I Don't Feel Like Writing Today

I'm serious.

So here's another short story. I wrote this one on my birthday this year while playing Lexulous, the Facebook version of Scrabble online with several of you. The conversation during the game, for those who weren't playing was "What would happen if you combined a Scrabble board with a Ouija board?"

My friends are an interesting group sometimes...

Triple Word Score Of Doom - by Jonathan K. Lee

It's a hot day and I hate my wife.

We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.

I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the mailman.

My letters are crap.

I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points.

I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the world on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - Maybe not, but I know I'd be doing something.

She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already.

Maybe I should kill her.

If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.

I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.

As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now. I'll finish her off.

My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn.

The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they're not bees. My cousin Jake swallowed a bee when he was six, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat.

She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now.

I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.

She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more.

She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to turn on the air conditioning.

She always turns it off when I turn it on, and turns it on if I turn it off. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock from the thermostat. I find this remarkably satisfying.

She sits back down with a sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again.

The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I'm sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. Her cell phone chirps with a text message. She opens her phone, reads the message, smiles, and closes it. I do not ask her who the message is from. She's been getting messages that make her smile for awhile now.

She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points. I am furious at what the the text messages probably mean.

I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look.

I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I'm beating her now.

She asks me if I cheated.

I really, really hate her.

She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me.

I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP.

My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbors had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a stuffed animal with it's head torn off. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.

If only there was some way for me to get rid of her.

I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That'll show her.

As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails.

My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don't believe it - but it can't be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened - the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is - JINXED.

My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points.

I have to test this.

I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B.

I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly.

Stupid. I open my eyes, and there's a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway.

I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final.

Something terminal.

Something murderous.

My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points.

My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY or maybe COMBUST.

Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word.

I play QUAKE for 19 points.

I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny.

My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake.

I gasp with surprise and vindication - and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face contorts. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax.

I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching.

This is what you get when Misplaced stays home on his birthday instead of going out and engages in strange conversation with friends back home... sorry.

See you tomorrow.

Low Effort Blog

Misplaced has been dealing with an AT&T customer "service" nightmare all day, and as a result just didn't feel like following up on yesterday's entry... maybe I'll get back to it tomorrow. In the meantime, here's a short story I wrote while I was in Granite Falls over the Holidays last year.

Oh yeah, today's photo is of a directional sign a few blocks from my house that indicates where the different walking and bike paths it sits in the middle of will take you.

THE BULLY - by Jonathan K. Lee

I walked into the Town Talk Diner in Minneapolis and sat down at the counter as all of the booths were taken. I picked up a menu and began to look at the various items trying to decide if I wanted to order breakfast or just go ahead and eat lunch.

"Excuse me," said someone, as they touched me on the shoulder.

I looked up and turned to the side to see a rather nice looking woman standing before me.

"Is your name Roger by any chance?" she asked me.

"Yes." I responded, looking rather confused as I had never seen the woman before.

"My name is Barbara and my husband is Tony," she said, pointing to a distant table near the door leading into the bathrooms.

I looked in the direction that she was pointing but I did not recognize the man who was sitting alone at the table.

"I'm sorry. I'm, ah. I'm ah, confused. I don't think that I know you guys. But my name is Roger. Roger Bachman," I told her.

"Tony Anderssen. Tony from Granite-Clarkfield High School in Granite Falls, Minnesota?" she asked me.

"I'm really sorry. The name doesn't ring a bell." I said.

She turned and walked back to her table and sat down. She and her husband immediately began talking and once in a while I would see her turn around in her seat and look directly at me.

I finally decided to order breakfast and a cup of coffee. I sat there continually racking my brain trying to remember who this Tony guy was.

"I must know him," I though to myself. "He recognizes me for some reason." I picked up my coffee up and took a sip. All of a sudden it came to me like a flash of lighting.

"Tony. TONY THE BULL." I mumbled, as I swung myself around on my stool and faced in his direction.

"The bully of my tenth grade geometry class," I thought.

