Blogging takes commitment, and I'm fresh out

I just wrote a really long, thoughtul piece on my lack of dedication to blogging. Then I got kicked off the stupid airport wireless connection I'm using. Suffice it to say, this is now a testament to how I'm lost my will to blog. One more fabulous piece on my adventures in Colorado, and then the death knell for my life in the blogosphere will likely be heard around the globe.

Lying? Who me?

I'm taking a creative writing class through community ed. Basically, it's a crap class led by a doddering old guy who worked for the Parks Department before he retired about 350 years ago. He's nice enough, but I can't help but think that the class would be much better if we didn't have this coach who likes to wax poetic about whatever book his book club is currently reading. Last week I almost yelled at him because -- for the second week in a row -- he shared completely untrue facts about "The Diary of Anne Frank" and the house where the families hid. I've been there. I know what I'm talking about. But ... I digress.

I really like the people in the class, and it's fun to hear stories by other writers. I also kind of get off a bit when they tell me how good I am at the 650-word genre. Of course, if I had to stretch it to 1,000 words, I'd probably find myself in a big, stinky mire of molting junk. This week's assignment is to write a piece about "when lying is necessary." This topic got me thinking ... which story to choose? I'm the kind of person who lives in constant fear of hurting other people's feelings. This is probably because I'm also the kind of person who is honest to a fault, so I'm likely to blurt out something completely inappropriate if you ask me my opinion about something. Hence, the dilemma.

My honesty doesn't stop me from lying when I think I have to, but I usually have to limit my lies to telephone conversations or e-mail. My face gives me away every time. It's like I have a big neon sign on my forehead that says, "Smack her! She's LYING!" My many weekends spent grounded from ages 13-16 taught me that I can't lie very well, so I'm better off just admitting when I've fucked up.

So besides the obvious "no, those pants don't make you look like a gargantuan beast with elephantitus of the hips" lies, when else is lying necessary? I know my faithful readers will have some interesting thoughts on this subject, so I challenge you to come up with the most colorful, creative reasons for lying. Help me! My piece is due tomorrow night!

The formidable task of keeping this blog alive

I'm a ridiculously lax blogger. Sometimes it's the sheer jealousy I hold (or maybe that's contempt?) for others' more extensive musings on the web (Hulles, your capaciousness and veracity make me sick with envy!) It's not that I don't have too much time on my hands, because I do ...

Anyway, I've been thinking lately about what makes a writer "a writer." I write all the time, but it's mostly blather. Right now, thoughts of a series of short stories are muddling around in my brain, but no matter how much I try to find that right balance of wit and panache with well-constructed sentences, I find myself hitting the delete button a lot. My friend, James, is a writer. He doesn't get paid for it (yet), but he can't help himself. He has thoughts, stories, or just a couple of words written down on scraps of paper, on his computer and in notebooks. He HAS to write. I, on the other hand, force myself to write. I spend far too much time with my nose buried in the pages of other, more disciplined writers rather than sitting at this damned laptop and creating for myself.

But then again, I've never even kept a journal. I'm too afraid someone will tear out a page or two and leak it to the press someday when I'm doing something that would compel the American public to opine on my worthiness and devise an appropriate public-shaming ceremony. Just ask emh. I have to keep her on the payroll in order to ensure that her journals from the late '80s never see the light of day.

If only I could've heard some Tom Waits

Coffee shop culture has always intrigued me because they are public spaces where people can have very private moments. I look around me at Spyhouse on Nicollet and wonder what’s going on in the hearts and minds of the 15 or so people who are sitting alone or in groups of two, working away on some project or another. The thing I like most about this coffee shop is the wide range of seating options. Surrounded on two sides by floor-to-ceiling windows that bring inside the emotions of the day’s weather, each customer can find a seating option that suits his or her particular needs.

