’s tryin ta kill me.”

She sipped a Fresca through a straw. “Int’restin fack,” she slurred. “Dey train cadaber dogs wif dead teef. My mouf’s lak a cadaber dog’s trainin groun’.”

Luckily, having lived with a man who believes there’s no need to move the jaw while speaking, I am fully versed in Slur.

“You think a cadaver dog would signal on your mouth?”

“Awb sure ub it.”

The next day, Mary’s friend Becky stopped in. Becky’s mother, Rose, is in an assisted living facility, and Mary visits her a couple times a week. Mary doesn’t have a car during the daytime hours, and visits Rose come hell or high water, via bicycle.

“I’m taking you to my dentist,” Becky says.

“No, no, no…” Mary says, grabbing her coat and her purse.

Pages of paperwork are filled out, but the last page stops her cold. “All services to be paid in full at time of service,” it says.

“OK,” Mary mutters, “we gotta go.”

Becky puts her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “I’m paying.”

Mary stares at her.

“It’s the least I can do. You visit my mother-in-law when I can’t. Let me do this for you.”

Mary bursts into tears. “I’ll pay you back. I swear –“

Becky stops her. “Don’t you dare.”

The second dentist’s response to Mary’s abscessed wisdom tooth is encapsulated in one word: “Whoa”. Several shots of Novocaine later, a little gas to set the mood, and his knee is on her chest and wresting the offending tooth from her exhausted and swollen gums.

The tooth – and the pain – is gone.

“Everything okay, then?” he asks her. “You feeling okay in there?”

Mary grins, her mouth packed with cotton gauze. She gives him the “thumbs up” sign, the "A-OK" sign, and an earnestly slurred “Ah luh yoo mang”.

"I love you, too," says the dentist.

And just like that, it is over.

Mary is smiling again.

Trippin' on the Bus, or Don't Talk So Fast, I'm Writing This Down!

And so it is, on this Friday, that once again, our futures nebulous and hazy, we approach the iPod, hat in hand, in the hopes that its shuffled playlist will tell us our future.

O, iPod! What up, dawg?

Wait. No.

I'm so sorry. I apologize for that. My saying “dawg” is right up there with my saying “you go, girl” or ordering a cocktail listing Red Bull (or any other energy drink) as an ingredient – it's stilted and wrong and is the verbal equivalent of me going to the grocery store in sweat pants.

It's just not done.

So let me rephrase: O iPod, how’s it hangin’?

Yeah. That sounds better.

Right Place Wrong Time by Dr. John
Carry On by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
You Can Make It If You Try by Sly & The Family Stone
None Shall Pass by Aesop Rock
Never Do This Again by The M’s
Thickfreakness by The Black Keys
Funky Stuff by Kool & The Gang
Jump Into the Fire by Harry Nilsson

Hmm. The iPod suggests you stick with whatever it is that has you stumped. The break-through is just around the corner…


From my notebook: an account of why I am usually listening to my iPod – and why I always carry a notebook on the bus.

The woman in the seat two ahead of me is dressed as City Trash-Talker #3. From the tips of her talon-like and bejeweled fingernails to the way she is sprawled across two seats during the afternoon rush hour, she gives off a vibe of unpaid rent and late-night calls to the police.

“What you calling me back for? What? What?! Yes it is! Yes it is!! I’m not interested – why you frontin’?”

Me? I have no idea why he’s frontin’, but her side of the conversation is so loud that I’m hoping I’ll find out. I turn the iPod off and remove one earbud.

“What? What?! Why you callin’ me? Why you didn’t give me what I came for? Don’t even! Don’t even!”

She does her best to “slam” the cell phone.

Her left hand goes to her mouth, and she jams her thumb into her mouth.

I open my book and frantically scribble thumb-sucking on the bus!!

Her phone rings loudly.

The thumb is removed from her mouth and is replaced by the phone. “What? What?! Where you? Where you? No! No, it don’t matter!”

Repetition. I write. Why so much repetition?

At this point, she suggests a physical improbability related to his “stuffing” his “junk” and again gives the ol’ college try to slamming a cell phone.

