HOW TO, AND ALL THAT JAZZ

as we were headed south, somewhere north of lafayette on 65, the lights on the turbines of the wind field flashed red and in unison around and ahead of us every couple of seconds. some of the turbines closer to the interstate were unlit, and most of the ones further away were invisible except for their lights. the expansive, quasi-futuristic effect of the field past dark was even more expansive and inspired even more saccharine future nostalgia than it had when i'd seen it in the daylight from a car headed north three days before. i sent her a text to mark my impression. she said that she'd seen the lights through the snow storm that had blown through northwest indiana on friday night as she was driving back. i dropped that, but then i turned to the driver and told him that i had a saint christopher medal in my pocket so not to worry. there wasn't any cause for worry, though, except -- apparently -- over whether i was superstitious. i told him no, but that the point of the medal was the cloying romance of embracing it. forgetting it in my pocket until the anecdote. like my soppy appreciation of the turbines in the frozen fields.

the snow storm that blew through northwest indiana on friday was likely part of the system that hit ohio the next day. the five inches that fell on evanston on thursday night might have been the beginning of the same, but more likely they were just the effect of the lake. there had been snow on the ground and on the tops of the buildings when we'd arrived in chicago that same day but nothing falling. the lake seemed to have had more of its effect farther north. and it was snowing again on saturday at noon when we left lucky platter and pushed our way through the bluster to the chicago-main newsstand. a quiet marvel, and a survey of the intellectual situation, the meek cashier and the man talking too long and too loudly on his phone. i might have bought all of the everything that they had -- or at least given it a long, library browse -- if we hadn't had to move on (and away). we'd been in university village the night before, and i had discovered a gem on halsted.

there, i'd been a bookmark which i'd guarded in the copy of the lobo antunes book i bought. (what can i do when everything's on fire?) it had almost been too right to be true. i'd asked for a book store tour of the city and found myself at powell's. the store on halsted was the newest, but the bookmark gave  addresses for the other two. so after being driven away from the newsstand we made our way down lincoln avenue to drive up alongside the powell's in lakeview. and there was the writing on the wall. facing north: "used books." (it didn't mention the overstock.) i took a picture. inside, i found myself a copy of will self's psychogeography to fill the hole that i'd dug for myself when i hadn't bought the copy i'd seen at spartacus in vancouver. i didn't buy the schiele catalog that i had been almost specifically searching to find, but i did take some pictures. "the torment of the loner, the distress of the seeker beset by visions...the sorrow of the hopeless." in hindsight, thirty-five dollars was a steal. in the moment, however, i distracted myself by looking up the ladders at the shelves.

when we're old we're going to buy old lincolns and spend our weekends clogging the drop off lanes at the departures terminal at midway. but that afternoon we were just dropping off. and since we were already so far south, we decided to see hyde park. that's when we found powell's number three (which was actually the first). but down south it was the university library that stole the show. the future nostalgia there, however, was reductively ironic. the 57th street complex was straight out of truffaut's vision of "farenheit 451."

i can't remember all of the places we ate or the names of most of the buildings we saw. we made it to intelligentsia, but i didn't make it out of the car either of the times we drove through wicker park. i'm retired.

i did, however, make a point of seeing the muse's apartment before i left town sunday. i took a picture of her in her tattered, thrifted rabbit fur coat with the taxidermy weasel in the foreground. then we laughed about the ryan lewis thrift store song, but that didn't inspire her not to give up on mastermind. i snooped, and in the bedroom i found a painting. with the rain clouds subdued behind her, three doves flew out of saint scholastica's mouth. he'd painted it for her because of a cemetery experience they'd shared. hours later, i suggested that maybe the reason we'd been spared more snow for our trip back together through the wind field was scholastica, but he didn't get it. so i got smug about my medal and held on to the sham future that we were passing by.

