Daisy's Chain

It was dark. It was stormy. My trench coat felt like a 40 pound used prophylactic twisted around my torso. You get the picture.

My partner and I were walking bowlegged down an alley behind some joint called "Daisy's Chain." I wouldn't call it seedy. Seedy's too good. I'd call it a pustule on the scrotum of Gotham, but I digress.

We had received a cold tip that a big dope deal would be happening in the basement of this rat hive, and in Gotham a cold tip is as good as it gets unless you've got money. In Gotham information is money.

"I hate my job." That's my partner. Porgy. Don't ask about his name. He won't tell you, and if you ask twice you're asking for trouble. He whines almost constantly, but he's the best partner I've ever had. He's not crooked, he's not yellow, and did I mention he's not crooked?

"Shut up Porgy." I briefly stopped to relight my dart. It wasn't going to happen in this slop.

Peering in through the low basement window it was quickly obvious that our cold tip was hotter than usual. Bricks of dope were strewn across tables in a room lit by two bare bulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling. The Smoked Irish had the dope on their side, and on the other side a gang of Roundeyes were keeping close tabs on several black leather briefcases. Porgy doesn't like it when I use racial slurs, but mother didn't use polite language with the various men she took into her bedroom. They always looked happy when they came out, and I never bothered to learn the correct terms. I myself am half Heeb, one quarter Taffy, and one quarter Boche.

There was no way Porgy and I would be able to touch all this heat. I was reaching for my radio to call for backup, and that's when it happened.

Nobody in the room saw him until it was too late, but I saw it like it was slow motion. One second that shadow in the corner was just a shadow, and the next second it was an unfolding mass of flying blades, smoke, and wings.

Now I'll be the first to admit that I've got some issues, but I know what I saw that night, so when I say wings I do mean, honest to dog, giant black wings.

The whole mass of them seemed to open fire at once. A couple of rounds even shot out the window Porgy and I were staring through, but we hardly noticed. Their bullets couldn't even touch him. He weaved in and out among them laying them all down one, two, three at a time until one last gibbering Jim Fish was all that was left conscious. He was crying out for mercy, and had a wet stream running down his leg that smelt of fear and "Daisy Chain" pecan burgers.

At that moment the creature turned and looked me straight in the eye.

The word "Run!" started bouncing around inside my skull like a cue ball in a trash can. I turned to bolt and glanced over at Porgy, but he was already gone.

March

Some boast a push broom
Some a rusty wire brush
There are those who flaunt the floppy ears of a cocker spaniel
Side by side with those who take pride in a thinned smudge
Few since the forties have opted for the toothbrush
Though I suppose it'd still be kosher with a bowler top hat and some slapstick
The twirly Captain J. Hook look requires an abundance of earwax and upkeep
But it's worth the work.
Solidarity, my brother.
Tis the season.

Drawn

A sketch of me lays open on his desk.
my face staring back.

he is in the middle of other projects.
he told me about this sunset he sketched out the other day;
he said it was one of those pieces you couldn't help but smile at
even though you'd made it yourself.

he said "sunsets are beautiful,
you can capture those colors a million times,
twist them on the canvass, coax them like prodding coals with a stick
and they will never stop burning"

His sunsets show the way things should be.
His sketch of me as well, it's me, but it's a little bit more y'know?
it's potential: dreamt, breathed and drawn

and I guess that's why I keep climbing the steps to his studio.
to see how things should be.
to see what my face looks like
staring back

Faithful is a dirty word to me.

You used your breath to buy me food.
Breath = Food.
I would rather have gone hungry.
Now your breath is cut, your reach short.
Breath = Time.
Your hand is no longer dangerous.

Why am I still angry at you?
Anger = Time
I have been angry for too long.
I fed myself upon anger,
Anger = Food
vomited it out, and chewed the cud.

You were once young and full of hope.
Time = Hope
A boy remembers all on the river.
Hope of future kingdoms lingers.

I see it
The not yet is now.
Some heavenly lake,
blue to the bottom.
You paddle alone.
Each stroke shoots you 3 rods.
Adonis in a canoe.

Time + Love - Anger = Hope

Minnesota Necessary

You can't say "Yes, please" until the third offer. It doesn't matter if your stomach started digesting itself half an hour ago and the smell of her fresh banana-nut bread has reached the furthest corners of the room; I'm sorry, you'll have to wait it out. Don't worry, it's not like that third offer won't come around in a minute here, but don't get ahead of yourself or your host. Be nice. This is Minnesota.

A few months ago I recall making a conscious decision to forgo Minnesota Nice. It wasn't an experiment, there was no trial period in mind after which careful analysis would be made and objective conclusions reached; it was just a resolution to be honest. It wasn't because I was upset with our system of excessive courtesy; I just figured that we both knew that the first two "no"s really meant "yes, but not until you ask me again". Really, I mean, when was the last time someone offered, then after the second "oh, I couldn't... are you sure?" changed their mind and said, "yeah, now that I think about it, you can't have what I just offered." I wasn't looking to be rude, just efficient.

