Why Don’t You Blahg About It? - Sleeping In Cars #1

It had been at least 5 years since I stepped foot in the NE Minneapolis bar and tonight it was giving off a completely different vibe. The first time, Roommate and I were living in a duplex a few blocks away and we went in looking for women (so we could awkwardly glance at them during lulls in conversation and between sips of beer, but never talk to them). As it turned out, there weren’t too many women there because it was a gay bar.   

But that was five years ago.

“The Front” now has much more women, but still plays the same great dance music.  So on this cold September night, with dancing in our bones, we land there to bust some moves.

Enter the main character of the night, a man I shall call Cryin’. We all went to the same school, but none of us knew him because he graduated 5 years ahead of us. His age may have been a factor in why, on this particular evening, he made the unfortunate decision to wear a shirt with regular buttons, not the pearl snaps that are so popular now a days. Wild Child, a girlfriend who gets a little crazy when she’s on cloud alcohol, starts ripping the shirts off of all the males in our party; and let’s be real, most of the people in our party are male. Team men realizes this is a fantastic idea, and we join the disrobing ritual: hooking a finger above the top snap of each other’s shirts and tearing downward. By the time I come to Cryin‘, his shirt isn’t fairing so well and only 2 buttons remain, their fallen comrads MIA beneath the antsy feet of giants.  I go to unsnap them before realizing they’re buttons and he grabs my hand forcefully. Oh shit, they’re not snaps, I think. My bad. I brush off the mistake and the dance, and the drinks, continue.

Funny story, I actually did some silhouette modeling 

back when I had long hair.

I’m busting my moves, getting all hot on some Brazilian knockouts that have somehow landed in one of the coldest states in our great nation. I ask them why, why do you live here? There are warmer, brighter states. They say something about work or family or both. I’m a little bit blurry on their answer, their smoking bodies and booze blocking my recall receptors. They trade up to taller, more “attractive” men, the kind who were poppin’ collars when collar poppin’ was popular. See also: tools.

I jitter bug it back to my friends. Cryin’ is down to one button keeping his shirt together so I point at it to tell him he should just unbutton it so others aren’t temped to tear. And he slaps me. Yup, you read right. He slaps me. I am literally too shocked to be angry. Plus, I’m not an angry-first or angry-second type of guy.  I drop into the Why zone, trying to figure out his reason for slapping me. As the shock fades the answer appears: he thought I was trying to send his last button home to lie with its brothers.  Another question replaces the first: why would a man slap another man over something so little? Is he self-conscious about his chest? I mean, he’s a fit climber so I don’t really see anything to be self conscious about. Or is Cryin’ just not a big fan of me like I’ve always suspected? He doesn’t really look me in the eyes when I try conversing with him, a tell tale sign someone’s better than you. Or does it boil down to this: he's a fucking douche? At any rate, these questions are far too heavy for a night like this, so I toss them aside, take a gulp, and get down. 

We leave with food on our minds and stop outside to smart phone it. The group has whittled down to 4: MC ProcrastinEscher, a college, climbing buddy who hails from Colorado but has been finishing his Master‘s thesis in Minny for going on 100 years now; Guy Who’s Name I Can’t Remember, a really cool guy I met tonight whose name I can’t remember; and Cryin’. My phone is dead, the screen on Guy's is so mangled it's now considered a dumb phone, and MC's is minutes from death. Still, he gets a txt and shows us a photo of what his friends were up to earlier today. They were slack lining on the North Shore.

Now, I have to explain two things before we get to the crux of our story. First, slack lining is a technique used by climbers to bridge a gap and traverse over a drop without having to down climb, cross over, and then climb back up the other side. It’s pretty much the same thing as the tight rope at a circus, although it's less tight, swings a bit when you lose your balance, you don’t carry a goofy looking pole to help you balance, and you’re not walking on a rope; you’re walking on piece of webbing about an inch and a half wide. It’s fucking tough to do and takes a lot of practice.

Slack lining.

Second, "The North Shore" of Lake Superior runs from the Duluth, MN to somewhere in Canada (I mean, do they even have towns up there or what?). It's one of the most beautiful and majestic places in all of Minnesota and it can be quite unforgiving, with some cliffs towering 100-200 feet above jagged rocks and shallow water.

"Palisade Head," just outside of

 Duluth, MN on the North Shore of Lake Superior. 

So MC’s friends were slack lining across a gap on the North Shore. MC, Guy, and I find this to be pretty damn impressive.

“Oh, that’s nothing,“ Cryin’ says. “Probably a 20-foot drop over water.”

I jump on the comment almost immediately, for this dismissive arrogance will not stand. “Oh, that’s nothing for Cryin’ the great!”

“Oh yeah, Brad,” he fires back. “Why don’t you blog about it?”

I pause a moment before losing my shit, giggling like a little girl. “What?! Are you kidding me?! Who says that?! ‘Why don’t you blog about it?’” My voice is high, except for the delivery of his line, which I say low and dunce-like.

His level of amusement doesn’t come close to mine and he tries ignoring it by walking to the Panera a block away. We follow, because if it’s open, soup and sandwiches would be heaven right now. However, food used to be front page before breaking news bumped it to page two. I just cannot stop laughing.

“‘Why don’t you blog about it?’” I’m gasping for breath. “That’s fucking hilarious.” We’re outside of Panera and for some reason it’s not open at midnight. We turn around and cross the street. I’m still laughing and Cryin’ is visibly irritated. He pulls ahead of us, crossing the other street without the walk sign. His pace quickens from speed walk to jog to run and before we know it, he’s a half a block away and gaining and we haven’t moved.

“What the fuck?”

The plan was to grab some food then crash at Cryin’s friend's place. But plans change, especially when the guy who was gonna get you in the door runs away.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What do we do? Do we run after him?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe he just ran away.”

I'm still giggling.

“Whatever. Let’s go to White Castle and figure it out.”

Maybe this is why I'm single.

We realize the problem of where we’re sleeping tonight can’t be solved as easy as a colon cleansing from the world’s shittiest burger joint. Our cell phone situation is looking dire. MC's is seconds from death, mine is still dead and buried in my pocket, and now Guy's has passed away. MC successfully calls a cab company, but we end up flagging one down before keeping the appointment. The kind sir takes us to my brother's SUV, which I parked near the first bar we began our night at. 

Apparently Global Warming isn’t a constant and tonight is fucking cold. We’re all drunk, but for the sake of survival, we break the law and start the car to warm it up. I put on a couple more layers and make my nest in the far back. We decide the best place for the keys are in my pocket because I’m farthest from the ignition, a decision that turns out to be terrible for my scantily clad compadres. But we survive, and the morning brings shivering, massive headaches, a healthy hunger for eggs and bacon, and a few more giggles.

“Remember that time when Cryin’ ran away and we had to sleep in a freezing car?”

“Yes. Yes I do.” 

And hey! Would you look at that: I blahged about it!