Fancy meeting you here.
So, this weekend was crazy. Good crazy, though, as opposed to the crazy of last weekend (crazy like, ‘did grandma just try to set me up with a 60-year old again?’). I wasn’t home much, and also I just realized that I probably drank more coffee than is ordinarily considered safe for humans. Wasn’t intentional, it just worked out that way. This weekend was Art-A-Whirl up Northeast, the neighborhood that’s getting way too big for its working-class britches, and also seems to span about 800 square miles, which technically should qualify it for small-state or territory status, and not a neighborhood at all. We did some wandering amongst the galleries, hung out with Yuri (who was surprisingly chill for having his work ogled by about a million art-tourists), saw font superhero Mister Chank Diesel, and I talked to Sean Tubridy, whose work I am addicted to and want to buy in bulk. In his studio, he had snowboards. And they were so so so… ohmygodicouldfuckingdie. They were that great. Also, one other note about yesterday, and a disturbing trend I’ve noticed two days in a row. There are these guys, who have been affectionately termed ‘date-rape boys’ (one of you told me that once, and I don’t recall who). These are the ones with whom you should avoid eye contact at all costs, even if it includes crawling under the table to hide, or rushing out of the restaurant without paying the bill. Your server will understand. Anyway, a whole passel of these boys wandered (accidentally?) into the Uptown Diner yesterday. The most offensive of the four seated himself in my line of sight, slouched down in his chair, spread his legs in a maneuver my yoga instructor would envy (torn crotch, red-and-white plaid boxers), and proceeded to jostle his package around for, like, two entire hours, while having an entirely normal yet immensely dumb conversation with his friends. What the hell is that all about? Is there a name for this parts-juggling technique? Or a reason? I need to know, so that the next time I see it, I can yell, “Quit your ______ing, you dumbass,” as I backhand him soundly on my way out of the restaurant without paying the bill. Whew! OK. So, today was the Minnesota AIDSWalk. Threats of rain were unsubstantiated as I woke up to the most perfect day for walking 6 miles ever. team plinko consisted of Captain Jenni and Second Mate Bertine, who arrived bright and early to get good parking, free fruit and beverages, their team sign (which they colored enthusiastically with markers and carried around on a giant wooden stake), team photos, and many more free beverages. They had both used the bathroom an average of 4.5 times each by the time the walk began at noon. I found myself enamored of this Nutrisoda stuff, which came in sugar-free flavors called ‘calm’, ‘immune’, and my favorite, ‘focus’. I’m quitting yoga and martial arts right this second, since now all that stuff can be had in a can. Anyway! The walk was great, and people-watching was in full effect. We came in easily under two hours, arriving back at Minnehaha Park before 2pm. The last mile or so, I had to get out my excellent team-encouragement skills (Bertine calls it ‘harassment’, but she is clearly mistaken), due to her having started a diet at exactly the wrong moment, and finding nothing she could eat along the way. It’s about time someone else had bigger food issues than me. So, the walk was a huge personal success because I achieved my goal of getting through the whole thing without having to use the port-a-potties once. After that was my dad’s birthday party at the parents’ house, and once again, enough food to feed two vegetarian armies plus their extended families, and I was all crabby due to not being home much at all. I was missing you this weekend, I was.Jenni