I'll share two things I recently received in the mail. One is a mailing from HOME DEPOT. (are you sure that's an E at the end of HOME?)
The next is a clipping from CHURCH AND STATE magazine. An Oklahoma representative says "Gays are a bigger threat than terrorists." If you can't read it, you can
click here for a larger view:
Now it's up to you... which would you prefer: THREAT or MARKET!
Wow! The act of writing: keyboardless, wireless, computerless. Pen to paper... Notebook: $2, 2 pens the same price. Plus about $4 to sit in Popeye's AC comfort and suck on a leg and a thigh. I bet there'll be a grease spot... or two... on this page before I'm finished. The only problem: transcribing it... but it's a lot lighter than lugging the laptop.
I like being a Jew: I went to a Torah dedication today. Celebration in a local restaurant... with a buffet. The last letters of the Torah were outlined, but unfinished. The scribe was there. The hundred or so people at the celebration... one-by-one... get their own letter. Me too. We don't actually write the letter... the scribe does that. We only touch the pen... a quill actually... that writes the letter. Mine was a TOV.
People at the celebration are all yarmulke-wearing (men), but other than that... beards... or not. Fringes (tzitziot?) or not. Black coats and payes... or not. It's everything. Everybody is a friend. Even if you never met them before. The rabbi hugging everyone (men) as if old friends.
There is NO HATE. NO POLITICS. Just an out-pouring of love that makes me understand the place of religion in the world. And why people need it. The rabbi waved to me when I came in early. I was a bit depressed... Mom's going into hospice... but the scene cheered me up. Better than my family... a new family. No sibling rivalry here.
Besides the food (food? Come on, these ARE Jews. There MUST be food.) There are the alliyas, and when the ink is dry, dancing in the street... literally... Following a 1959 Cadillac convertible... 
under police escort... the rabbi, and HIS rabbi.. and the 80-something year old scribe... dancing away... down the restaurant driveway... into the street... holding hands... a giant ring-around-the-rosie... with no one falling down. (G-d forbid!) All for a book! This joy... this celebration... all for a book!! Yowsah!
I have to leave while they're dancing in the street. Hospice papers to sign. But the ceremony and the way they treat me pick up my day... Here's a book club I can live with.
I hate being a Jew: That was the name of an article by Debbie Goad in ANSWER ME! Magazine. Number 2, I think. Right now I'm reading SHIT MAGNET, an incredible book by her former hubby, Jim Goad. Enough of that. Let's talk about me.
Israel has wrecked Judaism. It has changed the religion of lefties, commies, social justice, peaceniks... to the religion of rightwing Neo-cons. Let's face it. The U.S. didn't invade Iraq for oil. The oil situation only got worse after the invasion. The U.S. invaded for Israel.
Barak Obama will not lose the election because he's a Negro. He'll lose because his minister
said he (the minister) was never harmed by a Muslim.
Only only one country's lobby had the power to command a speech from EVERY major political candidate. (Hint: it wasn't Palestine... but that's not a country, is it?)
The old right-wingers who were also anti-Jewish... are either switching sides or finding themselves isolated by the Rush Limbaughs and Pat Robertsons nursing at the cleft between Israel's buttocks.
I'm not talking about ISRAELIS here. There are tons of anti-war, pro-Palestine Israelis. In fact, a hell of a lot of Israelis ARE Palestinian. In fact, a higher percentage of Israelis are anti-(current incarnation) Israel than are American Jews. That's why I hate being one of them.
I think I'm written out. This stay in Popeye's is reaching its end. Five hundred words, I figure. Not really enough... but even a daughter is better than nothing. Time to get up, piss, sign the papers to condemn mom to a quick death... at lease convince dad to sign them. I'm glad I had that Torah boost. I might never have made it... might not yet.
I write this at 12:30 PM April Fool's Day + 4. I'm in the Fredericton Public Library, a boring red-brick building near the river, right next to a beautiful “Masonic Church” or something that should be the library. I'll have to run out and move the car in an hour or so. There's a 2 hour time limit on each parking place. It's a nasty little rule that prevents people from freely enjoying the library... But it's punishment for having a car, I guess. Something that needs to be punished, I guess. It's my fault the air is so foul... driving my rental car, I guess.
BACK TO YESTERDAY:
The hotel sleep is a good one. First time on this trip I sleep right through the night. Maybe it's that I only had one glass of the IPA. Despite the sleep, I feel groggy all day. I down a MOCA LOCA MONSTER (not my favorite-- too milky), but that doesn't help as much as it should.
On the three hour trip from Orono to Fredericton. NOTHING HAPPENS! Once, my MONSTER- induced hunger pangs become too much to bear. Can I find a decent place in small town Maine? Turning off the highway, I stop at the first restaurant I see. I long for a place to eat home cooked food.
Three hours later:
I'm a nervous customs passer. Strange since I've passed though so many customs so many times. Maybe not so strange. In any case, I know that if I'm a tourist coming for some stupid reason, I'm fine. If I want to do anything serious, I'm in trouble. Right now, there's a line of about 10 cars at the single open lane at Canadian border.
I've strewn the front seat with CDs and guidebooksbooks. The customs officer, a muscley crewcut guy in his 30s asks me where I was born.
“Noo Yawk,” I tell him.
“And what is the purpose of your visit to Canada?” he asks.
“I want to write, relax, visit local bookstores and see what I can find.” I tell him.
He repeats my words. I nod. “Okay, you can go,” he tells me.
“Ah, excuse me,” I say. “Would you mind stamping my passport? I collect the stamps and...”
“No problem,” he says with a smile. “Any particular page you'd like me to stamp?”
“Anywhere there's a space,” I say. He stamps the passport and waves me through.
From the border, it's about 45 minutes to Fredericton. The capital city of New Brunswick, it has about 140,000 people, none of whom has ever heard of me. (“Sorry, punk rock's gone from Fredericton,” says the owner of BACKSTREET RECORDS, where I try to peddle my CDs the next day. “I'll buy one from ya' for $7. Just to help you out.”)
I turn off the highway on the approach to Fredericton. It looks like one big strip mall from the highway as far as a drunk could stumble. I stop to call Sarah, my couch-surfing hostess. I want to let her know I'm in town.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I'm at the mall,” I joke.
“Which mall?” she asks. “The one on the hill or the one up North?”
Holy Hicksville, Batman. Only two malls in the capital city? How do they know when one ends and the other begins?
First impressions are wrong. The ugly strip mall on the way in to town gives way a rustic houses, looking even nicer covered up to the pupik with fresh snow. A thick white comforter. Some places over my head. A joy to the eyes, even if it's a bit treacherous to the driving hands.
Sarah is a Fredericton native. An attractive twenty-something, she's set up a reading for me in the bar she works at. At the last minute, the reading was changed from Friday to Saturday. Something about Friday being too raucus for a reading. At her house is a pal (boyfriend?), Nathan. He's a tall skinny blond who's very friendly, but talks very little. He smokes-- usually a good sign.
