Erin, Aaron, and Me

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

On a pleasant spring day, about a year ago, I reluctantly boarded Icelandair’s flight FL653—KEF to MSP—thus ending a fantastic vacation in Iceland. Finding my seat row, I was greeted by two young people in the seats in the row next to it. The young woman on the aisle smiled impishly and said: “We’ve been waiting for you.”

In that second I knew that this was not going to be a flight spent in stony silence, trying to ignore my row-mates. They let me sit down and after I got got settled we exchanged introductions. Erin, the young woman, and Aaron, the young man, had flown in from Paris that morning and had evidently already started their trip on a positive note.

We spoke of our adventures and, as we took off, we were already beginning to explore each others’ psyches with almost a complete naturalness and no sense of inhibition. Our coming-of-age stories had many things in common: our recreational psychedelic drug of choice was the same (note: it has been MANY years since I indulged in that kind of activity!), then came the Dead Poet's Society recital. Erin started first, with a tender reading from Wordsworth, Then Aaron, with a few rocky patches, did some very nice Longfellow. Erin mentioned something by Lewis Carroll that she liked but did not have committed to memory. As it so happens, the ONLY poem I have ever memorized is The Jabberwocky, which I reeled off, to the amazement and delight of my fellow-travelers. The congenial Icelandic flight attendants came by to see if we wanted to purchase any duty-free goods. I opted for the Icelandic “Brennivín” (a caraway flavored schnapps which is neither as bad as people say it is nor as good as people say it is. But no hákarl to go with! That, along with some French Liquor that Aaron had picked up in Paris, gave a new dimension to the conversation.

I noticed a book peeking out of Aaron’s bag: Four Arguments For The Elimination Of Television by Jerry Mander. One of my all time favorites, I hadn’t seen a copy in 25 years! The coincidences kept piling up. After what seemed like a couple of hours (it was really six and a half) we landed at the Lindberg terminal in Minnesota, the end of the line.

We split up in customs and then went back to regular routines, enriched, refreshed with new insights into our lives.

Downtown Details

Architectural embellishments in downtown Minneapolis, Minnesota:

Old school merchandising: Dayton’s was a Minnesota-based department store for nearly a century:

It’s unknown what shop entrance this pediment had originally adorned but it currently graces a Starbucks:

A modern skyscraper becomes abstract art in this over-exposure:

Downtown Destinations

The establishment pictured below is the only remaining business in what once was the Dayton's block (12 floors!) in downtown Minneapolis. I spent a couple of years toiling in the sub-basement of that complex and I will admit to buying some caramel corn from Candyland. The Yardbirds (with Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page) played their first U.S. concert 8 floors above this shop:

This downtown Masonic Temple had been converted to an arts center in the late 1970s: The Hennepin Center for the Arts. I did sound for a gig with Willie and the Bees and The Wallets in its 8th floor auditorium in 1981:

This nondescript commercial building housed the basement studio of The Explodo Boys in the late 1970s. I spent many an hour there, rehearsing and recording. Now surrounded by new condos, its present use is unknown. There was a now defunct Pontiac dealership next to it, as is the car brand:

Sex Ed 101

Twenty years Ago on FITK

"Okay everybody, the sirens have stopped, but there is another storm headed out way, everybody go home NOW!"

The park director didn't need to say it twice, the sky was an ominous green, with black clouds coming in over the western horizon.
"Com'on over to my house, it's a lot closer than going home…" said Janet, my girlfriend.

When you are fifteen, and she is fourteen, the logic of that argument is irrefutable. We hopped into her Mom’s car and her mom drove us to her house, just before the rain started up again. I called my Mom: she told me to stay put; that the radio had said that a tornado warning was coming for our area, and as she spoke the sirens started up again-and this time they didn't stop. The two of us, being safety minded, went down into the basement. Her parents stayed upstairs, listening to the weather reports.

