Chock Full O' Whatever

By the railroad tracks

2008-12-28T16:52:00.002-06:00

Just in Time

2008-08-31T21:41:00.005-05:00

Summer is a short but sweet affair in northern Minnesota. All blue sky and even bluer water. And these last few weeks at the end of August are sweetest of all if only because the end is near. For those with a bittersweet take on life, this place is bread and butter.

Every bit of warmth accumulated over recent months has finally warmed the extraordinarily chilly Lake Superior just enough to allow mere mortals to enter into that sublime communion of body and water. Cold water, warm sun, sparkling waves.

The Ojibwe considered Lake Superior their ocean. It’s the largest fresh water lake in the world in area if not volume. The shore is littered with rocks large and small in slate gray, pink, orange, white. It’s a peculiarly north shore color pallete.

Today was such a day. Perfect. We vowed to return next week if the weather holds. We are in denial of course. Next week will probably be too late.

2008-02-12T10:24:00.001-06:00

A "Smorgasbord" of Memories

2007-06-03T22:48:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about food just now … about how certain foods so strongly associate with periods in one’s life. Sometimes the relationship is short and sweet (sno cones, for instance), sometimes enduring.

When I was a kid, homemade pierogi with hamburger filling (known in our house as “dough things”) and pomegranates dominate my food memories. Of course, fruit of all kinds was available in abundance, so just the sheer volume of watermelon, oranges, strawberries, pineapple, grapes, etc. boggles my mind now.

When we moved to Oregon, the whole food landscape changed. I remember vividly blackberry pancakes with handpicked berries, homemade beef jerky, foot-long hotdogs we’d buy from a cart in downtown Portland on our occasional forays and the apples from the orchard where we lived briefly.

High school brought the start of the meatless years. I recall, in particular, a favorite banana protein drink – a precursor to the so-called smoothie, procured from one “Nature’s Way.” And since it was the 1980s, it was run by sad holdover hippies. A typical lunch break from my job at B. Dalton would find me at the Nature's Way counter eating vegetable soup seasoned with Spike and drinking my beloved banana concoction.

San Francisco offers up a bonanza of food recollections. Bagels, crepes, sushi, Ethiopian, Mexican, but most of all Chinese. I ate lunch regularly at the same Buddhist vegetarian Chinese restaurant – Kowloon – in Chinatown where I worked for two years. Not only did I go to the same restaurant day after day, I ordered the same dish – tofu noodle soup. My memory of that soup is also my memory of that place and time. The Buddhist shrine along the back wall. The soft-spoken server who would say “tofu soup?” and nod sweetly. The herbal medicine shops and produce stands. The tourists (and locals, for that matter) thwarted constatnly by the small elderly Chinese hogging the sidewalk. The long hours working for a highly quirky Asian American newspaper (that's a whole other post, trust me). Me, perfectly nourished and content.

I Shall Not Want ...

2007-05-24T13:17:00.000-05:00

Did you ever want to win something without thinking through the actual consequences of winning? For example, I dreamed of winning the Price Is Right showcase showdown as a kid, but if I had, would I really have been so thrilled with that new dinette set? Never mind the tax bill! So it was with the only contest I’ve ever won in my life.

I am a perennial non-winner. Loser might be too strong a word. You have to try to win to be a loser, after all. The extent of my trying has largely involved filling out contest entries. Rarely have I thrown myself into actual, direct, unequivocal competition with others. The exception: a Bible verse memorization contest in fifth grade.

My fifth grade teacher, a rather temperamental middle-aged Latina with an unnamed bowel condition that required her to frequently rush out of class on emergency bathroom runs (pun intended), challenged us to see who could memorize a Psalm and recite it before the class. The winner would be escorted by our teacher on an all-expenses-paid trip to Stax, a forerunner of Old Country Buffet. Student and teacher, alone together and not within the safe and familiar roles of a classroom ... But that part didn't quite register. When you’re 10, nothing, and I mean nothing, tops a buffet.

What inspired me to undertake this challenge with my fear of public speaking (and of my teacher, for that matter)? My friend/nemesis Cheryl immediately volunteered. On impulse, I followed suit. Not surprisingly, we were the only one’s to do so. That made for some pretty good odds. I chose the 23rd Psalm. I spent days memorizing the somber lines. The day of the competition arrived and Cheryl flubbed the ending of her Psalm. I recited mine perfectly (albeit covered in a cold sweat).

