True Stories And Tall Tales From The L Cafe

I went to The Lit on Friday, and Andy showed his 1990's Decade in Review highlight video that night in honor of the 20th anniversary of artwalk. And yes, I'm in it. Ah, memories. I hung out at the Literary Cafe a lot when I lived in Tremont in the late '90s. I adore that place. This is a slightly reworked version of something I wrote back then. I wrote a sceenplay version of this too, but we never did get around to filming it. Part 2 will follow here sometime soon.

TRUE STORIES AND TALL TALES FROM THE L CAFE

From Book One: 1999

Mob Hits spilled from the speakers like blood from an open wound, sweet and syrupy as a cold Italian ice, yet bullet ridden with existential angst. The petite blond behind the bar asked for my order. "I'll have a Bud," I said, innocently enough. "We don't serve Budweiser,” she stated flatly. The dame smiled sweetly, yet I detected a twitch of bemused sarcasm. A second bartender furrowed his brow and watched from the far end of the bar, also smiling demurely, yet with a sinister, crooked-toothed air that seemed to whisper, I've got a whoopee cushion with your name on it, Bub, and I'm not afraid to use it. "Make it a Rolling Rock," I said quickly, not wanting any trouble.

A ubiquitous man, tall and beige, was hunched over a ubiquitous sketch pad, pencil in hand. He must be one of those bohemian arteest types I hear this part of Cleveland is famous for, I noted, proud of my finely honed perceptual abilities. A boy-faced man strapped to an accordion ambled up to the bar, ordered a brewski and asked to have it put on his tab. A Tab? Did I hear that right? I wondered if I had slipped through a portal to the past. "Hey,” I asked him, in my best jovial, backslapping voice, “How's the polka business?" He turned to me slowly, expression deadpan. "The accordion . . . " he intoned ominously, "is not just for polka anymore." He wandered off, stabbing at the instrument’s buttons while squeezing out the opening notes of Mac The Knife. I was beginning to suspect that this was no ordinary roadside tavern. This was not going to be an easy job.

The door swung open and an abbreviated, golden-flounced woman wafted in like a moonbeam looking for a starring role in a haiku. She must have been a regular, judging by the warm reception she received at the bar. As she took her seat, I noticed she carried a most unusual handbag. "Excuse me," I inquired politely, "But is that purse made out of a coconut?" The room went silent. She glared at me and gnashed her teeth. "If one more person asks me that . . . " Her voice trailed off as several patrons surrounded her, speaking in soothing tones. I backed slowly away. It appeared I had managed to offend every person I had spoken to thus far. Yet I was determined to stay on the case. I was just going to have to try a little harder. Somewhere within this enigma called the L Cafe, lay a dark secret, mysterious and slippery as an uncooked egg . . . and I was determined to crack it.

FIN

A screen cap of Google street view of the Lit, with a couple filters applied

'Cause We Like To

I thought it might be fun to add a little variety here by posting some older stuff occasionally, most of which has never been seen by anyone outside of myself and perhaps a few of my writers group cronies. This one is from the late '90's when I ran the Poetry Porch during Tremont Art Walk over the course of three summers. It's a 100% true story.

 ***

So while every sane person is out at the beach or having a picnic or some such, I'm roving about Tremont with a staple gun, posting "Poetry Porch" flyers in the 90 degree heat. I've plastered about three fourths of the hood when a boy, perhaps eight years old, drives up on his bike. "You the one puttin' those up?" He points to the telephone pole I just hit.

"You mean the flyers?" I ask.

"Yeah. What's those about?"

"They're for a poetry reading."

"'Cause me and my friend are tearing them all down." Sure enough, as we speak another somewhat smaller boy is across the street picking at the comers of the flyer I just posted. We watch as he rips it down and crumples up. He is smiling.

"What the hell are you doing that for?!!"

"'Cause we like to." His eager expression reminds me of a puppy explaining that he likes chasing sticks.

"Man, you're crazy!” He just looks at me blankly.

“Hey, this is for the Black Poetic Society!" I try, hoping to appeal to the small African-American in him.

"I hate poetry."

"You should come and listen. You might like it."

"Nah."

"Well cut it out!"

"It's okay, you can put more up." He seems rather proud of himself, as if he honestly believes he's come up with a good and rational solution to my problem. Then he rides off and I watch the two of them casually roll down to the next phone pole and reach for the flyer. I turn away, shaking my head in disbelief.

I finish posting the rest of the flyers on tiptoes, as far up as I can reach.