EL SECRETO IBÉRICO

we weren't supposed to talk about it, i know; but in the bath, as i was reading the beginning of the book that she said was about me, i remembered the erstwhile subhead of this blog and happened to think of that show. and in thinking of that show i happened to remember the preview for it that ifc was running on cartoon network during my christmas vomit vigil. apparently, the new thing for hate-lovers of portlandia to laugh about is flamenco. indeed. and so verily last year (if not really the year before). then we all take a moment to remember last year's vigil of choral dissipation, which, as we might have tried to forget, marched on through the epiphany, upon which we had our own revelation regarding the advisability of madrid. it was the spirit of the season, and of course we went back for subsequent drinks. this year, however, was conspicuously dry, as a result of -- and unfortunately in addition to -- the dehydration that followed all the puking. but then on boxing day -- the forgotten feast of a forgotten saint stephen in spain -- behold, yet, the angel of the lord is come upon us! and in the box it came to leave through the level one snow emergency, all of the sanctifying graces of the immaculate: under a tin of olive oil from jaén and a bag of artesenal picos from córdoba, two packages of the finest iberian ham. si estuviera aquí la angel, bailaría este tango con ella.

LET THEM SUCK LEMONS, A HOW TO; or, QUÉ HA PASADO CON EL COMUNISMO, REVIVAL

we're talking behind the dumpster that's next to the garage across the alley from the apartment because the wind has picked up. although the winter storm hasn't come through yet on its promise of snow, at least the rain has stopped. it might be snowing if it hadn't though, because it's definitely getting colder. and the wind makes our sense of it worse. but we have the dumpster to shelter us from the full force of the wind, which we'd gone out into in order to shelter ourselves, momentarily, from the party. in such a litigious society, it's cruelly ironic that a lawyer wouldn't encourage his client to sue the local police department -- if not for a violation of due process, then at least for the damage to his client's property -- just because he'd already dispatched himself of his obligation to defend that client against his d.u.i. charge. doesn't she agree? but those people (in clark county, i think it was) just live differently, the lawyer turned real estate agent had said. (the system works!) this is what we're talking about behind the dumpster. this and other systemic wastes. she'd found the light box that they'd rigged with flashing christmas lights for the party in the alley the day she arrived. at the thrift stores we visited the evening of that same day she had bought a rocking chair upholstered in vinyl for her host and the pogo stick that we'd used later in the park. we'd already put the chair and the unicorn print in his apartment and were in the park waiting for the word to go pick him up. she'd also gotten a german wall scale for ninety cents, but had passed on each of the pairs of red motorcycle boots that we'd seen at both stores. behind the dumpster i tell her that i'm happy that she decided to visit. i'm happy to have met her. i'm only wearing a light sweater and i'm cold, but if i catch cold i can just follow her example. "lemon sucking now hailed by science as influenza cure," goes the title of one of the articles on the front page of a los angeles evening herald from october, 1918. maybe that's why she always has one in her pocket ready to suck. but the habit isn't good for her teeth. (without insurance, which way would be the wrong way to go?) she says that she's happy to have met me too, and if i want i can stay at her apartment in humboldt park while i'm in chicago between the holidays. she'll give me a key. from what she says (and what i've already gathered), i should be excited to see how she's decorated. she has a good eye, and she says she has a great collection. it's only possible to work as a floriculturist during the spring, summer and fall, so she has all winter to browse estate sales. her apartment is in the puerto rican neighborhood, she says; and i say like that part of brooklyn, until it went the way of wicker park. i haven't been to chicago in two decades, so i don't really know if that's accurate. but i have been to williamsburg, and she says that's where her sister lives. the muses: by all accounts they're an interesting bunch. i'd known before tonight that this one liked alleys and dumpsters. the issue of wisconsin swingers that's inside the apartment came from the dumpster of a half priced books. what do you get for the girl who can find everything. cigarettes. there's that. then i remember having seen a vodka beverage called sucking lemons at a bc liquor store and think that i could try to find her one to leave at her apartment as a gift. she doesn't drink, but she does suck lemons. i think that she'll think that it's funny. if i can tell her that i got it at a drive thru it will be even better. they apparently don't have those in chicago or milwaukee, and when i took her to the one across from the salvation army thrift store in merion village she'd been uncommonly impressed. she'd bought a tiny bag of candy corn and a packaged carrot cake. (the peasants have no bread!). i don't know if i'll actually end up staying at her apartment, but i accept her offer. just say yes, i think, because that's what makes life interesting, and now that's exactly what we're talking about behind the dumpster as the wind picks up again.

