I took a walk around my neighborhood and saw some things. More to follow.
If I had the power to usher certain phrases into semi-popular usage, I might begin by asking that people regularly substitute “My mensch” for “My man.” And not as in “My mensch can benchpress 350” but more like, ”Not a problem, my mensch” used as a casual gender signifier between (good) men in the same way men in Louisiana, even white dudes mind you, call other men “My brother” and sometimes, and this is mind-boggling to my midwestern mind, “baby.” Big, burly ass men will answer phone calls from male friends and say “Hey there baaaabay. What’s good?” I think “my mensch” would be a nice addition to this line-up. And I’d like to think that mensch, unlike fetch, could actually happen.
I’m not a huge believer in the concept of fate but I do get the sense that the universe is nudging me every once in awhile. Like the fortune cookie I recieved a few days ago from Hot Wok that read simply: Write a letter this week.
Obviously fortune cookies rarely contain actual fortunes but this was peculiar in its commanding tone and specificity. I didn’t think much of it, but I saved it because writing letters is always something I intend to do and never get around to. But then, the strange part: The following day at my restaurant gig, I found an entire booklet of stamps that a customer left behind. Not just regular stamps either, but Forever stamps.
Way to fuck with my head, universe. Could you at least give me a clue as to who the recipient ought to be? Make the cream I pour in my coffee swirl into the letters of a name maybe? Part of me feels compelled to obey this command and I’ve been playing with different ideas in my head. But the fact that they are forever stamps (and in case you don’t know, forever stamps are named such as they can theoretically be used FOREVER, despite inflation. When teleportation finally arrives, some asshole will still be using his booklet of forever stamps he bought in 2007 and chuckling about the fact that mailing a letter costs as much as transfering human matter) makes me think I should wait for additional clues before randomly sending off some random Hi! How are you? Let’s catch up letter.
It’s also possible that I will be crushed to death under a giant stack of envelopes within the next few days, so I better get on it before I’m punished for rationally ignoring these clearly purposeful signals.
More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant’s tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.
I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.
Unfortunately I don’t have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.
So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:
This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog’s logic about bones.
Debora Drower, Har Mar Theatre on the night before its demolition, Roseville Minnesota, 2006
Har Mar Mall was built in 1961, and derived its name from the couple that owned it, Harold and Marie Slawik. It’s where I saw ‘Natural Born Killers’, where I bought my first copy of ‘Lolita’, and from where Har Mar Superstar took his name.
This is my best friend Kasia. This is the conversation we had earlier:
Kasia: So, I’m getting ready for a costume party right now where we’re supposed to dress as whatever we dreamed of being at age seven.
Me: What are your choices?
Kasia: Well, it’s between Patsy Cline or Jafar.
It’s a well-established fact that the greatest structure in the entire Twin Cities seven-county metro area is the White Castle-cum-Accordion Dealer/Jewelers.