Our Town

A play in three acts:

No Kings Protest, Anoka, Minnesota, March 28, 2026

Ólafur and Friends

A new video featuring Icelandic and affiliated musicians on the power of collaboration:



I’ve experienced performances by most of these artists, even the perfumer! There is even a scene of Jofriður Ákadóttir in her ultra-cool studio in the Icelandic countryside as well as various backgrounds in Reykjavík and Seltjarnarnes.

A perfect counter to my rant last Monday (about The Reykjavík Grapevine,) this video makes me want to go back…

Hippies in the Heartland

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

In 1970, the year after Woodstock, dozens of rock festivals sprang up in the US and other parts of the world.

This was IT: The Youth Revolution, or as close as we got. In the small town of Iola, Wisconsin (near Steven’s Point), some unknown entrepreneurs threw together a three-day (THREE DAYS, MAN!) festival “The People’s Fair” with a big, if somewhat thematically diverse, line up: Buddy Rich's big band, Chuck Berry, Ravi Shankar, Ted Nugent, The Paul Butterfield Blues Band, and many other regional and/or “almost famous” acts (Ides of March, Crow, Terry Reid, etc.) The crowd was estimated 10,000 (probably) to 60,000 (wishful).

What the concert lacked, however, was any form of structure, security or police. A tent city sprang up, with a "dealer's row" of drug merchants offering up just about anything you could desire (morphine suppositories, anyone?). A Chicago-based motorcycle gang thought this would be a good place to intimidate, harass, and rape women (there was a shoot-out Saturday night that caused the whole crowd to move as one, driving out these miscreants.)

There were lighter moments too, however, as the blissed-out flower child in the photo above suggests. Afterwards, all music festivals were much more strictly run; beer and booze replaced pot and acid (well, not entirely) as the drugs of choice, and the Upper Midwest’s summer of love was soon forgotten, replaced by heavy metal ‘Edge Fests’ for the rockers and ‘We Fests’ for country music fans.

End of an Era?

Image: Reykjavík Grapevine

I recently came across an article in The Reykjavík Grapevine, a tourist/culture paper/website that opened with this declaration:

The Reykjavík Grapevine is broke. We need money. Yesterday we had to inform our staff journalists, Iryna, Ish (pictured holding our latest Best of Reykjavík magazine at our annual Best of Reykjavík Award ceremony) and Jói (who couldn’t attend the ceremony, and thus isn’t pictured) that we won’t be able to afford their work unless our fortunes change. This was incredibly difficult and sad to do, because we are a small, tight-knit team who do this job out of love. It has been our purpose to bring journalism and cultural coverage of Iceland to our readers for almost 24 years, and while business has always been difficult, it has become ever more so in the past few years, making it harder to fulfill our purpose. Hell, we’re one of the last — if not the last — cultural publication still in print in Iceland, a country with a single daily newspaper left.

I had followed RG for years, my presence in Iceland was even acknowledged a couple of times in 2006! During the early Iceland Airwaves they published a paper edition every day of the festival. As the only English-language pper in Reykjavík they had plenty of advertising. During the Covid-19 epidemic, The Reykjavík Grapevine was a beacon, shining light on Iceland’s struggles with the pandemic, led by its intrepid editor Valur Grettisson, his dog Polly, supplemented by the capable and personable intern Poppy Askham. Their twice-weekly video forays covering a country in lockdown were both informative and entertaining—so much so that I even sent them some money! After Covid lessened its grip this publishing enterprise got new owners who wanted to “take it in a new direction.” They weren’t obvious changes, but its tone changed. Instead of Poppy or Valur (and his adorable dog) celebrating Iceland’s beauty and attractions, we got snarky podcasts from the new editor and his cronies.

I stopped following it.

I’m Shakin’

More musical mayhem from The Explodo Boys. Chris Harwood: lead vocal and bass, Gerry Kruger: guitar, George Kuczek:drums, Dan Rowles: keyboards.

Waitress in a Donut Shop

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Once upon a time...

… there was a doughnut shop on a corner, about a mile from where I work. I’d stop in when I had skipped breakfast (and sometimes when I hadn’t) to pick up a Bismark or some other pastry. It was run by an older man and his wife; she was usually behind the counter, he was often in the front, at a table with his buddies, shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes.

And then it was only her. She was obviously tired, she had the appearance of someone trapped in a dull nightmare. Looking at her closely, I realized that she was actually much older than I had first thought, certainly over 70, perhaps as old as 75. One day another customer asked about “Bob.” She told him how he was doing (not so good) and that the stroke had taken a lot out of him.

I’ve been thinking a bit about my retirement lately. I’ve always said that I wanted to work until I dropped, but I’m not so sure of that anymore. To toil at something that really doesn’t give much back seems kind of pointless now. Unfortunately, with the United States’ deficit and poor economic prognosis for the foreseeable future (for the middle and lower classes, at least) I may well end up like that waitress.

I stopped going to the shop. A few months later it was closed, then it sat empty for a few years, and finally it was torn down to make room for new construction. That scenario plays out too much like a metaphor for life for comfort.

“Would you like that order to go?”

