Remember the days here?
Remember the wonderful time we had here! Remember?
Letterpress wood type, Open Book, Minneapolis. So incredible!
JAMBO!
It feels like Sunday today, because I have skipped out on the past two days of class. I had a lovely time in the cities, nevertheless! There was plenty of design, good friends, and galactic pizza to claim fulfillment. Aside from a nosebleed in the middle of downtown (a whole story in itself), I’d say it was nearly amazing.
When we arrived in the city yesterday, the group was let loose to eat lunch at the establishment of our liking. While eighty percent of the group set out for Hooters (something appealing about fake breasts and terrible food that I must be overlooking?), a friend and I thought a food court on the 3rd floor of some whack building to be the better choice. Why? I don’t know. We were craving fried cat? Sushi? We love being surrounded by corporate, blimpified Americans? All of the above.
It was a place out of everyday life, one that everyone took for granted for lack of anything else to take it for. It was a place where the men and women of the business world came to out of convenience, where drug deals occurred, where tables were wiped down with dirty rags. Beautiful women, most African, were dressed in security guard and janitor uniforms alike. They were too beautiful to be doing what they were, and worse yet, they looked miserable doing it. The Subways and Pizza Huts and Chinese food huts glimmered alike, all with the sense of despair, that they would always be those places in those malls, meat and cheese and cat cuisine on the 3rd floor. To their right, a large storefront blared the name NEIMAN MARCUS, the greatest irony of all. The people who came here to eat didn’t have time to drop hundreds of dollars on shoes and purses and leather. They just wanted their goddamn footlong, Diet Coke, and a newspaper. They just wanted to go home.
Shortly after I’d began shoveling through my mound of orange chicken cuisine, my nose announced its disagreement. It decided to bleed, and bleed well, it did. It bled all the way on to the streets of Minneapolis, over my face and down onto my white blouse, for all the passerby to witness. The assault victim. The foreigner. Yes. The little girl standing on the corner with a nosebleed? Oh. I’m sorry.
I think I might get some sleep tonight, because tomorrow’s laundry day — and you know what that means: it’s laundry day.
Muchlove from Moorhead, muchlove always.
jc
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