SPECIAL AGENT DALE COOPER

every boy with a blog watches "girls" and imagines that he would be hannah (and the gay boys especially so after that bit of dialogue between hannah and the woman who sees her at the std clinic in episode two). but then i got a text message. he'd watched the show, and the one who reminded him of me was adam. huh. but i took it. if only because he looks so good out of those pants. and anyway, adam wouldn't give a shit.

but then we're in bed, and at one particular moment in the action he tells me that with my mustache i look particularly like dale cooper. i couldn't recall kyle maclachlan ever sporting any facial hair in "twin peaks," but i took it. adam, after all, wouldn't give a shit.

but then i went online. and as it turns out, this dale cooper looks pretty good out of his pants himself. what's more, it might very well be that my peers (and the gay boys especially so) are more familiar with dale cooper the porn performer than they are with the character from that early nineties david lynch series. i watched some videos. and i enjoyed them instead of wondering what my enjoyment of porn videos starring a performer who i'd been told looked like me meant about the dimensions of my fantasies. but i don't think that dale cooper would give a shit.

i'd found some videos, but i'd also found dale's website, as well as links to the articles he's written for the "gay voices" section of the huffington post. and i might have been surprised at the quality of the latter if i hadn't already checked out the books on the amazon wish list that's posted at the former. granted, the articles are a bit overly jargony. they smack slightly of the zealousness of a first foray into sexuality studies and postmodern cultural theory (check that wish list). this dale cooper is ultra-keen on social praxis and agency. and that's not to say that we shouldn't be, only that maybe not in so many words. some of us have read that book or been to that lecture before. some of us have had our lives affected directly by one or another of his topics. on the other hand, cooper's chosen lexicon is also a demonstration of the keenness of his pursuit of the knowledge represented by that wish list; and to hear a person so responsible for the construction and perpetuation of (certain) sexual fantasies hold forth on the less fantastic social and economic implications of the market for those fantasies isn't just refreshing, it's refreshingly welcome. i'll take it.

but maybe this dale cooper, for the simple fact of being a porn performer, isn't as responsible for the construction of those fantasies as we might like to simply assume. as cooper himself writes in his response to the new york times obituary of erik rhodes: "unfortunately, as in similar cases, the escapades [and death, in this case] of a porn performer are ultimately tied to some abuse by the industry, as if the explicit erotica business were the only or even the chief producer of sexual fantasy, not hollywood, or the advertising business, or the tabloid industry, or television. as consumers, of this obituary and of the overall story of mr. rhodes as told through his social-media outlets and his porn, we need to be aware that we are complicit in the structuring of a double bind that says, 'give us our sexual fantasy,' and, at the same time, 'you will get what is coming to you.'" rhodes' life ended at thirty as a result of maybe cooper's interest in perceptions of the porn industry -- and of sex work in general -- are self-interested, but every industry should have such an articulate advocate. what's more, cooper's writing on the porn industry (which i trust and respect more for his proximity than for his reading) also poignantly address problems surrounding general perceptions of homosexuality.

i won't go much further. i'll assume you've read the book or have already been to this lecture. we know that gay is only okay if it's male, affluent and white, and that the fight for gay marriage is battling us paradoxically toward our general conservatization. and we know that all of that is part of a more general anti-feminist trend. we know that we need to universalize health care, and that the system of capital that denies it from the people most in need is the same system that underclasses them. we know that what sex workers do is valuable, legitimate work. hiv/aids isn't over, and complacency isn't just frustrating, it's dangerous.

but there's something special about a picture of a man who's been idealized primarily for his sexual prowess reading barthes (while stroking that prowess) bespectacled in bed. unfortunately, i wonder if enough people are reading him. of all of cooper's articles, the one that drew the greatest response (and by far) was his article on the growing trend toward "douchebaggery" on the gay app grindr. and don't get me wrong: in the article cooper very much addresses some important issues of queer identity and community as they're being affected by tech-driven interactions in the age of the smartphone. it's just that the dozens of people seemingly concerned with the hegemony of the (white) "masculine young professional" on grindr could probably stand to lend an ear or a voice to the other issues raised by cooper in his other articles as well. but oh well. at least there's a dale cooper writing the articles he does at all.

then again, if you watch a smattering of his performances, it definitely seems like cooper has put on some handsomely toned weight during his time in the business. and the characters he plays don't seem to break any sort of molds. does that represent a double standard? or is it simply an example of the very contradictions of the industry standard on which the porn performer dale cooper writes? i don't know anything about his background and so i can't speak to issues of social or economic class, but this dale cooper isn't someone that anyone would reject on grindr. (after watching one particular performance of his, i realized that i'd sent him a couple of messages myself while i was in l.a. in october.) should we give a shit?

i suppose that the important thing is that he's bringing it up. plus, one of his bios at huffington does say that he's a social worker and activist in addition to being a porn performer and writer. (incidentally, although he doesn't play one himself, in one of his movies he does blackmail a secret agent.) given cooper's professional vantage -- and its potential stigma -- is he due any extra credit? should there something to be said for just putting it out there? shall we take it at that? i will.