The effect is lost, of course, but I admire her commitment to keeping it angry.

Her left thumb goes back into her mouth.

The phone rings.

The thumb is removed from her mouth.

“What? What?! No, it don’t! No it don’t! You don’t know him! It ain’t none-a your business! You don't know him!”

At this point, she pulls the cord and, still arguing, steps toward the exit, shouting. “What? What?! No, it don’t! No, it don’t!”

I watch her, hoping for some sort of resolution. No, it don’t?! But what if it do? I write. What then?

The bus pulls away, and my last view of her is as she steps into the middle of the street, one hand clutching a phone to her head, the other flat-palmed and stretched out in a stiff-armed, imperious demand that the cars stop so that she can cross.


Would I be out of line in assuming that that woman be trippin’?

The Beverage-y Hillbillies: I Shall Miss You

Another day, another dollar, dollar-and-a-half – you string enough of those together and you find yourself at the brink of a weekend.

The weekend. Two little days, if you’re lucky, of meeting up with friends, of cooking, cleaning, errand-running, grocery-shopping, preparation for the next week…

Yikes. What was my point?

Oh, but if only we knew what to expect for those two days! How can we make the best use of our time? What shall we wear? Would going out for dirty martinis be a good idea? What about margaritas? Would that be a better idea?

If only we knew…

But we do! We do know! For right here, in my hot little hand, is my iPod, bringer of tunes and testimony, beats both exhilarating and laughable. As is well known – particularly in the space between my own ears – my iPod, set to shuffle and played during my Friday-morning commute, tells the future.

So it is written, so it shall be done.

Shh. Let’s listen.

I Can’t Get Next to You by The Temptations
The Sweet Part of the City by The Hold Steady
Getting Down by The Kills
Oh My God by Kaiser Chiefs
Glad Girls by Guided by Voices
Sincerely Jane by Janelle Monae
Fever by Peggy Lee

What’s it all mean? There’s going to be a definite challenge – one which you will rise to meet with a smile on your face. There’s also a woman who is trying to tell you something. Try to figure out what it is.

So! Got that out of the way, and here we are, having arrived at the last of our serial-Friday installments re: the Beverage-y Hillbillies.

We’ve spent the past several Fridays getting to know the family that moved into my neighborhood, a square-headed lot attuned to the ways of front-yard hootin’ and hollerin’. We’ve grown to appreciate their ability to sprint whilst shouldering two of the largest stereo speakers left in existence. We’ve marveled at both their ability to ask for help and the frequency with which they do it and a displayed prowess in the egg-hurling sports. We’ve stood in wonder over the get-‘er-done entrepreneurial spirit of a foray into parking-lot drug distribution, and we’ve seen me break down and contact their landlords in an attempt to rid the neighborhood of them once and for all.

Today's episode?

And Now, I Have a Cretin-Shaped Hole in My Heart

I would like to report that the day that brought the moving out of the curiously squat and squared-headed folk down the street was a raucous adventure of questionable folk from Minneapolis' seedy underbelly, that various pick-ups and oxen-led carts showed up to help them load up and take away the four large-screen TVs, the ping pong table and the seemingly dozens of mattresses that I witnessed them move in.

But I cannot.

They left in the middle of the night, leaving nothing but tire tracks in the front yard, a large piece of furniture that may have doubled as some sort of sacrificial slab, a broken cooler, and two horrifyingly stained king-sized mattresses.

They left these items on the boulevard in front of their house.

Oddly enough, Minneapolis' garbage haul-away policy is amazingly liberal; and all of these items could've been taken off the neighborhood's hands by simply leaving them in the alley with a note that says "Please Take".

And as enticing as a game of "What does that stain look like to you?" originally seemed, I tired of the view of their household scabs almost immediately, and called 311 (the number to the city) on the second day.

"I'd like to report a large pile of crap, please."

The woman on the other end chuckled. "Can you describe the crap, ma'am?"

I could, and I did.

"Do you have the address of said crap?"

"Well, it's four down from my house, but the house numbers seem to run by both fours and twos on my street, so I'm not sure of it right now. I can walk down there if you like."

"Let's start with your address and go from there," she said.