When you enter the door, you are first confronted with a disparate yet somehow cohesive array of tables, chairs and stools. Typical ‘50s-era, metal-rimmed Formica tables offer standard leather and metal café chairs. If you keep walking along the wall of windows, you may choose a couch or sit on one of a variety of leather chairs, some of which remind me of the mid-20th Century furniture exhibit currently at the MIA. While the décor could be distracting, for some reason, it’s not. Paintings, album covers and bric-a-brac line the walls, but I never really noticed them until I began to write this piece.

My second-favorite thing about Spyhouse is the lighting. Glass lamps of various colors, shapes and sizes hang down from the ceiling. They glow dully, but they demand your attention … maybe because they’re hung at odd intervals. Upon close inspection, I realize it’s because there are only so many electrical outlets available for use in this old building’s ceiling.

Per usual at this particular establishment, there are laptops open on nearly every possible surface, ranging from booths like the one I’m sitting in, to coffee tables, the counter that stretches around the coffee bar, or even actual laps. Plugged in and tuned out to their surroundings, customers here seem to be lost in their own worlds, peering intently at the glowing screens in front of them … barely aware of the eclectic mix of music playing loudly over the shop’s speakers.

Syphouse attracts a standard, “I’m artistic … I go to MCAD, or I’m an individual … look at my tats” type of crowd. This is a neighborhood coffee shop, and one of the things I’ve noticed since moving here is that the people I see are trying so hard to be different that they kind of all look the same. I’m told this is the first evidence that I’m officially crossing the chasm from young to old. I used to be one of these coffee shop junkies, and in my day, I exerted a lot of effort in expressing my individualism … like that six-month period when I firmly believed my burgundy colored hair was a “fuck you” statement to authority. Of course, all it really took was for my grandfather to tell me I looked stupid for me to go back to the hairdresser and ask her to fix it.

But, back to the Spyhouse. There is a young couple in the corner, snuggled in each other’s arms on one side of a cozy booth. Their laptops are open on the opposite side of the table. Perhaps a break from studying or illustrating or writing or surfing the web? They are lost in each other, and it’s kind of sweet to surreptitiously spy on what appears to be blossoming love.

They guy across the aisle from me is furiously typing, and it looks like he’s copying directly from a rather large textbook. While he’s lost in whatever is playing from the earplugs he has attached to his laptop, I wonder what he’s up to … That’s the thing about the coffee shop experience. If you love people watching, like I do, you could waste away days of your life, making up wonderful and weird stories as people come and go.

Is it too much to ask for a local watering hole?

Sorry, JC, but I told you the statute of limitations clock was ticking, and you missed your opportunity. Now that I've disposed of the formalities ...

Justin and I walked around our part of the TC the other day, in search of fresh air, cool people, and a local watering hole we can stumble to and from on occasion. We live in this weird area between Downtown and Uptown. It's not quite central to either destination, but if you've got four hours to spare, a good pair of walking shoes and a partner who's game, you can cover a lot of ground walking for a while, popping into a few bars and basically drinking your way around town, right? NOT TRUE. We actually walked (and last night, drove) in concentric circles outward from our place near the MIA and found NOTHING. The closest true bar is the CC Club, which is okay every once and a while, but it's a good 13 blocks away, and I'm a little lazy. Plus, I gave up wearing all black a few years ago, and my lack of piercings and ink is just shameful in a place like that. So, it turns out the actual closest place to us are the combined establishments of Azia / Anenome / Caterpillar Lounge on Nicollet and 26th. My half-price glass of wine was still $7. Now, don't get me wrong; I like a place that has two daily happy hours, but that's bullshit. I don't have a job, and this is the Midwest for God's sake! What's up with the East Coast drink prices?

It's not like I'm an alcoholic or anything, but when you're just two friendless souls new to a city, you can't have one designated driver watching the other get blasted alone. It's boring for both parties. And all the snow finally melted, so I'm not afraid to walk around outside anymore! What's the story? I'm starting to fear that all the cool bars are in St. Paul. Is that a Catholic thing? ha!