Sarah knows everything there is about the city. She tells me about the two malls. She takes me on a driving/walking tour. She knows all the interesting statistics.
I ask her if there are Indians in town. She asks me what kind I mean.
“The feather,” I say, “not the turban.”
“Oh,” she says, “there's a reservation right in the middle of town. But there's been so much trouble here. We can't call them Indians. We have to say aboriginal people or Native Canadians.
“Oy vey. In Australia, aborigine's a taboo word,” I tell her. “How do you keep it straight?”
“We don't do straight here,” she says. “This year, Fredericton passed San Francisco as the city with the highest percent gay population in the world... well, in North America.”
“Does that include lesbians?” I eagerly ask.
“Everybody, gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual... you name it.”
I don't. Instead, I ask, “Where do they hang out? Is there a particularly homo part of town? Is there something in the water that turns people gay? Do you bottle it and ship it abroad?”
“Oh,” she says, “they hang out in the gay bar.”
“THE gay bar?” I say. “Homoville USA... er... CDA, and there's THE gay bar? I don't get it. Is that like THE Gambia?”
Or course, she doesn't get it. Who would?
“Well it's the right location,” she says. “It's on Queen Street. But EVERYTHING is on Queen Street. The gay bar is right down the street from THE sex shop...”
I don't ask.
“Hey,” she says. “We're right by the sex shop right now. You wanna go in?”
“Naw,” I say. “I don't like those kind of places.” Yeah, right, I say that. “You bet!” I tell her.
Inside there are a bunch of videos, dildoes, and a few magazines. No books. On a hook on the wall is the absolutely largest buttplug I've ever seen. It tapers outward from a point as wide as a ten year old's fist to a base the width of a pillar in the Greek Colosseum. It's about a two feet long and called THE CHALLENGER. I'll bet... but the real challenge is the price: $59.95.
“Excuse me,” I ask the bored-looking young man behind the cash register. “Can I return this if it doesn't fit?”
He doesn't even smile.
After leaving THE sex shop, we continue our tour.
“I bet there's a huge turnout for the gay parade every year,” I say.
“There is no gay parade,” Sara tells me. “It's illegal. It's the mayor of Fredericton. If some concerned Christian writes a letter, he passes a law. Somebody complained about gay parades destroying the character of THE CITY. He passed a law against gay parades. A couple years ago, a woman walking home from church was offended by someone walking down Queen Street with a snake. Now it's illegal to walk down Queen Street with a snake... on Sunday.”
“You're shittin' me!” I say, smelling a prank.
“No, it's true,” she says. “You can look it up.”
I do... and find the law. A by-law actually. http://tinyurl.com/3hqago. But it doesn't say Sunday. You can't have an open snake any day of the week.
“I'm hungry,” I tell Sara. “And I could use a beer.”
“Sure,” says Sara, “let's go to...”
“Don't tell me,” I say. “THE restaurant.”
She laughs. (Great laugh, by the way: easy, friendly, showing lots of teeth.) “Nope,” she says. “It's an organic food bar. Best food in Fredericton... and the worst service. Molly's is the name. Molly is the owner.
Molly turns out to be a thin boomer woman, her long gray hair braided into Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm pigtails. She is not sunny.
From the cashier, a gray-haired man who should be Molly's husband, I place a beer order from an interesting
beer menu. I order an Irish Red, made locally. Sarah and Nathan order herbal tea. Then we go to a table and sit down. We talk awhile. No one comes to take our order, or bring the beer and tea. Sarah goes off to have a word with Molly.
“Hi Molly,” I hear Sarah say. “Could we have a couple menus? We already ordered drinks.”
There's a grunt in reply. Sarah returns to her seat. The man behind the cash register brings the tea and the beer.
“Could we have some sugar and cream?” asks Sarah.
“Sugar and cream with herbal tea?” squints the server/cashier/husband. He speaks like a hoity toidy bartender might ask, “Pabst Blue Ribbon with Dom Pérignon?” But, much to his disgust, Sarah and Nathan insist. He goes off to get them.
Within the hour, Molly comes to our table with the menus. Looking at her features, seeing her personality, I then look at the menu. It's expensive. It's vegetarian, but considering the... er... company... I can't resist.
“I'll have the Mega-witch,” I say, maybe little too loudly. Molly nods grimly. Maybe she gets it. Sarah and Nathan order something slightly cheaper. Good thing too. I pay for the kit and caboodle. Couch-surfing guests should always buy a meal for their hosts. The same decade as the order, comes the actual food. Molly brings it.
“Thank you,” says Sara. Nathan and I echo.
Molly walks away.
“You're welcome. No problem. It's my pleasure.” says Sarah to the empty space where Molly stood.
I record Sarah actually talking about the place, but I don't yet have a program that can edit video so you'll have to wait to see it.
After we leave, we discuss the rest of the day. “I have to go to work,” says Sarah. “I work from ten to two in the morning.”
“Where do you work?” I ask.
“At the gaybar,” she says, “where you'll be reading tomorrow. Come and visit me tonight. So you can see what it's like.”
I do.
Of course, they have an amazing beer menu. I order a blueberry ale, and it's not bad. I settle back to watch the dancers, gyrating on the floor, in a box next to the bar, and on a stage. I can't say I feel comfortable in the place, however. A few things creep me out a bit.
Except for a silent skinny lesbo in a red wool sweater, I'm at least 3 times the age of the oldest person in there.
Except for a hugely fat, hugely entertaining Negress, throwing her body around like she doesn't give a shit, having a great time, (I'm in love!) everybody in the place is white.
Everybody except me, is fruging on the disco floor.
Among the dancers is a tall skinny guy barely twenty. From the neck up, he's a one of those nerdy-sexy guys, with glasses, blonde hair (dark roots), and an asymmetric emo haircut. From the neck down, he's wearing a narrow black top that reveals enough midriff to melt the heart and harden the cock of anybody but the most backward het. Plus: tight low rising jeans, and high heels. Yowsah! (I'm in love!)
Among the dancers, is a skinny girl in a loose t-shirt and Bermuda shorts. She wears a baseball hat and sunglasses. She dances just like a guy. Body and limbs flailing independently, her small breasts rebellious against her t-shirt and her butchitude. An air of coolness covers her self-assured body, like the Johnson's baby oil will cover my accompaniment to future fantasies of this goddess. (I'm in love!)
Needing to... er... adjust myself. I leave BOOM! And head back to Sarah's place. Tomorrow is the show.
(more later)
 |
| Fredricton Trip |
it STILL will go wrong.
--Board's Law
I shudda known. Who's the fool, April? I don't think so.
I sit in a cubical at the Greenwich Connecticut Public Library. One of them anyway. One of the cubicals, that is. Most of the other cubicals are fitted with computers. Internet attached I guess. At each computer a white person sits typing away. The sole Negress sits across from me. Early middle aged, with a plump face, oval glasses, she sits chin resting on her hand, intently reading what's on the screen.
