THE BOOK 

I was temping in downtown St. Paul around the same time I was dating Jay (see previous post). I remember very little about the job itself--the details of mind-numbing temp gigs tend to blend one into the other over the years--but I do know I was working at The Ramsey County Government Center on Kellogg, next to the Science Museum. I remember having to walk through a metal detector every day, and needing to wear an ID badge to go anywhere in the complex. Our supervisor was a goofy, genial guy who was the spitting image of Dan Fogelberg and frequently quoted old cartoon characters (Mr. Peabody, Underdog, etc).

My old boss, before he got a government job.

I became friendly with another temp, a lady named Reva who was in her mid-40s. Reva was a bookworm like me, and we often traded paperbacks. One day she came in with a novel called Spilling Clarence by Anne Ursu, a book she'd started reading but was "not really feeling it," so I said I'd give it a try. 

Spoiler alert: I never read it. The job assignment ended later that year, I lost touch with Reva (one of the folks lost to the mists of time in the days before social media, back before everyone was trackable) and I never read the damned book.    

Guess what, though? I still have it. 

It's like it was with the mug: I didn't plan to hold onto this book all these years later, I just did. Although, there was some intentionality with this one. See, I have to regularly do sweeps to pare down my collection and get rid of any books I don't plan on reading again, otherwise I wouldn't have room for anything else.* The books I end up keeping are either signed copies, or ones that have sentimental value (if it was a gift from someone dear, I'll usually hold onto it). But all the books in my "slush pile" get dispatched to Half Price Books and various Little Free Libraries around town. 

I've kept Spilling Clarence for over twenty years now. It's been on the chopping block every time I've done a book purge, and every time, it manages to stay. 

Why have I held onto it? The main reason is, well, because I never read it. As a book lover, I cannot---will not---get rid of a book that I haven't read yet. I mean, what if it's amazing? I'll never know if I donate it. 

Also? Spilling Clarence sounds intriguing, if the description on the back cover is anything to go on: 

"What if you could suddenly remember everything that ever happened to you? Would it be a blessing, or a curse? This is the fate of the residents of the town of Clarence, who fall under the spell of a strange and powerful drug that unlocks their memories. The past comes flooding back without the buffer of time, and the townspeople, young and old, find themselves awash in their own reminiscences--of love and death, of war and childhood, of happiness they've experienced and sins they've committed. Beautifully rendered with a light comic touch, Spilling Clarence is a beguiling exploration of our relationship with our histories, the seductive pull of regret, the unreliability of memory, and the bliss of forgetting." 

Hey, look what I found stuck in the pages! 

It's the passport card from my very first passport, which, judging by the date, was issued on July 2, 2006 (ten years before the expiration date listed). Cool!

Without further ado, I am reading it. Yep, today's the day. 

Let's do this, bitches.

* I have to periodically do the same with clothes and shoes, or my closets would overflow. 

THE MUG

There's a scene in the novel Wonder Boys where Grady Tripp, at the end of a chaotic, debauched weekend, looks down at his feet to see that a tuba which showed up early in the story appears to have "followed" him throughout his adventures. 

Does anyone else have something like this? An item that has followed you from place to place over a period of time, even though a.) you never made a conscious decision to keep it, b.) you're somewhat ambivalent about hanging onto it, but c.) still, it's just....there? 

I do.

When I moved to the Twin Cities, I rented a cute little studio apartment in the Cathedral Hill neighborhood of St. Paul. I was living there when I briefly dated a younger guy whom I'll call "Jay." I was 32, he was 23. We used to laugh about the numerological juxtaposition of our ages. 

Going out with a youngster was funny; by our second date Jay was calling me his girlfriend. It wasn't creepy or anything, it seemed kind of natural since we clicked right away and we both dug one another. I didn't mind it. 

