Not what they seem...

While I was waiting for the WALK sign at an intersection in downtown La Crosse yesterday, a cop car pulled up beside me. As usual, though I knew full well that he was simply parked at the stop light, my heart started beating and I began frantically checking myself and my surroundings to make sure I wasn’t doing anything wrong.  I’ve never gotten into any trouble with the law—save a few speeding tickets—and have no reason to worry, yet I have a great fear whenever a cop car shows up that I am, at that moment, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I’ll get arrested or something.  Is that weird?  Probably.

Upon further inspection, I realized that it was not a cop car at all.  It was like a cop car: lights on top, safety grille in the front, a caged separator between the front and back seats…however, on the side of the car was written, in script, I might add...

Then it dawned on me. This guy is probably a stripper.

It all made sense. The man inside had a very tight uniform on and was very well tanned.

While I was waiting at the crosswalk, I saw a man with a fishing pole walking perpendicular to the stripper and I across the intersection. I watched as Coppy McStripperPants honked his horn to get the attention of the fishing pole man. They waved casually.

 [Which leads me to believe that Frank here isn't actually a fisherman. He's on his way  to work to go let out his line for some middle-aged bride-to-be who's into that kind of stuff.]

I then began to take second glances at everyone I walked past. How many more strippers are around me right now? It’s like they’re an invisible, secret society and only they know who they are. 

So if you’re walking in downtown La Crosse and you see two people wave, high-five, or wink at each other, they’re probably undercover strippers.

A Simply RADISHing Day

I already regret that title. Ew. A lot of my puns always sound so good before I say them, and then afterwards, could make even the Get Fuzzy comic writer Darby Conley go give me a sideways glance.  (“You’re a cat with a dream to be a dictator? What are you, Benito Meowsolini? Fidel Catstro? Adolf Spitler?”  ShutthehellUP, Darby! You used to be so good!)

[I miss the days when you used to make me laugh, instead of make me regret the days I ever started loving you.]

Anyway, I picked our first radishes today, which is really the only reason for the janky (5 points!) title. They’re almost all full grown now, spicy as heck, and we have (as one of the most irritating people I’ve ever met says…) a veritable shmillion of them.

[Aren’t they pretty?]

The weather channel couldn’t stop warning everyone around here that there is a SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING coming tonight, so to appreciate all of the precious time we had left on this earth, I went to Riverside with my good friend who I call “Tego.” We also got some candy and other delicious things at the Pearl Street Soda Fountain.  

 And speaking of fountains, the one in Riverside was freaking going kuh-rayzaay in the pre-storm wind.

[If only I had a kite.  I shall get on that.]

Oh, and I stopped my car, made an illegal U-turn on a busy street, and frantically searched through my car for a quarter to buy a lukewarm glass of green Kool-Aid from a kid selling it in his yard.  It would have been more worth it if I had brought my damn camera.

And yes, the Weather Channel was right; it's raining, some would say it's pouring, and I'm pretty sure, at this time of night, some old man somewhere is snoring. If the rest of that prophetic poem also comes true, I feel very sorry for the old man's family.

A Soggy Day

Not the best of days today.  I would elaborate as to why, but I feel as though that would just make this a complainer’s blog, which I so adamantly vowed, from the beginning, to never let Popcorn Day become. Let me just say this: after five days of rain, I’ve been forced by Mama Nature herself to not cut the grass in my yard for waaaaaaay too long.  So today, when I was already experiencing a bit of an attitude problem, I set out to mow my lawn. Weather.com said it would storm later in the day, but I figured that I would be able to outrun it. You can guess what happened, I’m sure; halfway through finishing the yard, it started pouring rain.

[Bollocks. 5 Points even in a bad mood.]

Anyway, I moved on from that and am now determined to talk about something happy.  So let’s take a look at my weekend, shall we?

