It had been along time since she had hear the wild cry in the dark. So long long she had forgotten. At the sound of their chorus she sucked in her breath and froze in fear. It had been a life time ago since last she felt the rush of adrenaline in her night.
"Coyote", she whispered and the joik instantly stopped.
The girl lay awake until sunrise yearning to hear the music again.
No one else hears the song. "Nothing?" she would question with a slight yelp and wait for the pack to return.
They come for her when she is in between worlds and her spirit moves free.
In her dreams she stands at her window in her night dress and her voice joins them.
The girl lost her wild, but wild remembered the girl.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter Toast
Eight years ago when our house burned to the ground and we lost everything, we lived for months without toast.
I waited for my new home to be complete before I bought anything that would be permanent so it would fit my new life perfectly.
On Eater morning the good bunny brought us a beautiful new toaster to match my appliances.
I plugged it in next to the stove top and it burst into flame from the steam of the tea kettle that very morning we had while we were making toast to eat with our colored eggs.
The horrible smell of burning plastic set off all our smoke detectors and we ran from the house in our jammies and bare feet.
I love that my toaster has a wicked sense of humor.
But this morning we played it safe and ate breakfast burritos.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Everyone wins a stuffed animal in my grey matter
There is the kind of carnival with a bright neon ferris wheel and noisy bumper cars near the a dizzy making octopus ride spinning around inside my head. It is complete with an unadvertised freak show going on behind the concession tents and peanut shells litter the ground. There is a brown bear wearing a party hat that rides around on a tricycle. He is not a very happy bear but his hat is not as hot as the one he wore back in Russia. The bear has long since forgotton the smell of the forrest or how to forage for berries. He yearns for cotton candy with a child center. And there is a wack a mole game there too, but just one.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Sometimes a girl just needs a brownie
When your story gets stolden and raped. When your wanted in court for speeding tickets. When you find out your acne medicine (generic) costs 112. You will buy a dessert that you will cook in the microwave and feel all the worse for it.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Preview
All That’s Wrong
“I’ll take you to a place like you never been before”, he said.
So I followed my co workers little grey little Mazda closely as he zipped through the early afternoon traffic across town, sun roof open.
We pulled up outside the Gopher Bar in east St. Paul and poured all the change we could dig up from the bottom of our pockets into the insatiable parking meters on 7th street before we dodged traffic into the corner bar.
From the outside the building it looked like your typical neighborhood watering hole. It is an old brick building touting Coney dogs complete with beer signs covering the windows that I have driven past a million times. The Gopher is defiantly not the kind of place a girl like me would walk into by herself no matter how hungry I was. And my stomach rules my body.
But wait, this joint has the owners names and even their kids names also on the outside. You just don’t see that on a bar now a days. This establishment is a family run business. That made it a little less intimidating for me.
I followed my buddy through the door and paused, expecting to have to wait for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior of a whole in the wall. Surprisingly on the inside we were greeted by trophy deer mounts above the bar decorated with bright strings of festive holiday lights through out their antlers and enough neon beverage advertising signage to send me into a strangely happy Vegas frame of mind. No one yelled out our names “Cheers” style when we sat ourselves at a well worn chipped Formica table adorned only with mismatched salt and pepper shakers and condiment bottles, but none of the patrons accosted us either.
I had wanted to belly up to the bar and befriend the edgy looking bartender incase a Vulcan swooped in to harass me but when my big six foot plus companion opted to sit at table close to filling bar, I followed.
I barely had time to take in much of the colorful surroundings before the waitress and co owner, Cheri Kappas was at our side taking our order.
“What will you folks have?” she asked, fake pasted on smile obviously missing from her face.
What she had meant when she asked that is how many dogs we wanted period.
“What have you got?” I answered focusing on the rude slogan printed boldly across her t-shirt.
“Coney Dogs”, Cheri answered with a laugh, placing a thin plain wax paper placemat in front of us. They do have a menu and serve other food during regularly scheduled mealtimes but they are known mostly for their Coney dogs.
So we ordered the Coney dogs with the works.
The other thing they are known for is their attitude. When they found out I had never been in the Gopher before, my plain undecorated placemat was replace with one with the title “Virgin” printed across it in large dark letters. Modesty kept off duty employee Susie, who told me of this tradition from attaching the F-bomb stickers included in this right of passage. Once Susie realized I was not so easily off put, her stories and language became spicier, and the laughter flowed freer.