Me? I'm cold. Worried I'm sick. With a hangover type headache, not from a hangover, but from lack of sleep and the two Benadryl that I had to take to finally bring it on. It's 11:43AM. I've been on the road for less than 3 hours, already the trip is a disaster.
Right now, I've got a vague urge to piss, a chill, this headache, a temper on knife-edge nourished by the electronic beep of the book check-out machines.
Where to start? From last week when everything looked set? Tuesday night I stay with Kerri in Vermont. Wednesday with Jason in New Hampshire. Thursday-Saturday with Sarah in Fredericton New Brunswick. Then back to Boston with Lucho and maybe see the folks coming back to New York. On the way, I write, read, visit breweries and relax. Far from hecticity. Right? Yeah, right.
Last weekend I have a couple couch surfers from Lebanon. Great guys-- married couple I think. They sleep on the couch. They only stay for one night. They cook for me even though they'll be gone when I return. I get home the next night, there's food on the stove. Made from parlsey, basmati rice and I don't know what else. It's delicious. I go into the refrigerator to fetch a beer to enjoy it with. The refrigerator door is open a bit. That's bad. Cold air leaking out could cost a fortune. Long enough, it could spoil the food. Maybe the Lebanese forgot to close it.
I push it closed. It opens again.
I shuffle food around and close the door again. It opens.
I check the shelves on the door to see if they're hitting against something. Doesn't look like it. I push back the food on the internal shelves and shut the door again. It opens. I open the door fully. All the way.
The entire shelf unit on the inside of the door falls off. BANG! One fell swoop. On the floor. Vitamins, film, water, juice. BANG! On the floor. One piece. Now lots of pieces. Looks like it was held up with four screws through plastic. The screws are still there. The plastic just broke around them. Two long pieces of styrofoam stuck in the back to support the plastic. In the door behind the shelves, it looks like compressed newspaper.
I take the broken shelf rack to the basement, taping to it a note to my landlord: ALAN! I THINK I NEED A NEW REFERIGERATOR. Back in my apartment, the door now closes. But for some reason, the food is beginning to smell bad.
There's nothing I can do, so-- as is usual when there is nothing I can do-- I check my email. There is a note from Kerri.
First some background: I contacted Kerri several weeks earlier through couchsurfing.com. I asked if I could stay there for a night. She said sure. The next week, I got a caveat:
I should warn you, cabin fever has been getting the
best of me lately, so I've been a little crazy and
more sketched out than I usually am. I'm kind of like
a loose cannon this time of year, so look out. I'm not
dangerous or anything, I just never know how I'm going
to react to shit. I mean, a thing about the iditarod
was on the radio the other day and I started crying.
Now you can't say that you weren't warned.
I am looking forward to your visit though! I hope
some of the snow has subsided by the time you arrive,
otherwise the house's numbers will still be buried in
a snowbank and even your GPS won't get you to all
those windows.
So I wrote back saying I could understand the cabin fever and I thought I might be able to ease it a bit by bringing along something in a brown bottle.
Kerri replies:
It appears that you have some sound reasoning there.
I love brown bottles. Especially those filled with
whiskey.
So I go down the block to my local discount liquor joint and picked up a fifth of OLD CROW. One of the hardest core brown bottle bourbons I know. Not the most expensive brand, but not the cheapest either. I figure, a girl, me and a bottle of bourbon. Who knows?
OK, so latter in the week, I write to confirm my arrival time. I also tell her I'll be bringing a bottle. She writes back:
Hey Mykel,
Sounds good. The number of the house we're staying at is 802-***-****.
If you get lost the night of arriving, call that number. I'm not sure what
time the owners are leaving, I meet with them Saturday, so I"ll let you
know what time you can call that number after.
And you should know, I probably won't drink any that night. Once
I have one drink, I can't stop and I can't be hung over for work. However,
a friend of mine might be stopping by, so he might partake with you. I'd
love to have some whiskey, but being a young alcoholic who's sobered
up once before, I try not to drink anyway, especially on a school night!
-Kerri
Ah well, that kills that idea. She probably invited some guy to humor me, and figure out the whiskey equation. Oh well, I'll share with this guy. Who knows? Maybe HE's attractive. I finish packing, suddenly noticing that I've developed a cough. Also, there seems to be a strange odor--- like rotten food-- coming from the kitchen. I guess I'd better take out the garbage.
In the meantime, my parents are not fairing well in New Jersey. My father has either been asleep or in pain for weeks. My mother's alzheimers can only get worse. They're in no shape to go out to eat anymore. My visits are torture, for me, if not for them.
Lately their bank account has gone bust-- due to the $15,000 a month facility they're in. (Isn't America wonderful?) They need to be moved to a cheaper room. I've negotiated a deal with THE HOME. On my last visit, they tell me that the move will take place while I'm on my trip.
“Of course you'll have to arrange to pick up what we can't get in the new, smaller room,” says the headmistress.
“Of course,” I answer.
When I get home, I'll call my sister.
When I get home there's another email from Kerri. This one says,
Do you have an idea of what time you'll be arriving tomorrow? If
you're arriving on the earlier evening side (7-8pm), I'd be happy to
make some dinner for you, or leave some dinner for you to reheat.
Please let me know today if you can. I think a pal of mine is going
to join me/us for dinner that night anyway. The house we're at just
got a new pool table and she's dying to play. Talk to you soon.
--Kerri
SHE's dying to play. Hubba hubba. That's what I need is a couple girls dying to play.
I email her back that I'm not sure when I'll arrive, probably not before 8, but if she'd like to leave some food for me, that'd be terrific. In any case, I'd love to meet her pal and I have a brown bottle to share with her.
In the meantime, I eat at Wendy's across the street. My refrigerator's useless, only making expensive grinding noises.
MONDAY: April Fools Day-1 2008
It's the last night before I leave. I'm going to dinner with Marilyn, Bob and some friends. I haven't seen either and I'm looking forward to it. An Italian restaurant. Cucina Something-or-other. 10 minutes away. I memorize the address and head down Bleecker Street. Passing CVS, I stop to laugh at a sign in the door of that store:
I imagine someone walking in with Fido.
“I'm sorry sir, no dogs allowed. Didn't you see the sign?”
“The sign, sure I saw it. But I'm not being carried. I'm coming in on my own two feet!”
I get to the address of the Italian restaurant and there's no restaurant there. At least no Cucina something. There is a hamburger place. That's it. I call Marilyn, then immediately realize that my lysdexia has put me on the wrong corner. We meet at the REAL restaurant. It's empty. We decide to have drinks and appetizers while we wait for the others. We've both been looking forward to Italian. Pasta, ya know.
The waitress brings us the menu: Gyoza, kimchi, tofu...
Marilyn orders half the wine menu: a glass of house white. I order a Gyoza and a Sam Adams. The place is still empty. Food is cheap, though. I'm willing to change my tastebuds for the price. Marilyn isn't so sure.
A tall guy with curly hair walks in the door. He loudly asks the Maitress 'd if there's “going to be jazz tonight.” She shakes her head. Marilyn and I give each other the high fives. We both hate jazz.