WAY TO GO OHIO, part 7; or, HASHTAG SIGNAGE, WE TWO RIVER CITY KINGS

i had called the number listed for the charley harper art studio, but the man who answered the phone wasn't at the reynard avenue address in finneytown with which that phone number had been given online. that was mr. harper's stuido, yes, the man said, but people who wanted to visit the studio were now visiting whatever it was that was at 1741 east kemper road, which is where we'd reached the man on the phone. but we could also visit one of the many locations of fabulous frames & art, one of which was definitely closer than kemper road if we were downtown. what was our goal, he asked; and i didn't know, so i had to pass the phone.

it had been raining since just before we'd gotten off the sidewalk on vine and gone into lavomatic, so when we'd left we'd decided to find somewhere else in the neighborhood to sit and wait out the end. so it was that i'd called the man on the phone from a sofa at the coffee emporium on east central parkway, and so it was that we'd had our goals questioned as the rain stopped and we went out to take a look at the rest of over the rhine. there seemed to have been ample monies made available for new business development in the new old neighborhood. but although the bombed out facades of the post-riot dmz still greatly outnumbered the trendy establishments of the revival entrepreneurs, the important question regarding the future of the community seemed to be whether such a small area could sustain so many closely clustered boutiques and stationers. easy come easy go? we said we'd have to think about the dress and left.

the american sign museum is in a new old warehouse adjacent to the neonworks of cincinnati on monmouth avenue east of interstate 75. it's closer to downtown than kemper, so we'd decided to go there before deciding on whether to pursue what we considered to be the most authentic charley harper (informed by the decision of the man on the phone to keep us in the dark). and anyway, the designer felt more his amateur sign historian self that day than he did in line with the professional demands of being an illustrator. that's what i joked, anyway, to the man at the reception desk when he asked how we'd heard about the museum. as for the designer himself, his goals were his own. i was just driving -- and the truth was that i knew the city better by bike.

it was two-thirty, but the man at the reception desk said we had time. tripadvisor had said that the museum closed at three, but that man, he told us we had until four. we could even join the tour being given by the founder, he said. but we had to be out by not too much after four, because that's when people from the wedding were coming to set up. after charging each of us the fifteen dollar entry fee (paid separately), he gave us each a tin, foldover "i <3 about="about" after="after" also="also" and="and" as="as" bad="bad" badge="badge" bathroom="bathroom" center="center" contents="contents" description="description" didn="didn" directions="directions" does="does" for="for" four.="four." gave="gave" giving="giving" he="he" his="his" i="i" inspecting="inspecting" justice="justice" me="me" mine="mine" museum="museum" nearly="nearly" no="no" now="now" of="of" old="old" p="p" pieces="pieces" realize="realize" said="said" scathing="scathing" schmaltzy="schmaltzy" seem="seem" showed="showed" signs="signs" something="something" t="t" the="the" them="them" then="then" to="to" until="until" us="us" wedding="wedding" when="when" which="which">
i started looking around, but i didn't really know what i was looking for. to be sure, the american sign museum wasn't just another haphazardly curated roadside collection of curiosities. way to go, ohio. and the amateur sign historian seemed impressed. "a really nice museum," he says, and that, "the space is perfect." (in one subsection of the warehouse conversion there are windows onto the neonworks.) neon. opal glass. vacuum molds. gold leaf. toolboxes and toolboxes of brushes. smalt. (schmaltz?) and half of it along an old -- half real, half simulated -- main street of painted storefronts and brick wall signs (and that of course filled with old metal and neon monstrosities from hojo and mcdonald's). a big old bear of a big bear sign is on top of the collection of signs still in their crates, which is in the same room as the satellite. and the whole lot documented in photographs and on placards. it's as much a nostalgia museum as anything else, both for designers and the rest of us (what are you now, the building formerly signed in tiki as kona lanes?); and in the last section of it we visit, a history of 3d letters, i sit down and wonder in writing where it is that we look for -- and where it is that we might find -- intrinsic value. why don't i ever let the designer see this notebook (all of it in the gold leaf beverly called "nice on the eyes")?

