Category Archives: Night Life

Music and passion at the X

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Disclosure time: my wife is a big Barry Manilow fan. I didn’t know this about her before we were married. She knows that hers is a love that dare not speak its name since, despite the giga-bazillion records he has sold, the Manilow brand is anathema to many.

One time we went to a work-related Christmas party that featured a white elephant gift exchange; one of those things where, as a gag, people give away stuff in their possession that they don’t want. In the luck of the draw, my wife received a Barry Manilow double-album and was thrilled, to the dismay of my co-workers. My wife no longer attends work-related Christmas parties with me.

I also used to have one of those CD-buying club memberships; you know the ones that just about require surgery to get removed from you. Despite what my membership in the club says about my judgment, I wouldn’t let my wife order a Barry Manilow CD from the club. “The government keeps track of those records and, as the membership is in my name, I don’t want that in my permanent record.”

Nevertheless, my wife has fond memories of the two Barry Manilow concerts she’s attended.

Actually, make that three.

Thursday one of my co-workers who does a lot of work with the United Way received four comp tickets from the organization to Friday night’s Manilow concert. He either couldn’t or wouldn’t use them himself so he sent an email around the office that these were available. Now, I could have ignored it and my wife would have been none the wiser, but I knew how much she liked Barry Manilow and what it meant to her, and could mean to me, if I could get those tickets. I called. Amazingly, they were still available. I called my wife. When she answered the phone I crooned, “I write the songs that make the whole world sing…”

“What?” she said.

“Well, do you know who writes the songs?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know he’s in concert tomorrow night at the Xcel?”

“No.”

“Do you know who has tickets to the concert?”

“Nooooo…”

“We do.”

*Unintelligible shrieking.*

Perspective

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This morning I had to get up and out of the house early in order to have a root canal done. I was delighted!

You see, the last couple of weeks have been almost surreal. While we were out of town for my father’s funeral a friend of ours (a man just a year older than myself) also passed away from cancer. We got back in in time to go to his funeral; meanwhile Paul Keuttel of Wog’s Blog died, as did my grandmother’s brother. Then last weekend the brother of one of my wife’s best friends died in a hunting accident. My wife went to his funeral yesterday.

So, anyway, do you know how it is sometimes when you know you have to get up early for something; how you have trouble getting to sleep, or staying asleep, and you get those weird dreams? Well, around 4:00 a.m. this morning I half-awoke, thinking I’d overslept. When I saw the clock I went back to sleep, but kept waking up every 20 minutes or so to look at the clock. The worst part of it was even though I’d wake up, I’d keep going back into the same dream where another close member of my family had died — and that the 7:30 a.m. appointment I had to get up for wasn’t to see the dentist but to give the eulogy, which I had yet to write. To say my sleep was fitful is an understatement.

When I finally woke up (at the time I’d originally planned to) I regained enough clarity to suddenly realize, “Wait a minute, I don’t have to give a eulogy at a funeral — I’m only supposed to get a root canal!”

Wow, talk about a day-brightener!

Jesse Ventura finishes fourth book

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…And boy, are his lips tired!

Whoops, it appears he’s written his fourth book.

From the Pioneer Press:

Former Minnesota Gov. Jesse Ventura largely disappeared from public view when he left office five years ago, but he isn’t keeping his opinions to himself.

He co-wrote a book, filled with his feelings on politics, international affairs and the media, due out next April.

“It really reflects Gov. Ventura,” said Bill Wolfsthal, associate publisher at the New York-based Skyhorse Publishing. “It’s energetic and opinionated and absolutely fascinating.”

The book, “Don’t Start the Revolution Without Me,” was co-written with author Dick Russell.

“It really is great reading,” Wolfsthal said.

I heard the original title was “Don’t Start the Promotion Without Me.”

I don’t know art, but I know what I like

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Business took me over to the Walker Art Center today. Afterwards, since we’d parked the car over by the Parade Stadium parking lot, we decided to take a walk through the Sculpture Garden on the way back to our ride.

It wasn’t the nicest day outside; gray skies, temperature around 40 and a light but cold wind. Nevertheless, there was something very appealing about walking down the paved lane toward the famous Spoon and Cherry bridge.

