Phair Phoners

A phenomenon which would have been unthinkable twenty-five years ago, prior to the ubiquitous useage of smart phones:

How did people every communicate back then—pagers (then find a pay phone)—flip phones—newspaper?

There is no escaping the siren call of being “in touch”:

Her body may be at the fair, yet her mind is far away:

Posters from the Fair

Beer Me:

Horses for Courses:

A Klatch of Klondike Kates:

Posing Pretty in Pink:

Say Cheese:

My State Fair is a Great State Fair

The Minnesota State Fair is back, in all its greasy glory.

It seems that every decent weather day brings new attendance records, hundreds of thousands looking for high calorie sweets and savories. I went yesterday and it was busier than when I used to go on the weekends:

These ticket-sellers at The Butterfly House were having a ball:

While the workers at The Mouth Trap had mixed reactions to being photographed:

This Great Horned Owl seems to be sporting a wig (actually his handler’s hair):

The Fresh Fries Lady Buccaneer caught up on her messages while on break:

And future superstar Ben Goldsmith strutted his stuff at The Leinie Lodge Stage:

Meanwhile, the venerable Maurice Jaycox was crooning his way through a set of R&B chestnuts with his ultra-tight band We Still R:

On a personal note, I got the opportunity to meet and talk with one of my inspirations: the delightful Tallulah Sweet, whose image was featured in last year’s Fine Art Exhibition.

Great things happen at the fair.

20 Years Ago on FITK

He’s Back!

The house lights go down, and the already restless crowd murmurs in excitement.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the slow roll of tympani, like distant thunder, begins as roving spotlights careen about the grand hall.

The lights converge on the curtain, which slowly rises to reveal a crowded stage, replete with a brass band, jugglers and acrobats, sequined showgirls, ululating virgins (take their word on it!), and whirling fireworks. A basso profundo announcer is heard:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present THE man, that worldly traveler, back from his self–imposed exile in the wilds of Northern Wisconsin… ”

A murmuring is heard in the crowd… it becomes a chant - “Bat-ty Bat-ty… ”

“He is here to regale you with the insights gleaned from his amazing adventures… ”

The spotlights converge on the center of the stage - a trapdoor opens - the crowd reaches a fever pitch of hysteria… A thousand doves are released and fly above the throng… a million red rose petals float down from the rafters…


The trumpets strike up a fanfare… multiple explosions of colored fireballs illuminate the scene… a shadowy figure arises from the bowels of the stage…surrounded by swirling smoke and electrical discharges… the ululation raises its pitch as the virgins rend their clothes and pull their hair… grown men weep…

“Professor Batty!”

The crowd is in a frenzy - cheering, whistling, stamping as the Great Man approaches the microphone - he raises a hand, and suddenly the assembled multitude is silent. He begins to speak…


“Um… er… uh… I guess I blew my budget for today’s post on the introduction. I don’t have any thing left for today… Sorry… I’ll be back tomorrow… I promise!”

Pulp Flippist IV

Another classic from the Flippist Archives Press!

Family Hall

Wing Luke Museum, Seattle

Minnesota State Fair Fine Arts Preview 2024

It's that time of year for The Minnesota State Fair!

Last Tuesday I attended the Fine Arts Preview night, the unstated theme of this year’s exhibition seemed to be ‘Play it safe.’ Not much politics, not many farm animals (although plenty of cute cats and dogs) and lots of (mostly boring) wildlife imagery. Textiles and fabrics are always quirky but I was not that impressed, ceramics and glass left me unmoved as well. There were highlights, of course, as well as the continuing trend of the merging of painting and photography, as exemplified* by this pairing:

Shelly Mosman: Grace                                                 Margo Selski: Little Miss Sisyphus

Old school photography was scarce, but Will Agar’s Spot Cafe, Oregon upheld traditional film imaging:

Brian Wagner’s lithograph Of Ill Omens and Clipped Wings (the theme echoed in his tattoos) was sublime:

The always reliable Mark Alan Peterson had another mind-boggling cut-paper collage, Manhattan Elegy, made only from old magazines, scissors, magic markers, and paste:

Sculpture always has strong Surrealist aspects, this year’s show was no exception:

Message of Lament for a Blue Planet, Gary Carlson

What was encouraging was seeing more young people in attendance and exhibiting, we geezers will have to be replaced sometime!