My cousins came over to visit for the weekend, and one of my favorite things that we did was head down to Caledonia Street for some lunch. First a little about Caledonia Street.  This place is such a strange area, because it’s filled with dozens of fun shops, including one of the first Maid-Rite diners and a wonderful old place named simply, “The Sweet Shop,” which I have written about before. What’s so strange about it is that it always seems deserted—a lovely little street frozen in a quiet moment.

Anyway, on Saturday I had my second Maid-Rite ever (my first Maid-Rite was on Friday).  I still don’t understand how loose ground beef on a cheap bun with some cheese pages can be so addicting and enjoyable, but it most definitely is. Maybe the wonderful little diner with its very own regulars that know each other’s names have something to do with it.

And someone was really thinking when they plunked (5 points!) an ice cream parlor ten feet away from a diner that serves extremely salty culinary pastimes!

[The sign in front of the Sweet Shop says "Summer at the Sweet Shop, some are not." The reason for that? They're all at Maid-Rite and planning to jump over there in about twenty minutes.]

I have just greeted this Monday with a funk, that’s all.  I plan to be better by later tonight…or tomorrow…or Wednesday, which Weather.com says should be sunny.

Many a-thing a-happenin' a-today...

Any day when I’ve taken enough pictures of lovely things to share multiple stories is a day I can consider “seized” in my book.

Weather.com announced the hourly forecast from 8am to 8pm was either 75 degrees or 76 degrees, so I met with one of my favorite people to go for a walk in Riverside Park. Having arrived early at our meeting place at Jules, one of my favorite coffee houses in La Crosse, I sauntered over to the connected used bookstore to pass the time. In something that I think would qualify as a nook or a cranny, I found a bright green chair. 

[I’ve seen chairs of the same shape and style, but they’ve always been a lame gray-pink color or something. If this doesn't amaze you, probably you’re just a bit saner than I am.]

When I re-entered Jules and sat down in a booth, I found an old man sleeping across the room. I snuck a picture under the table.

[Ironic that he's sleeping thirty feet from a counter behind which all the caffeine he could ever need sits.] 

My friend and I then had a wonderful time walking through Riverside Park, and I found a dapper old man on a bench.

 [A top hat, huh?  Good for you, gramps.]

And then I came home, and made a delicious pasta dish with asparagus and bacon and other yummy stuff, and served it decadently on a paper plate because our dishwasher is temporarily broken and we don’t want to hand wash our real dishes. (Yeah, we’re really roughing it right now.)

[It was delicious.]

….aaand that’s my day.  The second day of a summer full of Popcorn Dayness. I suggest you all do something blogworthy—something you can take pictures and tell people about—at least once this week.  It’s working for me so far.

For Your Listening Pleasure III: Christmas Waltz

Christie and I took a trip to La Crosse's Rotary Lights at Riverside Park last night and it was nauseatingly lovely. Something about that commercialized, sparkly, but nostalgic Xmas Light Thing brings a song to my heart. I just eat that stuff up.

Take a walk with me and Christie's new camera that doesn't necessarily take the best videos (hey, it was its first try at a light show...that's a big pond for such a young, tiny fish) and listen to The Christmas Waltz, a song I couldn't remember for the life of me during the whole recording and editing process, so I named it things like Frosted Window Panes and Christmassy Song and Fa La La La La. If I was as cool and witty and spunky as I wish I was, that last title would be true, but it's not.

Happy Xmas Eve EVE, faithful follower(s)!!



Christmas Waltz
Arrangement (c) 2009 Brian Schroeder

Groovin' Vatican Style

The other night I dreamed I was showing the Pope (yes, The Pope) around La Crosse. How someone as non-Catholic in his beliefs as myself ever received the honor of linking arms and trudging around the Coulee Region with the Holy See, I have no idea. He seemed quite lovely, though.  Not as save-the-world, kick-butt awesome as John Paul II of course, but still cool. Even though I’m pretty sure we couldn’t do much talking, given that he speaks German.

[I’ve always imagined the Pope wearing cool zebra kicks.]