then we went, but we only got as far as the reception desk. this space, the man told the amateur historian, had just been inaugurated this year. the museum used to be downtown. since 1999? i'd stopped writing. the founder, the former editor of a trade publication for sign makers, had gotten a million dollars to let himself be gently pushed out of the family business. i asked about the electric bill. it must have been why the museum needed to host events. but the incandescent bulbs sucked more than the neon, the man said. huh. and i said that you don't see much outdoor neon in ohio, although it seems to be everywhere in the pacific northwest. then the man complimented vancouver and said that we should check out terry's. we'd passed it that morning on riverside, i said. then he said something or other about the museum's mission to restore (revive or revivify?) the old signage of all of the different neighborhoods of the city. i don't remember exactly. what i do know is that he mentioned northside, which, when we finally left the museum at just about four, is where we went.

it was relatively close. and the thing was, we'd been there the night before looking for food after just arriving in the city. but as the blonde, incredibly handsome faced but wart nosed man coming out of the northside tavern told us, there wasn't any place closer than clifton with anything good to eat at close to ten. now we were back, and the tavern was closed. unfortunately so was the serpent, and the beautifully midwestern line about trouser snakes in its online description had been a big part of our decision to head in that direction. way to go. we might have given it a try the night before when we'd been walking up and down hamilton -- food or no -- but we hadn't seen it. there's hardly any signage.

we had, however, been thinking about that dress, and after a couple of drinks at who cares wherever we wound our way back downtown. she'd said she wanted something sequined for the party. this wasn't exactly that, but we bought the poof sleeved, one shouldered, shimmery gold leopard mini dress anyway. for forty-five dollars, the question of intrinsic value wasn't even raised.

at noon the next day, at breakfast, all signs pointed to a good party. and better, there was enough left over to send us home with some. i accepted. and i loaded it all into the car before we left to reconvene at terry's before the two of us drove back to columbus. terry's turf club, verily the second american sign museum in cincinnati. and i would say that the place could make some serious money selling its impressive collection of old beer neon to new bars in the pacific northwest if it didn't seem to be doing such great business. the bigger signs on the adjacent knoll to the east aren't to miss either, and i took them in as her husband was leading us to his car so that we could take more extra beer from the cooler that he had in the back. (had he been santa clausing the entire afternoon?)

where is it that we look for intrinsic value? i looked up, and what i saw through the fog at the very top edge of the windshield was one of the new signs. but what happens in the parking lot of the tanger outlets stays in the parking lot of the tanger outlets, that is until we got back on the highway and drove away. back. again.

(she'd said she wanted something sequined for the party, 

HOW TO GET IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME...AND EVERY TIME THEREAFTER

it's tuesday, which means extended happy hour at yellow brick, where they'll be playing episodes of twin peaks in uncomfortably clear and flattened high-definition on the screen above the bar, with laura palmer's beauty queen smile presiding benevolently over the taps, the pizza oven and all of the exposed brick from where her picture is enshrined on the big chalkboard over the waiting area. portland, ohio, the staff would like us to think. and what do we think? before microcosm publishing moved back to portland, it had left the rose city to set up shop in bloomington. there were other cities with interesting architecture that hadn't over-happened (and had cheaper rents). so when "the simpsons" got the joke, it was probably already played out. and "the simpsons" joking about the new york times being the herald of the next end probably means that it isn't long before they get the joke too and it's all finished. but, for this week at least, we can be sure that most of america knows that the new portland is having lived in portland and blithely talking about how portland is over. cool. that should be good four at least four happy hours at twin peaks tuesday. but then the sneers will probably win out over our humble braggadocio as we're trying to figure out how to get back behind in front of the times. meanwhile, we've got an extra two weeks to figure out how to finish the inside joke about that wall on east broad. they've extended the deadline again. have people already lost interest in portland, ohio? or is the point of it all to be part of the joke. america the beautiful new cool. it's all over, folks (including being over it). let's never, ever speak of it again.