You can view the whole show here. *Mosman’s is photography, Selski’s is a painting

20 Years Ago on FITK

Phone Phoebe

In my teeny-bopper days, there was a radio call-in bulletin board on the top 40 station. Every afternoon, you could call and leave messages to your friends (or enemies) and they would be transcribed and read over the air. Our “gang” (how naive we were!) would call in and make comments about our favorite bands and/or rivals at the junior high.

After a while, we got to “know” kids from other schools. Those that intrigued us the most were a group of girls from across town, known on the radio as “Ringo Pribella and her Back Porch Perchers.” They liked The Beatles while we, in our clueless-ness, liked The Dave Clark Five. We would exchange messages about the worth or lack thereof of either group, but I think we were really doing it for the intrigue of interacting with unknown GIRLS!

To this day, whenever I hear Glad All Over or Bits And Pieces on the radio, I think of those days, and wonder: Ringo Pribella, where are you?

Devil’s Snare

Djöflasnaran by Pascal Pinon

A decidedly darker vision from this group of Icelandic teens:

Eitt sinn ég fann þessa ógnarþrá
að vera eitt og skilja við annað.
Hugurinn tók mig og ég fór að sjá
allt sem ég vildi og þráði var bannað.

Því tíminn stríðir á móti mér
og engu fæ ég um neitt að ráða.
Eitt sár er gróið og annað er
að vaxa og dafna þar inn í mér.

Svo langt er liðið af lífinu
að ekki er nema von að mér hraki.
Ég reyni að gleyma, það sorglega er
að enn kann ég ei að sleppa taki.

En hjartað ræður og hjartað fer
ávallt sínar eigin leiðir.
Og hvað sem verður og hvað sem ber
vonin vakir og lifir í mér.

Once I felt this dread
Being one and parting with another
The mind took me and I began to see
Everything I wanted and desired was forbidden

Because time is against me
And I have no control over anything
One wound is healed and another is
Growing and thriving inside me

Life has gone so far
There is only hope that I will not fail
I try to forget, the sad thing is
That I still can't let go

But the heart rules and the heart goes
Everyone has their own way
And whatever happens and whatever happens
Hope wakes up and lives in me

~ Jófriður Ákadóttir

Images taken in Grand Rokk, October, 2009

Food Truck Frenzy III

Like the Perseids meteors my hometown is visited by food trucks in August.

I find the workers as interesting as the food.

Subtle graces are to be found among them.

Árstíðir

Teen-aged Pascal Pinon performing at Iceland Airwaves:

Falling and falling on me
Every time I walk under a tree
Yellow leaves and orange leaves
And I feel like something
I have felt before
And feel like every every year
The fall is very very near

Whiter and whiter everywhere
Frozen but someway happier
Snowing but I don't really care
My nose is cold and I shiver like a fly
But I don't think of it that way
My mind is somewhere else today

Brightness is in the air
And a sunny atmosphere
Even though it's cold outside
Then the birds are singing
And the grass is getting greener
I think I haven't ever stood
On a road that seems so really good

Sunshine all over me
I'm feeling so happy
Summer it's summer now
And it's warm outside and I'm smiling all day long
Happiness I will always send
I hope this summer will never end ~ Jofríður Ákadóttir

Images taken in Norræna Húsið, October, 2009, when the yellow and orange leaves were falling!

20 Years Ago on FITK

“As of August 13, we will no longer be able to accept Kodachrome film for processing” …Sign in a photo lab.

Kodachrome slide film was introduced in 1938, it was an instant hit but its widespread use was curtailed during World War II. After the war and up until the mid seventies it was Kodak's flagship product. The major distinction of this film was that from the start it was nearly perfect. A properly exposed Kodachrome image from the early 50's contained the equivalent of about a 20 megabyte file. Sure, it was a little slow, and you needed a machine about the size of a semi-trailer AND a chemist AND an engineer to run it. But it is a beautiful way to preserve an image. Kodak will still make it (for a while) but they have closed all their processing plants. You can send it to a guy named Dwayne in Kansas City for processing. A sad end for the flagship product of a former blue-chip company. I wonder if 50 years from now you will be able to take an eighth part of a 50 year old digital camera file and make it into a stunning 16 x 20 inch print.* I wonder if you will even be able to read the file.** You could with a Kodachrome. Such is the price of progress.