At last, victory was mine. But, other than the DIY sundae at Stax, it was far from sweet my friends.

Fear of a Brown Planet

2007-05-20T21:55:00.000-05:00

My grandfather did not keep in touch with his family. He wanted to forget that life existed before he moved to Los Angeles, I suspect. However, my grandmother kept in touch with his sisters, which is how it came to pass that C. my long deceased grandfather’s niece, came for a visit a couple of weeks ago. She spent her vacation with my grandmother in Willmar, a smallish city about two hours west of the Cities. Not my idea of a holiday, especially given that she lives in rather a similar small town a thousand miles or so away, but to each his or her own I guess. My role in all of this? I drove C. to the airport this morning.

C. lives not far from the coal mining town where my grandfather was born to Russian immigrants. He was the baby of the family and C.’s mother was the oldest. Grandpa left as a teenager and returned only once in his life. I distinctly remember him calling the area an, um, “sh*thole.” When not insulting the place, he gave almost maudlin accounts of life in a company town in the early 20th century. His father, an immigrant from Russia, died of the flu when he was only a baby. (C. says he was the first in the area to die of the 1918 flu. Not exactly the American dream come true.)

Needless to say, I’ve wondered about the place. What of this hell on earth? So I asked C. about her town. Proximity to the Poconos was established (less than an hour due east!). As we talked about family history, the topic wound round to a recent influx of immigrants and there apparent hostile takeover of her town. “They came with the meat processing plant and now they’ve taken over the Wal-Mart,” says C.

As the conversation flowed back into the past, C. waxed poetic about the old days when the mob ruled the place. There were Italian immigrants, and you know what that means. But, you see, that was different than these openly crime-committing Latinos. There were no murders or (strongly implied) crime of any kind before they came. The mob, though, they were okay. “They left the regular people alone,” she explains.

Back in the day, if a black person or a Latino came to town, she recalls, a mobster would just let them know that they could leave one of two ways, if ya know what I mean. I wanted to give C. the benefit of the doubt. Really, she’s funny, chatty, engaging.

I really might have given C. the benefit of the doubt – even after the mob comment – until I asked about lunch. What would she be up for, I wondered. Her reply: “Anything but Mexican. It’ll kill me.”

Now for Something Completely Different

2007-05-15T13:59:00.000-05:00

A few topics that have come up in conversation or email in the last few days:

• Mr. T's musical tribute to motherhood
• Black bears (they’re related to dogs!)
• E. Coli (specifically E. coli linked to a meatball dish at a church supper that killed some unsuspecting soul)
• Vegetarian “mock” meats, and the need to expand the offerings to include exotic and endangered animals (mock shark anyone?)
• Ferrets (love em or hate em, they will not be ignored!)• Made up motivational words (i.e. "Actigize your life sense!")
• Get it? Action + Energize = Actigize (™ GX)
• Lost (three more seasons will very likely cause my head to implode)

This list strongly suggests the need for yet another medication for a vague postmodern ailment, which I will call generalized hyper-association dysphoria (or something).

Five or So Things to Do Before You Die

2007-05-01T16:18:00.000-05:00

You know what I hate? I hate those lists of 100 or 1,000 or a trillion things to do or places to go or things to eat before you die. After all, you still have 9,999 things to go. It just takes all the fun out of actually doing anything. Why not just acknowledge our limited horizons and lower the bar a bit.

So I’ve decided rather to focus on the few things I’ve done (and enjoyed) many, many times. Here’s my list of things to do over and over and over again before you die:

• Eat lots of Ethiopian food and bagels
• Read a plethora of magazines
• Drink wine and good coffee
• Play racquetball
• Go to the library
• Repeat

Don't get me wrong, I've had my share of adventures. I've done lots of things once or twice or even dozens of time, but it's the thousands of bagels and tens of thousands of pages of instantly-forgotten New Yorker content that give life its texture. And don't even think about "surprising" me with pancakes ;)

It's Miller Time

2007-04-08T18:46:00.000-05:00

My grandfather always drank Black label Johnnie Walker and Miller High-Life beer. He never ever deviated from this combination except, on occasion, to trade up to red label. So when we ended up in Milwaukee this weekend, it had an air of destiny. Of course, it could also be that it's one of the few places within a half day's drive of the Twin Cities. Once you've done Chicago and Madison, that pretty much leaves Milwaukee.

