I don't live in Duluth, MN anymore. I live in glamorous California, where I sleep in the back of a Pontiac Fiero that smells like an old shoe. But the rumors I hear about myself make me want to move back. Here's a story that Dennis Kempton, the editor of a newspaper there that publishes my columns, told me the other day:
I was dropping off the Reader Weekly at Pizza Luce today when a girl, standing there waiting for her order, looked at me and inquired, "Do you work for the Reader?"
"Yes, I do." I replied.
"Do you know Paul Ryan?" she asked and smiled at me.
"He writes for us," I answered.
"Yeah. I used to sleep with him," she replied.
I left. The end.
Let me tell you something, reader. I don't remember a lot from my college days in Duluth, but one thing I distinctly remember is that no girls would sleep with me. A lot of them almost did, but then sanity overcame them and they said to themselves, "Am I about to sleep with the guy who writes jokes about poop in the newspaper?"
Was this girl at the trendy pizza place trying to one-up Kempton? "Oh, you have to work with the putz? Well I had to sleep with him." To which I'm sure Kempton replied, "Touche" and then ran out the door screaming, "Gross! Ewwwwww!"
Actually, Kempton was polite and just laughed at her claim. He said the the girl was attractive, but he still felt compelled to walk quickly to his car and lock the doors. Except for the attractive part, that definitely sounds like the type of girls I usually date.
Seriously, I'm not intimately acquainted with any girl who would say something like that to a stranger. Who is this woman, and why is she lying about sleeping with me? Why would anyone lie about something so embarrassing and horrendous? It's like bragging that you slept with the guy who draws the comic strip "Funky Winkerbean". Nine out of ten people don't know who the hell the person is, and It's not really an impressive feat anyway.
Here's some other well-known Duluth people who are more impressive to sleep with than me: anchorman Dennis Anderson, columnist Sam Cook, alcoholic mayor Herb Bergson, University of Minnesota-Duluth chancellor Kathryn Martin, and explorer Daniel Greysolon Sieur du Lhut, who Duluth was named after. Bonus points if you slept with Greysolon, who's been dead for nearly 300 years.
This isn't the only story I've heard from Duluth that involves my name. Aside from the typical "He sucks/He rules" comments, most stories have involved rather bizarre people who claim to have known me, drank with me, or committed some sort of crime with me. Does Sam Cook have this same problem?
I'm not sure what to think of it all. On one hand, it's nice that lots of people are apparently reading this column, but on the other hand, I'm fearful that if I ever came back to visit Duluth, people would, A) Throw sharp objects at me, B) Hit me with blunt objects, or C) Push me in front of traffic on Superior St.
How could I enjoy a burger at The Anchor without constantly looking over my shoulder? How could I drink at Twin Ports Brewery without fearing for my safety? How could I shake off my daily hangover at Jim's Hamburgers without some guy in a flannel beating me up? How could I stalk Kathryn Martin, the one woman I'm truly in love with, without fear that she'd recognize me and call security. Again. For the fourth time in as many years.
Y'know what? I don't want to live in fear. I'm going to come visit Duluth for a day when I fly home to Minneapolis at Christmas, and before I get there, I want everyone to spread the nastiest rumors about me that they can possibly think up. Did I punch a Denfeld High School kid for looking at me funny? Maybe I did! Did I get arrested at the University of Wisconsin-Superior for swimming in the pool naked? Maybe I did! Did I get run over by a drunk driver on Mesaba Ave and die? Maybe I did!
I like hearing rumors, so keep them coming, reader. Especially the fake ones. When I come to town in December, I want people to be so angry at me that they'll drag me to city hall and hang me.
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