Minneapolis, MN to Chicago, IL
I'm excited to visit the Minnesota State Fair today. They've got everything on a stick:
- Heath bar on a stick
- Pork chop on a stick
- Ice cold milk on a stick
Speaking of the trip, I here’s my intricately detailed travel itinerary:
Drive old Route 66. Investigate whatever catches my
interest. Write what I notice. Then come home.
interest. Write what I notice. Then come home.
Thorough, yes? If you haven’t had the American road trip daydream and fantasized about just doing it you’ve been spared. Maybe it’s a male rite of passage, residue from Jack Kerouac’s caterwalling and Easy Rider’s mythmaking. With a little surplus time and some stunted post-adolescent enthusiasm I’m going to see how things go. What’s the worst thing that could happen? A breakdown I suppose, or a hitchhiker killer, some rest stop thieves, a car stolen, a head-on collision, an engine explosion, a rollover accident, but other than that? Recognizing the risk and cost of not playing it safe (by staying home with the door locked and TV blaring avoiding the judgmental gaze of others) I figure you only live once. Okay, twice if you count your dreams. Don’t think of the danger, right?
This idea of taste and preference and judgment is sticking in my craw. The fair will be fun, and despite wanting not to come across as an elitist cock I see it flash through my mind already: fat people on two legs gobbling fried fat on a stick. Fuck me for judging, but at a deeper and more profound level: Why do I notice these other people? Why do I care about them (to judge) or for them (to wish them better health)? Or do I? As much as the smell of cheese curds induces nostalgic fits of “gimme gimme gimme” I don’t find the Dan Patch cuisine to suit my tastes anymore. But why?
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Change of plans. I meet Jean, an old friend, for brunch before we were to go to the fair. It's a little strange. We decide to eat at Keys, a mid-city staple that has omelets I would kill for, and as we walk in she notes, “Boy it looks like an old place. And busy. I bet they hate it when it’s busy and hate it when it’s not.” Was that a criticism? I don’t mind if she doesn’t like the place, we’re all entitled to opinions. Some are more compatible and intense and build bonds; others are less compatible and create distance. As we sit down we fall to talking about the last time we were out and how she thought the waiter was snotty and rude.
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “It seemed to me that he told us they were short staffed and we could sit but there was no guarantee when we’d be served. That way we make an informed decision.”
“Yeah but he had a snotty attitude,” she retorts.
“I guess I didn’t see that.”
“Well different people see different things.”
“Sure enough,” I press out of curiosity. “Did he really have an attitude?”
“Yes. You didn’t see it. Po-TAY-to / po-TAH-to,” she terminates the conversation.
We sit in silence for a while. Picking at our food she speaks up, “Sometimes you can be so condescending and arrogant.” This has been simmering for a while.
“Oh, in what way?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“With your smart-ass responses and your constant analysis. I just didn’t like the guy okay!?”
“I just…there’s like a pattern. The waiter is rude, that girl outside is slutty, this restaurant is old and everyone hates it here. Is there something that you like?” I ask. Rather, I bait.
“You think you know everything. I’m an adult! Don’t try to fix me,” she adds, now in tears. I feel fortunate to be in a booth where only a third of the restaurant is watching.
The waitress is sweet as usual and we pay the bill and walk to the car. Jean is half a block ahead I race to catch up. “You know we don’t have to go to the fair if you don’t want,” I offer as an olive branch but all that does is ignite the tinder. I should note that Jean and I go back as far as I can remember and we’ve had our ups and downs (mostly ups) so I don’t think I'm prepared for what follows.
Jean: (attacking) You think you’re so smart. You think you’ve got it all figured out. Well I’m flawed and I don’t need you to remind me!
me: (curious but defensive) Are you serious? I came here and told you I’m looking into
attention and interest and what we like and what we don’t like…I don’t have anything “figured out” at all!
Jean: You say that but you’re so judgmental! You ALWAYS do this! Every comment I ever make you have a remark or some analysis about it.
me: Wow. Okay, what would you like me to do? I get that I can be judgmental and condescending but specifically might I do differently?
Jean: (squinting and pointing a finger) You know what you do and you know what to do differently. You don’t need me to tell you.
me: (confused) Hang on, I don’t! I’m just asking questions about what’s going on here. I admit I’m sensitive to all the negative, I feel “bitch” “snotty” “hate” as intense. I want to know where it comes from!
Jean: (angry) I don’t need you to point out my flaws! You don’t need to fix me! You’re flawed too you arrogant jerk!
me: (more angry) I know! That’s what I’ve been saying! I’m trying to recognize it, to understand it, not to refute it.
Jean: You say that but you think you’re so fucking special.
Now at this point I don’t think Jean has been listening to me…or more to the point, not hearing me. I’ve been on a self-discovery kick for long enough that I have a mantra: We’re all special, we each have personal and unique stories to tell. At the same time, we’re all specie-al, that is, part of the species. There are six billion of us with fantastic and fascinating stories. It’s a struggle to see both at once. When someone levels the charge of arrogance at me I think two things: if you can tell me what I might do differently I’d love your input. On the other hand if you don’t like me you can shove it up your ass. So I make a last-ditch effort to explain myself.
me: (calmer) Look Jean, I told you that I can be a mood amplifier. I love your love and I hate your hate. When we went in I heard “old, hate, hate” and I wanted to know if I should have suggested somewhere else. If you don’t like my recommendation I’ll do differently next time.
Jean: (condescending) What the hell? You’re way too sensitive to a little remark. None of my other friends are like that.
With that touch of pot calling the kettle black I reflect. I channel my hate of scorn into a sincere and curious set of clarifying questions whereas her hate of my questions turns into a tirade about what a cocksucker I am. I'm left feeling not so much worked up but disappointed. Generally people mean well and attributing intentions they don’t explicitly disclose is dangerous (attribution says about me more than about them, and I personally read people wrong). But by this point I’m thinking, “You can demonstrate scorn and contempt for other human beings but you demand unconditional acceptance in return. That’ll show me.”
Jean can attribute intentionality to my emotional unawareness (my ability to come of condescending) yet deny it the intentionality of her emotional contagion (her ability to infect others by routinely calling attention things she doesn’t like). It was as if she's shouting, “You’re able to read my mind and treat me the way I want to be treated but you don’t. You’re a prick because you do that on purpose!” Suffering from the illusion of transparency? I don’t mind the asymmetric relationship between my assumed capacity to read minds and her lack of it, as long as I know the rules—then I can decide whether I’m willing to play. I’m just smart enough to know that I don’t know what I don't know and just interested enough to ask. I misinterpret people’s intentions so often the English language has no words to describe it. I’ll attribute good intentions to others instead of trying to read mind. That makes me happy.
Jean storms off with a hearty “Go to hell!” For what it’s worth, I accept her rejection. When love and attention and interest come off as criticism and scrutiny it’s time to put that attention and interest elsewhere. I don’t need to inflict myself onto someone (lots of people love the interest and attention I lavish on them). Love will remain but the attention and interest move on. I’ve noticed I can stir up this hostile response in some people. Sometimes it gets put right. Sometimes not.This whole incident caught me by surprise and spoiled the Fair for me, but since I have driving on the mind I decided to cruise through Saint Paul and reminisce about some of the places I used to live before heading to Chicago, stopping off in Madison…to do much the same.
I get home at midnight and I’m exhausted. I garage Cherry and decide to wait until tomorrow to write about Madison. Right now I need to sleep.
Next stop: A Capitol Idea
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