Imagine being the Norwegian art collector who happened to have a painting by Vincent Van Gogh stashed in the attic. The work had been identified as a Van Gogh over a century ago, but it was subsequently dismissed as a genuine masterpiece both in 1908 and 1991.

Well now it’s back, and in 2013 it’s a superstar. All is forgiven, “Sunset at Montmajour”. You’re legit!

If you happen to own the painting this is good news investment-wise, but it’s got to sting a bit aesthetically. After all, nothing about the artwork itself has changed. It is no more lovely today than it was last year or fifty years ago – the only difference is that the experts now agree it is an authentic Van Gogh. Sure, you can put the painting on display and draw admiring throngs, but remember you’re the one who had it stashed in the crawl space for years – tucked under the eaves with those moth-eaten area rugs and Grandma’s chipped china.

What does that say about your eye? Are you unable to appreciate beauty for its own sake? Or did you deliberately ignore the work because it had a spotty history and other people put it down? Does the brand name really mean that much?

In any case, this is very bad news for people trying to kick a knick-knack addiction or those in the professional clutter-reduction industry. Because nothing keeps an attic (or a basement) full of crap as surely as the notion that “some of that stuff could be worth a few bucks.”

But remember, that cuts both ways. Your unidentified attic treasures could be lost with the next pirate landing. I sent this story to Captain Billy, the skipper of the rogue ship Muskellunge, and he assured me that no matter where the riches are stashed, he and his boys are likely to unearth them, even if they’re not in the earth.

As swashbucklers are wont to do, he shared some drinking song lyrics that speak to the topic.

When pirates swarm across a port
they has techniques of every sort.
There’s some that comes in with the tide
and ravages from side to side.

What’s in your attic?

Dear Dr. Babooner,

Please help settle a family dispute.

The weather has been discouraging and we (and many others) have put it off too long, so today is pretty much our final chance to go to the Minnesota State Fair.

We know it’s going to be horrible.

In fact we expect to encounter a perfect storm of overpopulated misery, shuffling shoulder-to-shoulder around the fairgrounds with tired and smelly strangers just like us getting completely in our way at every ride, food booth and attraction.

And yet there is no question that we will go, because we are like spawning salmon swimming upstream and we feel compelled to throw ourselves against the rocks in a vain attempt to satisfy some primal urge. It doesn’t matter that bears are waiting to bite our heads off. We must return to the source.

Speaking of Fish Heads on a Stick, there is a fair food sequence in place for almost every member of our group. We each know the treats we must have and the order in which we will eat them. But one person is agitating for a break in the tradition – Aunt Peggy says since we are going super early to avoid the crowds, we should all make space in our calorie chart to enjoy a healthy breakfast at the State Fair.

Peggy has been a breakfast scold for ages, always eating fresh fruit, non-fat yogurt and Grape Nuts to start the day, and she harps that we will not regret it if we try something healthy and energizing.

Blah blah blah.

From my perspective, stomach real estate is a precious natural resource on my one-and-only State Fair day and I don’t want to waste a square centimeter of it by eating food that bears any resemblance to any kind of nourishment that nature would provide.

There is no way that Aunt Peggy can make me consume a bowl of oatmeal on the fairgrounds. That would be a travesty. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to stand around and wait while she eats her Tofu Sausage and berates me for my selfish, gluttonous ways.

Dr. Babooner, we’re a family and we always go to The Fair together. But would it be so wrong to ditch Aunt Peggy in the Swine Barn so the rest of us can have the kind of day we expect and deserve?

Sincerely,
I Want What I Want When I Want It

I told I.W.W.I.W.W.I.W.I. that Dr. Babooner has had an alarming number of complaints this year from people who feel they are being forced by others to experience The Fair in a way that is painful to them. Dr. Babooner is mystified that any person would try to direct the Fair experience of another, since we all have traditions that are so distinctly satisfying only to our selves. There is no “right” way to do The Fair.
That said, Dr. Babooner believes in eating a balanced and healthy breakfast, and one can never experience anything new unless one takes a chance from time to time and is brave enough to break the routine. Perhaps a small but healthy meal first thing on the fairgrounds would provide a reasonable start to an unusual and difficult day, and it may have the secondary beneficial effect of placating Aunt Peggy.
Plus, ditching people in the Swine Barn is cruel and unusual punishment.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

Now that the Minnesota State Fair is nearing its end (already!), the lawns of Falcon Heights are feeling the effects. Terribly hot, extremely dry weather will do that to a patch of grass. So will a steady stream of traffic rolling over what used to be a lush, green expanse.

Even as I use the “lush” “green” and “expanse”, I know they are misplaced. Nobody within 2 miles of the fairgrounds cares a whit what their front yard looks like. All that matters is how many F-250 pickups will fit between the hedge and the trees.

And so it will go for the Minnesota State Capitol’s lawn for the next few years, as it becomes a State Fair of sorts for construction crews doing renovation work on Cass Gilbert’s beautiful but needy building..

This is dangerous. Politics is blood sport, they say. But parking issues can turn minor conflicts thermo-nuclear. I saw a guy get fired once because he wouldn’t move his car out of a reserved spot.

The plan at the State Capitol is to put asphalt over the grass for the next four years while renovation work is underway. I’ve seen old pictures of the statehouse from a time when it was surrounded by less-than-adequate housing. The park-like surroundings of today are more pleasant-looking, but every piece of land deserves the chance to serve, at least one time, as a prime example of the best and highest use of real estate – a parking lot.

Work on the building will be extensive and the disruption significant as the capitol is shored up, spruced up and totally filled up with construction workers and their equipment. But the real test will come in 2017, when the work is done and the lawn is restdored – and all those powerful people will be told they are going to lose their convenient front-of-building parking.

Think what might happen when all that dust meets all that paper and political ambition!

When has a parking problem made you angry?

I saw a camper for sale by the side of the road yesterday and thought for a moment about what it might mean to own such a thing. That’s about as far as I can go into the wilderness – the few moments spent wondering about something I would take with me if I ever went there.

As we have already discussed on Trail Baboon, I’m not a survivalist. I do love unspoiled places – so much so I stay out of them so they can remain unspoilt.

The camper in question wasn’t huge. You could take it into the deep woods and perhaps maintain a level of comfort at mealtime and bedtime. The rest would be a truly natural experience, I suppose, except for the necessary gas and electric hookups. And the grocery bags full of food. Although I’d like to be self sufficient enough to feed myself from the land, I have not yet learned how to bag a wild potato chip.

This love of creature comforts is something I have always attributed to my Western upbringing, so I was relieved to read Paul Salopek’s latest post from his seven-year-long project to walk from the Rift Valley in East Africa to the southernmost tip of South America. He writes about his guide and companion, an endearing, frustrating man who packs heavy.

I get the romance and allure of built into the idea that you can toss a toothbrush and a change of clothes in a sack, sling it over your shoulder, and head out to feel absolutely at home anywhere in the world. I admire people who pack light, and for a time I thought I was one of them until I realized that I was really expecting my wife to be prepared so I didn’t have to be. Uncomfortable fact: If she stopped sharing her nail clippers and Tylenol, I wouldn’t be able to leave town.

What are the must-haves when pack for a journey?