While waiting for George Kappas, Cheri’s husband and proprietor of this politically incorrect Minnesota landmark to grill our dogs, we sipped our drinks. The daft was cold and the glass clean, all you could ask for in a sudsy brew. The screw driver was not as good. I didn’t see the bottle of orange juice it was poured from, but my guess was the memorvelia on the walls might not be the only thing with a light coating of dust. The drinks did get however get progressively better after a new bottle of juice was opened.
Every where I looked was wrong. Wrong on every level.
There are no velvet pictures of dogs playing poker.
The walls were covered with hockey players supporting only supporters, political genre, naked rubeniesk ladies and bullet holes. Oh there is a stain glass mural, but the image of the Minnesota Gopher hockey mascot is flicking you off.
I was about to get up from our table and causously inspect the art work closer thinking I could not be offended any further when the show begun.
Swearing between the owners in the kitchen at the end of the bar erupted loud enough to momentarily silence the pre happy hour crowd that was congregating.
Know before you go that the F- word rains down at the Gopher like a can of warm Miller that is roughly shaken before opened. The regulars at the bar barley paused before returning to their own conversations. Some of them chimed in. When I looked across the table, even my big friend was blushing.
Our food came as fast the good natured insults and teasing that was flung around the grill. This is not the place for sensitive or easily offended. Or the communist.
The only thing wrong with the Coney Dog at the Gopher name was it’s name.
It is a real deal pure beef hot dog on a toasted bakery bun covered in a thick meat sauce, the onions and cheese spilling over the sides. When I tried my best to pick it up and lady like nibble it from an end, the bad boy fell apart all over the place. But that was to my benefit. The only way I could define the taste of the pure beef frank under the mountain of toppings was to eat it with a fork. I just scooped up the remaining guts off the wax paper with the buttery grilled bun and finished them off. I’m not a hot dog fan but if they used a little fresher gooier cheese it’s deserving of it’s own name if you ask me. And if I learned anything during my afternoon in the dive bar, it’s ok if I tell you my option.
Cheri sat down with us for a few quick minutes after we had finished eating as the clientele continued to file in for a quick dog and a drink. She would occasionally throw insults directed at George behind the bar, and banter with the stool dwellers as we talked. Many of the regulars would stop to hug the foul mouth maveren or pay their respect as she told us of the history behind the place.
The original Gopher Bar was started by her father in law in 1933. Cheri married into the business after twenty three years of a volatile working relationship with George. When she spoke of the cantankerous white haired man behind the bar, it was the only time she visibly softened. One of her three kids who work there tended the bar as we talked. She lowered her voice when filled me in that the crusty old George behind the bar is not the same sweet George at home she fell in love with. I’ll take her word on it as I never drank enough courage to go talk to him before he left his bar for the afternoon.
The Gopher was not always known for their hot dogs. When they first started years ago they grilled more hamburgers, but when local business lunch hours were shortened from sixty minuets to a half hour, people didn’t have time to wait. Their Coney Dog formula as it is today has evolved more than their social reform.
When I asked Cheri how the economy has affected their business she laughed. “Even in a recession people will continue to eat, drink, and f--k.” It’s the f-ing smoking ban that has decreased our business by 40 %. People used to come in here and sit, spent the whole night. Now they are here for half and hour or so and then they go.”
The place and the language is shocking, the owners and regulars not least bit hesitant to tell you what they think. There is no insincere Minnesota nice in that place don‘t cha know.
Cost of our lunch and drinks where only a little more expensive than the funky parking meters out side. But the service and the locals were open and friendly. The environment of the place unlike and other, just be sure to turn your sensitivity filter off before you go. And do not call the bartender sir, that is wrong. Call him by his first name, Asshole.
“I’ll take you to a place like you never been before”, he said.
So I followed my co workers little grey little Mazda closely as he zipped through the early afternoon traffic across town, sun roof open.
We pulled up outside the Gopher Bar in east St. Paul and poured all the change we could dig up from the bottom of our pockets into the insatiable parking meters on 7th street before we dodged traffic into the corner bar.
From the outside the building it looked like your typical neighborhood watering hole. It is an old brick building touting Coney dogs complete with beer signs covering the windows that I have driven past a million times. The Gopher is defiantly not the kind of place a girl like me would walk into by herself no matter how hungry I was. And my stomach rules my body.
But wait, this joint has the owners names and even their kids names also on the outside. You just don’t see that on a bar now a days. This establishment is a family run business. That made it a little less intimidating for me.
I followed my buddy through the door and paused, expecting to have to wait for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior of a whole in the wall. Surprisingly on the inside we were greeted by trophy deer mounts above the bar decorated with bright strings of festive holiday lights through out their antlers and enough neon beverage advertising signage to send me into a strangely happy Vegas frame of mind. No one yelled out our names “Cheers” style when we sat ourselves at a well worn chipped Formica table adorned only with mismatched salt and pepper shakers and condiment bottles, but none of the patrons accosted us either.