In minutes, she had Google Maps pulled up, had found my house and had counted down four houses.

"Is it the house with the lamp post in front of it?" she asked.

"What?" I said. "You can see that?"

"Google Maps is a wonderful thing," she said.

I had been unaware of this street-level feature. "I'm stepping outside," I said. "Can you see me? I’m waving."

She laughed politely, as one does at the clueless. "Ma'am, it's a satellite image."

There was a slight pause as I listened to her type.

"We'll have someone out to pick it up tomorrow."

"Really? Just like that, huh?"

"Just like that," she said. "Is there anything more I can do for you?"

"No, ma'am," I said. "That's plenty."

True to her word, the City of Minneapolis hauled away the residuals of the Beverage-y Hillbillies’ brief stay with us, and so it is here that our tale of inner-city excitement ends.

They came, they saw, they littered.

And now they're someone else's problem.

The Beverage-y Hillbillies: Wherein I Tattle

The weekend loometh, my friends. Once again, we stand on the cusp of the weekend, a precarious and potentially sharp-edged place. Will I eat more Christmas cookies than I share? Will I finally vacuum the living room?

And what about Naomi?

Fear not! For as is well known in these parts, i.e., this particular blog, my iPod, set on “shuffle” and played during my morning’s commute, has prophetic qualities.

The iPod sees all, tells some.

Shhhh. Let’s listen.

Miles Behind by Medeski Scofield Martin & Wood
Tighten Up by The Bamboos
One Step Beyond by Madness
Ramble On by Led Zeppelin
Thank You (Falettinme be Mice Elf Agin) by Sly and the Family Stone
Space Truckin’ by Deep Purple
Rudie Can’t Fail by The Clash

And there you have it. Not the answers I was looking for, but the iPod, she moves in mysterious ways. My personal take on it? Stick to your to-do list, visit at least one friend, and for cryin’ out loud, look at all you have! Really, we’re doing quite well…



Let’s see now. We’ve been amusing ourselves the last five weeks or so with the tales of the Beverage-y Hillbillies, a motley group of State-assisted renters down the block whose brief foray into my and my neighbors’ lives has been commemorated in both verse and song (witness the ever-popular fireside sing-along known locally as “Them Local Folk-als Appear to be Yokels, or Square-Headed Terry’s Got Yer Maw”).

Today’s tale of deception and droopy pants?

I’m Telling On You!

When we first met the Beverage-y Hillbillies (not their real name), they had just moved in, a collection of mattresses and over-sized TVs, a family who quickly set up a ping-pong table on the sidewalk and a makeshift bar (AKA a “cooler”) in the front yard.

From there, we learned of the eldest son’s entrepreneurial spirit, his willingness to ask for your help and/or your cash,his incursion into the egg-hurling sports, and his venture into the high-stakes world of gas-station-parking-lot drug distribution.

Boris, as we came to refer to him, had become the turd in the Northeast Minneapolis punchbowl.

And I’d had enough.

There are websites, if you know where to look, that will tell you who owns rental property. In short order, I’d found his landlords.

Dear Mr. Tranh and Associates,

It may come as some surprise to you to find that the people you have rented to at 1136 Garfield have become a topic of heated discussion in the neighborhood.

The new sod you put in at the beginning of the summer? A memory. It is now dirt, the only remaining grass being under the couch that has been in the front yard since June.

The new cement steps leading up to the porch? If we can judge by the evidence before us, it appears a 30-gallon keg was dropped on it, taking out a good-sized chunk. The keg’s dropping, however, does not appear to have affected the keg itself, which is still laying in the front yard. Next to the couch.

I recall you adding a new screen door to the front of the house in May. While the hinges are still there, the door itself is not. Makes you wonder what happened to it.

The neighborhood has been inundated with requests from your tenants for money, rides to the store, and inquiries regarding our desire to “score some green”. I am sure that this is not what Tranh and Associates had intended when this property was rented out, but that is what you’ve got.

This is a good neighborhood. I would hate to have to go door-to-door to let my neighbors know your name and address, as I am sure that your peace of mind is as important to you as it is to us.