Teasin’ You

The 2001 version of The Explodo Boys cover this Earl King tune, first made ‘popular’ in 1965 by Willie Tee. Chris Hardwood lead vocal and bass, Gerry Kruger, guitar, George Kuczek, drums, Dan Rowles keyboards and Harmony vocal.

Arboretum Attractions

Washington Park Arboretum, Seattle:

Wanda Gág Day!

Image: Wanda Gág by Robert Janssen, circa 1939

Podcast on Wanda’s life and art (starts at 6:44)…

Rachel’s 13 things about Wanda Gág.

Much more on Wanda…

Seattle Sunday Scenes

Indoor Sun Shoppe:

Fremont Sunday Market:

Google Seattle:

Cafe on the Ave:

Critique: Móðir, kona, meyja

I recently asked ChatGPT to critique a short memoir I had written a couple of years ago. I did several iterations and the results were similar, but not always the same.

It gave me some pointers and caught a couple of typos (every writer can use a good editor, AI or not) and seemed to grasp the point of the piece (“… graceful and conceptually sound… connection without possession, warmth without permanence.”) while at the same time pushing toward an opposite effect (“… the ending could land even harder… a tactile callback would give it additional heft.”)

To be fair, the AI program didn’t know that this piece was a part of a much longer piece that was about the impressions of my trip to Iceland and not just about my meeting with “K.” The AI bot took a dim view of any levity, and criticized it as having too much biographical detail (detail that I thought essential to give the poor reader some background the story.) ChatGPT also wanted me to insert lines of dialog which, with my imperfect memory, would have been putting words in her mouth.

Overall, ChatGPT's impressions were pretty accurate:

Móðir, kona, meyja is a tender, reflective memoir that succeeds most where it honors duration: the slow accrual of familiarity, care, and asymmetry that defines many online-to-offline friendships. The piece’s greatest strength is its emotional decency. You are consistently attentive to K as a full human being rather than a symbol or muse, and the essay never tips into self-dramatization. The closing metaphor of parallel stars is quietly earned and thematically apt.

But it still insisted on trying to shape it into something more rigid than what this gentle meeting was:

That said, the essay could gain clarity and resonance by tightening its temporal structure, sharpening its thematic spine…

My impression of its suggestions that they were akin to shaving the fuzz off a tennis ball (smoother but missing the point). Assuming that most new internet writing will now be run through this kind of filtration, I’ll be on the lookout for this kind of AI toxic masculinity.

UPDATE: I tried it again and this time the chat bot got my joke (Professor Batty meets Eve Kendall)! UPDATE: There is an extensive analysis of the entire Search for a Dancer memoir on its index page.

The Boat of Longing

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

“A fine ship, all lit up, faint music coming across the water, the sounds of people laughing and singing, the craft steadily cutting through the still waters…”

Biking down the Rum River trail on a late winter's night, you must forgive me if my mind wanders during the trek. The recent warm weather has caused the river to have a lot of open water, and where the trail skirts the shore the fog sits quietly and creates a fantasy-world. The trail is usually empty after dark, especially in the winter. The feral cats are still active, black forms moving in the shadows, and in a stand of white pine an owl is heard, questioning my trespass.

“He pulled harder on the oars. Up the billow, into the trough…onward…farther onward…nearer and nearer the beautiful castle west in the sea…the castle which lay in the twist of gold, the castle where dwelt his boy. But the billow rolled so chill…”

Dreams come and then vanish, like the fog on the river. Those dreams that stay, that haunt me with an unbearable sadness, are the ones where my boys are young again, five or six years old. Their unselfconscious beauty and joy is lost forever, and for this loss I cannot be consoled.

“And the night closed in. That [he] did not notice. He only saw the castle where lived his boy.”

On a perfect summer’s evening, the kids and I are fishing in a bay. There are deer browsing on the shore, unafraid of the boat and its occupants. The sun touches the tree-tops across the lake, and we raise anchor and head back to the cabin. I blink, and find myself back on the trail, heading home on the narrow black ribbon that snakes between the fields of snow.

“On he rowed, and on, farther and farther into the skyline, out to the Great Ocean itself…“


~ Quotes are from The Boat of Longing (Længselens Baat) by Ole Edvart Rølvaag, 1921

Loring Park Girls

Loring park is Minneapolis’ answer to New York City’s Central park.

Although smaller, it still occupies several square blocks (including a pond) in downtown Minneapolis. In the late 60s it hadn’t yet reached the pinnacle of its notoriety but even then it was a place best be avoided after dark. There was the Salvation Army home for unwed mothers next to it, a funky junior college, and many apartments ringing its perimeter. Its reputation as a gay cruising spot was completely warranted.

At that time there were kids who played there, kids on their own, doing kid stuff like using the swings, playing hopscotch and, like the girls pictured below, even doing a little dress-up. When those of us attending the college used the park for impromptu photo sessions these urchins would sometimes insist on getting in on the action:

The park has made a comeback since then, The Walker Art Center Sculpture garden is connected to it and the once humble “JC” is now a mammoth community college—Loring Park has become its quad.

These girls would now be in their mid 60s, I wonder if they’ve revisited the park lately?