My mailman - a goth who wears black eyeshadow and a black cape over his USPS uniform - tells me he's working on a play about the Black Hole of Calcutta, and linking it to the McCarthy investigations.
I walked to the corner store this morning to get a jug of milk and some cat food. The place was recently remodeled to look like a dungeon; the owner, who dabbles in existentialist criticism when not stocking the shelves with cigarettes and Twinkies, did it as a reponse to the inherent hopelessness of life.
I walked to the little pizzeria next door. The guy - a big, fat, jovial Polish guy from Wausau named Frank - has started making all-black pizzas - presumably via a combination of poppy seeds, eggplant and judicious scorching. He says he does it partly to match the all-black motif of his shop, "Miasma of Pizza", with its black walls, black floors, black uniforms and black light - and partly to match his mood. "These are depressing times", says Frank as he tosses a black crust (really move of a very dark gray), nearly losing it against the dark blackground.
This weekend I'm going to attend a play; it's basically a one-woman show about suicide. It's at the "All Suicide, All The Time" theatre on the West Bank, the most popular little off-Hennepin stage in town, where hordes of city-dwelling misanthropes gather to sip lattes and commiserate about...well, misery, as performers who've tired of the coffeeshop feminist poetry slam scene perform endless one-woman shows that, at the end of the day, are all basically the same - a consistency that is in fact the only comfort most of us take in the dank, miserable twilight of human existence. They say if hell didn't exist, man would have to invent it. Invent it, we have; all of human existence, today, qualifies.
Someone just drop the big one please.
This urban fantasy was brought to you by JB Doubtless who, curiously, dragged me into it for some reason:
the culture of Minneapolis is in so many ways so weird, so antagonistic to normal values [Speaking of "traditional values", was it in the Sermon on the Mount where Christ bade us to go forth and call the impaired "urine-caked drunks? I'm just curious. - Ed], so juvenile (save for experimental theatre--Mitch Berg loves the experimental theatre [Apparently JB is implying I'm depressive and suicidal? Or is he? - Ed](!)) that it is interesting once in a while to see what that culture produces...Enjoy that experimental theatre Mitch. That and listening to suicide songs in a bar are just another of the joys of city living that I guess I'm missing out on.Hm. It's something I guess I miss out on, too. Go figger.
But what would I know? All I do is hold a job, raise a couple of kids, pay taxes and try to spread conservatism. I'm obviously no expert.Posted by Mitch at November 30, 2005 12:36 PM | TrackBack