About the huge swatch of rural Wisconsin one must drive through to get to Milwaukee I'll just say that "Git R Done" T-shirts and American eagle statuettes abound. Oh, and people smoke everywhere including in line at the gas station mini-market. People from Wisconsin are euphemistically described as "friendly" by we "frigid" Minnesotans. I guess we just need to feather our hair and "let loose" more often.

So what exactly did we do in Milwaukee one wonders. We managed to 1) see half of a Cubs-Brewers game (Cubs' fans = rowdy and kinda scary in a frat boy I'm-smiling-and-laughing--now-but-I-could-at-any-moment-become-agitated-and-violent sort of way) 2) take a brief driving tour of the city, which alternates between crumbling in a charming way and crumbling in a blighted way 3) see the Milwaukee Museum of Art designed by Santiago Calatrava. A-maz-ing. 4) eat at a Greek restaurant where the food seemed oddly German (let's just say the moussaka was heavy on the potatoes) and 5) consume authentic "frozen custard" at Bella's Fat Cat. All in all a very satisfying experience.

Would I go back to Milwaukee? Why yes, I would. After all, it's that or Winnipeg (prounouced winny-peg by G.) when you live in the TC.

Art on Ice

2007-02-18T14:33:00.000-06:00

Every year, a few unfortunates tempt fate by walking on thin ice. (Or, in some cases, driving on thin ice. But that's another matter entirely.) We, being winter wary and weary, have avoided ice for the most part). We could not, however, resist the lure of art shacks on ice (a.k.a Art Shanty Project). Basically, artists (and crafters for my craft-crazed comrades) and others set up shop on a (solidly) frozen lake for a few weeks and invite the rest of the world (okay, more like the Twin Cities metro) to test fate and venture forth.

So we did. B. spent a fair amount of time in the sculpture workshop -- basically a mobile woodworking shop in what looked like a Gypsy cart -- making a wooden sculpture of a walrus with the help of a man who rather resembled Grizzly Adams, and the limnology shack wherein one could fish lake water from a hole in the ice and examine the multitude of phytoplankton. It really put the old admonition not to swallow the water when swimming in a lake or stream into perspective. That and the occasional dead body dredged up from our urban lakes.

I think it's safe to say that Art Shanty -- like butter sculpture and seed art -- is proof of a truly unique arts culture here in flyover country. What's your "only in [PLACE]" story? My lovely Boston readers (all two of you) must have stories of baked beans and green beer to tell. You must!

Isn't Everyone Entitled to a Funny Animal Photo Post Once in a While ...

2007-02-02T13:14:00.000-06:00

Can it really be that this whimsical slice of American life was taken by someone named Stephen Piggy? Also, how did they train the squirrel to make eye contact? So many unanswered questions ...

What's Your Superhero Catch Phrase?

2006-12-04T08:02:00.000-06:00

So B. is taking a community ed Saturday morning theater class with a superheroes theme. The kids make up a story involving superheroes real and imagined (B. is the ghost of Will Clark, a guise inspired by his fanatical love of baseball mixed with a villain from a Scooby Do episode). Usually I would take the hour and run, but I happened to be in the hall reading while class was on. The instructor started asking the kids about superhero catch phrases a la "up up and away" or "here I come to save the day." B., always one to make a contribution (or three) says "I know the Blues Brothers' catch phrase. ... We're on a mission from God."

A Dream of Lizardom, Realized

2006-11-02T21:09:00.000-06:00

I know, I know, Halloween is ancient history. No one wants to hear about it. But, I'm always behind the curve, so whatev. B dressed as a lizard this year. His costumes seem to rotate between animals and heroic characters a la Robin Hood and King Arthur (he still dons the faux chain mail for St. Paul Saints games because, as he says, "most saints were also knights").

The remarkable thing about this lizard costume? It has a six-foot long tail. And, yes, it did eventually get "dislocated" by an unfortunately placed foot. Stuffing everywhere. A mess for some unsuspecting upper middle class, candy-giving homeowner in the Highland Park neighborhood of St Paul.

Growing up, my family didn't have a ton of traditions, but I realize now that the homemade Halloween costume was one of them. When I was young, my mom would make lovely costumes, and that has continued. She spent hours and hours sewing so that B could realize his dream of lizardom complete with mits and shoe covers, Other costumes he would have "settled for": Garfield (will that cat never die!), a badger, that octopus-looking pirate from PotC, or a stingray (yes, he does know about the crododile hunter).