***

We now return you to our regular featured programing...

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike

Reading to begin as soon as I'm done posting here will be the homework from tonight's Market Gardener class: the first five chapters in The Organic Farmer's Business Handbook

Wrote some fun letters to an old high school buddy, but not much else.

Good Eats

Still working through that big crock pot full'o porky goodness. Tonight, accompanied by a nice salad. And I've been snacking on macadamia nuts today, which I haven't bought in a good long time because those suckers are 17 bucks a pound. But my, oh my, they are tasty. I'm doing a Whole30 this month which means I'm back to hardcore Paleo: no grains, no legumes, no dairy, no sweets, no cheating. And no alcohol. So if I seem a little bitchy* this month, that might explain it.

*-er than usual.

My Adorable Child

...can ice skate like nobody's business. He's been in figure skating lessons for a while and is now taking speed skating too. He breezed through Basic 1, 2, and 3, and won his first practice speed skating race. He's gotten so comfortable on the ice. It's really fun to watch. But don't take my word for it, check this kid out.

Transformative. And now 100% vegan-free!

Oops, I did it again. Hit "new post" without a clue as to what I would write. (Pause wherein I decide to take a walk around the block, come home and make a snack of hot tea and almonds.)

It's that time of year when skunks, waking too early from their winter naps and able to find neither coffee nor danishes, commit suicide under the tires of slow moving vehicles on snow covered suburban streets, releasing that all-too-familiar odor that reminds us that Spring! is just around the corner yet still entirely too far away to make us want to do anything at all other than sit around in our pajamas, drinking coffee and eating danishes. Well, except for me. I'm having tea and almonds.

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike:

Still reading Breathing Lessons,  a chapter or two a night.  No writing of note, but I did take in a pleasant poetry reading on Friday at Visible Voice in Tremont, featuring Steve Goldberg, Bree, Miles Budimir and a bevy of open mic notables. It reminded me that I need to do this more often. A good poetry reading serves me as well as any house of worship in the serving up of transformative experiences.

Good Eats

Speaking of transformative experiences, on Saturday evening, a Very Nice Gentleman and I went to dinner at Brasa Grill, at his suggestion. His thought that Brasa would be a fine experience for a Paleo Gal like me. And indeed it was. We had a quick bite from the salad bar, then on to the main event in which servers bring 'round swords laden with a variety of meats in a seemingly endless cavalcade of meaty meatness. The offerings that I recall, and doubtless I'm forgetting some, included leg of lamb, sirloin (both top and bottom), chicken, bacon wrapped chicken, bacon wrapped filet, pork ribs, sausages, and ham. Now I am a fan and an amateur practitioner of both hedonism and gluttony, but there came a point in the evening when both VNG and I became a teensy bit overwhelmed by the parade of glistening brown skewers. And suddenly we were both overtaken by a passionate, desperate, longing...for vegetables. So we went back and filled our plates with fresh leaves and green beans. No dessert necessary, thank you very much. 

We then took a little jaunt to the new Transformer Station art gallery and smirked on the way in about how, according to the publicity, the place was going to transform the Cleveland art scene. But you know what? It was a damn fine show and and really inviting space. And as we wandered though the first room I was thinking how they had chosen the perfect strange ambient music for the whole affair, and come to find out when we reached the second room that it was being created live by an old friend, noise artiste Bob Drake. Très chouette.

After that, more things happened. But I've already wandered far astray from my food theme, so. Whatever. MY BLOG, MY RULES. Dammit.

Dinner tonight was (and yes, there have been some other, unwritten pauses in the making of this post)  Slow Cooker Kalua Pork (Yum!), Paleo rice  (shhh, it's really cauliflower) and kale chips, which, since I cooked up my first batch of it today, was made with homemade ghee rather than olive oil. I season mine with balsamic vinegar and smoked salt. I've become a nut for smoked salt. Greatest seasoning since horseradish in a jar. 

Meat gooood.

After last night's meatapalooza, I needed to take a little break, so while my pork simmered away all day in the crockpot, I avoided meat until dinner, other than a couple slices of bacon at breakfast and some chicken for lunch.

My Adorable Child

...will be discussed at great length in my next blog post, no doubt. For now I'll mention that he was fired from OT for failure to apply himself or to improve his behavior despite diligent application of said OT. Tomorrow I will discuss this with his therapist. How does one motivate a child to transform his behavior when the child does not see any problems and enjoys acting like a lunatic? This is what I'm up against, folks.

Heavy work in OT