Please contact me at the number listed below as soon as you can. I believe we can work through this amicably.

Hugs and Kisses,

Pearl

I received a call from Mr. Tranh less than a week later, who promptly fired his “rental management company” and started eviction proceedings.

I love a man of action.

And I can’t wait to see the move-out party.

The Beverage-Y Hillbillies: Wherein the Square-Headed One Solidifies his Role as Neighborhood Cretin

Ladies and gentlemen, cats and kittens, welcome to Friday, the day on which we ask ourselves, Why didn’t I get an education and ensure myself a better-paying job?

The answer, my friend, is that I don’t know. Everyone tried to talk to you about it, but you know how you are.

You didn’t listen.

But it’s not too late. The future is still before us. And now, through my steadfast and possibly erroneous belief in the oracle-y powers of my iPod, played on the Friday morning commute and carefully scrutinized, you, too, can predict your immediate future.

Aw, come on! Play along!

Grace by Jeff Buckley
Have a Little Faith in Me by The BellRays
Two-Timing Touch and Broken Bones by The Hives
Crying by TV on the Radio
Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio
Right Here Right Now by Jesus Jones
Mister Love by The Toadies

Interesting.  The presence of the elusive double-billing is curious, but we don’t question the ways of the iPod, we merely take heed.  This weekend?  Continued angst.

And snow.
 
And as we’ve done every Friday for oh, a while now, we return to our current diversion, The Beverage-y Hillbillies.

You remember them, yes?  The family of lanky-framed, cranial-ridged miscreants that moved in just four houses down? 

They’ve combined long-distance running with the five-fingered discount.

They’ve offered to relieve me of any spare change, which apparently is now in the five-dollar range.  Unless you don't have five?  Because three would work, too.

They’ve shown us how to break eggs and still not make an omelet.

This week’s installment? 

The Hillbillies Turn to Entrepreneur – Entrepra – Entrepreunuri – Owning Their Own Business!

When last we saw Boris, the Number One Son of a family of square-headed, pop-eyed sons, he was enjoying his role as Neighborhood Vandal from the hood of a neighbor’s car.

Boris, Boris, Boris.  How will I miss you if you won’t go away?

The next time I saw him, a week later, I was approaching the little gas station/purveyors of deep-fried foods and horribly over-priced “convenience” items at the end of our block.  And while it is convenient to be able to buy, say, a burrito, at 11:00 at night within walking distance, I don’t recommend it.  On top of said burrito often being, shall we say, past its prime, the smell is such that it will make its home in your pores and cause passersby to sniff the air nervously when you go by. 

So I was about to go into our little store for a burrito – no! wait! Fresca – when who do I come across but Boris.

“Psst.”  Boris appears to be leaking air from the side of his mouth.

“Me?”

“You wanna buy some green?”  Boris’s pop-eyes scan the parking lot, spin clockwise, then counter clockwise, and finally settle on my chest.

I frown.  “Some what?”

He sneers and goes back to scrutinizing the parking lot.  “Yeah.”  He grins, an unpleasant expression, and suddenly I can see what he will look like as a much older man.  “You wouldn’t, would ya?”

It hits me, what he’s selling.  “Green”?  Is that what we’re calling it these days?  I don’t know what bothers me more, the fact that he’s selling pot in front of my little neighborhood store or that he thinks I don’t know what he’s talking about.

Kids.

I push past him. 

“What he doing, that boy?”  The clerk is speaking to me, staring out the glass door at Boris.

“He’s selling pot.”

The clerk laughs, a mirthless bark, and says something under his breath in a language for which I have no reference point.  He reaches into his pocket, opens his cell phone.

“I call my cousin.  He is detective.  Police.  I am seek of that boy.”

And me?  I’m getting sick of that boy, too.

The Mysterious Egg Meteors, or That's No Way to Make an Omelet

You see that? Over there? It’s the weekend again, isn’t it? Sure, one might say, it looks a lot like the last time there was a Saturday and Sunday directly in front of us, and yet who can tell?

Who can say?

Me! I’m to say! Or more accurately – accurately! – my iPod. You knew that, right? That my iPod, set on “shuffle” and played during my Friday morning’s commute has the red-hot power of prophecy?

