Little Mike Gives Advice

I overheard this lecture being given to a thirty-five year old man by a ten year old boy:

You gotta find a good woman. Here's the things you gotta have. You can't have a fat woman because, when she cooks, she'll eat all the food and not leave any for you. And you can't have a woman who wears much jewelry 'cause she'll just want you to buy her more and more jewelry. She has to have a job, for sure. And here's the important one-she can't love you for your money. She has to love you for the person you are.

I asked the kid, "What if he doesn't have any money? Then do you know she just loves the man?"

All men have money. Except for poor men.

"Dude, did you make this up or someone schooled you?" I pressed him.

I just thought it myself, right now. Nobody told me.

He was serious like a heart attack.

Not sure why I found the whole exhange so remarkable and I wonder what happened in the lad's young life. His assertations smacked of a kid who's parents had a nasty split and, while neither mom nor dad would openly disparage the other, the hurts were communicated, if not directly to-then around the kid, in the form of random musings. Somewhere, someone done somebody wrong in Little Mike's life and he, being an observant and sensitive boy absorbed it, processed it and regurgutated it in the form of relationship advice for a grown man.

Either that or he's just a dope-ass kid with mad, crazy smarts.

I can't wait to hear more wisdom from the fourth grade. Will keep you posted.

Memory Building

After a few very tense days and another late, sleepless night, this blogger was hungry. Four AM dining options in the city are relatively few and my disdain for eating alone is well known.

I used to be a conscientious parent-putting my kids' wants and needs before my own. My every action was based upon what was in their best interests. Last night? Not so much.

With a few gentle pokes and insistent whispering I woke my younger daughter, totally disgregarding the fact that she was due at school in just under four hours with a social studies test looming shortly thereafter.

"Psssttt....hey! Are you hungry?" Her eyes barely open and most certainly not focused, she looked at me like I'd just asked if she would be willing to axe-murder a small child. "I know where there's a twenty-four hour McDonald's and we can get french fries!" The idea seemed to be catching on. She fumbled for her shoes as I shushed the canines, also roused from sleep by all the activity. We started to laugh, suddenly aware of the absolute absurdity of the scene.

She loved seeing St. Louis at night. Without much traffic, we could roll through the streets with ease and enjoy the lights of post and moon. Alas, the Mickey D's was only "open late" and not round-the-clock. On the way to our backup plan of the Courtesy Diner, we discussed throwing pebbles at the apartment above the Royale and treating SFS to a little sleep interruption of his own and lamented our lack of bathroom tissue, for decorating his purple neon sign seemed like a fun idea as well.

The kid couldn't quite punch in the numbers of the jukebox correctly and instead of listening to thirteen-year-old girl music, we jammed the the shredding guitar solos and raw vocals of some, unknown, eighties rock. The cook, a younger lad with a K-Fed demeanor and look, nodded appreciatively at her music selections.

We giggled and shoveled cheese and eggs into our mouths. We shivered in the meat-locker temps of the Courtesy Diner. We agreed that those wee hours were well-spent, U.S. geography be damned.

Nobody recalls what her birthday present was last year. And those astronomically expensive Nike shoes from a few months ago are kickin' it somewhere at the Goodwill. But, I have to believe, she'll remember for a long while the time her crazy mother took her to a grubby diner in the middle of the night.

Oxygen!

My idol and friend, Julia Smillie (her link is on the right) frequently offers up a topic in the reader forum called, "Fitness Police." People post their challenges and successes for the week in the areas of responsible eating and exercise. They cheer each other along and absolve the transgressions of big dinners and ice cream.

After too many days off I leashed up personal security canine extraordinaire, Miles Davis, and hit Tower Grove Park tonight. Before the break, I was able to run most of a half-park trek. Alas, I could do no such thing today.

Not only didn't I run it, I couldn't even walk the damned thing. In a gigantic admission of failure, I cut through the ball fields to shorten the journey back to the Shaw neighborhood. By the time I returned the still spry dog back to his home my shirt was soaking and plastered to my body and, in a flashback to the Presidential Physical Fitness testing of sixth grade, there was a disabling cramp in my side. To round out my humiliation, my face was beet-red from exertion.

I fell into the house and face down onto the floor. A model of poor health and total lack of stamina. Gross.

Hooked on You

Sleep is elusive these past few weeks and I find myself in the wee hours of the morning punching ridiculous phrases into Google, just to see what pops up. A couple of those I'll cop to include "midgets on bicycles" and "hats made from household materials." Disgusting and pathetic, I know.

Skipping around a bit here..

There is an employee at the cafe, we'll call him "Hal." Hal likes to set his paws on this here computer-any opportunity he gets. On the job, off the job, folks waiting in line, they matter not as Hal needs him some Wi-Fi. As is evidenced by the address toolbar, he frequents My Space, Livejournal and the unknown-to-me, Xanga. Hal is also a frequent You Tube visitor.

Having run out of creatively offensive and potentially embarrassing things to search for, I caved in and paid a visit to You Tube while the rest of you were sleeping soundly.

Oh. My. Heavens.

I laughed and cried. It was better than Cats! Watching a three minute short about the infamous Zidane headbutt was a far superior 4AM experience to learning to make a baseball cap from a plastic milk jug.

It's okay. Hal's bigger than me, but I'm pretty sure I could take him, especially for some You Tube time.

United in Voice

There was background music, I remember, in the store. I don't recall the tempos, the artists or the lyrics but I'm certain there was music.

Then, as I flipped through rows of denim, the unmistakable sound of Queen's "Somebody to Love" came soaring through the store. It wasn't any louder than its predecessors but something about the song cut through the aisles and wrapped itself around my ankles. I couldn't resist singing along softly.

There was an older, African-American woman across the racks from me, and she was singing, too. As was the kid restocking tried-on-but-refused garments, a young mother pushing two toddlers in a stroller and a heavily tattooed Lemay dweller bearing more ink than teeth. Everyone subtly sang along with Freddy Mercury and all paused respectfully but with appreciation during the arena rock, shredding guitar solo.

How did so many different kinds of people know the words to a 20 year old song? Why did everyone feel so comfortable, singing among strangers while shopping for clothes?

After the tune was over, it was like the whole event had never happened. Silence ensued and folks returned to their regularly scheduled conversations, scoldings and, in the case of Tattoo-deep sniffling/snorting.

I can't get it out of my head, not the song and not the experience.