It was a whirlwind weekend, and I am bone tired, but my handful of regular readers expect — no — demand that I keep them informed of the minutiae of my existence. Tonight after work I headed over to the photo lab. I produced three prints in three hours, only two of which I like. After that Sarah and I walked to the parking lot. On the way out I found a stretch of gravel and found my hands compelled to pitch the car around a corner while I stood on the throttle. Sarah asked nicely that I not do that again, and I swallowed the tremendous grin on my face while apologizing profusely. I can always go back by myself, so there is no reason to terrify anyone. Suddenly my car and I are the best of friends.
I printed these:
Motherfucking Minneapolis, Bitches.
I fucking hate the motherfucking alumni center.
Holy Jesus God, I can’t stop swearing.
On Saturday I had every intention of going out to make pictures around Northeast Minneapolis, but a combination of late waking and a general malaise kept me puttering around the Keathly household until Sarah called. Apparently the big Double Date with Lisa and Stan was mere hours away, and I had not a thing to wear! Actually, I had my black shirt and the grey cords lined up. I drove everyone to Masa downtown. Lisa thought that it was not worth it, I’m still a little in awe — but then I had the good sense to order the pork. So. FUCKING. AMAZING! Nonetheless, their tortillas were only okay. Something as straightforward as a traditional corn tortilla should have the sort of fresh flavor that makes you cry for your mama. The sopes were more like masa crackers than boats. The pork made up for all of that, but it shouldn’t have had to make up for anything — much less the server bringing out the wrong check before replacing it with a corrected one that was still the most I have ever spent on food. Well, it was the most my platinum card has ever spent on food, but it was worth it to take out my girlfriend on a Date with a capital D. Actually, a double date, but, uh, well, shoot, now I have to take her out again, and probably top last time. Oh, the humanity!
After Masa, I drove everyone to the new Chatterbox in Saint Paul, where there was no Nintendo open for me to fritter away time on Super Mario Brothers (hereafter referred to merely as SMuB, since that’s what we called it growing up). First we all played Trivial Pursuit (at which I did unbelievably terribly — perhaps as some sort of karmic payback for all the trash talking I had done several weekends before when playing against Sarah). Then we played a game called “Apples to Apples,” where the server gets out a wading pool and opens a jug of apple juice — wait, no, that’s something else. Apples to apples is a sort of real time strategy role playing card game, where Stan and I played as half elf brothers with cloaking robes of elvenkind — sonofabitch, that wasn’t it either. It was some sort of card thing with words to match with other words. My strategy was to produce the most hilarious combinations possible. I did not win. Sarah and Lisa drank Strong Bow like it was their last chance on earth. I was actually the sober cab!
Speaking of driving, on the way to the Saint Paul Chatterbox, we drove past the Minneapolis Chatterbox, which Lisa and Stan pooh poohed as being too “dive bar.” The new one is a bit too “TGI Applebees” for my tastes, but whatevs. This is how we roll. The other thing that we passed on the way was some sort of freakish Akira-esque Christmas display, where inflatable Santas writhed in post-apololyptic glee while tinny Christmas music jangled from an inflatable carousel. People driving by put on their hazard lights — perhaps to warn approaching traffic that it would be hazardous to look. One man on foot stole a glance at the flashing, strobing lights before falling to the ground in a fit. He frothed and writhed until someone put a spoon and their wallet in his mouth, then he jumped to his feet and took off — wallet in hand. Pretty sneaky, what with the forcing a seizure and all. Okay, there was no guy — just a dozen giant inflatable snowmen like some sort of cautionary science fiction novel about the folly of genetically engineering a race of unstoppable frozen men who shoot lacer ice from their carrot noses and… okay, it’s awfully late, and I’m running away with the hyperbole. There were a bunch of big decorations and we quaked with fear. Sarah ran up with her fisheye camera and took some pictures that will probably haunt me later. I stayed in the car because I have not yet brought myself to buy a new pocket digital camera for the sorts of occasions where a person finds themselves smack dab in a seminal (yet mostly incomprehensible) animated Japanese movie about children with crazy psychic powers. See! I brought it back to Akira!