It’s true. Shhhh.

Treat Me Like Your Mother by The Dead Weather
Burn by Deep Purple
September by Earth Wind & Fire
Wooden Ships by Crosby Stills & Nash
Can’t Stand Me Now by The Libertines
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised by Gil Scott-Heron
The Puzzle by Brother Ali

Hmmm. Hardship, pain, loss and broken hearts, all under the guise of making you a stronger person. Yuck.

Let the record reflect that I am against it.

But let us return to our other Friday diversion, the serial posting of the Beverage-y Hillbillies, the lurching humanoids who moved in four houses down and who quickly became a topic of neighborhood bewilderment.

As a precursor, I live in Nordeast Minneapolis, a neighborhood of artists, working folk, retired people, people who walk their dogs and plant flowers. Our lawns are small, and, for the most part, neat. There are bars and restaurants and churches and various shops in walking distance; and in a land that became a state in 1858, we are proud of the houses in our neighborhood built between 1898 and 1904. We are secretaries and writers, musicians and plumbers, programmers and delivery men.

And we’re a fairly tolerant group.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this week’s installment of The Beverage-y Hillbillies.

First, they moved in.

Then they set themselves up as the place to go for severely discounted and recently liberated home stereo speakers.

Then they showed you just how easy it is to be a giving person.

Today’s episode?

The Mysterious Egg Meteors

It is a summer’s day like any summer’s day in Minneapolis. In other words, it is warm; and we are pitifully thankful. We’re an easy group to impress from April to August, whereupon it will get ridiculously hot.

And then we lose our perspective.

We had not yet reached that point.

I live across the street from a park; and on the weekends, I feel it behooves me to pop over there, pick up some garbage, check for bums, that sort of thing. We don’t have a big bum problem in our park, although I did once throw away the world’s smelliest pillow.

I grab a plastic bag, my trusty stick-with-a-nail-in-it, and set out to rid the world of unsightly trash.

And who should I run into, just four houses down, than Boris, Number One Square-Headed Son in a family of square-headed sons. He is sitting on the hood of a car.

“Hey!” he calls.

“Hey,” I say.

“You got any money?”

“Yes,” I say, walking.

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Pssssss,” he hisses, as if there had been an agreement earlier that I would be supplying him with cash.

I walk on.

“Let me know if you find anything interesting,” he calls out.

I keep walking. Sure, I think, I'll call ya.

Now, I’ve found on these walks, as has been previously disclosed, the world’s smelliest pillow. I’ve also found an iPod engraved “To Olivia, with all my love, Daddy”, large numbers of beer cans, plastic cups and plates, and a cell phone. But I’d yet to find eggs.

But there they are, less than a block away. Dozens and dozens of eggs, most of them smashed on cars, some on houses. Some are splattered impotently in the streets, others lie crushed and gooey on the sidewalk.

I am furious.

I call the police, who, in bored tones, tell me there have been several calls already. They are on their way.

I cut my garbage-walk short and go home the way I’d come. Boris is still on the car.

He looks pleased with himself.

“Find anything interesting?” he sneers.

“Not really,” I say. I am so angry I am dizzy. I’m a scary person when I’m angry – best to keep moving.

“Nothing?” he presses. He is smiling in a this-neighborhood-is-mine sort of way.

He thinks he runs this place.

I stop abruptly, turn back.

“Well now that ya mention it, someone did a really crappy job of making breakfast,” I snap, bright stars of anger wreathing my head, “but most likely that person’s got some sort of mental defect and won’t be around much longer. Ya gotta feel sorry for people that stupid.”

And while he stares, I turn and walk. And when I get home, I sit down in front of the computer. I’m going to contact their landlord, just as soon as I can figure out who it is.

It’s a tolerant neighborhood. Not a stupid one.

Hey! You Got Any Extra Money?

Psst. You have a minute? Just a minute?

What if I were to tell you that I could, absolutely free and by way of my morning commute’s playlist, predict your future?

Not the long-range future, of course. No, no, no. That’s just crazy. The immediate future!

Saturday! Sunday!

What the heck. Indulge me.