“... don't take my Kodachrome away.” ~ Paul Simon

*Update: You can do this now, digital photography got much better after this post was written… 
**Your file might be corrupt!

Repose

Fifty years ago I found myself in London during the coolest and dampest summer I had ever experienced.

The trip had started off on the wrong foot, and went downhill from there. This fellow feeding the pigeons looked a bit weary of the weather as well, but at least he was dressed for it.

I did return to fair Albion twenty years later, during the hottest and driest summer on record (that record has since been broken many times.) That trip was definitely more enjoyable.

Memories Like Jazz

Snapped photos black ‘n’ white, time frozen, mosaic
Laugh echoes in hollow rooms, melodic, psychotropic
Faces blur, stories slurred, tales goin’ epileptic
Dreams a hazy mirage, reality cryptic, crooked

Fingers on piano keys, melody romantic,
Notes waver, fade away, ghost-like, frantic
Whiskey glass half-empty, thoughts kaleidoscopic
Words in smoke signals, imagery panoramic

Crystal memories jazzing, life cinematic,
Blues twirl in fog, scenes mix, overwritten static
Picture frame dusty, truth holographic,
Moments flutter in jazz, both real and graphic

Dim-lit alleys with shadows whispering rhythmic
Old loves remembered, feelings paradoxic
Mind’s record scratching, loops all frenetic
Reality and dreams blend, jazzed ecliptic

Horn blows a sorrow, smoky room tragic
Past dissolves like blue ink, water-bound magic
Polaroids scattered, memories sway electric
Scenes play on silent, each frame eclectic

Melancholy rains, streets hum hypnotic
Eyes search for faces, remembrances episodic
Snapbacks to laughter, ephemeral, metabolic
Time taps a beat, jazzed, mnemonic tonic

Concept and imagery: Stephen Cowdery
Music: Suno

20 years ago on FITK

Crosses and Switchblades

While a mere lad, I was brought to a very unusual concert. The whole set-up was strange, all of the dads in the men’s group at our church brought all of their sons. Usually when you went somewhere with a parent, you would sit with him or her. This time my dad said: “Why don’t you boys all sit together?” OK by me. The dads sat together in the row behind us. The lights dimmed, and the curtain opened. There was a rock band, with  a Hammond organ and a choir.  Man! Did we ever get a show.

After a while a greasy looking guy came out and started to rap. It was a sermon, but not like any the sermons our pastor delivered. This guy would go on about illicit, sinful behavior among the teen gangs he had ministered to in NYC. Crime, drugs, and, also, sex. LOTS OF SEX. Just what a pimply 14 year old (who had recently learned what the other thing his dink was for) needed. I hadn’t had much in the way of “impure thoughts” before this, but I was having ’em now—hot and heavy. So, about the time the preacher reached a climax in his sermon, I was ready to reach one of my own.

Then he laid on the guilt trip, and suddenly I felt this strange pressure on the nape of my neck. The preacher wanted us to come forth, and the stares from our dads made sure we did. We went up, repented of our vicarious sins, and were saved. They gave us a lesson book to fill out and mail in. It was the same one I got the summer before at a Billy Graham rally, and that one didn’t stick either. Years later I did get into a rock band myself—complete with singers and a Hammond organ. We were doing the same thing, but instead of singing “Jesus” in our songs we sang “Baby”.

You didn’t get a lesson book from us either.

Last Waltz

I recently went to a parks’ league softball game where some of the old neighborhood guys (and their sons) were playing. Nothing unusual about that, a long-standing ritual across most of the U.S., except that this was the final game for the White Horse Pipe Company team after 40 years. White Horse won, besting their long-time nemeses The Punks, 11-10. The WHPC founder had died last year, a day after defeating the same team. After the game came the traditional fist-bump.

So ends another chapter of local history with this, the last waltz of a childhood dance, played out on a dusty field.

In the Good Old Summertime…

Birchwood, Wisconsin, August, 1910, Luella Busch archives.

With its chain of lakes and a plethora of small resorts, Birchwood was the perfect getaway for the genteel crowd in pre-war Wisconsin.

Birchwood, “The Bluegill Capital of the World,” remains a popular vacation spot. Grab an iced coffee or a latte with some amazing pastries at Ed's Pit Stop and go out to explore all that the area has to offer!