Anway, it all got me thinking about the costumes of my youth. There was the ballerina costume, which spawned one of the earliest memories of my mom sewing individual silver sequins along the border of the pink fabric right up to what seemed like the very last minute. But something changed for me and, I would argue, for the culture as a whole; a turning point that in retrospect one could argue pulled us further still away from our roots ... away from the classics toward outlandish showiness. t was those costumes with the inflatable headpieces. You know what I mean. After that it all went downhill until one sad Halloween all that was left was a chubby, greasy-faced kid in tin foil covered antenna (you remember those headbands with the antennas ... ) and a green pillow case smock. I had betrayed the beauty of the homemade costume and was made to pay the ultimate price.

If Halloween costumes exist along a trajectory that mirrors the rise and fall of civilizations (they do, right?), then the apex for me must surely be the Halloween in my junior year when, without a bit of irony, I wore all black, painted stars and planets on my face, and claimed to be dressed "as night." Puh-lease!

For now, B is still an innocent. It is the golden age again. He says ALL the other boys were ninjas this year, though. I see the dark clouds forming on the horizon. But what can you do?

Work / Life

2006-10-03T13:07:00.000-05:00

I often wonder what secret ambitions people harbor. I, myself, am relatively low in the ambition department, but even so I’ve entertained many highly unlikely career paths along the road to my current occupation.

Here’s an annotated and by no means exhaustive list …

Grocery bagger (fits the low ambition criteria nicely)
Gas station attendant (no explanation necessary)
Philosopher (again, no explanation necessary)
An essayist (also known as my Emerson Period ... still kinda wanna be this one)
Museum curator (mainly involves wearing cordouroy and sweaters)
Photojournalist (my people phobia made this one particularly challenging)
Doctor (you don’t have to laugh THAT loud)

Actual unlikely jobs I’ve had … all temp, of course:

Law office file room clerk (still, they didn’t have to fire me!)
Spanish translator (Google’s language tool only gets one so far)
“Wife” to an undercover investigator guy (I just had to pretend I was with a guy checking out a real estate scheme … weird)

So what’re your unrealized and/or unwittingly realized career ambitions?

Russian in Robbinsdale

2006-09-17T19:13:00.000-05:00

What did I do this weekend? Glad you asked. You know, housework, a trip to the Japanese Garden (crooked lines and coy, yes!) and, oh yeah, a foray to a Russian dinner club. We even managed to catch a live performance of Russian pop from two sequined ladies on a stage framed by what appeared to be a blue shiny lame (as in la-may) curtain. Needless to say it was an excellent way to pass an evening, especially as it was in the company of someone equally (if not more appreciative) of the distinctly Russian atsmophere.

This close encounter of the Russian kind caused me to reflect on my own likely Russian roots. Or is it Ukrainian. See, I'm not sure. And after my gaffe in college comparing Turkish and Greek culture, I know better than to take such distinctions lightly.

My grandfather most often fell into the category of "strong, silent type" (except late at night after his whiskey, beer and evening's intake of western or war film). If you happened upon him at such a moment, he might launch unprompted into an emotionally riveting but rather difficult-to-follow lecture about the injustice visited on the kulaks by the bolsheviks. While he was born here, he seemed to feel deeply the suffering of his ancestors even though he had no real connection to the motherland. Of course, anti "Ruskie" sentiment was always high. Ancestry aside, they were, after all, commies ...

I used to assume that this meant our heritage was Russian (along with the fact that he made faux Faberge eggs in his spare time ... a whole other story). But then again, I always assumed my father's side of the family was Irish. Not so much! (Again, a whole other story.) So Russian or Ukrainian, hard to say. But either way, the vodka and pelmeni brought me home.

For the Love of Butter

2006-09-06T08:59:00.000-05:00

I’m not sure much context is needed for this photo of one of a dozen or so dai r y p ri ncesses to receive the "royal treatment" at the Minnesota State Fair. Outside of Tibet, you’ll probably never see butter put to more creative uses. I wonder how much it would cost to commission a butter sculpture … "Princesses" come from across the land (of Minnesota) to have their faces rendered from a huge block of high-grade butter. Awesome.

Back to the Land

2006-08-04T14:23:00.000-05:00

Living in the Twin Cities, one is always aware of the agricultural identity of much of the state in a peripheral sort of way. On occasion, forays are even made into this pastoral landscape. Yet, opportunities to partake in the cultural life of the non-metro are few and far between. For reasons too obscure to make for good reading, I and a colleague attended Farmfest in Gillfillan, Minn. earlier this week. It’s like an outdoor trade show for farmers, but with lots of political debates where the main topics are whether to extend farm subsidy bills, the promise of a corn-fueled future and the ag cred of each candidate. You get the idea.

