Fail

I haven't published anything in a loooooong time.  That's my fault.  Apologies, all.

On the other hand, my friend Steve has a new buddy from the bar.  I could potentially kill two birds with one stone from tonight.  We'll see how that goes.

Time to get back on the ball.

Kids in car

Courtesy Kaloozer on Flickr.

I saw you driving past today, in a white PT cruiser.

You were headed to a party, I could tell--the spiked hair and popped polo collars were a giveaway.  You got the location wrong, though.  This is Bay City, not Jersey.

Where's this party?  Will people there be dressed like you?  Do you like dressing like this?  Do you go to the dance halls because you love to dance to music?  Is it just for the girls?

I ask because I'm curious.  I wanted to be like you, for a time.  I thought it might be fun, hop from club to club, listen to some awesome new electronics making amazing new sounds, see the women, be with the women.

Now, I'm not so sure.  Do you like this "you" you've become?

Bieneman

Few professors have a slew of old tractors sitting around.  Bieneman does.

Not to many academics thank their students for staying awake.  Bieneman does.

He's unapologetic, humorous, and has a way of keeping you awake with weird, "bizarre" anecdotes. 

(To be edited / continued)

Nothing new to post

No one new, yesterday, or today.  Hopefully something interesting will catch my eye tomorrow.

Owen

Owen's a freshly-minted undergrad.  Bachelor's in Fine Arts.  He loves to paint, and is a fantastic photographer.

 There's only one problem:  no space to do anything.  See, when Owen got his diploma, he lost his studio in the school's Fine Arts Center. Officially, he's on his own.  That means finding a place to make art.  

"Yeah, life is hard," he mutters sarcastically.

He's sitting in a coffeeshop, looking at the campus newspaper he used to take photos for.  He warns me that if there's anything wrong with it, he'll rip it up, set it on fire, and throw it in my face.  All with a smile on his face.  I'm sure he's joking.  I think.

Then he laughs, and I'm sure for sure.

He's also working with Americorps, helping out at a local school, mentoring kids.   In his free time, he heads to the library, gets books of poetry and reads over coffee.    He doesn't have a steady job right now.

But he does have a steady life.

Leather leggings

That's the first thing you want us to see, right?

Fake leather leggings, to go with your punk attitude.  Buddy Holly glasses, to show you're indie.  An eighties, one-shoulder barred sweatshirt under which you wear black.  Just black.  You know, because you're retro and chic like that.

You started out this way in high school--parents were good people, made decent money, upper-middle class.  Mom stayed at home.  Dad worked, a lawyer.  Brothers and sisters all went to college before you did.  You got good grades, made it top of your grade.  But there was something wrong, something missing.

Excitement.  That's what it was, excitement was missing.  "I'll pick up a guitar," you thought, "learn a few songs."  Punk was your thing, but no one expected it.  That is, until you dyed your hair black, and picked up a few pairs of leather leggings.

Now you stand there, I sit here.  I drink my drink, you stare at the band.  You wish you were them today.  Your legs were made for the stage.  You want the thrill, but it's not your turn.  Our ears ring in tune as  I see through you.

I wish I could tell you to stop being a collage.  I wish I could tell you to just break out of yourself and find the one thing you love.  Perhaps you've found it, but you're so uncomfortable even in your second skin.  I can only imagine what's going on in your own.

So I sit there, ignore you.  I bob my head, tap my foot.  Out of the corner of my eye, you do nothing.  Not a move, not a tap, not a bob, not a snap.  Each edge of your pastiche pulls you so hard, you can't budge.  I wish for a blink, a laugh, a cheer.  Anything.  I wish you didn't have to set yourself in stone to make yourself welcome.  Feel at home, please.  Feel the music.

"Dance!" is all I can think.  "Dance, for the love of God.  Dance!"

No one new

Didn't see anyone new, or strange today.  It's unfortunate.

Kid who stayed at our dorm

This is from a while ago.  Know that.

You didn't know how to react to our world.  You were young, getting out of high school, and checking your options.  Awkward, gangly, uncomfortable with those who had done this for years before.

Perhaps you never really went away from home much, like me.  Maybe this was your first time being away for longer.  Possibly, we just didn't get where you came from.  Your past to us was an enigma we didn't want to crack.

After all, you were visiting us, not the other way around.

Now I see you here.  Still gangly, less uncomfortable.  You have people around you, you've got somewhere you're going to.  College is home now.  And you don't mind, one bit.

Guy at wine fest.

I bumped into you, sober still.

"Oh, sorry dude!" you effused.  No one hadever apologized so seemingly wholeheartedly for bumping into me.  I knew you were drinking, but in vino veritas,  and you seemed convincing.

I accepted your apology, walking away, searching for a sample from the local vinyards.

Couple that sat down to listen

I looked up from my guitar, saw you two sitting there.  I would have never imagined you were into the type of music we were playing (sloppily).