Before our food comes, Bob arrives with his guests. He enters comes over to our table and speaks to me. “Sorry, Mykel,” he says. “There's no jazz tonight. We're going to THE GARAGE, around the corner. They've got jazz there.”
Marilyn and I finish our appetizers, pack up and go around the corner. To THE GARAGE. To say the place has jazz is like saying Dolly Parton has breasts. FIFTEEN MUSCIANS... AT THE SAME TIME. Drums, trumpets, saxes (two girl saxophone players), and a flute! Exactly what this world needs in a time of war and economic crises: A jazz flute. Entrees here are in the high twenties. Coffee is TWELVE DOLLARS. Then the band starts to play. Hoo-ey!
Back home, my apartment smells worse than before. I'll deal. I'll deal. I just need to get out. I leave tomorrow morning. Try to get some sleep. In bed by 11AM. I can't fall asleep. I've been having trouble lately. Just my mind racing. Or a sudden coughing/sneezing fit. Always waking up and blowing out tissue full of blood and snot.
11: 30. Midnight. I try a Rosy Palm tranquilizer. It doesn't work. 12:30. 1PM. Another Rosy palm. Twice in 2 hours. Not bad for my age. 1:30. I still can't fall asleep. I pop a couple of Benadryl. I know they'll give me a drug hangover, but at least I'll get a couple hours sleep. One last peek at the email before I hit the hay. A message from Kerri:
OH! Soooooooo, I'm kind of an idiot. There is a good
chance that I may arrive home after you have arrived.
I have this alcohol panel to attend tomorrow night and I
probably won't get home until after 10. That being said,
I highly recommend that you feed yourself before arriving,
because I'm not going to have time to make dinner and
there probably won't be any prepared food in the house.
So yea. See you at some point tomorrow night.
What the hell is an alcohol panel? Is it some kind of art show? A new kitchen cabinet design? I'm already stressed out between my parents, the refrigerator, my lack of sleep, and the developing cough, caused no doubt, by the mold spores growing within my refrigerator. Maybe that's where the bloody boogers come from. I've probably got anthrax.
Having lost my patience with my sleep, I fire off an email to Kerri and decide to go to Boston instead of Vermont. I briefly think about staying at a Motel 6 so I can sleep as much as I want, but then think about the $75 it'll cost me just to lie down. I email my pal Kathy in Cambridge and hope I can just show up today. She always has a bed for me, sometimes dinner.
TUESDAY: April Fools Day 2008
That's where we stand now. I'm in Greenwich, on the way to Boston. I want to hit a Brewery in Norwalk first, and then I'll hit Kathy... maybe. There's always Board's law...
Oh yeah, the purposes of this trip:
Get away from New York and the problems and worries there.
Meet new people find out how they're living. Have a drink or two with 'em and if they're attractive...
Write, spend some time in front of the computer, un-fettered, free to spend time in peace in libraries in New England, and Canada. I need to write:
This Blog.
An article I started long ago called, THE ONLY THING THAT SUCKS WORSE THAN NEW YORK IS NEW YORKERS.
A proposal for a documentary movie I have an idea for.
A novel I want to write where the heroes are a prostitute, a mugger, and a kiddie porn maker... Those are the good guys.
Do at least 1 speaking engagement to sell some books and get even more famous
Visit micro-breweries to sample the wares of some new beers.
Learn Dutch: I'm bringing along my language CDs
The usual: go places I've never gone before, meet people I've never met before, “meet” people I've never “met” before, do things I've never done before.
From this point in the blog: I write THE NEXT DAY (April Fools+1), but as the events unfolded yesterday, I'll put them in this section.
I'm writing this in Haverhill Mass. In the public library on Main Street. In the MORTON FAMILY reading room. At the table on my left two guys discuss insurance. I am NOT making this up. I think one guy is training the other on how to work some insurance scam. I'm not sure. One of the guys wears a sweatshirt. On the back of it a large shamrock is woven over the Irish flag. I can't see the front. The other guy wears a casual white shirt under a bulky red sweater. Both wear jeans and Nike-looking sneakers. Both are... er... big.
and you're looking at $453 a month, plus... let's say you're... mumble mumble mumble... Let's say on top of that, you get one reverse mortgage per month... you're gonna get a discussion of social security, husband's social security... the minimum you make is $1500 on a reverse mortgage, so you only have to sell one a month....and 401K and IRA and CDs, and if you sell...
BACK TO YESTERDAY: From the Greenwich library, I head to my first brewery: The New England Brewing Company in Norwalk Connecticutt. Hertz's GPS system, called Neverlost (it underestimates me), gets me to the address in the beer book. Outside the building are huge silos..
Wow! I think, that's a lot of beer for a microbrewery. Maybe I shudda called ahead for a tour. The building number, according to the guide is 25, but the inside looks demolished. Among the rubble, some carpenters build what look like bookshelves.
“Um, is this the New England Brewing Company?” I ask.
One of the guys, a big guy guy with a flannel jacket, long thick blond hair and thick blond beard looks up from his work.
“Used to be,” he says. “About ten years ago.”
“No beer for ten years?” I ask.
He laughs. “I guess not.” he says.
I never find out what's in the silos.
When the weather gets better, you'll see people just sitting out in their yard, talking. Just stop by, give 'em your card. Chat. There so much more you can do. You can meet these people everywhere...
When I get back to the car, I check the date on my beer book. 1995. That's gonna make this 
even more of an adventure. I check the listings for a brewery in the neighborhood. There's one in Northampton Mass. I plug it into the old Neverlost and see what shows up. There it is, only 110 miles away.
As I head off, there's my cellphone vibrates in my pocket. I hate those things. I never answer them in the car. I wish I could never answer them period. But with sick parents...
I look at the number. The call's from Kathy.
It's here that I need to talk about theology. For those who aren't familiar with mine, I'll clue you in:
God is a 9 foot tall blonde in a black leather bikini. She wields a cat o' nine tails. Her job is to make your life miserable. So miserable, in fact, that you'll decide to do yourself in. Just put an end to it all. Everybody dies at the end of life, but if you kill yourself, she wins. If she has to kill you... you win. That's why your life is so miserable... it's the bitch goddess. Playing games with you.
One of her tricks is to stay unpredictable. If you know what she's going to do, you can make adjustments. Get ready. Surprise is her most important weapons. She can fuck-up a refrigerator with a flick of the wrist. She can plant a couple biddies behind you at the library. She can close a brewery 10 years ago. But she won't have an old friend call you to say you can't stay there because she's out of town. THAT is just too predictable. Kathy's home. She'll see me tonight. She'll make dinner.
The Northampton Brewery's actually a brew pub. It's got a great copper kettle behind glass next to the bar. The crowd looks like college kids, with a few regulars clustered around the bartender. The bartender looks just like that big blond guy from the used-to-be Connecticut brewery. Maybe it's a New England type.