Some highlights you ask? A tractor parade, eating fake cheese nachos for the first time in forever, and meeting Arvid Redman, who creates massive light displays on his farm outside Sanborn each holiday. I was particularly intrigued when he mentioned creating a display of the Twin Towers (with a plane crashing into one of them) memorializing that tragic event. But it got even more interesting when he described how a string of lights went out leaving a gaping hole in one of the towers. Arvid's response: "Something bigger than me put that string of lights out." Maybe so, Arvid. Maybe so.

Memory Lane

2006-07-27T22:36:00.000-05:00

I tend to fret over all that I do not remember. Though apparently not enough to do anything about it as evidenced by the neglected copy of How to Develop a Brilliant Memory Week by Week: 52 Proven Ways to Enhance Your Memory Skills. I quickly lost interest after deducing that the secret to improving memory involves, well, memory.

The book asserts that the potential to retain information is fairly constant. In other words, those who appear to have more innate ability to remember just have more tricks up their sleeve. So the question then is if we could remember more, why do we remember relatively little? Why do we remember what we remember?

Which brings me to my point (at last). Books trigger strong visceral memories for me. I have read thousands of books at this point, though don’t ask me what 95% of them were about (see above regarding my poor memory). But what I do tend to remember is the circumstances of my life at the time of reading. While I can’t say why books have this effect I thought it might be interesting to do a little memory experiment.

I selected three books randomly from my shelf, which has been culled quite dramatically over the years I’m afraid so it’s not a representative sample. I will now relate to you, dear readers, my associations with each and provide the first and last line of each (props to my Ex Libris crew).

In no particular order …

The Master and Margarita
by Mikhail Bulgakov

My sophmore year at a Cal State school (before transferring to UCLA), it was a book I read in my Russian Lit class. This “ironic parable on power” from the Soviet era left me a little baffled but in that way that things you don’t completely understand but like do when you’re 19. It was my favorite class during my early college days because it was completely abstract and intellectual in contrast with my otherwise unimaginative and all-too-concrete reality outside of school.

First line: “At the hour of sunset, on a hot spring day, two citizens appeared in the Patriarchs’ Pond Park.”

Last line: “So Margarita spoke, walking with the Master to their eternal home, and it seemed to the Master that Margarita’s words flowed like the flowing, whispering stream they had left behind.”

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (Blade Runner)
by Philip K. Dick

Early days with G. We decided to start a mini book club. Clearly, we weren’t much in the mood for heavy fare. This book makes me think of the book store on Market – Books Inc – where we’d stop in on occasion. It makes me thing of our days in Duboce Triangle. Of course, our conclusions about the book itself (points for plot, not so good writing-wise) were virtually identical, so it also reminds me of what kindred spirits we were and are.

First line: “A merry little surge of electricity piped by automatic alarm from the mood organ beside his bed awakened Rick Deckard.”

Last line: “And feeling better, fixed herself at last a cup of black, hot coffee.” (completely bad!)

Animal Farm
by George Orwell

This one because I just read it again. I don’t remember the actual circumstances of the first reading, but a bookplate placed carefully on the inside cover of this tattered thrift store paperback with my name in neat green felt tip screams high school. It’s just sort of touching to me that my younger self would have thought so highly of books and the ideas they contain to label even the lowliest edition.

First line: “Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes.”

Last line: “The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

So your turn. A book and a memory associated with it? Pronto!

It's an Ant-tastic World!

2006-07-25T14:07:00.000-05:00

Did you know that if you combined all the ants on earth into a massive ball and weighed them the resulting weight would equal that of all humans lumped together into a massive ball and weighed on some improbably large scale? (I read it in National Geographic, so it must be true!) Kind of amazing, no? That's a lot of ants ... It puts things in a weird, yet oddly more balanced perspective.

Can you think of any amazing comparisons of scale that have "blown your mind," as they say? And don't give me that more stars in the universe than grains of sand line (which isn't even true as it turns out).

Favorite Things

2006-07-12T13:54:00.000-05:00

I admit it, I’m drawn to “favorites” lists. You know, where you’re supposed to name you’re favorite book, film, etc. But when it comes to pinning down my own favorites I am often at a loss.

