Although living in the City of Minneapolis is fun, at times it can be becoming of unexpected, and unwanted, realizations. I find this hard, and easy to believe, but it took about 5 years of walking past it, or going around it, to fully understand the potential of how ridiculous some people can be and how to avoid it without having a brain aneurism.
I mean you got to stop and take it head on. The only way…
Straight; with many chasers.
For instance while at the beach I found that I would rather be at an office job, or somewhere being progressive, maybe even writing, or possibly reading, than scorching my frail pink body off in the sun. This thought came about as I was pondering names, and what names are, and were, and how they effected our situation, or affected our situation. And what is a rose anyway, isn’t it just a flower named a Rose?
As I walked down the street to retrieve an iced coffee I ran into a fan of my poetry, he recited some lines and I thanked him for reading, out of that second meeting, from the first, on the street I remembered one thing. I remember his name and he remembered mine. His name was Chad, my name is Terry. Now I think, why is my name Terry Scott? Why haven’t I changed it (for reasons which would possibly render me famous), and again I think, I know why-I know why my name is Terry, because my father’s name is Terry and he gave it to me and it is on my birth certificate; therefore, it is my birthname, or my real name, or my Christian name. Whichever, it was given, not a personal choice or anything on my part.
The surprise I found was the astonishment with people and their names.
Like in Uptown changing your name is highly important to fitting into a culture of drugs, squalor, and hipsterism.
My name is not Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Scott, because I was not born with that name. However, I love that name, but I wouldn’t change my real name for that name.
My name is also not Saturn Jupiter Youranus Scott, because that name is okay, and I love planets, but I won’t change my name to that name.
That is why I wonder, after my excitement at the beach, why people change their names. I guess it comes with the culture, or maybe a name change will expunge your record, your past is gone, capoosh. Outta there Mister! All your past problems gone. I guess. Maybe that is why they sit at the beach all day and think about things, and change their name. Maybe they take drugs and talk, and change their names, but I never see them with a book and I never see them writing, so I assume they will never read this. Namely, that is why I am unconcerned. Maybe I will write about the Amish again. But they change their names. Why? I wonder why. I still wonder why.
In Uptown, honestly, I have met someone named Jafar. I asked, seriously? They said yes, they won’t answer to anything other. WTF? I am literally in the cartoon movie Aladdin meeting Jafar; however, this Jafar was not a bad guy but a girl, a sexy girl with a really nice body, and she was not trying to pull and weird ish with the Genie and the bottle stuff.
I go to Hidden beach. I know someone named Anthony through someone who died from and O.D. of heroin and now his name is something like this: (City)(Writer)(Action hero) (Actor). That is the equation to find your new name in Uptown. You fill in the blank. And that was his name for real, now really. That is the code for an Uptown Name Change.
And I sit and it rains outside of my window.
I come to realize I sun to much and spend to much time at the beach when my boss tells me I am getting too much sun. I am turning red. I am no longer white, and I am okay with that, but others don’t seem to think so. Shaving my head has lowered my standards, upped my intimidation level, and made friends enemies, made girls fall to their knees, and made Kickball look hard. Balls were flying off my chest as I committed the weakest errors ever. Catching a ball that is flying at you while not drunk is actually harder than it seems, but my liver needed a break. I digress.
I am amazed at the interesting things in Uptown. Can we get a drink over here?
I am not writing letters to people. As if my smart phone wasn’t fast enough, or up to date, or relevant. It comes in handy at times, but what is truly sexy is a letter received or sent in the mail-The thought of never meeting lingers, but we met, that is how we talk.
The idea of maybe one day. This person that lives walking distance away is sending me a letter in the mail. I had to write one first and send it moments ago. I had to beat her to the punch, however late I was. It happened. I am amazed at the closeness of this fair city, Minneapolis.
Something happened like this 5 years back when I started dating this girl for 5 years and she left me for someone else, came back, left again, came back again, and left again, only to come back again and ask me to marry her. One time.
Why I may never move, and why my ex Gf will not go away. My decision and which one?
Another interesting thing about going to hidden beach daily is the actual names given to the people at the beach: Mudpit guy, GuitarNarc guy, Shortshorts guy, and the list goes on. All these people are infinitely at the beach. The government pays them to not have a job, that’s how that shit goes. Their presence is ubiquitous and almost scary. I think, will I end up like them…? Probably not, I read, I write, and I do arithmetic. I think I am fine.
The name of Hidden beach is also perplexing because I find it very interesting that all of the young kids that go there never hide their booze, drugs, or coolers. Back in the day, I was always here. Well, back in the day, 3 years ago, when I first started coming to Hidden everyone hid their shit. Dane says don’t worry about it, the cops aren’t coming yet because High School isn’t out, and Bro guy will divert their attention. Bro guy sits in the back with a cooler full of beer and a bunch of underagers hanging around him. And our discussion on the symboitic relationship of cops and kids went like this: High Schoolers are not cops, cops are not High Schoolers, but they exist together in high school and at Hidden Beach. If you see youngins run.
On a virago:
If you waste all your time acting like a child when you become an adult you will wish you hadn’t been so petty. Putting a squelch on the catty and unrealistic measure of a subtly dispersed magnitude consisting of melodrama, exaggeration, and intimidation. The latter mostly on my part with a hair cut, buzzed close behind the ears and atop the head. Missing only a few strands. Really the only one the miser is truly touching in the end is themselves, avoid them at all cost. Their hope is lost, and never fight someone with nothing to lose. Others want to bring you down, but don’t frown. I will not fight someone working in a hot dog stand at The Nomad, or a girl of 20 something losing everything on someone so lost or something. So nearsighted that they couldn’t look in the mirror to see themselves in their bathroom, inches away, at the moment. So clearly outlined and divided they themselves see fragments of their existence and stand still, in silence, and hopelessness.
Still the beer runs cold around the city. Pipes travel, some with sweat, others with a glossy glaze, to spouts, spigots, and eventually to the transparent glass in the hand of a patron. Look at your manipulated self, see the disfigured smile. At least you got one. Take a sip as you take it all in. Oh Brother where art thou? The punk rock squat.
Ain’t that some shit?