Jobs are for suckers, but I still need one

After three months of sitting around here in Minneapolis, it's finally time I get a little serious about where my next paycheck will come from. I want to teach more than anything else, but there just aren't that many marketing/communications faculty openings here in the TC, and I'm competing with all those damned PhDs. If I were running the world, I'd say my Master's plus 14 years in the business world should count as an honorary PhD. (Oh! KAS! The WHINING is unbearable!!!) That's probably why I'm not running the world, because if that were true ... Bush and the NeoCons would only be the nightmare we had last night that left us cold and clammy, I could eat all the junk food I wanted and still have the 20-year-old figure that I miss, and the majority of my time would be spent on sex and international travel instead of working to pay someone else to hold this old apartment in one piece.

I'm playing a game with myself now. How many faculty positions can I apply for before I either a) lose my mind, b) one of the local schools puts out a restraining order on my e-mail account, or c) someone in these parts realizes that I'm a GENIUS and should be molding young minds. I know that some of you just laughed out loud because you partied with me in college (or more recently for that matter), and you've witnessed firsthand how genius my thought patterns get after too much of the sauce.

Then again, wasn't I supposed to arrive in MN for this sabbatical and start the great American novel? Lost writing from the hard drive crash notwithstanding, I haven't done a lot on that front except for post silly musings on this blog. I did try to draw some illustrations for this great children's book idea I have, and guess what? My illustrations skills SUCK ... I'm somewhere on the level of my 2-year-old nephew as far as that goes.

I don't have much else to say on this subject except for yes, Mike, I'm still thinking about the character sketch thing, and I'll get to work on sharing your story with the world as soon as I can get my head out of my #@$.

That smells good ...

I love coffee. I love it in so many variations that I can almost never be let down by "bad coffee." I've been spoiled enough to while away the hours in France and Italy sipping that sweet nectar at an outdoor cafe.

However, I'm still just as happy to get up in the morning and make myself some of the worst sludge known to man. For a coffee-lover, I sometimes find it hard to believe what a horrible coffee-maker I am. Justin claims I say this so he'll make the coffee, but honestly, I've actually poured a few pots of my own down the drain. One of the good things about not working in an office anymore is that I drink a lot less of it. I swear, I used to have a cup an hour when it was always there, right down the hall ... and free. Then I would wonder why my head was pounding, and I had a slight case of the shakes. A doctor once ordered me to drink no caffeinated beverages after 3p.m. My sleep did improve, but how I missed my after-dinner digestif. Now, I'm contented with stopping the insanity when one pot is finished (remember, I'm SHARING this with another person, so I'm not that gluttonous with my morning pick-me-up).

When the Surgeon General claimed that caffeine is bad for people, I just scoffed with a "bad for you, maybe, but definitely not for me!" Let's face it, they banned it in Mecca and Cairo during the 16th Century, but that didn't last. Why not? Much like Americans love of alcohol during Prohibition, North Africa just couldn't get up to work the fields without their morning jolt, and as far as the Arabian peninsula goes ... have you ever had their tea? I get more of a kick from that than from an innocent cup of joe. I, for one, am thankful that the Dutch smuggled out some seedlings and brought the fantastic brew to the rest of us! Of course, they now pour the most offensively strong, bitter version of the stuff that I had to switch to strictly cappuccino while living in the Lowlands.

Mmmm ... that gets me thinking. A late afternoon cuppa sounds good right about now. Time for me to grind some beans.

I'M BACK!

Okay, I never left, but my little apple-tatooed pride and joy has returned to my loving fingertips. Sadly, she had a brain aneurysm, and we had to perform a labotomy. Bye bye data!!! I got over the shakes this morning and have spent the last seven hours re-installing all my software. Photos and music were backed up (thank God!), but any writing I've done in the past six months ... GONE. And here's something you never think about: bookmarks. I live and die by saving links to interesting things I find online. All are lost. Sadly, I guess I'll have to give up on finding gainful employment as I spend the next few weeks re-discovering everything I think looks cool at 3a.m. when I'm hopped up on wine and cigarettes.