On a summer day, the view from the lane toward the sculpture is like unto a rich oil painting:

On a day like today the effect is very much pen and ink. In summer the leaves on the trees soften the lines and obscure the trunks of the trees. Today the trees looked like stark, straight columns converging on the sculpture, echoed in miniature by the parallel hand rails, as the red orb of the cherry became the focal point against the gray sky and the dull grass. The leaves were now dry, gold flakes pushed by the wind into a long ribbon that meandered the lane more or less in a diagonal.

I know the view is no accident. Someone with vision and precision laid these lines with precisely this effect in mind and I sense the subtle harmony of balance and perspective. Behind me, inside the Walker, are some beautiful works — and many that are tortured executions of an artist’s self-absorption, intended to resonate only in some critical echo chamber, to be praised for bringing us face to face with some existential ugliness or dissonant reality or other such twaddle. In this moment outside, however, and in this light, there is a beauty and grace and a palpable, pervasive resonance, despite the bitterness of the day.

Or I suppose you could just say it was pretty.

If I had my druthers

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Sadie Hawkins Day. The Shmoo. Lower Slobovia. Joe Bfstplk, Evil Eye Fleegle and General Bullmoose. Lonesome Polecat and Hairless Joe. Stupyfyin’ Jones and Moonbeam McSwine. Marryin’ Sam, Fearless Fosdick and Kickapoo Joy Juice.

If you still don’t know what I’m talking about, here are the final clues: Dogpatch, U.S.A; Daisy Mae and Li’l Abner.

Today is the birthday of Al Capp, creator of the classic comic strip “Li’l Abner” that was the model for bringing entertainment and political commentary to the masses via daily syndication. (Don’t worry, “Pogo” fans — I’m with you there, too.)

I read Li’l Abner daily in the Indianapolis Star when I was growing up (though I probably understood maybe 20% of it) and whenever I could until Capp shut the strip dowin in 1977. A highlight of my teen years was appearing in a stage production of Li’l Abner in my high school play. The director/drama teacher wanted me to be Li’l Abner or Marryin’ Sam, but I could not sing. A lick. So what else was there to do with all this talent, imposing, broad shoulders and no vocal talent but to take on the role of Earthquake McGoon, who’s singing was supposed to be awful. And I nailed it. Every night.

(And a happy, one-day-late birthday to you, Stupyfyin’ Jones. And Mr. Fleegle, there might still be a need for your services in regards to the Mall Diva.)

If’n I had my druthers, I’d still be reading Li’l Abner. Natcherly!

1, 2, 3, 4 …

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Huzzah, it’s football season again! That means I’m spending more time in front of the tube watching a game…and all of the commercials that go with it. By this point in my life I can pretty much tune these out (though I can’t explain these strange cravings for cheese puffs, fast food and big screen TVs), but I make note of commercials I like and those that drive me crazy.

Of the latter, what’s really bugging me lately are the commercials for Ford trucks. Now I like Mike Rowe a lot and his “Dirty Jobs” show is something the kids and I like to catch. He’s a likable enough pitchman for Ford, but if he’s getting paid for every time those commercials run he’s going to have more than enough to tell someone else to do those dirty jobs. Every TV timeout this last weekend featured one of two different Ford truck commercials. I mean it, I started to count on them: a commercial break would occur and I’d think, “Let’s see, last break they showed the one with the truck stopping the cargo plane so that means that this break it will be the one with the truck going through the road course backwards” — and I’d be right! And I hate it when I’m right! (About things like this anyway.) The repetition is enough to make me reject the Flomax commercials because suddenly having to go to the bathroom at every commercial break doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.

This year’s crop of Coors Light commercials with the hokey coach interviews (which I ripped last year) are still annoying, though I’m glad they’ve let poor Bill Walsh rest in peace. The only interest I’ve taken in these is that they fulfilled my prediction of using Denny Green’s infamous “they are who we thought they were” meltdown from last year, but even that just makes me mad to think that he’s still getting paid.

On the “like” side, though, I have to admit to being beguiled by the iPod Nano commercial that features a series of the little video-playing Nanos being lifted off the table like playing cards while showing a music video of a woman in an electric blue jumpsuit. Now I’m not an iPod kind of guy. My lifestyle is not such that I need to have my ears tickled non-stop by some form of musical entertainment. But the little song the woman is singing keeps growing on me, or perhaps it’s the almost laughably simplistic choreography in the video that somehow reminds me of the dance scene in the Charlie Brown Christmas program. I don’t know just what it was, but it drove me to find out who the singer is and the name of the song.