Boots or Hearts by The Tragically Hip
Karn Evil 9 by Emerson Lake and Palmer
Oh My God by Kaiser Chiefs
Chelsea Dagger by The Fratellis
D is for Dangerous by Arctic Monkeys
Barracuda by Heart
Golden Age by TV on the Radio

And there you have it, and what it is, I can’t say here. Let’s just say that that groove you’ve been looking for? It’s comin’ for ya this weekend.

So! Where were we? Oh, yes: the Friday diversion.

If you’ll recall, the last two Fridays have been dedicated to the Beverage-y Hillbillies, a square-headed family of front-yard-dwelling yokels that moved into the neighborhood a while back.

Today’s Episode: Boris Gets a Job!

No, not really. That would be silly. But still, who’s to say that anything you do, repeatedly and in the hope of money, is not a job?

Last we contemplated the variables of the human condition, Head Number One (referred to as “Boris”) was seen running down the center of the street in front of the house, Pamplona-style, juggling a pair of home stereo speakers he had apparently stolen from the driver of a Lincoln Continental.

It was early June; and Willie and I had purchased a ridiculous number of flowers of both the annual and the perennial variety and were busy stuffing the flower boxes that line the first and second floors of the duplex.

I had just finished smearing a large swath of dirt across my forehead when I heard someone creep up behind me.

I spun around.

Boris.

“Hey,” he smirks. “Do you have an extra five bucks I can have?”

What? There’s such a thing as an “extra” five bucks now?

So I say what I always say when I’m confused: “Huh?”

Bless his heart, he repeats the request. “Do you have five bucks I can have?”

“No,” I said.

“How about three?”

“No.”

Willie comes around the house carrying a pallet of Lobelia. “No,” I say.

Boris changes tack. “How about you? Huh? You got five bucks?”

Willie’s face takes on the look he normally reserves for finding yakked-up hairballs with his bare feet.

“What?”

“Five bucks. You got five bucks I can have?”

“He doesn’t even have five bucks I can have,” I mutter.

Willie shakes his head. “I’m working in the yard, man. I got nothin’.”

“How about a ride to Target then? Can you give me a ride to Target?”

I turn away. “Willie,” I say. “Set that pallet in the porch. It’s time for lunch.”


Ha! There’s nothing so annoying that I can’t ignore it.

I Know A Guy Who Can Get You A Deal

You know, if you’re going to continue to rise when the alarm clock says to, if you’re going to persist in showing up to work every day like you do, then the next thing you know –

It’s the weekend.

Never fails.

And boy, do you deserve it. Look at you over there, all hard-working and responsible. You never fail to amaze me.

So what’s coming, huh? Saturday? Sunday? What can we expect?

Lucky for you, I’ve got the answer. You may not know this about me – and why would you? – but I own an iPod that, set on shuffle and played during my Friday morning’s commute, tells the future.

Hey. It could happen.

Tell the Lie by the BelRays
Say It to Me Now by Glen Hansard
Shocker in Gloomtown by Guided by Voices
Jungle Boogie by Kool and the Gang
I Was A Lover by TV On The Radio
Ball of Confusion by Love and Rockets
21st Century Schizoid Man by King Crimson

Whoa! This is looking suspicious, is it not? This weekend may not be your friend. Get your groceries after work, go home and stay indoors, I say.

Now where were we?

Ah, yes. Last Friday we had just started a little serial posting, an every-Friday diversion regarding the Beverage-y Hillbillies.

When last we spoke, the New Kids on the Block had just moved a dozen mattresses, several large-screen TVs and an ottoman into the duplex down the street, gone on to set up a ping-pong table on the sidewalk, and had settled in for a solid evening of hootin’ and hollerin’.

And there was much rejoicing.

The cans littering the boulevard in the morning bespoke their affinity for Ice House, a lower-cost, higher-alcohol-content beer known for its ability to cause fist fights and impregnate at 50 paces.

After the christening of the new digs, things were quiet until the following weekend, when I happened to be in the front yard in time to see the oldest of the boys come running down the middle of the street.