Halfway through our tour, the Pope fell down, dead.

Oh crap.

Luckily the Pope’s posse was surrounding us, so no one could frame me for killing Pope Benedict XVI.  Can you imagine?

Anyway. The Pope died, and I was given the privilege of carrying the casket with the Pope in it to the Holy Vatican Helicopter (or the HVH…it’s not a real thing. My roommate recommended Popacopter, and I think Helipopeter is pretty good too). I remember thinking it was quite small.  “Gosh, we sure had a short Pope.  A Shpope, if you will,” I couldn’t help but say.

The HVH took off and I was left thinking, Wow. I just witnessed the death of the Pope and carried his casket.  

Fast-forward to the next day.

I received an important phone call telling me that, since I had been with the Pope in his final hours, I was invited to carry his casket in his actual funeral at the Vatican. 

How COOL!!  

Don’t take that as disrespectful, now. I really didn’t know the guy or have any sort of connection to him whatsoever. What I was excited about was being part of history and going to go see the Vatican.  I was pumped.

The person on the telephone told me that I had to drive to the Diocese of La Crosse and wait for the plane to come get me.  And I knew they wouldn’t be sending a regular old American Airlines plane to pick me up. This was going to be like 1^st Class. Vatican Class. Probably a high-speed jet, like in Angels & Demons. Awesome. 

I drove down Sand Lake Road, heading towards the Diocese, and hundreds of Amish people ran down their driveways to wave to me as I left.  (I’m pretty sure there aren’t any Amish people living in La Crosse, by the way. And who knew they were such big Pope fans?)

Then a tractor with a gigantic trailer pulled in front of me. In the trailer were about forty Amish men, standing and unbuckled. They are going to have one hell of a time on the highway.

I tapped my hands on the wheel, excitedly.  “I’m not really dreaming right now, am I? I mean, I have my phone with the call on it from the Vatican right here, I’m touching the steering wheel…This is really happening!” 

(It wasn’t.)

Arriving finally at the Diocese, noticed that I was late for the procession of priests and bishops in honor of the Pope. I jumped in sneakily—me in my shorts and Chacos, and the priests in their official garb—and tried to pretend like I was chanting the same Latin as they were. One of the priests I actually knew turned to me and said, “Wow, Brian! You’re finally picking up Latin?” I looked at him and said, quite seriously, “I have no idea what I’m doing right now.”

I was escorted to the Vatican High-Speed Angels & Demons Jet Waiting Room to find that three of my friends, a priest, a nun, and the choir director from the Catholic church I attended as a youngin’ were there. We exchanged hugs, all feeling overwhelmed at the fact that we were going to be in Italy in a few hours, and I realized I forgot my cell phone charger and my camera.  The two most important things I could possibly bring with me. I wanted to go back, but my friends held me back, reassuring me that they brought theirs.

Thank God.

I was so excited I had to pee, so I went to the Diocese bathroom, and when I flushed the toilet, I accidentally turned on the shower, which happened to be right on top of the toilet. 

Now I’m going to be all wet at the Vatican.

I dried off as much as I could, and stepped out to go see my friends.  I could smell Italy just around the corner and I was so darn excited and honored and freaked out and pumped and—

—and then I woke up, disappointed beyond belief that the dream wasn’t real.

Getting My Sweet Shop On

Next to the old Maid-Rite restaurant, there’s a small candy and ice cream shop in La Crosse called The Sweet Shop.  I took a trip there this summer with Christie.  Up until this summer, I had forgotten about it.  And I had forgotten that I had taken pictures of it until the writer of one of my favorite blogs wrote about her much loved ice cream shop in her hometown. So I’m copying her. No big deal, right?

When we got there, one of the employees—scratch that, insert “one of the two employees”—was out in front of the shop feeding almonds to squirrel. When we went inside, this man helped us decide what flavor of ice cream to get…

[Who wouldn’t buy ice cream from this guy?]