How many times that sorry guy had made fun of my big ears in front of the girls in my class? How many times this sorry son-of-a-bitch had laughed at me because I had no parents and had to live in foster care? How many times this big bully slammed me up against the lockers in the hallway just to make himself look like a big man to all the other students?

He raised his hand and waved at me. I smiled, returned the wave and turned back around and began to eat my breakfast.

"Jesus. He's so thin now. Not the big burly guy that I remember from back in 1989," I thought to myself.

Suddenly I heard the sound of dishes breaking so I spun around to see what had happened. Tony had accidentally hit several plates knocking them off the table as he was trying to get into his wheelchair which had been parked in the bathroom hallway while they were eating. The waitress ran over and started picking up the broken dishes and I listened as Tony and his wife tried to apologize.

As Tony rolled by me, being pushed by his wife, I looked up and I smiled.

"Roger" he said, as he nodded his head forward.

"Tony" I responded, as I nodded my head, in return.

I watched as they went out of the door and slowly made their way to a large van which had a wheelchair loader located in the side door of the vehicle. I sat and watched as his wife tried, over and over, to get the ramp to come down. But it just would not work. Finally I got up, paid for my meal, and I walked up to the van.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"Damn thing sticks once in a while," said Tony. "Could you help me get him in the van?" asked his wife.

"I think I can do that," I said as I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled Tony over to the passenger door. I opened the door and locked the brakes on the wheelchair.

"OK. Arms around the neck Dude," I said as I reached down and grabbed him around the waist and carefully raised him up into the passenger seat of the van. As Tony let go of my neck I reached over and swung his limp, lifeless legs, one at a time, into the van so that they would be stationed directly in front of him.

"You remember. Don't you?" he said, looking directly into my eyes.

"I remember, Tony," I said.

"I guess you're thinking 'What goes around comes around'," he said, softly.

"I would never think like that, Tony," I said, with a stern look on my face.

We both knew I was lying.

He reached over and grabbed both of my hands and squeezed them tightly.

"Is how I feel in this wheelchair how you felt way back then when you lived with foster parents?" he asked me.

"Almost, Tony. You're lucky. You have someone to push you around who loves you. I didn't have anyone." I responded.

I reached in my pocket, pulled out one of my cards and I handed it to him.

"Give me a call sometime. We'll do lunch," I told him. We both laughed.

I stood there watching as they drove down Lake Street and finally disappeared into traffic. I hope he calls me sometime. He will be the only friend that I have from my high school days.

*************************************************

See you tomorrow.

To The Women In My Life

Today's photo is from my last trip to Duluth, just this past June.

It's relevant, because I found out after the trip, that I hadn't really been welcome on that particular journey, and in fact, those that I traveled with had expressed the opinion to others beforehand that they wished that Misplaced would not take the journey with them.

Duluth is a place that I had formulated some pretty strong opinions about before I relocated here. Someone had suggested that I travel to that area, and I was dumbfounded that they would actually do so. I asked them if they were aware of an infamous incident that had taken place in Duluth on the night of June 15, 1920.

They were not.

I explained to them that one of the most horrific lynchings in American history had taken place in Duluth, and that this particular incident had made it quite clear that African-American men were not safe from mobs... even as far north as Duluth, Minnesota.

You can read more about it in the link I have provided above, but the abridged version is that a young woman in Duluth accused several African-American members of a travelling circus of rape. It was determined after the fact that no rape had occurred, and that the young woman had fabricated the entire story, but not before three young African-American men, Elias Clayton, Elmer Jackson, and Issac McGhie were dragged from the Duluth jail by a mob, beaten severely, put on "trial" by the mob, and hung from a light pole at the intersection of First Street and Second Avenue East.

Obviously, Duluth was NOT someplace high on my list of places I wanted to visit during my travels to Minnesota, but the person who was telling me I should visit there was rather convincing, and I did some more independent research on the area myself.

What I found was a unique area of Minnesota, on the edge of the Iron Range, which is where you will find the most ignorant, inbred people Minnesota has to offer. It makes perfect sense that the people in this area would be capable of mob mentality and lynching.

