mimi in NY: the good life
Lisa was reading Mimi, so I occasionally read it. I knew that she had a story like this in her, but the other posts that I had read seemed to be nowhere near as tightly focused.
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The seemingly endless research and conversations with anybody who had any interest at all (mostly Jeremy, thanks, man!) led me to try out the Surly, and it was the best fit so far, period. It felt more sprightly than the Volpe, but strangely, it mostly just felt like mine.
I rode it home from Freewheel, which is a mere four and a quarter miles, but I felt like I could do another ten. Somehow I didn’t, but just the same. Ahem.
I spent the rest of the evening futzing with the bike. I forgot to get a rack at Freewheel — or maybe I just didn’t think that I would need it — but I wasn’t satisfied with the mount for the bike lock so I picked up a shady rack at Target. After I put that on it was dark, so I went to try out the headlights and the lock storage solution. Somehow my foot, the tire, and the front fender all tried to occupy the same space-time coordinates and I bent the shit out of it. I’m pretty sure that couldn’t happen at speed given the necessary severity of angle, but still I’m glad that I normally wear a helmet.
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Oops, I didn’t get a chance to post yesterday. I did prepare notes on bikes to take with me to the bike shop. After discussions with Jeremy, even more internet “research,” and a lot of thought, I had narrowed my bike choices to the Bianchi Volpe and the Surly Cross-Check Complete. I went to the Hub and Freewheel, but it was raining more than I wanted to ride in.
Later, Lisa and Stan babysat for the Wiggenhorns. I woke up from a nap to find baby Ben crying and seemingly inconsolable. Lisa looked a little overwhelmed, so I took Ben and bounced him until he fell asleep.
Then, I went to the Bulldog with Greg. Hooray!
Also, interspersed in all of that was a ton of Katrina surfing.
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Representative Carolyn Cheeks Kilpatrick, Michigan’s 13th District
I have a secret love for CSPAN. While obsessively looking for Katrina news, we here at the Keathly household came across the Congressional Black Caucus on Response to Hurricane Katrina. Now that was some presidential speaking.
I would also accept Jesse Jackson Jr., or probably most of the rest of the speakers. He said some smart, smart things.
Really, I just want a president who can communicate and inspire. I have yet to be inspired by thing one that comes out of Bush’s twisty mouth.
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Hey, another semester, another hold! According to my new projections and calculations, next semester will be the last hold, which kind of sucks, because I ordered a big rubber stamp that says “you douchebags had better lift the hold so I don’t have to burn down the Alumni center” — wait, no it says “I dropped all those classes eight years ago! I’m old! OLD OLD OLD!” That usually works, we’ll see what they say. Of course, first I have to get the signature of my advisor, who is probably very tired of me charging into her office screaming hellfire and damnation.
“Take it to the mall with your proselytising!” she shouts, so I retire to the corner opposite the Jesus dude and rant for a good hour or two before remembering that all I need is a signature.
Oh yeah, this is the last semester of math! Ever! I will have beaten it! (this time I’m not talking about beating it in the sense of cranking one out in the bathroom of the local restaurant Pop! during a non-date to stay relaxed. Speaking of Pop!, they are opening a pizza and ice cream shop called Snap! as in “oh, snap!” or “snap, crackle, and constant indoctrination of consumerism.” Also, the Hollywood theater might be reopening?)
With that paperwork filled out, I apparently just have to reapply for a SELF loan for 2005-2006 again, because the U can’t be bothered to keep track of loans for which I am already approved. To reapply I will have to get my mom to fill out the cosigner business again, then fill out the forms myself, then print it all, have her get it notarized and send it all off. Then I get to call my dad and explain why I blew him off at the fair and that he needs to buy 16 credits worth of schoolbooks for me. There might be some lying on my part. I’m just saying. It might happen.
“No, Denise is not an earthly incarnation of Cthulu. Really. She’s the greatest person ever. That goes for you, too! I’m not bitter about you being an asshole at all!”
I may have to work on that a little, but I have at least a week before I have to have him in my place of employment checking out the freshman girls.