As a quick aside, I’d like to interject that following their move-in, I never again saw the parents, but I did see the children, ad nauseam. All boys in that family, all with abnormally large, square heads. This is not an exaggeration. Those boys had big, square heads, particularly noticeable over the brows – which wasn’t so much a forehead as it was a fivehead.

Ba dum bum.

So there I was, as the old saying goes, minding my own business, when I see Head Number One – we’ll call him Boris – come running down the street carrying two large wooden stereo speakers. Remember the 70s? Remember those huge speakers in that one guy’s basement?

Well these are them.

Boris is running down the middle of the street with them, one on each shoulder. He is panting.

Clearly he has been running for quite some time.

A quick look over his shoulder, and he is satisfied with what he sees – or does not see – and continues to run at a somewhat slower pace.

He runs past our parked car, abruptly stops and backs up.

“Hey!” he yells.

I turn to him, my hands full of the flowers I am moving from one location to another.

“You wanna buy some speakers?”

“What?”

“You wanna buy some speakers?” he repeats. “I’ll give ‘em both to you real cheap. Fifty bucks for both.”

“No, thanks,” I say, turning.

“Thirty bucks!”

I shake my head.

He may be speaking to me, but he is staring down the street in the direction he came from as he does so.

“Twenty bucks, and this is my last – oh! Shit!”

A Lincoln Continental comes tearing down the street, and Boris loses his grip on reality and the speakers and one of them crashes to the tar, wooden splinters everywhere. He juggles and manages to hold on to the remaining speaker. Dodging the speeding car, he cuts through our neighbor’s front yard and into the alley, where he yells his parting offer:

“Ten bucks! Ten bucks for the one speaker!”

I return to my flowers.

Come Listen to a Story 'Bout a Man Named Jed, or Does His Head Look Square to You?

Stampeding once again toward the promise of the weekend’s alarm-clock-less freedoms, we consult the Mighty iPod.

O bringer of personal tunes, inducer of dance steps both awe-inspiring and mock-worthy, divine the weekend’s potential through my morning commute’s playlist!

Or, to steal from the great Rocky and Bullwinkle: Eenie meenie jelly beanie! The spirits are about to speak!

Ain’t No Sunshine by Me First & The Gimme Gimmes
Suddenly…(I Miss Carpaty) by Gogol Bordello
Too Fake by Hockey
Tiger by Maximum Balloon
Outta-Space by Billy Preston
Questions 67 and 68 by Chicago
Mandinka by Sinead O’Connor
Totally Nude by The Wallets

You see what I do, don’t you? Click on the PayPal link and order my book "I Was Raised to be A Lert"? What? You don’t see that?

That’s weird. I see that quite clearly…

No matter.

Welcome, one and all, to What’s Up with My Neighborhood?, a new Friday feature.

Let me begin by saying that I love my neighborhood. Northeast Minneapolis is the "Arts District" of Minneapolis, a neighborhood full of restaurants, bars, art studios, live music, sidewalks and trees and people walking their dogs.

And sometimes, sometimes there are some real freaks as well. Remind me to tell you about Stephanie, the Tattooed Lady. She would like to sit next to you at the bar, bemoaning the fact that the tattoos on her face have seriously impeded her ability to get a job.

Lousy establishment! The Man is keeping her down!

She’ll go away if you buy her a drink.

Consider it money well spent.

But that’s not what we’re on about today. Oh, no. Today, my friends, I would like to introduce you to the Beverage-y Hillbillies.

The Beverage-y Hillbillies moved in to the bottom half of a duplex three houses down roughly four years ago. They lived there for five months.

But I’m ahead of myself.

Sit back! Today’s story is “The Beverage-y Hillbillies Move In”.



There is a lovely park directly across the street from us. There are mature trees for shade, open spaces for Frisbee-hurtling, dog-walking, and the occasional couple making out on a blanket. Our neighbors are a mix of couples with children, retired folk with meticulous lawns, and the work-a-day types like myself hustling toward and away from bus stops at regular intervals.

We are Middle America.

Our new neighbors moved in on an early summer day. After enduring the face-peelingly frigid attempts of Mother Nature’s to make us move south, the neighborhood was fairly giddy with the prospect of bare arms and bare legs.