Janet was a big girl. We were sort of an item, it was her idea for us to be a couple, I was still pretty clueless on this boy-girl stuff. I was glad to be with her, she was pretty smart and could play guitar better than me. Tonight we were going to have more than a guitar lesson. As the storm raged outside, a different kind of storm was brewing in that cellar.

After about an hour, the sirens stopped. I called my dad, and he came to get me. What would have been a 10 minute trip took a half an hour. I went out to the car and noticed that except for the block we were on, it was black all over. Seven tornadoes had ripped through our city, thousands of trees and power lines were down. We had to backtrack through a maze of streets until we could find a route home. We went to help out a elderly couple that my Dad knew, and then went home. The next day, the paper told of widespread damage and numerous fatalities. The tornadoes had all gone on either side of my girlfriend's house—it was one of the few neighborhoods left unscathed.

So what did I learn in that basement that night?

#1. Always seek shelter during tornadic conditions.
#2. Sex is a dangerous force of nature.
#3. Big girls can be very nice.

West Bank Wonders

Corridor, Wilson Library to Blegen Hall on the West Bank of the University of Minnesota campus:

In the late sixties, when I was attending, there were hundreds of students using this short-cut. Except for the lack of people, it hasn’t changed in appearance one bit.

Bike path on West Bank commons:

Quick! Make your turning decision NOW!

Sign on the Berryman bridge:

The upper pedestrian deck of the Washington Avenue bridge has always been a dismal spot, a popular suicide location for the last 50+ years. Recently, the railings have been fenced in to deter further attempts.

Dinkytown Depictions

Dinkytown is a small business district in Minneapolis near the University of Minnesota…

This decrepit window wall encloses the stairway to Annie’s Parlor, an informal restaurant specializing in malts, burgers, and fries:

Bob Dylan lived above the old Gray’s drug store in 1960. Recently, it was the Loring Cafe restaurant until Covid hit and is now derelict:

The Future of Food? Kiosks in MacDonald’s:

Childhood’s End

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

                                 Laurie,         Me,                 Tom,                                 Andy            

We lost Tom last Sunday.

We are The Others, the rock band I was in when I was a teenager. Tom was the lead guitarist, the shining light, and the only one of us that knew anything about music theory and composition. Tom had suffered with juvenile onset diabetes since he was a boy; he finally succumbed after having spent most of the last decade in a nursing home, dying a bit at a time as he lost toes, fingers and limbs. In the competitive world of garage bands I grew up in, the highest praise you could give someone was that “he could play.”

Tom could play.

We had gone separate ways after high school, I only saw him a few times between then and when he went into the home.

We got the old band together, along with every one else we could find from our class that had played rock, for our 30th reunion about seven years ago. Tom made it too, in a wheelchair, helped out by his sons. He was his usual self, wisecracking, critizing our “stiffness” and I'm sure that he wished he could be up on stage to show us how it was really done. He taught us all how to play, to make every note count, and give it our all. We were kids together, and in the halls of memory we will always be kids. But he is gone now, absolutely and for ever. And with his passing that part of my childhood has come to an end.

Fine Architecture: University of Minnesota

Aftermath of Alpha Nu of Chi Psi party (fraternity founded in 1874):

10 Church Street Building, formerly James Ford Bell Museum. Built in the 1930s in an Art Deco style, refurbished in 2024:

Modern Brutalist architecture at its finest, Williamson Hall (built 1977):

Employees with allergies have had to move out of Williamson because of mold, and the building leaks with heavy rain. Scheduled for demolition.

Hard Times Cafe

West Bank, Minneapolis, Minnesota:

Still grungy, after all these years:

Counter service only:

The restroom walls are works of art:

Grrr!

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

20th Century Fox

The bachelor blues.

The Weaver is with her mother, doing respite care for her father, which is a good thing. I am left to my own devices, told to “amuse yourself,” which can be good. #2 son has the car, no problem. I’ll bike four miles to the cineplex to catch the latest Drew Barrymore flick. (Why does she always get stuck with SNL cast-offs as her leading men?) The wind is blowing in my face, the road is uphill, and for the first time this year it is warm enough that I work up a sweat. Persevere! After being restricted in my movements for 5 weeks with a cracked rib, it feels good to be able to do vigorous physical activity again. I get to the cinema, pay my $8, and find the right theater.

