nICE Observations

It isn't as if an Avenue story begs to be told or that anyone would be interested in reading what I am about to write about this particular acre of real estate. I haven't exactly pinpointed where or how this story is supposed to start. Perhaps it starts right here, on this night in the warehouse district in 1995. I've started a paragraph --- progress kiddies, we are on the 4th sentence already! Sentence #5 and already I’m gripped by writer's block. So, I gaze out the window and strike up a conversation with a table of decidedly alternative-looking boys on the patio four floors down at La Cucaracha.

"Hey you up there, my names Josh - how would someone get a hold of you?" he grinned up at me in his alterna-boy cuteness. "My doorbell is that parking meter over there, just lean against it, look as cute as you do tonight, point your head to the sky and yell - YO! MICHELE! "

I plan to live the rest of my life as the solitary yet contrarily gregarious person that I am. At the tender age of 70 something I’ll say fuck the purple dress and red hat and continue to be the Shelly Show at the party. Ready to spout off and share the more esoteric aspects of my life. Intent upon raising the tents of elderly gentlemen with dialogues that begin with claims such as, “This Parkinson’s disease definately adds a whole new level of enjoyment to masturbation!” or “Get ready Grandpa, I’m coming down the hall with bourbon and diapers!”

However, presently as each word is typed, I hang like the procrasti-possum by my toes on the limb of my 33rd year on this planet - just past 33 1/3, which may not mean a fucking thing to anyone born after the invention of the CD - albums by 2021 no doubt being something one could see at the Museum of Natural History. To me, I'm living my life like the long playing record that it is, the power marriage ballad just finished and now its time for the single. I smile at the irony of the single, the true reason most people buy the album in the first place. It's a vinyl kind of life and I rest easy knowing that when this side is done I can flip over and play side two.

Outside the summer has finally decided to heat us with its presence, although be warned - all who were not born here in Elmer Stud Land. The ice of the winter exists year round in the hearts of many Nordic natives who plant themselves up to their necks in the ground next to their cabins on the lake. Their shit doesn't stink, rather, it "clinks" when it hits the porcelain. I watch them walk by windows all nice on the outside yet seething and clinking on the inside. It can be a bit confusing to a newcomer. Let me fill you in. By freakish geographical anomaly, Minnesotans are born inside-out! Rest assured that once you learn the local customs (e.g. communication style) you are able to react to this accordingly and live a relatively comfortable life. For instance, these people will invite you to lunch when what they truly mean is "Fuck you." Rather than say "You are full of shit." They will stammer, "Well, I don't know how they do it where you come from, but here in Minnesota we… " Rather than saying "Wow, a great black slut dress!" they will say "Oh gosh… you always wear such interesting garments!"

Now there are some that defend the local communication style as being an expression of polite propriety. If only they were able envision the simple happy life I see for them if they could just learn to add a few words to what they really mean. Like, "Sincerely, fuck you" or, "Please know you are full of shit" and finally, "Thank you for dressing like a slut today." If everyone adopted a polite yet honest communication rule, then aside from the harsh winter, the humid mosquito infested summer, the tornados in the spring and the angry bees of autumn - well, at least 10 days a year in Minneapolis would be HEAVEN!

For the most part, the local attitude prompts this gregarious lone wolf and mouth of the party to go home alone and embody a contrary, isolated yet "out there" image. A presence that I work hard to enhance daily with caffeine, Dorothy Parker, a diet that is 1 part healthy/3 parts carcinogen and an hour of Yogi Bear. Being the loose cannon and the most unusual human artifact that I am, I live for the moments when I can play the human cocktail wiener leaking my funky brand of barbeque sauce banter and odiferous views on the thin burnt exterior of their creme brulee lives. Surprisingly enough, at least 3 people In this city like me. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

Page one is done and just in time. From the open window I hear alterna-boy shout, "YO! MICHELE!"

The law of averages tells me that there is only a 17% chance that alterna-boy is from Chicago, thereby posing a small risk to raising my hackles when he speaks. Ostensibly then, this poses an 83% likelihood that I may be dealing with someone with an Eden Prairie state of mind and will indeed get off my ass tonight and embark upon a noble mission. My new plan is to liberate this city from the vocal impediment of Minnesota nICE - one naked young man at a time.