However, over the years there were many people in Duluth, both black and white who became quite vocal, and were determined that Minnesota's "dirty little secret" would not be glossed over and subjected to the "Minnesota Nice" way of dealing with issues. The incident was brought back to light, discussed openly, and a descendant of the man who had incited the crowd to riot joined with members of Duluth's African-American community and began a process of healing, which culminated in the construction of a memorial dedicated to the three young men killed on that evening so many years ago.

In a manner of speaking, Duluth, Minnesota is sort of like the Austin, Texas of the north. It's an anomaly of progressive thinking and openness in a place that would rather hide what's not comfortable to deal with. It also has a burgeoning music scene, and a vibrant, active arts community, not unlike Austin.

When I realized this about Duluth, it became my favorite place to visit in Minnesota and I look forward to every trip I take up north as a result. The first actual friends I made in Minnesota on my own are all residents of Duluth, and not coincidentally fellow photographers. Knowing that I would travel to Duluth whenever possible, I asked for and was granted membership in the Duluth Photographer's Guild... no small feat for someone who is not even a resident of that city.

What does all of that have to do with the women in my life?

Patience Grasshopper.

Misplaced may follow a meandering path, but it always leads somewhere.

It was a woman - the one responsible for setting the events of June 15, 1920 in motion who clouded my perceptions of Duluth.

It was another woman who initially suggested that I travel there, which in turn led to my further researching that city, agreeing to travel there, finding a piece of Minnesota that I truly love, and where I have found a small group of friends that would not be out of place on Allen Street in Buffalo.

One of the things that people often comment on is the sheer number of platonic female friends that I have back home in New York... I find it rather amusing myself, as it takes the old adage that men and women cannot be "just friends" and throws it out of a high window.

The number of e-mails and phone calls I received after my rants of the last couple of days was a reminder of the fact that the women in my life are the ones who somehow always manage to keep me centered. I heard from quite a few of you, and the message was generally the same:

1. "Are you alright?"

2. "What can I do to help?"

3. "Who needs their ass kicked? Don't make me take off my shoe!"

To answer those questions:

1. I am doing just fine.

2. You helped by reminding me that you're out there and give a shit about me.

3. No one needs their ass kicked, put your shoe back on.

But I do need to say thank you for the various parts you've all played in my life these past few years... I'm going to try to mention you all, but if I leave someone out please don't take it personally... there are a LOT of you after all and I can't name EVERYONE!

Here goes...

Margot Glick, thank you for being the best friend I could possibly ask for, and thank you for being my biggest supporter in this adventure. I owe all of my patience in dealing with life's bumpy road to you.

Jenn Martino, Tami Kennedy, Lynn DiPirro, Susan Walz, and Lisa Carter, thank you for being sisters to me... more so than my blood sister ever was.

Tara Rowe, Christina Sharples, Jodylyn Whipple, Lynn Timblin, Trish Alvarez, Julie Fritz, Lisa Bores, Tricia Spurck, Sharon Rokunohe, Jessica King, Laura Patterson, Karen Anderhalt, Ivy Johnson, Debbie Taylor, Gwen Tessman, Jennifer Gabrysiak, Lisa Gebbia, Meg Hlushak, Rebecca Flanders, Michelle Beishline, Nicole Selchert, Kato and Rocky thank you for being a: drinking buddy, concert goer, attendee of plays I have been in, photographic subject, hockey buddy, music fest attendee, dance partner, dinner companion, participant in weekend (or weekday) bar shenanigans, mosh pit backup, coffee shop patron, 4AM breakfast at Towne or Pano's companion, 1AM phone call participant, online advice giver, and generally being one of Jonathan's Angels.

Thank you to all of the above who over the last fifteen years have not hesitated to grab my ass and kiss me when I needed it, and more importantly smacked me in the back of the head when I needed that MORE.

You're my bitches and hoes, and Misplaced loves all of you.

Thank you for being my friends.

All of you do a shot for me this weekend.

See you back here Monday.

Shiny, Happy Entry Day

After yesterday's unpleasantness from Misplaced, I am following through on my promise for a shiny, happy post today.

Which leads to today's picture. What could be shinier and happier than a photo of a puppy?