Jay had his own apartment in the St. Paul burbs, but--being 23--he was frequently at his mother's house doing laundry and getting free meals. Jay also spent a lot of time at my apartment, and soon he was leaving personal items behind: a hoodie here, a toothbrush there, a towel hanging in my bathroom. Then one day, this mug appeared.  

We were having coffee one morning, and I told Jay how much I loved this literary-themed mug he'd brought over, pointing out Oscar Wilde, Edith Wharton, James Joyce, Nabokov, and some other famous authors I recognized. Jay was like, "Yeah, it belongs to my mom. She works at Barnes and Noble." I told him it didn't seem kosher to swipe his mom's mug and leave it at my place, but he waved away my concerns. "Ah no, it's fine. Believe me, she has a collection of these." 

A few days later, we were drinking wine and laughing at my cats Shelby and Riley. They were crouched on the windowsill, chattering at the squirrels outside. "You know," said Jay, "my mom has this thing for her cat. It's like this carpeted ledge that fits onto the windowsill, so the cat has room to stretch out. I'll bring it over." 

I was like, "Dude, seriously? You can't do that." If Jay nicked the cat's ledge, I would not only be stealing from Jay's mom, I'd also be stealing from Jay's mom's cat. Nope, no way. I couldn't have it on my conscience. 

Jay kept trying to convince me it would be fine, and that his mom could just buy a new window ledge for her cat. I put my foot down. "Fuck no, I'd be pissed as hell if someone did that to me." After going back and forth for a bit, Jay finally relented and agreed that he wouldn't bring the thing over to my apartment.  

We dated for about six weeks. It was hardly an epic romance for the ages, but we had a good time. Jay was funny and quirky, a computer animator who played the theremin and was obsessed with pirates. We went to a lot of movies together; March of the Penguins and Jim Jarmusch's Broken Flowers are two that I remember, just to place things in a historical context. 

One thing that bugged me? Apart from going to the movies, a lot of our dates consisted of me, Jay, and like thirteen of his buddies hanging out at various hipster bars around St. Paul. While I liked his friends--they were a fun, creative, diverse group of people--I began to balk at the frequency of these types of outings. Jay didn't see why I'd have any issues, since I liked everyone, and they liked me. 

It was becoming an annoyance, though.

The last thing I recall happening in our short-lived relationship was Jay coming over with his DVD player (I didn't have a DVD player; I barely had a working TV at the time) so we could watch Kill Bill, a film he was adamant that I see. I fell dead asleep about 20 minutes in, and Jay was miffed. I often fell asleep when we watched movies at home; I was also temping full-time in downtown St. Paul during the day and posing for drawing classes a few nights a week at the College of Visual Arts. I was exhausted much of the time.    

Still, for him, it was an annoyance.

Not long after, Jay and I made a mutual decision to call it a day, and we parted amicably. He remembered to take the DVD player, the hoodie, and the towel. I tossed out his toothbrush. 

We both moved on. 

A few weeks after Jay and I split, I noticed that I still had his mom's Barnes and Noble mug. By that time, I felt awkward about contacting him to see if he'd pick it up, so I didn't.

More than 20 years later, that mug has traversed the country with John and me, living in the kitchen cupboards of six (Seven? Eight? A dozen ? I've lost count.) different residences. I've kept it all this time, for reasons I don't understand. 

Well, one reason. I mean, it's a cool mug, you know? I still use it when my favorite mug is in the dishwasher. 

Wanna see my favorite mug? Sure ya do!

My stepdaughter and her kids sent me this during the lockdown. 

Of course it's my fave! 

Rewind

Another REWIND! This time from 2009. I miss the Twin Cities. And I still stand behind all of these reviews.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

A review of stuff I hate vs. stuff I love...

The Suck It List

Stella’s Fish Café
I can’t get past the name. I don’t know who Stella is, but I know that the words “Fish” and “Café” don’t belong together. It brings to mind fish-flavored coffee, which, ew. Plus, it’s not even a café, just another restaurant/bar, like a pretentious Old Chicago. With fish.