I succeeded:

(If the video doesn’t play on your monitor you can also check it out at this link.)

Her name is Leslie Feist, a Canadian indie-fave and I’ve found a lot of her music on iTunes that I think I’ll be downloading (but for CDs, not an iPod).

Mmmm, catchy. “1,2,3,4, tell me why you love me more…”

Update:

My first impression of the choreography for this video was based on what I could see in the Nano screen in the TV commercial. Looking at it more closely, while the dance moves are simple, the camera-work is very creative and cleverly makes use of perspective – and apparently it’s done in one amazing, continuous take!

Just say (ack!) “Yes” to (argh!) crack

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Friday night after the MOB golf event I was re-hydrating with fellow competitors and sports fans at the post-round cookout and fireworks over at Casa Foot. I didn’t figure prominently in the awards portion of the evening, though Learned Foot did create a previously unknown commemoration for me: the Iron Maiden “Number of the Beast” Award because I had finished the last three holes 6,6,6. “The devil made me do it,” I said modestly, in response to the crowd’s applause.

I thought the Valleywood TPC golf course to be a pain in the neck, but there might have been another source, as I discovered later in the evening when Chief started offering “adjustments” to folks. Derek’s a martial arts and fitness buff with some chiropractic background. I noticed him mauling people around but originally figured he was just trying to get them to write for True North (more on that another time). When he asked me if I had any problems with my back I initially said “no.” Then I thought about the pain between my shoulder blades that emanates as a dull ache up into my neck and that has been plaguing me for the last couple of months, due no doubt to too much time hunching over my laptop trying to keep up with projects at work. It would be nice if that could go away ….

“It only looks kind of gay,” Chief assured me, sensing I was wavering. I told him what my pain was and he said he could help. First he had me lie face down on the floor with my arms swept back like jet wings, and palms up. “You know, even this hurts,” I said. Chief stood over me and put his hands on my back. “Man, you should feel the meat on this guy,” he said to some observers. “Okay, now that sounds gay,” I said.

The next thing I knew he’d put his fists together and applied a series of four rolls up my spine; the crackling could be heard even over my sudden, and involuntary, exclamations. I began to feel as if there was too much blood in my brain. Next Chief had me lie on my back with my arms crossed and wrapped around myself so that my elbow lined up with my sternum. He then put most of his weight across my chest, which delivered a sharp, piercing jolt between my shoulder blades and into the floor. I got a picture in my mind of on insect mounted on art board for a Science Fair project.

Finally we stood back-to-back with our elbows linked, then he scrunched down a little so his hips were below mine and he leaned forward, stretching me out in a rack-like fashion. This induced a loud cracking sound like a roof beam giving way and an exclamation from me that sounded something like “Awa-ahahahah-Ha!”

Redeposited on my feet I stood there mentally sending scouts out to the ends of my extremities. “Does that feel better, or does that feel worse?” Chief asked. “What was the question again?” I said. Actually, I certainly didn’t feel any worse, and it seemed as if there was a greater range of motion. I figured the next morning would tell the tale, and I found everything working when I got out of bed. I then went downstairs and while the coffee was brewing I stood by the kitchen peninsula and turned my head down to read the newspaper. In a few moments I realized that I didn’t have that cramping sensation and discomfort in my neck that I’d become used to lately. I went around and sat in various chairs and found myself to be quite comfortable. I mimiced my laptop pose and still felt some strain, but maybe only 10% of what it was before.

I felt so good I even decided to participate in the Paintball Wars on Sunday afternoon, but more on that later.

Thunder and lightning

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I often think about how much I enjoy living indoors. Usually these thoughts come on Monday mornings when I try to remember why I’m getting out of bed. Coincidentally, the thought also came to me as I lay in bed last night, absorbing one of the most unusual thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced.

The typical Minnesota thunderstorm features sporadic flashes of lightning, followed by the thunder. I automatically find myself counting the seconds between the flash and the bang. Sometimes you get that kind of fireworks-like thrill on the close ones where the boom crashes down on you in the split second immediately after the flash. Is it the electric-charge in the air or the startle reflex that makes those hairs stand up on the back of your neck when that happens?