On a chalkboard are the beers of the day, including a spring bock I'm sorry I don't try. I do try the Dog Ale, the one mentioned in the guide book. I order it with a grilled shrimp salad. The beer has a nice dark color. At first it's tasteless, but like Mexican food, it hits on the way down. There's a nice bite, just a touch of bitterness at the back of the throat. Unlike Mexican food, nicer on the out-take than the intake. I rate it as better than average. Worth a trip, but not a 110 mile one.
The salad, by the way, is really good. Shrimp much spicier than typical New York fare. Generous portion too. After I pay, I walk up to the bar and and ask the tender,“Do you mind if I put you up against the wall and shoot you?”
He doesn't mind. I even got a local.
Wednesday: April Fools Day+1 2008
Right now: I can't figure out if I have a headache. I was awakened by one at 6:00AM. A horrible one-sider, not a migraine. Lodging itself in a sinus just above my right eye, it spread on and off to the top of my head. I lay in bed, thinking if I'm going to get up, go to the car, and get the aspirin I'd bought the previous headache that was killing me. The one I chalked up to lack of sleep the night before.
the thing you've got to do is get an overview of their financial situation without dwelling... without mentioning how tight money is... I told you we work exclusively with seniors...the person I'm looking for is probably between the ages of 68 to 80 at the most... probably someone who has children or family they care about... maybe somebody you meet at McDonalds... maybe somebody you shop with... you'll meet 'em and take them through slow...
Finally I get up from Kathy's comfortable guest bed, put my pants on, my shirt, fumble out to the hall get my coat go to the car, and amazingly enough FIND THE ASPIRIN. I pop a couple and lie back in bed, falling asleep as they work. My brain plays psychedelic tricks on the inside of my eyelids. Black on black swirls, like a dripping spiderweb, with little points of brightness, form themselves into Bruegelesque creatures-from-the-inferno of my unconscious. Fishlike spermish gobs, swimming through the blackness. Dissolving into lines or other creatures. I follow them, one at a time, until I fall back asleep.
library
the moth's moving silhouette
across the table
The insurance guys have left, now I have a table of biddies in back of me. I need to learn to CONCENTRATE! Maybe I should write in cafés. Ah well, I'm up to date now. I think I'll hit the road, a brew pub, lunch, and one more library.
The pub: MARTHA'S EXCHANGE in Nashua New Hamphire.
Maybe it's the first time I've been in the state since I visited my sister at college in the 70s. LIVE FREE OR DIE is the state motto. I could never figure out if it was supposed to be a statement of fact or a command.
The pub isn't listed in the barbook. I'm lucky I found it in the Fodor's guide I borrowed from NY Public. At 2PM the Brewpub is just opening. A few regulars drink silently at the bar. That U-shaped bar dominates the center of the place. On one side are diner-like booth. On the other, a DJ section, and more tables. Right now, it's quieter than the library. I ask the bartendress for something brown, but not black. And just a bit bitter.
“Well, I don't drink that much beer,” she says, “so everything tastes bitter to me. Maybe you should try the Wederstasdf dubblerok.”
“I didn't get that,” I tell her. “It sounds like you said The weatherman's double rocks. Is that a concert review?”
She speaks slowly, like you might talk to a foreigner who says he knows only small English. Small. Small. “Wea-ther-top dub-bel bahk,” she says. (Later, when I get my bill, I see it's Weathertop Doppelbock.)
Still not understanding, but not wanting to sound like a foreigner who knows only small
English. Small. Small. I nod and say, “Ah sure, give me some of that.... and some Buffallo wings,” Then, I head off to relieve myself of the morning's coffee and breakfast.
The men's room is ultra mod. With one of those door-closing- private-room-junkie-heaven toilets. The only problem is: by the time you stand up and turn around to admire your artwork and production level, the thing has already self-flushed. You never know how good you're supposed to feel.
The sink... well, I don't know what it is with sinks these days, but there's no lack of new ideas. How 'bout glass-on-glass with tubes?
When I get back to the bar, a nice dark-colored beer waits for me. It has more front-tongue taste than the Northampton beer. Enough to keep it tasty all the way through the decently spicy Buffalo Wings.
The actual brewing set up looks a lot bigger than Northampton's with several kettles in the 
back, and an real brewmaster running around running things. Looks proud of his work, doesn't he?
After Martha's Exchange, it's the library. HILL'S MEMORIAL, in Hudson New Hampshire.
And that library: Maybe the most unintentionally beautiful libraries I've ever seen:
Made out of stone, it's one of those buildings you could walk around and look at for hours. It was built in 1909, but looks much older. It's in the U.S. registry of notable places.
“You're really lucky to work in a place like this,” I tell the librarian.
“All that stone,” she says, “really gets in the way of WiFi connections and such. We're up to our necks in wires.”
country library
overheard on the reference line
and that's The Dharma Burns?
5:44PM. Time to hit the road again. Next couchsurfer or....
7:17 Manchester New Hampshire. I can't believe I'm in New Hapshire without visiting GG
Allin's grave. I don't even know where it is exactly. I thought it was in Hookset, his hometown, but I just read it was someplace else. Someplace that surprised me. Tomorrow is the long hall to Canada. So I doubt if I'll be able to do it then. Ah well, it's only a rock and some bones I'll never see. But who knows who I'd meet?
Right now I'm in Quiznos, one of the few places open at 7:30 where you can still get a cup of coffee. Jason says he's on his way. 10 minutes ago he said 20 minutes. The shop closes in half an hour. It's cold outside, my car is parked in a free space. (I hope.) I wanted to park near the library. I did. The library is closed.... more reports during the next few days.
BELOIT October 2007
I start this blog at 7:11 on October 4 at the Delta Shuttle terminal at LaGuardia Airport. I'm worried. Things have worked too smoothly. Dale was supposed to meet me last night at 9:30, just when I got home from work. I walk in the door from work, immediately the doorbell rings. It's Dale.
This morning, he's supposed to be in front of my building at 6:15. I take my suitcases on the elevator to be downstairs waiting for him when he arrives. He's there when the elevator door opens. We make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. That's where I am now.
Not much sleep last night, but I rarely sleep much before I travel. I'll sleep on the plane a bit or not. I'm trying to think of all the stuff that can go wrong. Dale is staying at my apartment so it doesn't even matter if I locked the door. There WILL be something, but I'll be nervous until it happens.
Sunday October 7 1:24PM Des Plaines Oasis, Des Plains IL: Except for a weird period of spaciness yesterday. Where I forgot people's names, was unable to come up with snappy answers, and felt an odd piece of blankness where I think my frontal lobes are, (This went away with increased alcohol consumption), things continue to go too well. The weather is HOT. In the 90s. Not Beloit in October weather.
The Beloit Reunion itself is disappointing. Many of the people I hope to see are not there. Being old, the first thing we talk about is who's dead. The only new death is the wife wife of a pal of mine who went from Beloit to being a brewmaster (imagine that!). His Japanese wife offed herself. The details are unclear, but it appears he was spending too much time in China and she hated China. Japanese people do these things.
