Barstool of choice

Larry had been frequenting his pub of choice, The Shamrock, since he moved to Fridley last summer. It was the kind of establishment where mullets, white tennis shoes, and denim were accepted and encouraged. The first time he walked in to the bar, Motorhead was blasting from the jukebox. Therefore, Larry became a regular.

He started coming twice a week, then three or four times a week, eventually he was here pretty much every night. He drank Michelob Golden Light and smoked Marlboro reds.

The Shamrock was a local’s kind of place. Everyone knew each other, even if they didn’t necessarily speak to each other. It was a comfortable domain.

Then one night things changed in a peculiar way. A beautiful man walked through the door to the tune of Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town”. Larry would not normally call a man beautiful, but that is the word that immediately came to the front of his brain. The man was with two other squirrelly looking men. They came in sat in a corner booth and kept to themselves until closing time. They were drinking Guinness and smoking American Spirit cigarettes. All the regulars went about their routine: shooting stick, playing cards, and pumping quarters into the jukebox for Motorhead. All the while keeping one suspicious eye on that corner booth.

The next night all the regulars came back plus the beautiful man and his friends. Then something crazy happened, two young, thin, blonde girls opened the front door. They apprehensively scanned all the bodies in the building until their search found it’s aim. Once their eyes locked on to the beautiful man’s they strolled in as casually as two giddy blondes could. They sat at the adjacent booth the beautiful man and his squirrelly entourage and ordered a couple shots of courage.

The following nights followed the same pattern. Within a week, the place was packed nightly with young woman trying their luck at wooing the beautiful man. Larry sat at his barstool of choice, facing the front door, trying to glean insight from the bar chatter. Apparently, the beautiful man was a film actor. Larry heard the man’s name was Colin Farrel. Larry had never heard of him.

After a month, The Shamrock had turned into an MTV-spring break-girls gone wild kind of place. Tanned young ladies baring their boobs in tabletop dances. Mickey the bartender furiously scanning his bartenders guide to find recipes for exotic mixed drinks. Colin sitting quietly in the corner, unfazed.

Then the actor stopped showing up. The nubile young princesses quickly receded. Larry walked in on Wednesday night to a silent smattering of locals, sat down at his end of the bar, ordered a Guinness, and lit an American Spirit.

Bad Luck

So I was thinking about wolves this morning on the

drive to work.



That wolf in little red riding hood was kind of a

freak. Sneaking into little old ladies houses and

putting on their clothes. He is a cross-dresser. It

reminds me of silence of the lambs. What kind of story

is that to tell kids.



The wolf in the three little pigs. That guy caught a

bad break. You can't blame him for trying to eat the

pigs. He is a carnivore. He is hunting.

How did he know that the three pigs he was tracking

were actually construction engineers of varying

degrees. I mean imagine you are a wolf trying to hunt

down some dinner and all of a sudden your dinner is

building a fortress to keep you out.



The wolf probably improvised all that "huff and puff

and blow your house down" crap. But really he was

probably in shock. Looking back on it I bet he is

embarassed by it, but he was put on the spot by those

three clever swine.



It was unfortunate for him that there was a

documentary crew there to witness the events. I am

sure he was the laughing stock of the den when that

book came out.



It was scandalous.

Disintegration

When I was fifteen I started writing a movie. It was not very good. At fifteen I didn't know much about the world (hell, at thirty-one I don't know much about the world). It was basically a woeful tale of teenage depression.

What better muse for a movie of teenage depression that The Cure. I was obsessed with the album Disintegration. I listened to on my headphones on the bus to and from school. I would rewind the tape replaying the song Disintegration over and over.

I had the whole movie mapped out as a companion to the album. It was kind of like Pink Floyd's The Wall -- except at that point I had never seen The Wall. I don't remember any of what the movie was exactly. Luckily, that and most of my writing from those years are missing. Hopefully destroyed.

(Maybe one day when I am famous someone that finds those notebooks in the attic or something will sell them on eBay for thousands of dollars.)

I listen to that album now and I feel nostalgic for that morose teenage life. It just can't affect me in the same way. I feel the sadness. The album is still fucking great. But there are things that being a jaded thirtysomething takes away.

bye bye seventh street

The greatest rock club in the world has shut down. I am thinking it will only be a temporary closure but it is scary nonetheless. There have always been rumours of it's demise floating around the city. I don't think anyone thought this club could die.

They have been experiencing many difficulties lately. Lots of lawyers involved and feelings getting hurt. The recently ousted managers are rumoured to be taking over ownership once the current owner is shown the door. Hopefully Steve McClellan, manager for something like thirty years can right the ship as owner and manager.

We'll see. For now first ave stays dark.