I bought cotton candy and fruit loops flavor. Real sophisticated. Christie got mint chocolate chip. (Ahem, loser.) 

Choo choo

I love taking the train.

I’m currently sitting in the viewing car #11 on the Amtrak passenger train to La Crosse. It’s 8:30 a.m., first-time riders are stumbling past me in the aisle and sleeper car passengers are dragging themselves out of bed in time to get the last breakfast sandwich at the snack bar. I’m drinking an apple juice, completely distracted from my homework by the conversations happening around me, and I’m having the time of my life.

Believe me, I’m not a morning person. Waking up to get anywhere by 7:50 a.m. would usually cause nothing but chagrin with me. However, when I get to take the sunrise train from MSP (Minneapolis/St. Paul) station to LSE (La Crosse…this is all train lingo, by the way) station, I’m energized like never before.

There’s just something about the train.

I wonder if the man sitting across from me reading Moneyball, by Michael Lewis can concentrate on the book when he has iPod earbuds in his ears. Maybe he’s playing the audio version of Moneyball and is reading along.

I wonder if the 60-something woman sitting with her 60-something giggling and gossiping friends at the table behind me will ever learn how to play the game of Hearts they’re noisily teaching her, all the while laughing and snorting at her inability to remember the rules.

The elderly people sitting kitty-corner to me want nothing more than to have a conversation with someone. Maybe they’re riding the train for the first time in a long, long time, and they just want to share their excitement. The young guy sitting across from them, however, seems grumpy and unwilling to talk. Look my way, elderly couple.

Conversations never cease to be interesting on the train. I’ve met a woman suffering from a past-midlife crisis who decided to ride around the country on the train. I met a hypnotist-turned-psychologist-turned-pastor-turned-loaner who did his best to make me accept Jesus into my heart. And I just learned that the iPod guy sitting across from me is a financial advisor for a school district in St. Louis, Missouri.

Like I said, there’s just something about the train. Something that makes people be willing to tell their life stories to complete strangers and then ask their names later. I love it. 

A Dream Comes True

A few weeks ago I was driving in BBB (Brian’s Bitching Buick) and I found something that literally made me slam on my breaks and pull over.

That’s right, readers.  Just like in my first post called Popcorn Day (the dream after which this whole blog is named), there exists a “Walnut Street.”

I was in La Crescent, Minnesota (across the Mississippi from La Crosse, named just so people confuse the two) when I realized I was driving on it. 

Sure, I wrote originally that it was “Walnut Lane,” and this is “North Walnut Street,” but this is just too darn close to even be bothered about whether it was a street or a lane. It could have been an avenue, for all I care.  Or a path.

Anyway. Walnut Street. It’s a pretty big deal.

No popcorn, though.

But I danced a little. 

[prolonged sigh]

Well, it’s almost over, my friends.

Summer.

They days are calming down, I’ve got Chaco lines on my feet, I’ve got boxes waiting to be stuffed in my van and driven up to my junior year of college, and I’ve eaten more corn on the cob and drunk more sweet tea than I care to mention. (The answer is a lot.)

Yes, summer’s almost over.

This may be the last time I get to sit in my hammock until next May.

[sigh]

Well, it was great while it lasted.  And the cool thing about seasons is that they keep comin’ round, so no worries.

On to sweaters and cocoa and scarves and leaves and…homework. Hoo boy. 

I'd Like To Read Everything in the World, Please.

I took another trip to The Pearl Street Bookstore in La Crosse the other day. Though I have very little money and have a reading list the size of my arm, I still check out what’s new in the store so I can buy it and write it down somewhere near my armpit.

And, as is quite common when I spend a half hour browsing in that place, I end up with a stack of thirty or more books that I would be totally willing to lay down the dough for (if that dough existed).  And then I leave. Empty handed. Longing for the capability to just sit in a chair and read every book ever printed in one afternoon, and gain the knowledge and insight and philosophy and satisfaction my heart has always ached for.

