i hate titles, but this one's about me and rafael. not that we're together, nooooo....

i must tell you: posting here makes me absolutely nervous. for a while, i thought i'd like my own blog. and then i realized: i'm not really full of stories. not good ones. mamie and hannah (and now stevie, too!) can turn a traffic jam into a brilliant tale of woe and inspiration (ha! i can hear you all choking on that word right now) and hilarity. me? it's still a goddamn traffic jam. and i can't figure out the personalized license plate in front of me: "wdck19." woodchuck is 19 years old?

what i am instead of a storyteller: i'm full of lists. (see also: every poem i ever workshopped, on which adam would write: "once you've written 'corn,' there's no need to write, 'canned corn, creamed corn, corn on the cob, corn muffins, corn tortillas, corn casserole...'") and lists aren't really that great for, um, narrative. or, say, blogs and entertainment. though there is a brand new book that came out which is a collection of other people's lists... have you seen it? it's wonderful. but that's beside the point. and this post is going to be wicked long if i keep going on these tangents.

i'm also really good at disclaimers. see above.

however, i have been saving one story for you which i've only told a limited number of
people. this continues my chronicle, begun on another blog and loosely titled, "creepy old men in south bend." this one will introduce you to rafael.

i play open mic nights at a lovely bar here (one of two) every wednesday night. i am now co-president of what we have termed "the wednesday night whiskey squad."

one night, i am outside in the bitter south bend wind with the other co-president of the squad. a man in a yellow oxford shirt and blue pants is also outside smoking. we say hello, because smokers are nice folks. he introduces himself as rafael. we ask how he is. he says, "almost perfect." dramatic pause. "do you know the different between almost perfect and perfect?"

"no," we say. we aren't feeling very clever after four whiskeys.

"having a lady like you," rafael says, and grins at me, his yellowed teeth (which, incidentally, match his shirt) all displayed and glittery in the south bend streetlamp light.

it is all my friend and i can do not to fall over laughing. in case you thought this went to my head, we then started listing reasons why "having a lady like me" would make things go from almost perfect to plummeting-down-the-drain sorry-and-sad. it's a healthy recourse, really, from all my impending confidence.

jumpcut: later in the evening. rafael leering at me from the bar while industriously scribbling on a napkin. you think you know where this is going. you don't.

he comes over to say, "i'm not very good speller. you check my english?" he hands me the napkin.

it reads: "What are the reason because any man like a woman:

A. Because she is Hot.
B. Because she has a good conversation.
C. Because she looks smart.
D. Because she is confidence.
E. All the previous selection. In your case I will take E."

the best part? i spent at least five minutes discussing the difference between "having" a good conversation and "making" good conversation, while holding back the ready-to-stream-from-laugher tears that are threatening to spill at any time. we corrected the whole thing. with a pen. but he wouldn't take it back. and here i thought i was giving helpful feedback...

the next best part? every time rafael comes in after a cigarette, he seeks me out, stares, grins, and then begins coyly watching t.v. again. it's appalling, and i'm laughing with my friend as muffled as i can manage (which, if you've ever heard me laugh, ain't much), and i fear the next part of the evening -- and if you're asking why i didn't just leave, then a) you don't know me, and b) it's my bar. MY bar. i'm a five year old.

next installment:
end of the night. glaring awful last call lights. rafael strutting/stumbling over, with a business card in his hand. but not just any business card. no, it's hot pink. HOT pink. with red writing (who designs these? i'm guessing: rafael. "reasons what turn a woman on: a) hot pink, b) red gothic font on top of the hot pink....") it reads:

"This Card Entitles Bearer To ONE FREE KISS From Any Willing Man, Woman, or Beast."

and he leans in. he is -- no, his teeth are -- three inches from my eyelids. i look desperately to my friend, he cannot help for laughing into his sleeve, and...

i say "thank you. for the card. i'm sure it'll come in handy someday." and tuck it into my pocket.

and run.

(thanks for letting me invade the blog... i'll try to have something else interesting happen. if it doesn't, well, i'm sure y'all will come up with something better.) :)