I finally figured out the reason! There’s simply too much water under the bridge (and possibly I’m just not very clever). I mean, I’ve read thousands of books and seen hundreds of films at this point. And, of course, I no longer see personal taste as any kind of indicator of substance. No, the problem is definitely with the questions asked.

So I’ve devised my own “favorites” list, which I think highlights the nuance and texture of life – my own in this case – rather than just the ideas/objects that strike one’s fancy. So here’s some possible alternative:

Favorite …
… type of agua fresca? Watermelon
… time of day? Summer = twilight / Winter = morning / also when G. gets home! And when B. gets up in the morning and comes in for a cuddle
… game to play? Nuts! (A new card game we just learned!)
… way to kill time? Read magazines (especially new one's that come free in the mail!)
… impossibly huge social cause? Sustainability
… signs of communal life? community gardens / libraries

Now you answer!
Next time, my list of favorite lists!

Lists Galore!

2006-07-11T12:12:00.000-05:00

Anyone who knows me knows why this instantly struck a chord. The Book of Lists. It almost doesn’t need explaining. Better still, lots of these lists are excerpted for your/my immense enjoyment. Here are some of the list topics:

16 Cases of People Killed by God (includes their “transgression” ie “land fraud”)
23 Obscure and Obsolete Words (9. GROAK: To watch people silently while they are eating, hoping they will ask you to join them.)
10 Nations With the Most Camels (Total World Camel Population: 19,074,168)
5 Body Parts Named After Italians (Think Fallopian Tubes.)
8 Unlikely How-To Books (ex. How to Rob Banks Without Violence)
10 Largest Arms Exporters (Believe it or not Netherlands ranks)

Oh, the list goes on my friends, the list goes on. I’ve found heaven and I can assure you it is here now!

Geia Sas!

2006-07-11T11:05:00.000-05:00

Some of you are aware that B and I have been going to “Greek school” for the past year. Class meets once a week in the basement of St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church (there are two Greek churches in the Cities).

We learn our alpha, beta (vee-ta not bay-da), gammas, the kids learn Greek dancing (B even participated in the the Festival of Nations as, possibly, the only red-haired, freckled Greek ever) and we celebrate holidays you’ve never heard of like Oxi Day, which translates as “No” Day. It’s to mark the beginning of Greece’s participation in World War II, or more specifically, when the Greek Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas said “no” to the Germans.

What have I learned about Greek culture? Many things, some quite random. I’ve learned that the island of Patmos, described as the "Jerusalem of the Aegean,” is believed to be where St. John was inspired to write the Book of Revelations. I’ve learned that Easter is a far bigger deal than Christmas festivities-wise (and that eggs are dyed red). I’ve learned that halia (accent on the first alpha) is what you say when something is low-class or just distasteful in some way like a really trashy outfit. I’ve learned to make Greek coffee and B has become an avid backgammon player thanks to the tutelage of the master (Yorgos).

Of course, we have yet to visit Greece, but as my teacher Anna (a truly amazing polyglot and proprietor of an outstanding Greek restaurant) says, being Greek is a state of mind. Opa!

Hometown Advantage

2006-07-10T13:08:00.000-05:00

Minneapolis has the Twins. St. Paul has the Saints. In case you didn’t know it, Saint Paul is a Catholic town. Irish Catholic that is. Hence the name. So much for Norwegian Lutherans.

In fact, Norwegians aren’t even the majority in Minnesota despite the inordinate attention lavished on that particular demographic by Garrison Keillor. No, Germans are the largest single ethnic group in the state (though Scandinavians as a whole are the largest group, but they don’t really fancy themselves a single group … go figure). There’s even a town – New Ulm – where the populace spoke German almost exclusively until World War II when, for some reason, they thought better of it.

But I digress. The Saints. The hometown team. Owned, in part, by none other than Bill Murray. The discovery of this somewhat obscure fact (though well known to local fans of independent minor league baseball) and my first visit to Midway Stadium, a mere mile away from our house, were a sort of awakening.

With its pig mascot "Muddonna" (and a real pig mascot that comes out between innings in different outfits), haircuts and massages in the stands, between inning contests, and very excellent people watching, it’s one of my favorite hometown experiences to date. (The ice sculptures in Rice Park in mid-winter may be number one.)

Taking possession of my very own Bill Murray bobblehead, I felt unfiltered delight … a feeling so rare these days. The sport mullet, the flat affect of a Camaro-driving, farm-team-playin’ ball player. Perfect. So very perfect. Makes me miss the straightforward irony of the old days.