But that’s not the case, unfortunately. Technology and Science have become too focused on making a better iPod and curing cancer and not focused enough on what I want: to read every book in the world. And what’s worse: people keep writing books! What in the world am I ever going to do? 

It's a busy, noisy afternoon at Jules

I'm meeting a friend at my favorite coffee house in La Crosse. The place is noisier and more crowded than usual. However the chai remains delicious.

Here's something that wasn't sent from my Blackberry Smartphone provided by Alltel. This is a picture that was taken looking through a mirror out a window at a guy sitting outside of the coffee shop.  His right wrist sported a strange sunburst-looking tattoo and he was complaining to a woman who was much younger than himself about politics when I entered Jules. 

In Love with La Crosse

A few days ago I decided to explore downtown La Crosse, a place I tend to frequently fairytale-ize to others. The truth is that it’s really just a grimy old city with a brewery and a big, dirty smattering of bars.  (Actually, I was told once that La Crosse has more bars per capita than any city in the U.S. How flattering.) But still there’s still something lovely about this place that warms my heart when I speak of it.

Here’s what I found on my La Crosse excursion. There are only three things, but still I think they’re fun.

I was on Pearl Street when I saw a man sitting at a very colorful table. A lemonade stand! It’s my lucky day! Turns out he was promoting Gay Pride Fest. Who knew La Crosse had a Gay Pride Fest! Needless to say, I bought a button.

(They would have the coolest button.) I’ll be there this weekend for a bit, but I’ll most likely bring my girlfriend since I still suffer from a slowly declining case of homophobia. And yes, that is my muscular chest beneath that guitar-inside-a-pine-tree shirt.  Hands off, ladies; this guy's been claimed. Any complaints you have can go directly to www.crispinator.blogspot.com. 

As I walked down a street I can’t remember now, I found this old billboard that was obviously covered up for a long time and now was bare and awesome. The old advertisement is pretty hilarious.

I hope no one ever leases it. It makes me laugh.

Next to my favorite coffee house is an aged, musty bookstore that I explore whenever I get the chance. On the bestseller pile in front of the store, I found this book. 

La Cabaña = The Shack, in Spanish. I would highly recommend this book, by the way, in whatever language you speak.

The city of La Crosse holds an endless amount subtle gems like this. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy being among those scuzzy bars and historical buildings so much. There’s always something new and interesting to find down there. That something may smell like beer, but it’s still pretty cool.

Merp Merp

I drive my dad’s old ‘99 Buick Century. It’s gold. That makes it look expensive.

Dad thinks it’s a bitchin’ ride.

His words, not mine.

All I can think of is the fact that every time I pass another gold ’99 Buick Century, I see a tiny old blue-haired woman peeking over the steering wheel. Every single time, people, without fail.

The other day I pulled up alongside another Buick at a stoplight. For some reason I felt like this would be my lucky day and there would be maybe a young man with blue hair inside instead of an old woman with blue hair. When I peered over, however, I saw literally the oldest man I think I have ever laid eyes on.

Drat.

I considered revving my engine, flicking him off, and peeling out when the light turned green, leaving him cursing and shaking his fist in the cloud of smoke I left behind. I abstained, but I definitely made sure to accelerate faster just in case anyone was looking.

I don’t find it prudent to listen to Z93 (“today’s best music – WIZM-FM La Crosse”) in this boat made for the ground. Nor do I find it fitting to use iTrip with my iPod. (I call it the “BriPod”…a friend of mine also named Brian calls it that. If you’re listening, Brian, KUDOS.) The only appropriate music-listening resource I’ve found is 102.7—the greatest hits of all time—playing oldies from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. I roll down the windows, crank up that retro tunage, lean back in my chair, and roll on down the street.  Maybe I’ll even honk the horn a few times. It doesn’t go beep beep like regular horns, though; it’s more like merp merp. 

B.A. That’s all I have to say.