Chino Latino
I refuse to be swayed by the cheeky billboard ads and the glittery sign. Too loud, too yuppified, and the food is crap.

Paisano’s Pizzaria (St. Paul)
This place is utter crap. Mediocre food, messy dining room, excruciatingly horrible service. You’re better off staying home, heating up a frozen grocery store pizza and eating in front of the teevee.

Sawatdee
Two words: food poisoning. Five more: dine at your own risk.

The Salon For You
I used to live above this place when I lived in St. Paul. I decided to check it out, and left with a fabulous haircut that I was extremely happy with, along with some funky reddish/pink highlights. Two months later I went back looking for the same stylist. She no longer worked there, they told me, but the owner of the salon was available to do my hair. I felt like I was in good hands—after all, if she’s the owner, she has to know what she’s doing, right? Wrong. She refused to do highlights because some weeks before I had experimented with a temporary color rinse and she said she wouldn’t color over that “as a matter of principle.” (?) Then, she proceeded to give me the worst haircut I’ve ever had in my life, and that’s saying something (I came up in the eighties, remember?) She just took the scissors, gave me a blunt cut straight across the ends, and she was done. It looked so horrible that I had to scrape together some more money and go find somewhere to get it fixed. Happily, I ended up with Mackenzie at Hair Police (see below). Her take on my botched ‘do? “Holy crap, this looks like it was done by someone who’s never cut hair before!” Thank God for Hair Police.

American Apparel
I understand that they’re famous for making their clothes in the USA by non-sweatshop labor, so good for them. But do their all-American, non-sweatshop workers have to make such fugly clothing? I mean, I don’t want my clothes made in Laos by a barefoot 9-year-old, but I do want clothes that are attractive and wearable. (Seriously, who buys this crap?)

Skintight shiny spandex? Really?

Ragstock
There was a time when nearly every scrap of my wardrobe came from Ragstock. Their clothing and accessories were quirky, functional, and reasonably-priced. Unfortunately, they have since gone straight down the crapper. I think they changed clothing suppliers or something, because they’re stuff has taken a sharp nosedive quality-wise; cheap-looking clothes that are more expensive than the lines they used to carry. And most of the clothing doesn’t even come in larger sizes—if you’re above a size 8, you’re shit out of luck. Also? Rude, unhelpful staff. (Oh Ragstock, why hast thou forsaken me?)

Luvs It

Dulano’s
Live bluegrass every Saturday night, plus damn good pizza. You can’t go wrong. Bring a date here and they’ll think you’re offbeat and original for discovering it. You’re welcome.

Nina’s Coffee Café (St. Paul)
My original St. Paul hangout, located directly across the street from my first Twin Cities apartment. Great coffee, great atmosphere, and a fabulous place to hunker down and get some writing done. I’ve seen Garrison Keillor there twice! (He owns the bookstore down below Nina’s—Common Good Books.)

Buffalo Exchange
Since Ragstock has fallen out of favor, Buffalo Exchange has picked up the slack. I love this store. Fantastic clothes, shoes, and accessories, all reasonably priced. It’s all thrift/resale, but the staff are fairly picky about what they buy and they always have a good selection of clothes that tend towards the “gently-used” rather than simply “used.”

Eye of Horus
Yeah, I’m a bit of a hippie—you got a problem with that? Didn’t think so. Even for a non-hippie, this is a cool store. It has a wide selection of candles, essential oils, and incense—stuff anyone could use, right?—along with tarot cards, crystals, runes, and mojo bags, for those of us with more esoteric needs. All this, plus a friendly and knowledgeable staff.

Nicollett Village Video
Who needs a Netflix subscription? I’d rather support independently-owned video stores like this one. Village Video has nearly every movie category imaginable, including a wide range of foreign and cult films you can’t find anywhere else. They also have a huge “Brit Vid” section, featuring shows like Spaced, The Tomorrow People (remember that one, fellow Gen-Xers?) and Not the Nine-o’Clock News. It rocks. Hard.