WAY TO GO OHIO, part 6

after the disappointment of sunday morning's breakfast burlesque (which was more a failure on the part of the venue in getting our breakfast orders right than anything else, but nonetheless also a failure of the show), we were excited for that night's drag pageant, and especially so after we'd found out (that evening) that we'd been identified in a photograph as the perfectly disinterested party to another (better) party and chosen as guest judges. unfortunately, although we showed up almost too promptly at five until eight to judge them, the contestants had apparently decided that this wasn't their sunday to be judged, and we heard from a man in the parking lot that the disco would be shut until it opened for church at eleven-thirty. way to go. at least the restaurant out the covered driveway and down the street had all day sunday happy hour that included a guided tour of all of its twenty-first amendment cans.

and fortunately, that gave us time to review our schedules, set a date for the company holiday party, and then to remember that this week was the week we had slated for our overnight in youngstown, which we'd identified as one of the places where motel 6 had brought together its special combination of "modern style, functionality and value" in the rust belt. finally. from the ashes: "phoenix" by priestmangoode, and only a few years behind the times at the date of our reservations. so out of the frying pan and into the fire, with the hope was that there would be a decent hamburger grilling somewhere nearby. and, fortunately, the new suit arrived from the ladies at duchess via priority mail on monday afternoon, so we packed three changes of our almost best clothes into the volvo bat pod and headed into the tepid december downpour toward steeltown, u.s.a. the next day.

unfortunately, as a result of the downpour we weren't able to enjoy the more normal, (sometimes) less inclement late fall bleakness of the buckeye state as we drove. even the relative splendor of the goodyear campus was obscured by the sheets of rain coming up from the wheels of the semis doing eighty in the left lane as we passed through the curves out of akron. fortunately, we had the remnants of the style and opinion sections left over from sunday's breakfast; and, maybe unfortunately, we had the leftover torment and comfort of two relationships that we had left behind us in columbus. i read, and we jawed. i stumbled over an articulation of my confusion, and she drove through the rain with the surety of her understanding. and there we were when it got too dark to read.

darkness fell fully about ten minutes after we'd finished our thirty seconds on kent state when we passed that exit. then the lake, and then the reservoir, and then we noticed that we were hungry but fortunately we were almost to the motel. i'd called from those curves in akron to cancel one of the two king rooms that she'd reserved, and when we arrived she left me in the car to go get the key for the room that we'd be sharing from the jennifer that i'd talked to on the phone. she had just known it was her as soon as she'd walked into the lobby, jennifer had said. jennifer had also given her a guide to every motel 6 in north america which specifically designated those which had undergone a redesign.

room 115 wasn't, as they say, at all bad. with adjustments made for relative cost, the motel 6 in youngstown -- if not arguably comparable -- at least elicited a comparison with the general ambience of the thompson chain. no? perhaps, i'll admit, not the views. our room was on the first floor, and although the rain had abated the dark still kept us from gauging the appearance of our surroundings.  for the time being, however, that was for the better, because it meant that we needn't rally to try to find something closer to the center of town. they weren't at the denny's that jennifer had recommended, but we'd gotten wind of some good burgers through the rain, and they were there to be had at a place just down the road. so we dolled up -- better than sufficient for dinner out in any of the places where that other chain had a hotel (although i had regrettably forgotten to pack cufflinks) -- and put ourselves back in the bat pod. his and hers grasping, imperative misadventure. jennifer was right to have suspected.

the internet had advised us that shaker's bar & grill was dimly lit, and that, in fact, had been an encouraging factor in our making our decision (since drawing too much attention to our likely celebrity would be just gauche ostentation). and to be sure, the entryway off the nearly empty parking lot on belmont avenue near the cluster of budget motels was dim. we might have figured it was closed if a man hadn't come out of the door as we were walking over from the nearly empty lot of the vacant whatever next door where we had mistakenly parked. inside, however, shaker's -- if nearly uninhabited -- wasn't all that dark. but that might have been the holiday lighting, which included white lighted miniature christmas trees between the triangular booths across from the bar. as we were finishing our burgers, which we agreed must be the best in town (and were definitely the best of what we'd sampled), we joined the only other conversation in the restaurant, which was taking place between the booth behind us and the two stools closest to us at the bar. there was supposed to be a gaudy display of lights at a house at the end of kingwood lane. the neighbors invited us to have a look. and our waitress, who we suspected at that point might also be the mayor, told us that we should probably take the treasurer's wife up on her offer. so we finished and left, smiling and eager, having also given our compliments to the cook, who it turned out might have also been the steel town's barber/dentist. the one night carnival that might have been the surreptitiously fabled best of youngstown, ohio met us that night at shaker's by tacit appointment and, for better or worse, we got its best.