I settle in, watch a half-dozen nearly incoherent previews, and then the show begins. Jimmy Fallon, likeable enough, looks like he’s still reading cue cards. A trimmer, more mature Drew is fun to watch; she usually takes me into her character right away. After Jimmy asks her for a date (he’s still reading cue cards) the scene shifts to a gym, where Drew and her girlfriends are provocatively riding exercise bicycles and discussing her fear of dating.

And then the movie stops.

This theater has an automatic slide show of advertisements that plays whenever the projector is not running. Cheesy Musak starts playing over the sound system. After a couple of minutes the projector starts, but no sound, only the cheesy Musak. The mood is broken. I take my ticket stub, go to the lobby and get a refund.

Motion picture technology is over 100 years old. Synchronized sound is nearly 80 years old. If $8 is not enough to insure a complete performance of an entertainment that hundreds of people spent months making and millions of dollars on, how much is?

Grrr.

I ride home, cool off, talk to the Weaver on the phone and write this post. Oh well, I guess I’ll read a book (Under The Glacier, by Halldór Laxness.) I know that the book won’t be breaking down… hmm… It's almost 10:30. I wonder who's on SNL tonight?

Maybe it's The Best Of Jimmy Fallon!

Red Dog Farm

A novel by
Nathaniel Ian Miller
Little, Brown and Company, 2025

A different kind of Icelandic farm story.

The protagonist, Orri, is adrift in life, attending university in Reykjavík, when he returns to the farm he grew up on in the Borganes peninsula. A minor crisis extends his stay and the story develops from there. Author Miller is not Icelandic, but he does a fair job in describing the challenges of trying to make a living farming in a sub-artic region. Orri is also adrift with developing any personal relationships, and is somewhat estranged from his parents; these facts also become part of the plot. There is a subtheme of alienation (his grandmother is a Lithuanian Jew) and the story of how she came to Iceland after World War II figures in as well.

Orri’s only friend is Rúna, a lesbian from a nearby farm, and in his efforts to help her find a mate, he discovers Mihan, a young woman of Filipino ancestry who lives in Akureyri, and she and Orri become long-distance lovers.

Despite all this, the ‘meat’ of the story is the farm, its animals, and the endless labor required to make it all work, dealing with lots of mud, blood, shit and piss. If reading about those things doesn’t appeal to you, you might want to skip this book.

The writing is straightforward; don’t expect any Laxness-like prose from Miller. There was an occasional whiff of cultural appropriation, but not enough to prevent me from finishing the book.

A marginal recommendation.

Strange Santa Fe

Monochrome musings, 2025:

I Heart the Shaggs

Twenty years ago on FITK…



Shop talk at work goes ‘round and ‘round; it is an attractive veneer laid over the work experience.

Talk about music is common, the Olson twins who work with me have wide tastes (excepting that Don is allergic to Country) and that helps the day go by a little easier. Eventually, the Shaggs came up in conversation.

They were a group of girls from Fremont, New Hampshire, who recorded an album of original songs unlike anything made before or since. The complete story is here. My co-workers’ minds were suitably blown by the girls’ unique musical vision. The thing that keeps me intrigued is the philosophy (implied and overtly stated) that comes through:

It doesn’t matter what you do
It doesn’t matter what you say
There will always be one who wants things the opposite way
We do our best, we try to please
But we’re like the rest we're never at ease
You can never please
Anybody
In this world

-Philosophy Of the World, by Dorothy Wiggins

With titles such as:
What Should I Do?
Things I Wonder
Why Do I Feel?
Who are parents?
-and, the ultimate Shaggs song::

The Shaggs gave an honest inside view of the world from an adolescent perspective, free of pretense, influence or accepted musical conventions.

Flippism at its finest.