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Today is Dj wrecka’s last day on the air, so she helped out Zach and I by playing all of our requests and hitting the last spot in Radio K bingo. When she played “Puppet Show” by Tulip Sweet and her Trail of Tears, Zach and I were laughing uncontrollably, and even wrecka was giggling as she rolled into the break. I might might might go see Meredith Bragg tonight, but I might restrict myself since I have been financially irresponsible this summer. It’s only five bones, though. I could ride the bus on my new U-Pass!
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So Cake Woman AIMed me today while I was at work, saying that we should hook up to share travel stories. I, of course, was down, yo, but then she disappeared. I tried to call her while walking to the car, and then when I got home, but didn’t hear from her until after my evening nap (which was glorious). When I got there she handed me the last Maibock, which I downed forthwith. Dan drove us to the CC, where Sister Nadeau met us. Dan and I ganged up on Cake Woman and she walked home in a huff. HA ha. I felt a little bad for her — she was all lonely and… no I didn’t. She could have called me at any time if she really wanted help moving. She could have asked tonight if she wanted me on her side. I really don’t feel that sorry for people who can’t ask for what they want.
P.S.: Thank you platinum card!
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Time to start the Whittier project, because my neighborhood isn’t good enough. I’ll be on Lyndale if you need me — possibly on Nicollet if I don’t get too wiped out or mugged.
I’m just kidding about my neighborhood, I love my first ring suburb.
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I should be at a party right now, but some of us took a nap on the couch that bookended dinner.
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Oh yeah, I don’t like my second adopted hometown, after Stillwater and my real hometown of Fort Dodge. Okay, it’s not like I actively dislike Saint Paul, but I don’t miss it at all. I think that what I miss is what I came to Minnesota for: a big, drafty house with a thousand crazy friends crashing on the couch. So Minneapolis passed the smoking ban right about the time that
I woke up from my life like it was all just a bad dream.
Thanks, Firewater, but you’re getting ahead of me. I’ve seen a handful of shows this summer, but they have all been in Mpls., so thusly, no smoking. I’ve been out to the bars, too, but again, no smoking. I even went to New York, where I spent about 1/3 of my time (or more) stunt drinking in bars. Still, no smoking.
Mother fucking nasty. Why did I ever smoke a pack a day? What possessed me to pick up a cigarette, put it in my mouth, and make out with it like it was the last girlfriend that I would have for four years? Saint Paul needs to clear the smoking out of bars so my lungs can stay pink and beautiful.
STNNNG was just as I expected: loud, fast, and intricate, with a splash of crazed, out of control insanity over the top. The real shocker was Gay Beast, who ripped the air to shreds with their power trio of keyboard, guitar, and drums. Did I say drums without capitalizing it? DRUMS! WOW! I think on the second song the drummer (Angela? Shit, I’m terrible with names, but you know that) took a few seconds to sync up with the keys, but every other impact of her drumsticks and beater left a ringing impression on the rock center of my brain. The whole effect was as if robots had been programmed to rock, but got a virus, broke free of their masters, and decided to produce pure chaos through a mathematical formula. Two for the pink, one for rocking my ass!
After that was Lone Wolf, who basically turned his amp up to eleven and then gestured to the sound guy to bring up the house PA. It was a bit like the beginning of Back to the Future where Marty turns all the knobs up, strikes one chord and blows himself straight across the room and into the wall, except that this dude had pounded giant nails through his feet into the floor. He looked a lot like Glenn Danzig in Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Danzig: Can we get the blood to flow up the walls?
Cybernetic Ghost: I dont see why not.
The part of seeing a local band in a dive bar that I love is that I was able to accost the singer from STNNNNNNNNNNNNG and tell him how much the band rocked. Later, during the next three hour break between bands, the drummer from Gay Beast sidled up to the bar next to me and I accosted her too. Then, after I ran out of small talk I got a chance to start fresh since the keyboardist (Danimal) and guitarist (Isaac) slid in next to me seeking liquid refreshment. The whole band wanted to know my name, even though I’m just a random dude in a bar telling them that I wasn’t sure what to expect before having my pants rocked to my knees while I stood there with my mouth agape.
I don’t know if I could recommend anything that I saw to anyone else unless they are big fans of crazy. I sure am, so yeah, I had an awesome time, but I left early because the smoke was making my head spin. Also, I’m old.
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