Guy was wearing glasses, looked like an IT guy.  Or a lawyer. Maybe ex-military with that short haircut.  Girl was smiling, leaning on his shoulder, oddly enough wearing a pastel shade of pink.  He was wearing blue. 

You probably walked here from home, right?  Not really following your ears, but hearing some crazy music going on somewhere.  Just a nice walk together for a freshly-minted married couple.  No kids for a while yet, but settling down.  No more crazy Fridays. 

Stable income now.  A job now.  Work-related friends now.  A backyard that needs mowing.  A garden that needs tending.  Windows that need cleaning.  Family that needs visiting.

I hope we reminded you of what you felt like just a few short years ago, before average life came a long.  Maybe you even used to listen to music like we were playing.  Maybe it's time you dusted off those records, CDs, and danced around the room like crazy again.

Jacob

"I'm egotistical enough to accept that," he says with a grin, replying in joking philosopher-speak.  That means I can write about him.

He used to live in Kalamazoo.  Today, though, Jacob pretty much lives here, in the local campus coffee shop. Some might say he's the stereotype of the coffeehouse hound:  sweater-wearing, bearded, spouting off about Sartre and Kant.

But that's not him.  With a six-foot-plus frame topped with a shock of blond hair, he towers over most of the people at the Moose Cafe.  His goal is to try and piece together the limits of human thought.  At 19, he's also been published in an academic journal, but he won't tell you that offhand, or lord it over your head.  He wants to discuss, not dominate.

This is just where he puts his thoughts together, over a cup of Mexican Organic, hunched over a dimly-lit tall table next to the carriage doors and self-serve coffeepots.

"I come here because of the pleasant aesthetic," he says, "I like to come here for the academic kind of environment that it offers, as opposed to my house which offers distractions.  The library's reserved for the most intense work, which is why I frequent the Moose more often."

He glances down at the outline he's working on for class:

"You think this is a good enough outline of Socrates, in sentences?"

It probably is.

No one again

Haven't seen anyone new today...yet.  Potentially no blog post.

Gypsy cart

Artisan market day.  The gypsy cart is rolling down Fulton Street, turning into a side road, making its way home.
In front, a younger-looking guy has himself harnessed in place of a horse.  Behind it, two girls help to push.  I've never been to the Artisan Market, but this guy might just make me want to go.

Walking down the street, seeing this jaunty vehicle runbling along, is enough of a reason to question one's surroundings.  There is no caravan behind it, no cars and no traffic to slow it down.  For a moment, today's roadway is turned into a bizarre enigma for anyone walking by.

Couple crossing the street

Courtesy Grant Hutchins

I thought you were my friends at first, sprinting across the street even though there was no traffic.  You were blurred through the screen across the window, somewhat invisible.

Now I'm not sure.  No one's knocking, the doorknobs aren't turning.

Maybe you're running next door, to some party.  Perhaps your friends are making you dinner.  They're not too well off, but they can make a mean barbecue, so you didn't hesitate to say "yes."  Usually the conversation with them is a bit bland, but today, with the coals slowly roasting specially marinated steaks and shishkabobs famous across town, talking comes easier than usual.

The guy was laid off last week from a job at a carpentry shop.  His girlfriend can't find work, and is going to school to finish her nursing degree.  They're doing all they can to hold onto the house.  He quit smoking.  She mows the lawn with a push mower.  They dry their clothes on a clothesline, and unplug everything.  Two squeaky bikes and a few ragged pairs of workboots and Chuck Taylors have replaced the Honda sitting in the driveway, for the most part.  Somehow they're still there.

-Money is tight, but the Lions are winning.-  he says with a laugh
- There is hope. -

You both look up.  Both of you notice that the sky still seems blue today, even though it's cloudy.

No one really interesting.

I didn't see anyone blogworthy or photoworthy tonight.  Sorry, guys and gals.

Bartender

Courtesy .Mitch on Flickr.com

Bam, there you are.  Slinging glasses through the spinning, buzzing brushes hovering in the sudsy sink water.  Appearing out of nowhere from the kitchen.  To us, it looks like an impressive assembly line of glassware and beer.  To you, it's just another day at the bar.

You notice something's off at the taps, call over another guy, and he affirms it.  Indeed, the IPA is closer to a brown ale, and has probably gone bad.   No praise, though.  Just criticism for not draining the lines after changing the kegs.  And back to washing you go, for a little while.

New guy?  Maybe.  Designated dishwasher?  Also probable.  Busboy?  That too. Waiter?  When need be. In fact, they have you running everything besides handling bottles and the cash register.   Anything that involves more than the arm stretch and two steps to the dark, musty coolers or bottles behind the dimly lit, worn-to-the-wood bar, well, you do that.

Such is the way of the new guy.  Be seen, not heard, and do what we tell you, or else.