And when five battered pickup trucks pulled up in front of the duplex that had recently had a “For Rent” sign removed, we were naturally curious.

And “curious” is the word we’re looking for here, because despite the number of trucks involved, our new neighbors’ possessions seemed to be restricted to several large-screen TVs, several frighteningly worn and possibly antique mattresses, and children.

Moving said items didn’t take much time, of course; and before you could say “what the??” our new neighbors had set up a ping-pong table on the sidewalk in front of their house.

And a recliner.

And three coolers that we came to know were filled with beer because of the empties that eventually littered the boulevard.

The new people played ping-pong until it was dark.

Whereupon they played in the dark.

It was all delightfully audible.

The ping-pong table stayed on the sidewalk for several weeks, until the police were called and they were required to remove it and the beer cans from the public walkway.

They moved it all up into the front yard.

Where it sat next to the recliner, which they also moved.

Oddly enough, this did not bode well – and it’s surprising how often a good boding turns out to be for a good reason.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Call Me When You Get Her to the Car, or What's A Small Felony between Friends?

Once again we come to a screeching yet temporary halt -- the end of a work week, the beginning of a weekend, and we ask ourselves, Selves, what do you suppose will happen next?

Ladies and gentlemen, mods and rockers, behold the iPod, the aural oracle, for as is well known by as many as 184 to 240 people at a time, my iPod, played during my Friday morning commute, is both prophetic and fully funkified.

It's perfectly true.

Shhh. Let’s listen.

Train in Vain (Stand by Me) by The Clash
I Can’t Get Next to You by The Temptations
Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand
Tighten Up by The Black Keys
Kiss, Kiss by Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs
Have A Little Faith in Me by The BellRays
Loaded by The Idle Hands

So there you have it. Whatever you’ve been striving for lately? Keep on a’striving. Good things are about to happen.

Time for a story?

A quick one.


Call Me Again When You Get Her to the Car

I check the clock next to the bed: 12:40. I consider, reconsider, then answer the phone anyway.

“Hello?”

“You haffa come up here.”

“What?”

“Come up here. I need you to help me kick someone’s ass.”

Hmm. Marie just may be drunk. Slender and beautiful, in all the years I've known her, I don't think I've heard her like this more than a handful of times.

I sit up, switch ears. “What’s going on?”

“Todd, that –“ She goes on to describe her recent ex in glowering, apocalyptic terms. Words related to his physical shortcomings, his mental deficiencies, his fiscal future, and a particularly juicy bit of supposition regarding his lineage tumble out of her angrily.

I laugh softly. “Why do you even care? Seriously, he’s an idiot.”

“I – hic! – know!” she slurs. “And that’s why I’m gonna haffa kill this girl.”

“What girl?”

“His new girlfriend! The stupid bestid has a new girlfriend! It’s been two weeks and he brings her to my bar? My bar! My pool table!”

She pauses, takes a drink. In the background, a toilet flushes, a hot-air hand dryer comes on.

“I want you to get dressed and come down here,” she continues. “Bring a pillow case an’ some rope.”

“Aw, shoot, Marie. What for?”

“’Cuz I kicked in the bathroom door earlier, made her jump up on the toilet.” Marie laughs. “Oh, Pearl, you shoulda seen ‘er.”

“I’ll bet it was awesome,” I say.

“It was. Seriously, she thinks she can hide from me in a bathroom stall? I tol’ her I was gonna throw a pillow case over her head and beat her with a tube sock full of oranges, stuff her into the trunk of my car, and drag her out to the nature center.”

Marie takes another drink. “Oh, yeah,” she says, hiccupping softly, “I need you to bring a tube sock. And some oranges.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Tube sock. Oranges. That’s a great idea. Who do we know with access to bail money?”

There is silence followed by a heavy sigh.

“I can’t do this, can I?”

I switch ears. “Probably not,” I yawn, “but we can talk about it some more, if you want.”

A small puff of air escapes her: Pffffft. “Nah. I’m better now. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Hey, Marie?”

“Hmm?”

“Call a cab, would ya?”

She laughs. “Good idea.”