Off the Shelf

When MikeDeCapite's new chapbook Creamsicle Blue came out last year, I promptly ordered a copy. I'm a big fan of his writing. Mike grew up in Cleveland and his wonderfully atmospheric novel, Through the Windshield, is set primarily in Tremont. I was living in Tremont when I read it and I felt like I was riding in the backseat for the whole journey. I had not yet met Mike when I ordered Creamsicle Blue, but we have a lot of mutual friends and he had generously accepted my Facebook friend request. 

After I ordered the book, I was surprised and pleased to get a personal email back from him, asking if I would like it inscribed in any particular way. Well boy howdy, give me an opening like that, and I'm liable to run with it. And run, I did. “Indeed,” I wrote him, “Please inscribe it, 'To my darling Blayne, Love of my life,' or something like that. Point being,” I said, “...something to make the book club ladies jealous.”

When the book arrived, I was not the least bit disappointed to see the following:

For Blayne- I'll never forget you, although you cast me aside. 

I still have your hatpin, by the way. And your tire iron, and your turtle food. 

 Mike 1/3/12

O, happy day! And I immediately thought that it might be fun to make up a back story to go with this inscription, but I was busy, and the idea was shelved. Until this past month, when the prompt for my writing group was “Off the Shelf.” So I wrote it. And I sent it to Mike and he said-- and this is a direct quote, mind you, “How great. I love it.”

I have now met Mike in person (exactly once) but I'm going to include the following disclaimer: While the two main characters in this story are actual human beings, the events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events is 98.42% coincidental. No turtles were harmed in the writing of this story. To the best of my knowledge, my grandmother was not a Nazi. This story is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians.

Okay, without further ado...

2/18/13

Mike-

Thanks for sending me your new booklet. It was really nice. Sorry it's taken me so long to write back. You know what a procrastinator I am, plus I had to kind of...think things over. I didn't really expect to hear from you again at all, given what happened when we last saw each other. And I don't know where you come off with this “cast me aside” business, given that you were doing more than your fair share of casting yourself. Oh, and speaking of casting, I want that tire iron back! Did you go back for it that day, or did you wait till it stopped raining? Frankly, I'm surprised you went back for it at all and even more surprised that you found it. You flung it pretty far into the woods.

I actually had a flat tire about two weeks before I got this booklet from you, and I had to call AAA and wait a fucking hour and a half for them for want of that damn tire iron. So the timing of your letter was interesting, to say the least. The minute I opened the trunk and saw that the tire iron was missing, the memory of that day and all that followed (or didn't, as the case may be) came pouring back. And at first I was really steamed all over again. Jesus, if you could have seen the look on your face when you winged that thing. “Next time, change your own damn tire,” you yelled. Which is fucking hilarious, given that you know perfectly well that I tried to do it myself and you pushed me aside and said it was “man's work.” I know this was supposed to be your ironical feminist-hipster stance and you were probably just trying to help, but still. I could have had that tire changed in ten minutes flat, and without stripping the goddamn lug nut. And I think you really did have some macho pride and didn't want the guys driving past see you stand idly by while I, a mere girl, did all the work. Stupid male egos. Face it, I was always better at mechanical stuff than you.

But the whole thing actually strikes me as kind of funny now. Remember at the service plaza before we got the flat tire, that bride and groom in line in front of us at the Burger King? I think we totally ruined their wedding day, what with your being “inspired” (haha) at the sight of them to drop to one knee and propose to me on the spot, and my refusal on account of you didn't have a ring. That guy looked like he was ready to slug us both for mocking him. If I hadn't started up with the crocodile tears, I think he would have. On the other hand, they were eating turnpike cheeseburgers, dressed up in a cheap white gown and veil and an ill-fitting rental tux, so what's to ruin, right? I still wonder what their story was. I've occasionally thought that I should make up a back story for them. But actually, you should do it. You're the real writer. Do it and send it to me, okay? Seriously, it would be funny.

This is getting ridiculously long. Listen, you can keep the hatpin, or sell it on ebay, or whatever. That thing creeped me out anyhow. Why on earth my grandmother had a hatpin with a swastika on it, I'll never know. I've wondered if she was secretly a Nazi but I have no evidence for it other than that crazy hatpin. Did I ever tell you about what happened when she joined the Fairfield Transcendental Meditation group? Funny story; maybe I'll tell you someday. She was a quirky lady, my grandma. She always liked you.

I assume the fact that you still have turtle food means that Raphael died, huh? That's sad. I should have come back for him but, well, you know. I always thought of him as your turtle anyhow, even though I bought him. Why would you keep the food? WTF? You're a weird guy Mike, you know that?

And yet...(That's from your book, get it? )...I'm glad you got back in touch with me, really I am. We did have our problems, we were no match made in heaven, but what the hell. We had some fun too, didn't we? This new little book is actually pretty cool; it almost reads like poetry. You were thinking about me when you wrote that part at the beginning, weren't you? Is that why you sent it to me? It sounds like you've been doing some serious soul searching and maybe you've let go of some of that angst you've been hauling around. So you have a steady girlfriend now, huh? I'm glad for you. I hope everything is going well. How's life in the Big City? I've been dating this guy Micky off and on for the past year and a half. You remember Micky? Used to hang out at Edison's with Chuck and Alex and those guys? Well, right now were off. But he sent me a bouquet of pink daisies on Valentine's day, so...maybe.

Well, I hope you're still working on getting that novel published. You been working on that thing for...well, since me anyhow, and that was...how long ago now? A long time. Lot of water under that bridge.

I hope this means we can both let go of the past now. I'm going to unblock you on Facebook, so if you want to send me a request I'll accept it, okay? Friends?

Oh, and Mike? I'll never forget you either. How could I? Your name is tattooed on my left baby toe.

Blayne

P.S. I have a blue notebook of yours with your notes from that lecture we went to by that weird German guy about music and syntax or some crazy-ass shit. The notes don't make any sense to me, but neither did the lecture. He did have the greatest accent in the world though; that I remember. If you want, I'll mail it to you. Also, your 20 pound barbells, but the hell if I'm shipping those suckers.

P.P.S. I'm enclosing $5 toward shipping for the tire iron. Really, I want it back.

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.