Hair Police
As long as I live in the Twin Cities, I will never go anywhere else to have my hair done.

 Ms Sparrow said...

Thanks for sharing all your hard-won experience and advice on great places to avoid. I've never eaten at Sawatee, and I hope I never will.

I've never heard of most of the Brit TV shows you mention. I don't even watch the Eastenders, but I love "Keeping Up Appearances" and "Mr Bean" always makes me laugh--except not in his movies.

7:42 AM

 

Below is an old post from the wayback machine. I would like to amend what I said about Maya Rudolph. I didn't know her work at the time and barely knew anything about the 2005 SNL cast. What a difference 8 years makes! I think she's great.

Also, I wouldn't use an outdated Boogie Nights reference if I saw John C. Reilly. He's funny and he's a fine character actor. If I saw him today, I'd probably have to point, smile, and say "Brule's Rules! For your health!" (Tim and Eric reference). But that might be annoying too. Most likely I'd blush, smile, and look down.

Monday, July 11, 2005

The stars at night are big and bright...

Lindsay Lohan is in the Twin Cities filming the Prairie Home Companion movie (she's been seen out shopping at vintage stores in Minneapolis). And last week I saw something random in the People and Places section of the Pioneer Press (or the Star Tribune, or the other one--there's like 50 daily publications here and I can't keep them straight). The short blurb mentioned that John C. Reilly, Maya Rudolph and some dude were spotted during July 4th weekend eating on the patio of La Grolla--an Italian restaurant that's within crawling distance from my apartment (literally). Now, Maya Rudolph I couldn't give a crap about (although she did interview Amy Sedaris for BUST magazine, which was cool), but I'd have died to meet John C. Reilly. Not that he's hot or anything, he's rather odd-looking. Most people probably remember him as Renee Zellweger's husband in Chicago, but the most awesome-est John C. Reilly movie is, of course, Boogie Nights, one of my favorite films in the whole history of the whole history. Dude, he was Reed Rothchild, a.k.a Chest Rockwell!!! I can't believe he was at La Grolla.

If I'd have happened by, I totally would have embarassed myself by staring like an idiot. I also would have tried to come up with some Boogie Nights quotes, thus embarassing myself further, but I'm not sure I'd have been able to stop myself. Like, "People say I look like Han Solo," or "That's not an MP, that's a YP--your problem!" Or "You're not the king of Dirk!"

Such a cool movie.

This Good Friday Support Planned Parenthood!

Misty, me, and Katy at the the 2011 rally in St. Paul

Aww, I had so much fun at the Planned Parenthood Good Friday support rallies! This is the first time in four years that I haven't gone and I'm really missing it. It's become something of a tradition, as Good Friday is the designated day for religious fanatics to line up outside Planned Parenthood locations around the country to wave anti-choice signs, so Planned Parenthood set up "support" teams to counter the holy rollers. Planned Parenthood didn't let people on their side bring their own placards because they wanted to keep a positive, upbeat atmosphere, but they did provide signs for us supporters to hold (see above).

At the first rally I attended (with Katy in 2010) this old dude walked up carrying a "SAVE THE SPERM" sign complete with squiggly little sperm-creatures inked in around the letters. Everyone was a little freaked, and a bit confused, as it wasn't clear a.) what the hell message the guy was trying to convey with that (was he being funny? was he serious?) and b.) was he with us, or with the holy rollers on the other side? It turned out that he was, in fact, a pro-choice supporter and his pro-sperm sign was a misguided attempt at humor. The PP organizers respectfully asked him to discard his sperm sign, and gave him a more tasteful one to carry. It was memorable, anyway.  

The awesome thing about this photo? I found it on a Google image search of "Planned Parenthood Good Friday rally" and it's from the exact same day we were there (you can see Misty's jacket and sign to the left of the woman above). We are EVERYWHERE baby!

Found on a St. Paul sidewalk.