Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Busterranean Homesick Blues


DRIVING POINT OF VIEW

We are looking at pedestrians on the sidewalk through the
windshield of a moving car.

ED (V.O.)
There they were.
All going about their business. It
seemed like I knew a secret--a bigger
one even then what had really happened
to Big Dave, something none of them
knew...

On Ed, driving.

ED (V.O.)
...Like I had made it to the outside,
somehow, and they were all still
struggling, way down below.

--Joel and Ethan Coen, The Man Who Wasn't There

"Can you tell me how I get to downtown L.A.?" Blond sandpaper patchy Vandyke, fist clutching plastic bag, blue T-shirt too chilly for the weather exposes multi-tattoos and band-aid inside left forearm.
"The red line will take you there."
"How do I get to downtown L.A.?"
"At the end of this line you cross the street and take the red line."
Eyes in wide grief after the shooting of a white-tail fawn, "Look, I just got out of the hospital. I just need to get to downtown L.A. How do I get to downtown L.A?"
Wrenching frustration at simplicity, "When you get to the end of the line just follow everyone else!"

He turns down the aisle as my eyes close, primal game of fort-da, retreat into lingering bubble of a northern pike beneath the ice of Island Lake white-shards in purple pine lined sky, until, of all the open rows, why does he choose this one?

The woman in front of me twists back to offer him a quarter to which he opens his hand and reveals a half dozen tokens.
"Do you know how to get to downtown L.A.?," he asks her. "I'm not from here. I don't know why they brought me here."
She struggles to explain and then looks back at me, "Inglés?"

With a sigh I open my eyes fully, "Where this bus ends, cross the street, go underground and that train will take you downtown."
"Will you show me? I just got out of the hospital. They got me pumped with all kinds of stuff. I'm a little out of it."
"It's really easy. You can just follow everybody else."
"I have all these tokens. Do you want to buy them. I'll sell them for a buck."
"I don't have any money," I lie.
"1.50," the woman says. She points to each token, "1.50, 1.50, 1.50, 1.50."
"Do you want to buy them? Four bucks. I don't know why they gave them to me. I need to buy some food."
She shows him a bag of change.
"That's ok. Stores take change." He gives a slight smirk. "Dealers no. But I'm not gonna buy drugs. I'm hungry. I need to buy some food."
She holds out a mix of coins and bills. He drops the tokens into her hand. She drops the money into his.
"Gracias Señor, I mean Señorita. There's this great restaurant on 7th I used to work at. They'll give me a discount, and I can buy a hamburger. My friend's picking me up in downtown LA. Do you know Santa Monica? That's where I live. He's going to take me home."

My stop arrives.
"Good luck."
"Thanks."
I step off and dont look back.

Friday, January 18, 2008

Taste of Cherry

A forest green Chevy 1500 pickup, front end crushed inward to the shape of California's eastern border, slows to a stall. Horns pout, tires wheeze past. Red liquid drips then pours--hopped up Kool-Aid Man busting forth smiley face painted black bright eyes through cardboard radiator of exhaustion--onto wet pavement.



The deliciousness of antifreeze comes from ethylene glycol, an alcohol like sweet Pernod-Ricard when mixed with water to white fizz Marseillais of the Marcel Pagnol trilogy, yearly freezing the brain of 90,000 pets and 4,000 children who no doubt confuse it with that other twentieth century mega profit "thirst-aid" of the food engineer--Gatorade.



Some states now require mixing antifreeze with a bitter, not the bitter of once popular Gin and Bitters but all-purpose tongue repellent denatonium benzoate.

Compounding bitterness would likely fail to end the mass ingestion of liquid bollworm waster by Vidarbha Farmers--20,000 suicides and counting--who gag on debt from gilded seed shillers of Ameri-corpo-ag Cargill-Monsanto-ADM green to brown revolution, and, oh yeah, pesticide.

Non-swallowing farmers still soak in toxin walking rows shooting rainshowers of organophosphates, shapeshifting to Wizard of Oz Scarecrow--Ray Bolger not to be confused with Tin Man Jack Haley replacing nearly killed by aluminum dust face mask Buddy Ebsen--brain damaged by concentrations of monocrotophos 158 times safe limits.

Cotton, back alley chemical addict, eating the big P at rates far exceeding its crop size, certainly contributes to what Rachel Louise Snyder estimates as the 3/4 pounds of chemicals in the average pair of jeans--the remainder coming from dyes and acids creating that comfy soft faded fit sliding down our hips of lust.


notice me...

Monday, January 07, 2008

gentrification of slush

"We've landed, but we're in Sioux Falls," after open flips and activation jingles a clichéd Jay Leno one-liner replays through the 737 cabin. Delightful blizzard's poor visibility closed MSP, forcing a short stay on the FSD tarmac, but soon we are dropping into grey nimbostratus above white chocolate flakes rushing in slants.



Weeks of drifting gifts from blinding sky dump last year's Minnesota holiday bare ground memories. Snow inches on the road mix to root beer float slush above black ice occasionally exposed for perfect hookie-bobbin' conditions.

When I was six, the neighbor kid got the best of an ice fight. Frozen face burning within, my eyes descend down bare elm canopied street to find the approach of rolling sedan, legs scramble beneath torso inside puffed brown corduroy, half-pint offensive tackle's full force shoulder plunges into antagonist's back, murderously dreaming, boy slides, snow tires brake and skid at incline, but somehow grill fails to crush sixty-five pound pine cone frame squirreling for the curb.

Freeze shielded suburban shopping interiors long ago shoved winter garbed icy sidewalk feet shifters from downtown St. Paul, now preserved in black and white at Minnesota History Center with parking lot snowpile framing skyline of revitalized desertion.



Ever hoping for urban flight reversal, upscale "loft living" has arrived on former flood plain/ garbage dump Shepard Road. Working class immigrant West 7th re-imagined as West End Arts District with 19th century Schmidt's brewery--bought by Heileman in the 70s to produce Grain Belt now tattered sign of 1989 closing due to killer competitor wheaty fizz marketing blast of Clydesdale nationalism and animated frogs delighting nacho cheese dip munching football fan paunches--the centerpiece plan for a mixed use "urban village" includes 100 "artist live-work spaces."



Yet less than a mile down the road Summit Brewery, begun in 1986, thrives with "craft" beers sold throughout the Midwest and consumed by the quart at Axel's in Victoria Crossing where blond crew cuts revive the 80s in Cosby Show Argyle sweaters and, after cheers of encouragement, one jumps on stage for sticky hip re-enactment of Billie Jean as daughters of Thor lick lips to three inch captures of the event.



Although the T Cities house more Hmong and Somali immigrants than any other U.S. metro area, Crocus Hill remains a white bubble along Grand Ave, so when piano dueler starts harmonica several times, tantalizing cheers, only to switch tunes, then finally breaks into Billy Joel's ironic tribute to alcoholism, not a false dry eye in the place fails to sing along...
He says, Bill, I believe this is killing me
As the smile ran away from his face,
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place.