Last night, however, was a non-stop flash and roll that went on seemingly forever. The vibrations were so fierce and persistent that I could feel them coming up from the floor and into the bed. The lighting was constant, flickering like a flourescent bulb that is going bad. If I’d had my reading glasses on I think I could have read by it, though the effort probably would have made me nauseous. Meanwhile the thunder was a continuous tympani of rolling rumbles that made it impossible to determine which bark went with which bite. Except for the one time, that is, when the sheet of light shocked the east window of our bedroom at the same time the thunder came through the north window like Kong looking for Fay Wray.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know how long the storm ultimately lasted. There’s just something so comforting about being snug and dry when something like that is going on — even under these extreme conditions — that I went to sleep before the show was over. Can anybody tell me how it turned out?

Fat chance, Lafayette

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The Highway 35 bridge over the Mississippi was one that I was pretty familiar with, but didn’t have to drive on too often in recent years. When it fell I had little trouble picturing it in my mind — or imagining the sensation of being one of those trapped on the span when it fell. I was very glad that I wasn’t on that bridge and that it wasn’t part of my direct commute.

Later, as we heard what was known about the condition of the bridge, I also thought about human nature and whether I would, if I knew the bridge’s condition, have continued to drive that bridge if it was the fastest way to work. How difficult would it have been to rationalize saving 10 or 15 minutes in order to drive on a bridge that even with its deficiencies was still considered safe to drive by experts? And how stupid would I have then felt when I felt the first tremor? I was glad that I hadn’t had to try and work that one out.

Or so I thought.

Over 100 state bridges rated worse than 35W
(Article and graph from St. Paul Pioneer Press, August 5.)

Before the Interstate 35W bridge collapsed into the Mississippi River, state engineers viewed another Twin Cities bridge as a more serious threat: the Lafayette Bridge in downtown St. Paul.

The span over the Mississippi River is scheduled to be replaced in 2011 – many years before the I-35W bridge would have been – and suffers the same key defect that experts say contributed to Wednesday’s disaster. It was built with an outdated design that doesn’t prevent the entire structure from falling if one component fails.

“Drive across the Lafayette Bridge in rush hour sometime,” said Ramsey County Commissioner Tony Bennett. “It shakes. I won’t drive on it. That bridge is in dire need.”

The Lafayette is one of about 100 bridges in Minnesota considered to be in worse condition than the I-35W span that crumbled during rush hour Wednesday, according to a review of inspection records. The collapse has left many wondering how one of the state’s most heavily traveled bridges could have simply succumbed during normal, everyday traffic.

…

MnDOT engineer Chris Roy, interviewed before the collapse of the I-35W bridge, said the Lafayette has structural flaws and called it a “high-maintenance” bridge. It received a “poor condition” rating for its superstructures (I-beams, girders) and a “fair condition” rating for its deck. The substructure is in “good condition.”

The bridge also suffers the same inherent flaw as the I-35W bridge – it was built without structural redundancies.

“It’s a type of bridge design that we wouldn’t build anymore,” Roy said.

The Lafayette Bridge is part of my commute, and I’ve driven it at least twice a day for ten years, plus countless other trips into St. Paul. I have felt it bounce and vibrate at times, and I have looked over the edge (especially when south-bound) at the long drop that makes my knees tingle at the prospect, even before the recent and dramatic demonstration that bridges can fail.

Hearing that the Lafayette Bridge was considered to be in more immediate need of replacement than the (when it was still standing) Hwy. 35 bridge, I had to ask myself another question: “Do you feel lucky, punk?”

So today I took 35E to Ayd Mill Road and got onto Hwy. 94 east of Hwy. 280 where the congestion was really starting to back up. It took 45 minutes to get to my office, which is about what it’s been taking “normally” this summer with the effects of all the other road construction in the system keeping traffic clogged during a time of year that is usually pretty free-flowing due to significant parts of the workforce taking vacations any given week. I also have the choices of the Wabasha and Robert Street bridges (lovely bridges, but you have to crawl through downtown St. Paul to get to the highway).

I understand that “deficient” doesn’t mean “defective” and that in engineering terms the Lafayette Bridge is still considered adequate. The story I cited above also reports that the old Wabasha bridge had a “4” rating before it was ultimately closed and rebuilt in ’96, and that the Stillwater Lift Bridge has a 2.8 rating and people are still driving over it. I understand that there are bridges with lower ratings still being used. I also, however, understand that “fracture critical” means that the Lafayette Bridge, like the 35W bridge, has no safety redundancies if part of it starts to go.