A photo of a sleeping puppy! Which, by the way is a photo of Turner as a pup, courtesy of Stephen and Jessica. (Minnesota Jessica, not New York Jessica to avoid any confusion)

Continuing with the German Shepherd and puppy theme, here's a video of what may be the most tolerant German Shepherd in the world:

***** We Interrupt "Shiny Happy Entry Day" for the following:*****

That's going to be all for today. After I posted yesterday, I had the opportunity to speak to three of my readers, who I don't think will mind being identified.

First, I spoke to Minnesota Jessica, who called mere minutes after I posted while I was getting ready to walk Victor and Roxie.

She said: "You seem pretty pissed off at Anonymous... Is there going to be gunfire?"

No.

There is not going to be gunfire.

Next on the phone was Margot.

She said: "Man I sure wouldn't want to be Anonymous..."

I wouldn't want to be Anonymous either. Karma is a BITCH.

Next was Tara, who I must admit gives good advice, and has the added advantage of falling into the MILF category.

She said: "You're definitely bitter."

Yes.

Yes I am.

And I have every right to be.

Screw shiny and happy, I have a right to be pissed at the Pollyanna attitude that some people insist on being the basis of their lives. Especially the ones that project the image of happiness and light, when they're really quite simply devious and controlling.

See you tomorrow. Lord only knows what I'll say next, but it's ALL coming out now. If you've done me wrong, keep your head down. If you haven't, pull up a chair and enjoy some good old-fashioned Jonathan speaking his mind shit.

Editorial Response Day

The above image is a time exposure I recorded from the 24th Street Bridge looking north towards downtown Minneapolis. Today's image is relevant because it's one of the images I recorded on the first FlickrWalk I attended with the Minneapolis Photo Mob, a mere three days after I moved into my new neighborhood.

The Minneapolis Photo Mob is a group that I originally avoided joining when I first relocated to the area because I wasn't going to stay in Minneapolis, but move further outstate to live in Granite Falls. It made no sense whatsoever for me to join a group, and start to build friendships that I was going to have to abandon less than eighteen months later.

All of my New York readers, and the far and away majority of my Minnesota readers are aware of the fact that I came to Minnesota for one purpose, and after being here for less than a year, that purpose no longer existed.

I weighed my options carefully, and chose to stay in Minnesota, specifically the Twin Cities, to see what the area had to offer me if I stayed on my own terms. Considering that my other option was to admit failure and return to New York with my tail between my legs, defeated by a place I hadn't even really gotten to know, my choice to remain here and start over was really a no-brainer.

Interestingly enough, the individual responsible for my original reason for being here coming to an end was dumbfounded that I didn't "run home to momma" as it were. My friend from high school who lives about forty-five minutes west of the Twin Cities was not in the least bit surprised that I decided to stay... especially after I discussed the entire situation with him.

I'm from New York.

If you don't kill us the first time, we'll keep coming back until you do.

Back to the topic at hand for today...

I am declaring today "Editorial Response Day" because of an anonymous comment that someone left on yesterday's entry: "I Bet The Teller Is Originally From New York".

First of all, I find myself in a position where I think I need to explain to some over-sensitive Minnesota readers that I am not bashing the State of Minnesota. If it sucked here, I wouldn't have chosen to stay here.

I do however, find the glaring differences between Minnesota natives and the rest of the United States to be a constant source of amusement, and yes... sometimes a source of irritation. My experiences in dealing with what are quite simply cultural differences as I make a new life for myself here are exactly what this blog is about. For every sociopolitcal rant about the softball, ripe-for-a-takeover nature of Minnesota politics, there is one about the hardball, stab-you-in-the-back-business-as-usual nature of New York politics.

I don't mean to offend any of my Minnesota readers, but there are new readers among that group who are in complete agreement with the two following statements:

1. New Yorkers are tougher than Minnesotans, and can run roughshod over them with ease.

2. Minnesota better pray that New York politicians never figure that out, because as soon as they do, you're going to find yourselves with a Governor who speaks with a Brooklyn accent.