So I had decided: "When Wayne, Tyler and I finish our gallybusters and Wayne offers to cover the tip, I'm not going to argue or jostle for position, I'm just going to let him do a generous thing. I'm still going to sincerely express my thanks for his kindness, but I'm going to skip the part where I say, 'No no no, Wayne. I've got it, let me.' Were I in Wayne's position, I'd rather just be allowed to leave the tip without a fuss. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't really want to."

This process of cutting out the superfluous and obligatory niceties worked fine with Wayne; we think alike, we know each other well enough to be confident that no offense will be taken because it's common knowledge that the other wouldn't, and won't in the future, hesitate to do the same. This whole cut-to-the-chase thing was looking promising.

I began accepting favors and compliments and beers simply by saying "yes" the first time, despite the fact that my habitual response required at least two more steps to get there. Consequently I began feeling freer to offer my own services, compliments, rations, etc., because I subconsciously assumed that others had repented of their Nice ways as well.

So in the spirit of cutting out the fluff and getting to the point, here it is: it turns out that this doesn't work at all. Not here. Before long I started viewing myself as rude, presumptuous, even self-righteous for accepting generosity without first saying, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly accept."

This accidental experiment brought me to a few conclusions:
A. Minnesota Nice is no myth.
B. It's not superfluous flattery. (Well, not always. Granted, sometimes I engage in a good old fashioned Midwest nice-off simply because I feel the need to come out on top of the heap when all the compliments are done piling up.) But really, for the most part when we say "Oh, no, I couldn't... Are you sure? I don't want to put you out... Well, alright, if you insist." we're saying the exact same thing as those who may drop the "yes, thank you" bomb in 3 quick words or less, our passive-aggressive language just requires more time to get there. We, whether by nature or nurture, go about all things indirectly.
C. I will be Minnesota Nice. Sometimes.

Mobile

Some background:

I'm in the deep south where people regularly eat crawfish with sides of hushpuppies. And have winter jackets on even though it's almost 60 degrees. And pronounce words like "St. Charles" in a way that sounds more like "St. Chaaaawles."

My brother Jonah lives in the 15th poorest county in the nation. There are a lot of shacks, trailer houses, $2.99 shrimp baskets and Waffle Houses around this part of Florida. He drives a Saab.

We went to Mobile, Alabama for Mardi Gras on Tuesday. We could've driven two hours more for the experience in New Orleans, but settled for Mobile, which boasts being the site where the original Mardi Gras was started some 250+ years ago. We know nothing about Mobile or its neighborhoods. We're white Minnesotans who shudder at the thought of separate drinking fountains. We've been singing "We Shall Overcome" since elementary school with hands clasped and silhouettes of Martin Luther King hung obediently by our desks. And so we ended up on the corner of Government Street and Washington. We were the only white people there in a crowd of thousands.

And so:

We're in this place, watching black marching bands and elaborate floats go by. Sweet kids with weaved hair, collecting Moon Pies (it's what they throw from the floats) and gobs and gobs of purple, gold and green beads. A man with a straight set of gold teeth befriended us - his name was James - gave us the commentary the news anchors usually give us. Each of those floats represent a different society - a Krewe. They're all masked, they all have their private balls tonight and you have to be invited to be in with the Krewe. The Krewes are all white. Usually wealthy. Under their masks, their sparkly costumes say "KOR" (Knights of Revelry). We found out later that they began allowing black Krewes in the late 30's, but they couldn't use the same parade route as the white Krewes until 1994. They're still not in the same parades.

I kept looking around at all these people, wanted to ask with wide eyes and hand motions, "What do you think of this? Are you OK with this?"

At the turn of the 20th century, 50% of Alabama was black - all from slavery. As I looked around at the crowd surrounding us five, sore-thumb Scandinavians, I could not stop thinking about this. These people are descendants of slaves. Their grandma-grandpa family trees look like people getting sold here and working to death there. Not knowing real last names and one of heck of a road of poverty to work out of. And we found out later that somebody was shot two blocks down during the parade.

We got gobs and gobs of beads, too. 52 strings. One string whipped in our direction hit my mom in the teeth. She thought she lost a frontie. A black woman walking by told her "You gotta watch out for those - they sure send them flyin'!" My mom's eyes involuntarily watered. She said "thanks." We collected Moon Pies. And drove back to Pensacola in a Saab.

Oscar the Grouch eats an ice cream sandwhich. A hymn in the style of Tom Waits.

My life blows on by
like terrestrial garbage minus meaningful graffiti
Is that your hand upon my thigh,
or are you trying to tell the time by
the way I twitch?

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Don't you take that tone with me son.
haven't you heard by now?
that you're the only one
with the real keys,
the real (expletive deleted) keys.

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Have you ever heard the saddest song?
It's the one that no one hears
though it's played the loudest by
Nursing home ladies in knee boots and silk stockings

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

I dream about your teeth weekly
they stare and spit while you sit and knit
still Oscar the grouch eats ice cream sandwiches
and he spits out the pits.