Embarrassing moment for me: Jesse is the couch-surfing girl I'm staying with. She's in the Beloit Latino students leage. From Maine, she's a Latina by choice, not by birth. There's something Latina in her style too. The way she walks. The way she carries her body. It makes it necessary for me to... er... adjust myself. Cool, funny, with Mexican friends. She tells me about her adventures in South America. We take a walk to hit a new local food place. She's as friendly as a Brazilian.
When I walk in I see that she has her refrigerator planned for me, as well as her own future:
Later in the evening we hang at BERT'S BAR. That's Bert all the way to the right. Next to Bert is Jesse, and next to Jesse, her roommate Anya. Next to Anya you know, and the two on the end, I forget the names.
Everything goes great, except that the first night at her place, the air mattress slowly loses air as I sleep on it. At night I'm floating. In the morning I'm getting splinters from the floorboards. Then, there's the cow.
Jesse works at the Beloit “coffee house.” No coffee there. It's an on-campus bar. One of the beers they serve there is SPOTTED COW. (They also have a beer called FAT SQUIRREL.... but I do not accidentally ask her for a FAT COW. Jesse's not fat so it wouldn't make sense as an insult. But I could imagine ordering a FAT COW when a large female is sitting next to me. Hooey! My nose would still be in a splint.) I notice that behind the bar is a cow that just hangs wrinkled. I ask Jesse about it.
“Oh,” says Jesse, “it used to be blown up, but all the air went out of it.”
“I guess everything you touch deflates,” I say without thinking.
Jesse suddenly looks deflated herself. Then, thinking about my private IN-flation when we met, I realize how I've been misinterpreted. It's like an insult! No! No! No! But what can I say? That's not what I meant. Touch here! Check it out?” Too late! Sometimes I just say the wrong things! Who me?
The Beloit reading: As has happened from Harvard to Stamford, Barnes and Nobles has taken over the administration of the college bookstore. So far I've been able to avoid ever reading at a Barnes and Nobles, but now I've got no choice.
I'm competing with the college football game, Arab Women Speak Out on Arab Dress, folk dancing in commons, and several welcome back fratboy parties. I expected attendance to be sparse. Sure enough, at the appointed starting time, there's NO ONE! Within a half hour, though. The place is packed. Yowsah! The bookstore sells a ton of books. I sign 'em all. I'm happy and $35 richer from books the store had to buy from me because they ran out.
Despite it being a reunion, the greatest discover of the trip is the current students. I have more fun with them than with the old farts of my class.
Oh I like these people. Some of them are really good friends. But I know them. They're comfortable. I'm not such a fan of comfort. Give me adventure! And besides, I admire these new Beloiters. They've got something we didn't have.
I project backwards: It's 1969 and a bunch of alumni are back at school to celebrate their 30-something, or 20-something or something-teenth reunion. Keep them away from me! Those dumb fucks. They don't know anything's wrong, let alone that the revolution is just around the corner. Fuck 'em. They're part of the problem. I'm the solution.
Ok, if they want to talk to me. I'll talk. There's plenty they can learn from me. But I sure as a black flag aren't gonna sidle up to them and ask questions. What could I ask them? I have the answers already and they don't even know how to ask.
That's how I would've been. But now? The kids wanna know. They wanna hear stories. They want me to tell 'em about how we threw a piano out a third story window and spelled USA on the football field in partially dissected fetal pigs. They want to hear about the drugs, the riots, the firebombed dean's office (I didn't do that) or the plaster of paris in the keycard locks (that one,,, er.)
I'll have more to write about Beloit. I'll probably take this down after updating and rewriting... or maybe not. These adventures tend to fizz out, being replaced by new adventures that I start to blog and never finnish.
--Mykel
FRIDAY AUGUST 10:
Eight hours sleep. I'm riding the train to Raleigh from Penn Station. All is right with the world. Right? Yeah, right.
That eight hours sleep was the last TWO nights-- combined. It's pouring rain. There's a crying baby amidst a family of Hispanic androgenics. Not the David Bowie androgenics, but the PAT, kind. Lumps of fat with short hair, sideburns and an overwhelming smell of wet dog.
Besides the screaming kid, one of 'em has a cellphone that rings like an old-fashioned real telephone every time the train passes from one carrier to another. She keeps the ringer on just in case. She's worried that she might miss a carrier change. I'm sure it'd destroy her. That's my immediate hell. With it, the complete inability of me to fall asleep on this train, though my mind craves it. Soon I'll be suffering caffeine withdrawal. To drink? Lose the headache and stay awake from the caffeine? Or not to drink and stay awake from the headache.
It's pouring rain out. I had to stand in it to get a cab to Penn Station this morning. I wonder how sick I'll get from that. This trip is cursed and I'm only 45 minutes in to it. Let me tell you the ways.
I planned this because of a haiku conference in Winston Salem. I figured I'd make it a vacation, sell some books, do some garage sale shopping. I haven't been away since Australia. I could pay the hefty conference fee with some book sales. I'll have a ride back with the same guy I went to Canada with on my last haiku adventure. I have enough renter miles to get a car for free so it'll be cheap and fun, right? Yeah, right.
I set out with my bag of for-sale books, and my computer to write blogs, my column and this novel I've been thinking about that takes place in Punxsutawney but nowhere near groundhogs day.
It'll be too hot for my normal detective drag, so I'm off with a torn GWAR t-shirt, jeans, army boots, and my Yokohama Bay Stars hat. That was a gift from The Bear, my best pal in Japan. Being made in Japan, it manages always to look new and presentable in any haiku situation. It's one of my prized possessions.
So here I sit on the train. Wondering what tragedy will befall me. What will else will happen that is impossible... that cannot happen?
My tragedies are not like other people's. Things don't hit me. I don't get caught in a Tsunami, like Michel L. My apartment building doesn't get blown up by Con Ed, like Lori. Planes don't fly into my place of work, like Gopal. My tragedies are cumulative, like those old movies where the hero is chained to the wall in a closed room. Then water, slowly drip drip drips into the room until its up to his neck.
The plan for this trip was to work a bit extra before traveling. Teach a few more classes. Earn a few more bucks for pocket change. Make it easy. The changes of plans ends with a bang. The school explodes. A steam pipe under Lexington Avenue bought the farm, sending hot water, asbestos and assorted debris into a towering geyser, right in front of us. Windows smashed. Everyone thinks terrorists! Panic. Teachers in the hall, the stairway. Chaos on the street. A sea of high-heeled shoes on the sidewalk, fashion abandoned to fright. Just like what happened to Lori. The only difference is that I'm not there when it happens.
I'm at Yankee Stadium watching Roger Clemens pitch a mediocre game. Yanks behind 2-nothing after 4. I'm a bit worried because my second South Carolina cousin once removed and his son paid for my ticket to today's game. They're supposed to join me. A Yankee experience with a real Yankee. They have not shown up yet. The kid's a Yankee fanatic, and this was to be his first trip to Yankee Stadium.