I had wanted to belly up to the bar and befriend the edgy looking bartender incase a Vulcan swooped in to harass me but when my big six foot plus companion opted to sit at table close to filling bar, I followed.
I barely had time to take in much of the colorful surroundings before the waitress and co owner, Cheri Kappas was at our side taking our order.
“What will you folks have?” she asked, fake pasted on smile obviously missing from her face.
What she had meant when she asked that is how many dogs we wanted period.
“What have you got?” I answered focusing on the rude slogan printed boldly across her t-shirt.
“Coney Dogs”, Cheri answered with a laugh, placing a thin plain wax paper placemat in front of us. They do have a menu and serve other food during regularly scheduled mealtimes but they are known mostly for their Coney dogs.
So we ordered the Coney dogs with the works.
The other thing they are known for is their attitude. When they found out I had never been in the Gopher before, my plain undecorated placemat was replace with one with the title “Virgin” printed across it in large dark letters. Modesty kept off duty employee Susie, who told me of this tradition from attaching the F-bomb stickers included in this right of passage. Once Susie realized I was not so easily off put, her stories and language became spicier, and the laughter flowed freer.
While waiting for George Kappas, Cheri’s husband and proprietor of this politically incorrect Minnesota landmark to grill our dogs, we sipped our drinks. The daft was cold and the glass clean, all you could ask for in a sudsy brew. The screw driver was not as good. I didn’t see the bottle of orange juice it was poured from, but my guess was the memorvelia on the walls might not be the only thing with a light coating of dust. The drinks did get however get progressively better after a new bottle of juice was opened.
Every where I looked was wrong. Wrong on every level.
There are no velvet pictures of dogs playing poker.
The walls were covered with hockey players supporting only supporters, political genre, naked rubeniesk ladies and bullet holes. Oh there is a stain glass mural, but the image of the Minnesota Gopher hockey mascot is flicking you off.
I was about to get up from our table and causously inspect the art work closer thinking I could not be offended any further when the show begun.
Swearing between the owners in the kitchen at the end of the bar erupted loud enough to momentarily silence the pre happy hour crowd that was congregating.
Know before you go that the F- word rains down at the Gopher like a can of warm Miller that is roughly shaken before opened. The regulars at the bar barley paused before returning to their own conversations. Some of them chimed in. When I looked across the table, even my big friend was blushing.
Our food came as fast the good natured insults and teasing that was flung around the grill. This is not the place for sensitive or easily offended. Or the communist.
The only thing wrong with the Coney Dog at the Gopher name was it’s name.
It is a real deal pure beef hot dog on a toasted bakery bun covered in a thick meat sauce, the onions and cheese spilling over the sides. When I tried my best to pick it up and lady like nibble it from an end, the bad boy fell apart all over the place. But that was to my benefit. The only way I could define the taste of the pure beef frank under the mountain of toppings was to eat it with a fork. I just scooped up the remaining guts off the wax paper with the buttery grilled bun and finished them off. I’m not a hot dog fan but if they used a little fresher gooier cheese it’s deserving of it’s own name if you ask me. And if I learned anything during my afternoon in the dive bar, it’s ok if I tell you my option.
Cheri sat down with us for a few quick minutes after we had finished eating as the clientele continued to file in for a quick dog and a drink. She would occasionally throw insults directed at George behind the bar, and banter with the stool dwellers as we talked. Many of the regulars would stop to hug the foul mouth maveren or pay their respect as she told us of the history behind the place.
The original Gopher Bar was started by her father in law in 1933. Cheri married into the business after twenty three years of a volatile working relationship with George. When she spoke of the cantankerous white haired man behind the bar, it was the only time she visibly softened. One of her three kids who work there tended the bar as we talked. She lowered her voice when filled me in that the crusty old George behind the bar is not the same sweet George at home she fell in love with. I’ll take her word on it as I never drank enough courage to go talk to him before he left his bar for the afternoon.
The Gopher was not always known for their hot dogs. When they first started years ago they grilled more hamburgers, but when local business lunch hours were shortened from sixty minuets to a half hour, people didn’t have time to wait. Their Coney Dog formula as it is today has evolved more than their social reform.
When I asked Cheri how the economy has affected their business she laughed. “Even in a recession people will continue to eat, drink, and f--k.” It’s the f-ing smoking ban that has decreased our business by 40 %. People used to come in here and sit, spent the whole night. Now they are here for half and hour or so and then they go.”