unfortunately, the display on kingwood was hardly gaudy enough to warrant a photo. the treasurer's wife had probably just exaggerated as the result of too much holiday cheer. it probably wasn't every day that she and the other regulars had a chance to sing the praises of their city to anyone from -- "where were you from?" -- and there didn't seem to be much else shaking outside of shaker's. and regardless, we'd only been hoping for good burgers, which we got. and we also got a warm (almost feverish) welcome at the giant eagle where we went to buy drinks and scratch offs for our television party back at the motel. like jennifer, the adorably excited checkout clerk had recognized us as someones from somewhere else. the luck he wished us went with us, and we netted eight dollars on our lottery tickets before stripping off the finery and planting ourselves on the bed: three bottles of water, a glass of emergen-c and all of the takeout to make sure that the party didn't carry over into the morning.

awake, fortunately unearly. unfortunately, the cufflinks weren't the only things we'd forgotten, and the motel 6 redesign didn't include toothbrushes or hairdryers (the latter of which seemed to be an unfortunately glaring oversight). the man at the front desk who wasn't jennifer offered me toothpaste, but i had that. then he obliged with directions to the dollar general. then quickly into outfits number three and out the door. it was colder than it had been on tuesday, but the skies were clear. the certified escort vehicle that had been in the parking lot when we got back from the carnival the night before was gone, so after checking out with the man who wasn't jennifer, we got back in the volvo and headed downtown.

fortunately, we hadn't missed anything for the rain and the darkness the night before. there's hardly anything downtown. the coffee was good at the independent cafe that seemed to have replaced a seattle's best across the street from a vacant middle-rise that stood at the northwest corner of the main square. and the management was happy to give us easy directions to the oak hill cemetery. otherwise, there was nothing to indicate that youngstown was one of the ten best places to start a new business, as a banner on the side of one downtown building (likely vacant) proclaimed had been decreed by entrepreneur magazine. (who knew what was on display at the museum of labor and industry advertised by a highway sign near the motel.)

the factory by the river was still spewing smoke from some of its smokestacks, but it was hard to say what workers might have been making in the half of the factory buildings that still seemed to be operational. to the northeast, the onion domes of the holy trinity ukrainian catholic church and its adjacent stone cross (not unreminiscent of the cross at the valley of the fallen) commanded the skyline. there is a higher percentage of ukrainians in youngstown than there are in the world, so we'll say they have a presence. that presence must, however, be recent, because the headstones at oak hill don't show any earlier signs. whether or not the ukrainians were involved in the boom times of steeltown might be adressed at the labor and industry museum, but we'll just have to speculate because we didn't go. we spent all of our time trying to find breakfast on market, which, although it was obviously the main commercial drag of the area (and was advertising big dicks), didn't seem to host a single diner. the motel 6 redesign might have made its way to youngstown -- however late -- but the brunch trend never did. (way to go?)

in the end, after making our way through the modern love and draft columns of the opinion section, we found ourselves back past akron in seville. (we hadn't, however, made it so far south on market that we ended up in lisbon.) there was a mexican restaurant and there were churches. so we kept moving. and not that we needed anything exactly, but we'd already saved the sunk cost so we took the outlet mall exit, threw our beautifully tailored sleeves in the air and sat down to breakfast at two-thirty at the bob evans in lodi. not that we needed anything exactly, but we couldn't leave the pendleton outlet without a purchase. (way to go portland.)

when we exited 71 at the 97 exit, it might have been getting dark. we got gas and cashed in our scratch offs, and the cash we got we used to buy two more. and then it was certainly dark. and then home. no luck. we'd made it to that motel 6 on the night of the carnival, but somehow, with all the non-activity, we never managed to finish with the leftovers of that comfort and torment.