When I got in last night, I logged into the blog to check for comments, and I found this:

November 3, 2009 9:18 PM

Anonymous said...

i love that you are starting to enjoy minnesota, but please start realizing the residents are real.... we do not need to be from ny to stand up for ourselves... your neighborhood before may have sucked but as you should see by now it is not a true showing of minnesotans.

First of all, my point about the passive-aggressive nature of the people here is made quite clear by the fact that whoever left that comment did so to defend Minnesotans in general, yet chose to make their point anonymously. Now I know that not everyone wants to create a Google, Live Journal, Word Press, Type Pad, AIM, or Open ID account solely for the purpose of leaving comments on my blog, but I feel it necessary to point out that the New Yorkers who choose to save time by using the "Anonymous" comment option at least have the chutzpah to add their name to their anonymous comment... especially if they don't agree with me!

I responded to the above-referenced comment as follows:

November 4, 2009 12:44 AM

Osiris said...

Whoever left the above comment, I have to disagree with your statement about the residents being "real". As I mentioned in yesterday's entry, the only people who I have come across that have become actual FRIENDS, not just acquaintances I met through someone else fall into two distinct categories:

1. They are NOT FROM HERE.

-or-

2. They are from here, but have lived somewhere else for an extended period of time and only recently returned to Minnesota.

Interestingly enough, the people that fall into the second group agree with my observations about the "Minnesota Dynamic".

At the end of the day, Minnesotans just aren't warm and friendly people... In an earlier blog entry I've already discussed the whole "Minnesota Nice" concept, and what a crock of shit it is.

Insincere, forced politeness is not "real".

Being passive aggressive is not "standing up for yourself".

I've seen the "true showing" of Minnesotans up close and personal, thank you very much. My current situation is indicative of that.

Now I do need to make known that I have a fairly good idea of who left the "Anonymous" comment that I felt the need to respond to... In fact, it could only be one of three people... two of whom I actually respect, and do NOT fall into the category of "Regular Minnesotans" and would actually be quite successful if they ever moved to New York. As for the two of you that I respect, one of you lives and works in Granite Falls, and the other lives in a town called Spicer. I won't out either of you because I do sincerely respect you, but you two are the last ones I would expect to hide behind an "Anonymous" tag. One of you, I believe is fully aware that I got the raw end of the deal in my situation, and also knows the sacrifices I made to come here.

In the unlikely event the "Anonymous" commenter is the one that I have no respect for, feel free to comment whenever you wish, but please REMAIN "Anonymous", and understand that if you are the author of the above-referenced comment, then your words are laughable, and meaningless to me in the context that I put far too much faith into your character and promises, and "nice" is not a word that Misplaced uses to describe you.

Apologies to my regular readers, but some house-cleaning was in order here, especially since there is a one in three chance that the author of the comment that got me so fired up is quite possibly the biggest hypocrite I have ever had the misfortune to cross paths with.

See you tomorrow... with a shiny happy post to make up for today's not-so-pleasant one.

I Bet The Teller Is Originally From New York

I used to tell myself, "If I ever rob a bank, the note I'll pass along to the teller will read, 'I dare you to refuse.'"

In those days I was disheartened at how easy bank robbing had become. Guns were being replaced by handwritten notes. Lard-ass bandits, unwilling to leave the seats of their cars, were demanding money from drive-up windows. I felt strongly that to honor the memory of the great thugs of the past, area riff-raff should offer something a tad more menacing.

Well, imagine my surprise when last week a teller did in fact say "no," but not to a crook with a wimpy note. The would-be robber had a revolver and wasn't afraid to brandish it.

Here I was, hoping some bank clerk would eventually question the legitimacy of this whole scribbled-note nonsense, and little Miss Moxie actually questioned an outlaw's willingness to pull the trigger.

Whoever you are ma'am, will you please share your DNA with the rest of this state?

The robbery last week at Cherokee State Bank in St. Paul was a real throwback to the Dillinger days. The robber not only had a made in the U.S.A. handgun at the ready but even donned the old-fashioned bandanna to hide his face. You almost expected running boards on his getaway car.

These are not supposed to be the ones a teller turns down. These are the hard-core pros who study Dillinger's playbook.