You know, the scenery is really rather nice along Ayd Mill Road.

Update: Another story in the Strib today describes more concerns with the Lafayette Bridge, including an incident when a large crack in the main beam led to a 7″ dip in the roadway.

Connections

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Wednesday I left my car at home to have the windshield replaced after the little bit of excitment I described on Tuesday. This meant I commuted in my wife’s car, which does not have a radio antenna. While I have used the Hwy. 35 bridge before to get in and out of downtown, my drive typically takes me through the University and I bypass the ramp leading to the span. This summer I’ve avoided this route altogether because of the construction related to the new Gopher stadium. Out of touch and out of the way, I didn’t hear about the collapse of the bridge until about 6:15 when I got home, switched cars and decided to go out to Culver’s for dinner before church. Hearing the news was an eerie recollection of getting the first reports on the morning of 9/11.

Just like then it was a brilliant, sunny day and I was driving and listening to the radio and just like then I had to scramble mentally to convert the unreal into reality. It wasn’t hard, however, to create a picture in my mind of the all-too-familiar bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on the span and the sickening sensation of having the roadway tremble and fall beneath you. Those were my first thoughts, and then I started to inventory my family and friends. I was obviously safely out of the area, and my wife and youngest weren’t even in the country. My oldest daughter would still be at work in Roseville and wouldn’t take that route home anyway, but might find unexpected disruptions, so I used my cell phone to call hers and leave a short message on what had happened and what to expect. Then I thought of my parents in Missouri and their penchant for keeping the tv on and I knew that this wasn’t going to be just a local story, so I tried but couldn’t reach my mom’s cell, and then got my brother on his. He lived here for several years and knew the bridge; I told him we were all accounted for and fine.

As I waited for my food at Culver’s I remembered that my friend Ben would be on the bus heading this way for church. He lives near the bridge but his bus route wouldn’t logically take him that direction. Still, best to make sure. I called him on his cell and started to feel some relief when he answered. I asked, “Are you on the bus?” He replied, “Yes, and it’s horrible…” as my heart started to thump.

“Why, what’s going on, where are you?” I said with what what may have sounded to him like unwarranted agitation.

“Oh…some people…can be so clueless and rude sometimes,” he began.

I quickly filled him in on what was going on and determined that he, too, was well clear of the area. Driving to church I thought of my friend Harvey who is a bridge inspector for MNDOT and mused about how busy he was going to be. Just as I pulled up to the building the radio announced that a MNDOT bridge inspection team had been working at the site when the bridge collapsed. Uh-oh. I trotted inside. Our pastor was speaking and people were already praying; our pastor’s wife met me in the back of the room. “Harvey was there, but he’s all right.” The congregation continued to pray. I ducked out a couple of times during the evening as my cell phone vibrated, people trying to get a hold of me. When I got home there was a message from my folks. They hadn’t been watching the news that evening, but my grandmother had. She had called them, they had called me.

The next day I tried to get in to work early because my job would put me in the middle of creating and distributing any communications that might need to go out to our employees or clients. Our offices are very near the bridge and many of my co-workers could have been on it as they tried to get home. Traffic was predictably slow Thursday morning, so I called in to my new employee as I made my way west to see if anything was buzzing yet. I was a little embarrassed by the relief in her voice when I got through; it hadn’t crossed my mind earlier to let her know I had gotten safely across the river the night before, and I hadn’t yet thought to give her all my contact numbers.

Once I was in the office I was again reminded of 9/11. Back then we had had a number of clients and business contacts in the WTC, and many of our own staff were flying on business that day, some of them on the East Coast. Everyone was trying to get information; spouses were calling in, asking for itineraries or to find out if we’d had any word, a constant crowd of people was gathered around the small black and white monitor in the conference room as we hoped for new information every five minutes. Thursday we’d all already seen the pictures and it was very quiet as people almost whispered their conversations between the cubicles or kept to themselves, waiting for news. Given our proximity, could we, would we, escape unscathed? I called HR and I called our communications team in the Atlanta headquarters. As yet there had still been no word of anyone from our campus being hurt or missing. We were, however, already receiving countless phone calls and emails from our clients around the country, offering their concern, support and prayers.

As the day went on it seemed more and more likely that we hadn’t lost anyone from our Division or from the Minneapolis campus, which in fact turned out to be the case. Remarkably, we had been unaffected. That is not to say that we were untouched.