Sweet Alyssa
Tuesday, November 11th, 2008
Too bad that Alyssa Milano can’t go on tour. I’d pay big time money to see her in a live stage performance of Who’s the Boss? or maybe even Commando as long as she wore the overalls. She was, after all, the subject of my first love letter (my mom snapped a photo of me in a Hawaiian shirt and matching shorts that were all the rage in 1987), my first kiss (it happened in a dream that involved a rollercoaster ride and deep conversation), and then again my first brush with unrequited love (she never responded to my letter.) (more…)
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Tags: Downtown, Pop Stars
Bar District
Sunday, October 19th, 2008
By the back entrance to the bars and pizzerias, some abandoned railroad lines run aground in the asphalt. The freight trains that once crossed here are barely noticeable save for the bronze metal that reflects the glow from streetlamps. Once unobstructed, the rail path now follows a sidestreet up a slight incline and curves through an intersection toward a parking lot and these old ghostly buildings where the thirst for alcohol and sex derailed the cargo carriers decades ago.
A few of the inebriated souls wander this district believing themselves to be braver or possibly invincible under the influence and try to put their hands through the glass in shops window or pick fights with groups of sober bodies or kiss the wrong women – ones that belong to someone else – and do so inconspicuosly. (more…)
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Tags: Downtown
A honey-blonde glare, the same color as rich wheat beer, outlines the rooftops and building features.
The sun sets on the Crossroads district with its blocks staggered like steps as they progress up the hill on Wyandotte Street. At the top is a beautiful church, watching over all this urbanity, the small creative boutiques, the real estate offices, and the apperent factories where workers in casual dress smoke and curse on a perfect fall night.
The wind is nearly imperceptible close to the brick walls on the street’s west side. On the east, the wind comes barrleing down the block, picking up loose leaves and a concert flyer that’s come unstuck from a tarred telephone pole.
The edges on the buildings are sharp and pronounced against the perfect blue sky. Glass in the street lamps glow prematurely. And, the crickets in the long line tree branches poking through a chain-link fence along the sidewalk start chirping in anticipation of final sundown.
Cars parked streetside reflect the sunlight in big diamonds of white light. Jets from the downtown airport leave the sky streaked with white strips. I’m tired from a day spent writing and in anticipation of it. I feel as tired as the sun downs itself, burning itself in all the blueness, never able to overcome the coloring.
I walk these streets searching for inspiration, under the swooping power lines, past the gated, private parking lots, the trash dumpsters, art pieces in windows, empty salon chairs, hip lamps and lingerie, cafe windows with daily specials sloppily written on chalkboards. Then the breeze again, and I feel safe on these streets, transported to earlier in the summer when it was warmer and the anticipation greater. The more the searching goes on, the more I feel inspiration is looking for me a block over. Cross my path, something to capture on my handheld, a word painting or therabout, some sort of wisdom to impart.
Where does the mosquito come from in all this, circling my long sleeves futilely? If it were June, I’d have my blood sucked and he’d fly off with a fully tummy, back to the overgrowth in the lot by Southwest Boulevard. For now, he’s out on his own search, hoping to cross paths with warm red blood, and in that sense he’s not unlike the vagrants that wait for singles to walk down the wrong alley carrying whisky money in their pockets. I feel connected to the few living things I can see and hear.
The sun is half gone now as I walk only in shadows. I sit on the sidewalk ledge and look down the hill. I thinl about the big hill near my childhood home that we’d ride down wildly on skateboards hoping the wheels didn’t lock up on the chestnuts that would fall from overhanging trees. At this angle, the speed would be intense and too fast to stop, so the rider would have to jump off and abondon his board and watch it careen into the street.
Cars turn off and on Wyandotte, disappearing behind rows of buildings, brakes squeaking on even the newest model cars. Downtown at twilight, though, the streets are mostly silent and more like they were historically than they are during the day time.
The sun is down and I decide it’s time to turn my eyes to another street.
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Tags: Downtown, Free Writing, Summer