But our hardcore robber wannabe turned tail and ran — no doubt thinking, all the way out the door, "What the fuck just happened?"

Turns out the gun was just for show. He was planning to bring a clever note, perhaps, but at the last minute must have chosen to look old-school.

I sure wish I knew when this country began the grand shift from guns to paper. In the 1930s a note would have gotten a thief a hearty laugh and nothing more. Somewhere along the line things changed. Banks must have decided everyone would be a whole lot safer if word got out that weapons weren't necessary anymore. I bet the robbers were delighted to hear that news. Whatever joy the old-time gangsters felt learning that St. Paul police would leave them alone as long as they robbed outside the city, the modern thieves must have been equally thrilled hearing banks would now gleefully reward them if the hoodlums just put it all in writing.

Now their guns could be left at home, or better yet, sold to Republicans. Decent penmanship would be all that was required from here on out. The painfully shy and socially inept could rob banks just like the tough guys.

I imagine some tellers had a hard time sleeping at night. Some evenings they had to go to bed saying to themselves, "A note. All the loser had was a lousy note. I haven't used a note since Mom stopped writing them for me in grade school."

The Palm Beach Post reported on yet another robbery by a man cops have dubbed the "Withdrawal Bandit." According to the newspaper, "This bandit doesn't come in guns blazing. Instead he grabs a blank withdrawal slip and steps up to a window. Then he informs the teller he's 'making a withdrawal.' This baffles bank employees, who often wait for an ID or a filled-out slip." At the National City bank in West Palm Beach the robber had to clarify: "This is somewhat like a robbery."

Somewhat like a robbery, indeed.

The world in which we live us a strange place indeed.

See you tomorrow.

Serendipity. Halloween-Style.

Last Wednesday, I posted an entry here entitled: "Halloween 2009... Whatever."

On my facebook page, I alluded to the fact that I just wasn't feeling Halloween this year. Those of you back home know that this is not normal behavior for me... I love Halloween!

After moving here last year, I didn't notice very many kids in the neighborhood I was in, none of the neighbors on my block decorated their houses, and the portion of the street I lived on was pretty busy and kind of ghetto, so I didn't see much potential for trick-or-treaters. According to my source of information for all things Minnesota at that point in time, Minnesotans didn't go to any great lengths as far as Halloween was concerned. I noticed that there were a few "haunted mazes" in the farming communities just outside of the TC, and the ValleyFair Amusement Park in the nearby suburb of Shakopee became "ValleyScare" for a week or so, and that was pretty much it.

Bummer for Misplaced. It looked like Halloween did not exist on a grand scale here.

A small amount of candy was purchased just in case I was wrong, but I didn't bother to decorate the house, or procure a costume to wear while answering the door for the trick-or-treaters... which for Misplaced is half the fun!

I'm guessing that there are kids in Buffalo's Black Rock neighborhood who still remember Halloween 2002... I answered the door as the Grim Reaper, complete with prosthetic skull makeup, and his HellHound, my Chow mix Dexter (R.I.P. little buddy), with prosthetic spines sprouting from his head and back, both done by a friend who did special-effects makeup for some of the local theatres ... That night a few kids actually screamed when I opened the door, and ran away without getting their candy from me. It was one of my better Halloweens, and Dexter was the last dog I had that would tolerate ninety minutes of having prosthetics attached to his fur... Good times... good times...

Anyway...

Halloween Night 2008 came, and during what I have come to learn are the peak trick-or-treat hours of 6PM to 9PM my doorbell rang seven times, for a total of fifteen, maybe twenty kids.

During my last tenure in Buffalo (April,1996 - September, 2008), on Halloween my doorbell would ring every couple of minutes during peak Trick or Treat hours, and each time I opened the door, there would be three or four kids on the porch, and more coming up the sidewalk... regardless of the neighborhood I lived in! Black Rock, Elmwood Village, Allentown... people brought out their kids! What was wrong with the people here in Minnesota? Don't they like fun?

