Suburban Decay

The president of the League Against Suburbs convened the meeting. What do you have for us? Trevor asked the slouched initiate sitting in the plastic chair beside the coffee table. I have these, he said, offering his hand which opened to reveal five or six small bolts and screws. The members nodded approvingly. Where did you do this? Trevor asked. Applebees. I took apart the toilet paper dispenser in the men’s bathroom and got one of the hinges off the dumpster out back. But I forgot that at home. The members nodded approvingly.

Father

Jenny always called things stupid. Early on, her friends knew about those stupid meat-head showoffs in gym class, and her mom heard how Sara Weiland was so stupid when she stole her boyfriend at summer camp. Later, the internet was stupid. Nutra-sweet gives you cancer, and was stupid. Long distance was stupid. The book report she spent the whole weekend on turned out to be stupid. And last week, her straight thin hair was stupid and such a pain. After a while, people that knew her got used to it. She wasn’t impressive enough for the habit to wear off on anybody. It just sort of faded from an irritation to something that didn’t exactly register—lumped together with the Jenny people knew. The only person or thing that never earned the pronouncement of stupid, was her dad. The mystery surrounding him withheld her judgment. Also, there hung this certain trepidation at the thought of lumping him in with the rest of the world. But that one morning walking over to his house, watching him read his retarded paper: he glanced up and completely missed the mess of a little girl standing in front of him. An eternity passed. Then he just looked back down at the story about the beet farms closing up in Moorhead. I hate you, she squeaked, and walked straight for the bathroom.

The Urban Poor

Those marginalized people are so calculating. You wouldn’t think to use the word ‘sophisticated’ on them, but it fits their ways. To them, everyone’s a vending machine. They put money in and push just the right button. Vavoom, they get what they want. I always flash the “sold out” light when they’re standing in my glow. Coke first, nope, then Sprite. Sorry no service. Then the strong sellers try diet, and still I’m all: ‘Look chum. You best move on to that one down the corner, before I call the cops.’ Mention cops and they move along, cause urban poor folks know the two rules of perpetual poverty: Don’t get evicted. And don’t get yourself arrested. Once either of those happens, you’re instantly shoved down to the second basement. Seven eleven won’t employ you, and you can kiss section eight goodbye. Life gets hard when your soche tells that story. You have your rights, yes, you've sown them all over town. And I’ve got mine right here, on Broadway and Lake—public property, watching you tumble with the guy with the hundred dollar bill hanging out of his pocket. Yeah I’ll call the cops. Yeah I’ve got money that you’ll win. But you won’t get away. All at once you’ve got your sway on, wiping your mouth, saying he spit in your face when you asked him for some change, but they’ll shrug that off. His clothes smell sweeter than yours, and what are you doing asking for change? They put you in the backseat: a shifting mass of calculations. I get back in my career path. I was only down here for the cheap Camels.

Unwanted Self

Rifle knew about the other man in his bed. That was the problem. Earlier that day, while eating cake in the break room, he wondered who he would find when he stumbled into his dark room late that night. He wondered while Nancy stood in front of him, bellowing garbage—all he could think of was getting into bed and finding his sheets already warm. So now, in the almost dark, he rolled over, shifted his legs to the far edge of the bed, and let the clock wash his face in a thick red. The minutes slowly added up. He needed to get help—he came to that conclusion five days ago. The only question now was where to go for it. This is complicated, he thought.

Vo-Tech School

You are all on your way to a satisfying career. That is how they opened the gate, those specialists up front. Not that it was bait, or merely a lie. It’s not like they lied. He WAS on his way to a satisfying career. And stretched out before him lay a herd of round hay bales grazing on the perfect green hills under an azure sky. He played on those hay bales before adolescence. Their largeness loomed—before the war. Before all that shit. And now he was on his way back, sitting at a desk in some fluorescent room that bled technology with the smallest prick. All around swirled little pieces of the stuff that would bring him there. A child’s smile creased his lips.

Open Mindedness.

So I opened my mind. I left the small town of my youth—the lock jawed high school, the church kids flirting with their hands in their pockets. I cut the webs, and flew away to the metropolis—the offspring of human and machine, my new abode. It was scary like the dark, when I first sunk my old canoes, stroked some new ideas and people I had met. At first, I wedged my way into closed spaces where they told me stories in hushed tones. Freedom, to be, to let each moment swell to such intensity of existence, unencumbered by everything except desire. They let me feed. And then I saw it just walking down the street, this gospel, scrawled across brick, tenderly wrapping each post. My gospel. The unity of it all, I thought, staring at it in bathroom stalls. I tried to pierce its truth in three messy words. It was times like those, getting off the pee splashed toilet, wandering back to my flat, that I thought back to the old years: drew extra conclusions from the stark comparisons. Laid my new family on top of my old. And judged. The water was running in my kitchen sink, but I didn’t turn on the lights. I slumped there in the linoleum. Each moment exploded, and I just sat there with my mind open. Tears littered each cheek.

slough of despond -- stay away!

Not much to do today.
I feel like the Dead Sea.
Drinking too much coffee.
I want to be this guy.

Grain Elevators on Hiawatha. I did a u-ey to catch this shot.

Coffeeshop Facts: Diamonds Coffee

Diamonds Coffee Shoppe
1618 Central Ave NE Minneapolis
Google Map Link (actually it's in the white building across the street by the train tracks)
Directions
Website
Alcholic friendly? Yes, AA meetings in back room.
Thrift store couches = two.
Train sounds? Yes.
Maniquin with a coconut br*? Check.
Barista wierdness? Loudmouthed lesbian co-owner who says "the F bomb", and mousy emomales that play music fridays in the back.
Kids = tolerated, but not tailored to.
Dive quality = 75%
Food = overpriced sandwich w/pickle and spoon. Soup provided.
Whiteboard menu quality = 1.5 out of 5 stars which therefore equals 5 out of 5 stars.

Comments:
This classic culturally subversive urban cafe' sports all the expected 7os and older recycled pop culture ciche to give users the ability to enjoy their coffee beverage without all the guilt derived from participating in the ultra-consumer garbage slide of the Ikea slash Walmart multinational corporate factory.

the bleh post

OK so this is the beginning of my first blog entry. Since I haven't really come up with anything to write here yet, I'm doing this just to fill up some space and get my first post over with so I can see what this thing looks like!
\enough said.