This is my new eccentric writing costume. I think Chuck is getting front row seats to my slow transformation into Little Edie.
Last night we walked down to the Christmas City of the North Parade. It was one of those gross oversights where we forget to weigh our tolerance level against things like marching bands and assholes.
I know that as a childless person, I have as much right to complain about strollers as I do to complain about the way a habit might make a poor nun's scalp itch. I truly do not understand the way some people use strollers as a weapon. A first line of defense against crowds. It's like, "Well, this thing has wheels and a rubber base. I'm going to ram it into your heels. And when you get annoyed, you will look down and see the puckered face of my young child and you will immediately become awash in splendor. Now move over, fucko."
Luckily, I have an extensive knowledge of the city's skyway system. I can navigate it with the stealth of a fattened city rat. (Yet I can never remember that we actually call it a "Skywalk" instead of a "Skyway." More likely, I just don't want to remember what we call it. No one writes songs about the "Skywalk.") We saw one or two marching bands, a giant advertisement for Cub Foods, and some fire dancers, before cruising up, over, and into Grape Vine Cafe, one of my favorite restaurants. I saw enough of the Christmas City of the North Parade to know that there was a pocket of West Superior Street where the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon Schnapps.
Then there was Quinlan's, of course. We spent the equivalent of a work-shift hanging out with a handful of my favorite people: S'fire, Vnick, Princey, Tuska, Carlbomb. It almost wasn't to be. The joint was loaded with a bunch of people dressed like clowns, the brass section of a certain marching band. This equation makes driblets of brain blood ooze from my ears. Confined space, costumes, trombone. I wanted to jam a sweat sock into someone's spit valve.
Photo by S'Fire.
The night remained tame, for the most part. We caught an episode of Three's Company. The one where Chrissy dates a chef, and Jack cooks for him. I woke curiously void of social shame, but in dire need of vegetables, a good book, and the sound of just my own voice in my head. The drinking portion of this particular stay-cation is over.
Tonight I made a healthy dinner starring eggplant, read the first 60 pages of a delightful book, took an exquisite and well-earned nap, then went to the midnight showing of "Harold & Maude" at Zinema 2.