I came to grips with the fact that Minnesotans were just not into Halloween like New Yorkers are, and my attitude this year reflected that. Why get all excited about Halloween when they just don't care about it here? I realized after the fact that as reserved as these Scandinavians are, it was foolish for me to think that I would be able to enjoy the holiday in the fashion to which I had become accustomed.

So as my regular readers know, this year I carved a pumpkin as an afterthought, and didn't even bother to buy any candy. I made plans to have dinner at a neighbor's house (Wonder Woman, who also is NOT from Minnesota, loves Halloween, and moved into the neighborhood a few days before I did.), then go home and watch TV. I had decided that next year, come hell or high water, I was going to pack up the dogs, and drive back to New York to spend Halloween amongst those who had the same appreciation for it as I.

About a half-hour before sunset, I took Roxie and Victor out for their walk before I headed over to WW's. As I walked south down Pillsbury Avenue I noticed that even though it was only 5:30, there were several groups of children out trick or treating, each supervised by one or two adults.

In less than three minutes, I passed double the number of kids who had rung my doorbell in my old neighborhood the previous year.

I also suddenly realized that most of the houses on the block I was walking on were decorated... apparently, they wait until the night before, or the day of, and then go all out. The photo above is a neighbors house on Pillsbury, less than two blocks away from my front door. The farther I walked, the more trick-or-treaters I ran into, and the more elaborate the decorations on the houses became. Looking through the picture windows of some houses I passed, I could see that full-blown parties for kids were taking place in some of them.

Unbeknownst to me, I had moved into a neighborhood that just didn't celebrate Halloween, but was New York-style Halloween crazy!

My Halloween spirit came rushing back into me, and I found myself disappointed that I was not in costume, and had not costumed Victor and Roxie. I pulled out my phone, called Wonder Woman and told her that we had apparently landed in a small of pocket of Minnesota that actually gets Halloween, and that after I dropped my dogs off, she should bring hers out and walk around the neighborhood a little, which we did. Quite a few houses had strobe lights, sound effects, some even had smoke machines! Several neighbors had firepits set up in their front or back yards and were outside enjoying the evening as well. At one point we came across a woman dressed as a scarecrow and accompanying a group of trick-or-treaters who was quite effectively freaking out the people who opened their doors to the kids she was escorting by alternately posing and freezing. The whole scene on the streets of the neighborhood was made even better by the presence of a nearly full moon with a few perfectly-placed clouds scudding across the sky. Judging from the sheer volume and ethnic makeup of the groups of kids and adults we encountered, it became obvious pretty quickly that the Kingfield neighborhood is a Halloween Mecca of sorts, and people from other neighborhoods made it a point to bring their kids to this one to trick-or-treat... just like people from other neighborhoods in Buffalo bring their kids to the Elmwood Village neighborhood.

On the way back to her house, we encountered another neighbor who had a firepit set up in his front yard and stopped briefly to talk to them. We introduced ourselves to each other, and I pointed out that I was surprised that this neighborhood embraced Halloween they way it did, and that it reminded me of home.

He said: "Oh? Where are you from?"

I replied: "New York."

He said: "Really? I am too, but I'm from Upstate..."

My face split with a huge smile, and I said: "I'm from Upstate too! Buffalo, to be exact... Where are YOU from?"

He said: "You're kidding! I'm from Rochester, and my wife is from Waterloo!"

It even turns out that Chris (the husband) is a fellow graduate of the State University of New York at Buffalo, and my friend Adam's family (no Halloween pun intended) is from the Waterloo area.

Fellow Western New Yorkers right around the corner from me. Somehow, I'm not surprised.

Not only does my neighborhood get cooler with each passing day, but now I have a little connection to home right here too. I have friendly neighbors that actually talk and associate with each other. What I find rather interesting is that most of the neighbors that I have encountered here and become friends with fall into two categories... They're either NOT from Minnesota originally, or they've lived someplace outside Minnesota for several years and recently returned to the Twin Cities, and chose this neighborhood because it reminded them of somewhere else.

What I was sure was going to be kind of a downer weekend as indicated by Friday's blog turned out to be exactly the opposite.

Misplaced is happy.

See you tomorrow.