Thursday, June 21, 2012

Karaoke ambitions and food truck dreams

Last weekend, I very politely asked Chris if he'd like to shake things up a bit by heading downtown for the Stone Arch Festival along the riverfront. But since my sweetfaced Love was completely engrossed in the US Open, much to my chagrin, I said f these niceties! And rephrased my request, "Chris, we are going out like regular childless people on a Saturday night!"

One of the perks of our extremely central residence is that we are 15, maaaybe 20, minutes from absolutely everything. Including downtown. Parking was a cinch and we held hands and strolled down to the riverfront where we indulged in crab fritters and street fair galore.

After wandering the art tents, we walked across the bridge to listen to some really awesome music and eat brisket nachos from a well-known St. Paul food truck. The nachos were meh; not exactly the earth shaking food moment I was hoping for, but so what?

The music was awesome in that special sucks so bad but all these cool looking Indie people are swaying their Keens and raising their whiskey filled Sigg bottles so oh, what the hell kind of way! The singer hung her head and moved like a rag doll as the not so discreet smell of marijuana loomed.

I love people that simply do not give a fuck.

We headed back up the hill to Nye's Polynaise for some strong drinks and dear God, a black and white photo booth! For two years, Chris has scoffed at my every request for the low quality strip of silly poses, but on Saturday, he obliged. For those that have quietly asked what lies beneath the omni present hat, yes, he does have hair. An entire head of it even.

After a couple of rounds of drinks and flirty love taps and elbow shoves, we busted out if Nyes to head to 1029 Bar for what Bon Appetite has called the best lobster roll in the nation.

Me, I hate lobster. But I love a happy common law husband. As we sank into our seats and eased into another cocktail, the karaoke began. And this was no ordinary karaoke either. People came donning costumes and wigs and put on performances that had obviously been rehearsed in great repetition. My favorites were a heavy set woman of middle age and an unassuming brunette bob. For us, she rhymed Warren G and did not miss a solitary cuss or beat. Also topping my list was a flamboyantly gay man in skinny Jeans singing Maneater. He went so far as to throw himself onto the floor, toss up his legs and kick his feet back and forth as if to personally identify with the plight of being an unforgiving predator of men.

We left 1029 and felt a sense of sadness that we left the small, dark security of being away from home and lost in the moment with one another. We wondered who on the lineup we were missing and what they were singing.

We wondered when we could go back next.

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