My cellphone rings. [Note: my cellphone NEVER rings. Five people have the number. It's a death phone. If someone dies call me. Otherwise leave me alone. I HATE the cellphone. I HATE the phone. Period. It's an intrusion. A leash. You can never get away. And other people's cellphones? Jeezus! I hate 'em. Right now, in the train, some woman is jabbering about her laundry. People use 'em everywhere. They should be blocked-- prohibited-- except when I have to make a call.)
On the phone is Lori.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Huh?” I reply. “The Yankees are losing, but it's not that serious. They can pull it out.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
“I'm at Yankee Stadium,” I tell her. “Why?”
“Con Ed blew up your school,” she says. “Just like my apartment building. Everyone evacuated. I saw it on the news.”
“This is the first I heard,” I tell her. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Slightly shaken, I sit down for 30 seconds. The phone rings again. It's Ai, the attractive head of the scheduling department at my school.
“Don't worry,” she says, “we're all right. We had to evacuate. Marshall took us all in, gave us something to drink. Let us calm down. He even gave Sara an extra pair of shoes. She lost hers in the panic. School will be closed for awhile, though. We'll keep you informed.”
Yowsah! It's not like I'm a salaried guy. If I don't work, I don't get paid. Nothing to do but sit and hope the Yanks can pull it out.
“Mykel,” comes a voice from behind me. It's the relatives, breathless.
“Sorry we're late. We tried to get on the train at Grand Central, but everything was blocked. The sky was filled with white powder. We were covered in the stuff. We had to walk all the way to 59th Street.”
The Yankees won the game.
Flash ahead to the night before I leave for Raleigh. It suddenly occurs to me that under my rental plan, I have to return the car to the same place I rented it. Since I rent in Raleigh, and the conference is in Winston Salem, I have to return the car to Raleigh. In a panic, I write to my ride back to ask him to follow me to Raleigh on the way back. Then I'll get in the van and we'll go to New York.
I hate to spring this on him, but I leave tomorrow. He emails back a bit pissed off. The trip to Raleigh adds 2 hours to the total. He's got to go to Canada as soon as he gets back to New York. I should get a friend to drive me to some highway reststop and meet there. He's not going 2 hours out of his way.
I guess he's right. It's not fair of me to spring this on him. It's enough that he'll be driving most of the 12 hour trip to New York. I think about emailing my friends, asking for rides. But that's a lot to ask for them too. It's like New York to Philadelphia. They're not THAT good of friends.
So I check out the trains. With a AAA discount, I can get a train from Raleigh to Winston Salem for $17. I'll have to figure out how to get from the Airport rental to the train station, but once that's done, I can take the train. I make a train reservation Winston Salem to Raleigh. It'll be a pain... in the middle of the conference... to drive to Raleigh, drop off the car, then take the train back. But it's the right thing. Yeah, right.
Here's the next email:
Now there's another issue that's really screwing things up. My wife just told me that she needs the van that weekend because she's picking up my son in upstate NY from 8 week summer camp and he has duffel bags, art projects, etc. The plan was for her to use our other car, but the camp just notified us that they are not shipping the bags home as we thought. I have to let her take the van as it is technically her car.
If we can't make other arrangements that really limits the space we have. My other car is newer, but only seats 4 and doesn't have much room in the trunk. Just taking Cor, Carl and myself in that car is going to be tight. If I can't get the van, I won't be able to take you back at all. I’ll let you know if I can arrange something else, but maybe you better come up with a Plan B.
Plan B? There is no Plan B. The only reason I'm going to this thing is the ride back. Besides, the last minute is the most expensive to book alternate tickets. Fuck, am I pissed. No one's fault. No one to get pissed AT (except maybe the guy's wife, and I don't even know her). But I'm fighting mad. All this less than an hour before I have to leave, on no sleep, after just having changed plans and spent more money to accommodate the van.
This does not happen. There are too many things going wrong. Too much money being spent. Too many unpleasant hours in a train... maybe on a bus back. It can only be GOD who's responsible. The Bitch is at it again. If I just quit and don't go, she'll win.
[Note for those who are new to my personal religion: The Bitch Goddess is GOD! She runs things. Controls day-to-day events. You life is so miserable because of her. She is a 9 foot tall blonde who wears a black leather bikini and carries a whip. The “meaning of life” is a contest between you and The Goddess. If she can make your life so miserable that you kill yourself, she wins. If you give up, spiritually. Sink into a mind-numbing morass. Get married and have a 9-5 career as a K-Mart manager. She wins. But if you continue to fight, despite it all. If, at the end, she drags you clawing and biting into that great good night, you win. She's tricky though, lining every gift, every seeming bit of good fortune, with a layer of shit.]
So I'm out on the street at 5AM, in the rain, trying to catch a cab to get to Penn Station.
So here I am in this crowded traincar. Next to me is a hefty Negress. Grandmotherly, she talks to me about her teaching job in Baltimore, and how some kids just don't listen.
She's a nice lady. Not spreading her girth around like white trash bus-riders who seem to say, You skinny worm. I'm going to smother you with my earthy rolls of flesh. You have no business being your size and taking up a whole seat. Meanwhile, someone with my amplitude has to stuff themselves in a mousetrap. I'm just going to spread myself over you. Drape my flesh past the armrests. Push my ample thighs against your skinny little legs. You wanna do something about it?
Nope, this fine colored lady kept her body to herself. She's Miss Proper. Every action delicate. Her face, speckled with black spots of experience, is smiley, but unobtrusive. She speaks like a grandmother. Telling me about her daughter's cholesterol problem, and her love of North Carolina barbecue.
[Note for those who don't know: North Carolina has its own style barbecue. Not on the bone, like traditional barbecue. It's mostly pork, off the bone, finely chopped. Dry seasoned in the Eastern part of the state. Wet seasoned in the West. If I ever found out that was what they served for lunch in heaven, I'd jump off a cliff. As I type this, I can feel the saliva running like Pavlov's dog.]
I tell her that barbecue's what I come to North Carolina for. She laughs. Then I introduce myself.
(You can barely see me there in front of one of the main reasons to come to North Carolina.)
“I'm Mykel,” I tell her.
“I'm Hattie,” she says, laughing as if knowing that every matronly Negress is supposed to be named Hattie.
It's 4:36PM. The train was scheduled to arrive in Raleigh at 4:30. We haven't reached ROCKY MOUNT yet. That's the first stop in North Carolina. Today's gonna be a lost day. In the train, I spend my computer time cleaning out spam from my Eudora inbox. Not exactly a productive adventure.
We'll be at least 1½ hours late. Brian is supposed to meet me at the train station to take me to the airport to pick up my car. If he's there, he'll be pissed.
Most likely he won't be there and I'll have to figure out how to get to the airport on my own... and it just started raining again. It'll be raining when I get out of the train, that's for sure. I'll have to take an expensive cab to the airport. I won't be able to get the navigation system anyway. They'll be sold out. Even then, there's always Board's Law: Even if nothing can go wrong, it still will go wrong.
