Quick (and desperate) reminder: I will be reading this Sunday. It is described as “an evening of intense voices in fiction and literary-themed burlesque,” hosted by Russ Marshalek, featuring Elise Blackwell, Collin Kelley, Katie Kitamura, Sarah Rainone, and me. Details here.
So I just spent the week in St. Louis at a work conference. N tagged along, as he is from there and was eager to take a tour of all the stairs and rails he once skated before he grew old.
As you know, I have a teasing, but loving–but also often mistaken for hating–relationship with the midwest. My dear friend LC has been my companion for both of my previous visits to America’s heartland, and I wish that she had been there with us as well so that she might’ve witnessed the exchange I overheard in the hotel restaurant:
Man 1: Hey, you guys got the cheeseburger buffet today?
Man 2: Look, they have Vietnamese ketchup.
The people of St. Louis are pretty much the nicest people I’ve ever encountered. Heartbreakingly so. Except for one resident. I’ll tell you more about her later, because she was still lovable, despite being mean.
That’s how nice people are in St. Louis. Even the cranky ones are lovable. Except Phyllis Schlafly. (And even she’s nearly redeemed by her grandson, Tom, who owns Schlafly Beer, a company that seems to go out of its way to distance itself from her. Odd, given the name. But I digress: The beer’s pretty good, they’re all about the environment and whatnot, and their spokesmodels are “too classy to dress like tramps and flaunt themselves as sex symbols.” Really, what more can you ask? This isn’t Seattle.)
Anyhow, more later. SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY!
Stroke me.