The place and the language is shocking, the owners and regulars not least bit hesitant to tell you what they think. There is no insincere Minnesota nice in that place don‘t cha know.
Cost of our lunch and drinks where only a little more expensive than the funky parking meters out side. But the service and the locals were open and friendly. The environment of the place unlike and other, just be sure to turn your sensitivity filter off before you go. And do not call the bartender sir, that is wrong. Call him by his first name, Asshole.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Unreasonable
Ten of my most unreasonable worries.
10-The apocalypse will come but not fast. In the end times I will run out of my sleeping pill prescription and not be able to sleep. Out of frustration, a member of my family knocks me over the cranky irritable head and kills me. No heaven for him.
9- I drive around and round and get hopelessly lost in the city near me. Then I will have to ask directions and admit I am lost. I can drive without hesitation in other states or country, but not here. Then I have to stop and ask directions in an foreign accent so as not to look the fool being lost in my own back yard.
8-I will stand up when my lawyer enters the room I am waiting in and take off all my clothes. Again.
7-I am afraid when I marry Gordon Ramsey I will dress him up like a little corgi dog and use him scare the mailman instead of utilizing his God given talent of humiliating the non postal.
6- I fear the next time I am walking by the front of a plate glass windowed restaurant and spot my wind blown reflection in the glass and pause to make an exaggerated horrible expressing while holding up my fingers over my head and wiggling them in a evil witch style, the unseen dinner sitting in the booth on the other side will take more offence and chase after me with a burning torch like I deserve.
5- I will finally locate the one gated community existing that does not allow teenagers within it perimeter. But the gate will have an electronic remote code that my teenager will have to explain to me.
4-I am stalked by a group of Morris dancers. Innocent looking and light on their feet they are never caught. Stress causes me to lose my job and I have to get homeless dude on 7th st to cut my hair for cheep. Then I get lost trying to find him and have to ask direction. "Eh mucho homeless gringo se?"
3-My laptop gets stolen. Stolen by eloquent and evocative writer who answers all my e-mail and solves all my problems caused by inertia plus enables the spell check on my computer. People will love me right up tom the time I buy a new laptop and change my password. Then they will think of me not only as lazy but rude. Wait.
2-The day will come during an emergency that my sharp shooting skills will be required and the A-squad will call me in. Calmly I stand behind the security barriers, handgun in hand, red laser guild square on target. Knowing the second I pull the trigger, lives will change, I close my eyes take a deep breath in and squeeze, unaware my kitten has spotted the laser.
1- Midgets
10-The apocalypse will come but not fast. In the end times I will run out of my sleeping pill prescription and not be able to sleep. Out of frustration, a member of my family knocks me over the cranky irritable head and kills me. No heaven for him.
9- I drive around and round and get hopelessly lost in the city near me. Then I will have to ask directions and admit I am lost. I can drive without hesitation in other states or country, but not here. Then I have to stop and ask directions in an foreign accent so as not to look the fool being lost in my own back yard.
8-I will stand up when my lawyer enters the room I am waiting in and take off all my clothes. Again.
7-I am afraid when I marry Gordon Ramsey I will dress him up like a little corgi dog and use him scare the mailman instead of utilizing his God given talent of humiliating the non postal.
6- I fear the next time I am walking by the front of a plate glass windowed restaurant and spot my wind blown reflection in the glass and pause to make an exaggerated horrible expressing while holding up my fingers over my head and wiggling them in a evil witch style, the unseen dinner sitting in the booth on the other side will take more offence and chase after me with a burning torch like I deserve.
5- I will finally locate the one gated community existing that does not allow teenagers within it perimeter. But the gate will have an electronic remote code that my teenager will have to explain to me.
4-I am stalked by a group of Morris dancers. Innocent looking and light on their feet they are never caught. Stress causes me to lose my job and I have to get homeless dude on 7th st to cut my hair for cheep. Then I get lost trying to find him and have to ask direction. "Eh mucho homeless gringo se?"
3-My laptop gets stolen. Stolen by eloquent and evocative writer who answers all my e-mail and solves all my problems caused by inertia plus enables the spell check on my computer. People will love me right up tom the time I buy a new laptop and change my password. Then they will think of me not only as lazy but rude. Wait.
2-The day will come during an emergency that my sharp shooting skills will be required and the A-squad will call me in. Calmly I stand behind the security barriers, handgun in hand, red laser guild square on target. Knowing the second I pull the trigger, lives will change, I close my eyes take a deep breath in and squeeze, unaware my kitten has spotted the laser.
1- Midgets
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