I can't predict. God always thinks of something else, something I couldn't imagine in my wildest dreams, like a tornado in Brooklyn.
It's not raining when I get out of the train. Brian is not here. I don't expect him to be here. That would mean things working right. I expect him to not even be in town. Called away. Uncle Rastus in Des Moines. Kicked off unexpectedly. Brian had to leave for the month. Besides the train is 2 ½ hours late. Who would wait that long?
I half-heartedly try calling him on the cellphone. I expect his voicemail. Maybe with apologies to me.
“Yo Mykel,” comes the answer, “I'm in the parking lot in front of the train station. Just walk around the other side.”
I don't get it, that means something went right. Things are not supposed to go right. But that's the way the Bitch Goddess works. She needs to stay unpredictable. If you can guess how she'll screw you, you can plan for it. She doesn't want you to plan.
So here's Brian with his giant dog-smelling poodle, Frank Zappa. Frank is the kind of dog who's all over you. Slobbering you with kisses, jumping up on your chest, nudging your hands to scratch him behind the ear. The kind that thinks your arm is a chewtoy. A big smelly slobbery messy kind of dog. The kind you probably love, if you love dogs. (The picture on the left shows Frank in a rare, tuckered out moment.)
We drive back to Brian's house, talking about the plans for the trip. I've got a show at Flynt Street on Sunday. The next at Katmandu, the bar Brian tends, on Monday. On Tuesday, I read at Internationalist Books in Chapel Hill. Then, it's onto the Haiku conference in Winston Salem.
I hope folks show up. I've sent out tons of email and nearly a hundred postcards to everyone I know in the whole state.
“You mean TUESDAY,” says Brian. “I don't work on Monday.”
The Bitch! That's the way she works. Making the impossible happen anyway. Pulling a thick turd out of an empty top hat.
Brian drives me to the airport. I pick up my Hertz rent-a-car with a satellite system. I only need to pay for the GPS. The rest is free, courtesy of frequent something miles.
On the way to the airport, Brian and I come up with an alternative. I'll show up at Katmandu on Monday, just to see if anybody's there. Then I'll PLAY Katmandu on Tuesday, at Midnight, after the show in Chapel Hill. That should work out. Yeah, right.
I call Derick (name changed by me-- you'll see why), who set up the Sunday show for me. I want to confirm the time and place.
I get his voicemail and leave him a message to call me back.
At Brian's house, I drop off the rental and get in his car. We go out to look for Sunday's venue. We have an address: 3104 Flynt Street. The closest we get is FLINT PLACE. Brian finds it on the map. When we get there, it's nothing but an alley that starts in a playground, runs behind the university and ends in a parking lot. There are no addresses.
Brian and I get out of the car to investigate the playground. It has a tetherball (one of those balls tied to the top of a pole with a long string), a slide, and a small stage, with a flag directly over it. The flag says FAITH IN GOD. Near this flag is another that says RESPONSIBILITY.
“I hope this is the place,” I tell him. “I'd love to talk about whipping a girl hanging from the ceiling under a sign that says FAITH IN GOD.”
“It must be the place,” he says. “There's nothing else around here.”
I call Derick again. Voicemail again.
I leave a message telling him we can't find the place unless it's the little playground. I ask him to call me back and confirm that it is indeed the little playgroup.
Then we go to Katmandu to hang out and check out the crowd. Try to sweep them into the show on Monday... er... Tuesday.
Since Brian works there, they let the dog in. [Note: a lot of places in North Carolina seem okay with dogs inside. Especially bars. They're also comfortable with smokers, and they don't press too hard on the ID checks. All a welcome relief after New York.]
The crowd in the bar is a beautiful colored hooker and her John, a leisure suited fifty something, with a grin from here to there on his inebriated face. Besides him there is the bartender. Besides the bartender is the kind of girl who is not pretty, but sexy as a teen-aged naval. She's got a large heart tattooed on her chest. Her t-shirt shows enough cleavage entice you to deeper investigation.
She's writing in some kind of journal.
That's the crowd. No one else. It's Friday night at 10PM
Brian and I sit at the bar and order some PBRs.
I lean to the side and talk to the girl. “What are you writing?” I ask her.
“I'm in charge of a wedding,” she says. “My best friend is getting married... in Florida... I need to make a list of everything I have to do before the wedding. Clothes, accommodations, everything. They're getting married on the beach... Before this, a bachelorette party... You know, a dinner, a few bars, a strip club...”
“You must be a pretty good friend to do all this work,” I tell her.
“The bride used to be my girlfriend,” she says. “The groom stole her away from me.... I don't hate him or anything... I like the guy... but still, he took her.”
“And you're still nice enough to plan the wedding,” I say, staring at her tattoo.
“Well, the husband asked me to come along on the honeymoon,” she says, “but...”
“Go! Go!” I tell her. “You should go. Jezus fuckin' Christ! It's like a dream come true. TWO girls and a guy on a honeymoon! Yowsah!”
She shakes her head.
The bartender agrees with her.
“Yeah,” he says, “it's every guy's fantasy. But I don't think so. A honeymoon is a bonding time. It's where the bride and groom, you know. They get intimate. They get to know each other. Kinda inside out. Ya know what I mean?
“Intimate, shimintimate,” I say. “Imagine a honeymoon. Two girls and a guy. Ho ho! You could write a book. All that money would be worth it. These days, most honeymoons are expensive shit. You go to some hotel in some foreign city. You pay $400 a night, and fuck a lot. You walk around the city during the day. Hand in hand. You have your first argument. Note that it's your first argument. Fuck some more. Go home. Drop puppies. Get divorced. Poof! But two girls and a guy! Ho ho! You wouldn't give a fuck about your first argument.”
(To the right are 4 of the remainders in the bar. The girl with the tattoo was camera shy. She took the picture.)
Soon after this, the girl leaves. The hooker and her John leave. Brian and I leave. We head for Brian's house, where I have the couch. On the way back we stop at an all night barbecue take-out. Two BBQs to go.
Home: I'm tired from the long day, the train ride, no answer from the promoter, no venue, no one at the bar. I walk inside and notice that the posters I sent Brian to promote my reading are sitting on the dining room table.
“Didn't need all the posters?” I ask. “I figured there'd be more than one or two record stores to put 'em in.”
“Record stores?” he says. “I thought you were taking care of all that. The promotion and all, I thought you were going to do it.”
This does not bode well. But it's the Bitch Goddess. She doesn't make a very good atmosphere for boding.
Brian and I open the barbecue sandwiches at the table. I'm ready to dig in and savor the oral ecstasy. The dog goes off to enjoy a rubber squeaky ball.
Boy, that tastes good. Even if nothing else works out. I'll at least have had my North Carolina barbecue.
A taste of ... wait a minute. There are no squeaks from the dog's squeaky toys. What's going on? Brian gets up to investigate. The dog has eaten my Yokohama Bay Star's hat.
