Minnesota was making some progress, reputation-wise. We used to be known for miserable weather, but thanks to the efforts of many thousands of stalwart, politically active, civic minded citizens, we were well on the way to becoming famous for election recounts.
Now it’s back to weather.
This weekend’s snowstorm put the upper Midwest front and center on many news summaries coast-to-coast. Apocalypse in the Heartland! We could have withstood that negative publicity by sharing the weight with Iowa and Wisconsin, but Sunday morning’s deflation of the Metrodome re-reminded the rest of the nation that Minnesota is part of the upper Midwest. Dang. And as the repairs are made over the next few days, it will be bitterly cold. Double dang. They were just starting to forget!
All we can do is graciously embrace the climate we were given with a zen-like acceptance. Toward that end, I suggest you consider writing a Metrodome Deflation Haiku. It’s fun. And once you’ve done it you can read your work of artsy genius out loud, using a breathy, downward vocal trajectory. Just like all the air rushing out of something.
The Americanized version of haiku uses three unrhymed lines a 5 – 7 – 5 syllable sequence.
My bumpy pillow
Feels as cold as a blizzard.
White sand fills my dreams.
Fully inflated
They call me impervious
But I don’t like snow.
Brett Farve’s shoulder must
hurt like torn fabric panels
waving in the breeze.
I can hear a painful wind rattling and bumping against the siding. The frigid blast that follows a snowstorm will entertain, enlighten and envelop us for the next few days at least.
At my location the high today is expected to be 4. I shouldn’t complain. Already it’s 1, so the external warmth will quadruple! Sunshine helps. The breeze hurts, literally. I will spend at least part of today using a shovel to lift frozen chunks of snow, and then finding a way to hurl them in a direction that is NOT into the wind.
I’ll spend the rest of the day trying NOT to slide into a roadside ditch.
The eastern wind, by the way, blows snow into our crawl space of an attic. Something in the design of the vents, which are configured to keep snow out. yields to that persuasive eastern gale. As a result, a wet spot appeared on the ceiling of one of the interior rooms, so I was crawling through insulation last night, scooping snow and wet cellulose fiber into buckets. Not an ideal Saturday night diversion.
This is what extreme weather brings – a sense of urgency. Whatever you had planned for the moment is not as important as the fact that nature, the ultimate hacker, is launching an assault on the systems that keep you alive. The grandiose view of the situation is that “nature is trying to kill me”, but in fact nature doesn’t care either way. Humbling? That’s the point.
What a lovely, memorable weekend we have in store, full of all the things we cherish about winter. A heap of snow driven by piercing winds and the kind of deep cold that will survive for generations through the folk art known as Old Fart Storytelling. The luckiest ones among us will be able to bore grandchildren decades from now with exaggerated horror stories about the winter of ’10. Take notes. Add imagination. Pin their ears back. I’m going to go out to dig in a few minutes, and I hope to find a frozen bison on the front walk.
Meanwhile, in relatively milder Charlotte, North Carolina, it’s finals day in the Individual World Poetry Slam, an event that claims it will place a crown on “The Number One Poet In The World.”
If you’re going to go to the trouble of holding the event, be bold!
One of the contestants is a well-known slam poet and teacher, making a return to competition after “retiring” in 2005. Taylor Mali is known for a poem called “What Teachers Make”, which ran around the internet as a bit of what he calls “Inspirational Cyber-Spam” in several different versions, all under the name “Anonymous”.
It’s a good poem and a satisfying tale of a dinner party dressing-down, right up there with the blizzard war story you’re going to write after this weekend. But what caught my eye was a different poem, rendered this way:
Taylor Mali says this animation of his work was done without his permission, but “what would you do when the result is so good?”
How do you make something that is already good, better?
It appears some people in Congress who were faithful supporters of the administration will not go along with the tax compromise announced this week. I guess we need a break-up song for President Obama and factions inside the Democratic Party.
There are many, many break up songs. One of the most popular new ones is by Cee-Lo Green.
I see you drivin’ round town
with the girl I love and I’m like,
F— You. Ooo Ooo Ooo.
Catchy tune, and it has the cultural advantage of sounding like the kind of thing you actually hear real people saying on some street corners, in select coffee shops, on certain bus routes, at every local bar, and at the customer service counter in Wal-Mart. But for my money, “F— You” is missing something important – the wounded innocence that makes a break-up song great. And class. I do like the “Ooo Ooo Ooo” part, though.
Lesley Gore, backed up here by her Frantic Handkerchief Dancers, made this one a hit in the mid-60’s.
“It’s My Party” is one of those rare songs that starts with the chorus.
It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to, cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you
It’s classic lyrical victimhood, and it will work for just about any break up situation or intra-party political dispute as long as you are willing to assume that it’s your birthday and you’ve been wronged in the most public way possible. Plus, it’s catchy, and that’s what most people remember.
The rest of the words … well, we can make them what we want. Right? For President Obama and the Democrats, we could do this:
I thought my guy would stay right by my side
You all know what we had.
But now he’s drifting away
Compromising like mad.
CHORUS
Taxing the rich was our favorite dream
We agreed. It was grand.
Now he’s slow dancing with them
On our line in the sand!
CHORUS
HANDKERCHIEF DANCE BREAK (with sobbing)
He’s says it’s just a bipartisan thing.
He won’t love them like me.
I hoped he never would change.
Oh what audacity!
What is your favorite music for when you’re feeling blue (at a red state party)?
As part of yesterday’s discussion, tim offered lyrics by Loudon Wainwright III to a song called Plane, Too, from his second album, Album 2.
There was a hipster on the plane
There was a sailor, too
Big business man on the plane
Stewardess, too
I saw a movie on the plane
Grand Canyon, too
Earphone music on the plane
Time magazine, too
Airplane food was on the plane
Airplane coffee, too
Airplane booze was on the plane
Tea and milk was, too
Reclining seats were on the plane
Seatbelts, too
“No Smoking” sign was on the plane
In French and English, too
Hostess button on the plane
Ventilator, too
Vomit bag was on the plane
Oxygen, too
There was a bathroom on the plane
A flushing toilet, too
There was a mirror on the plane
Me, too
Wainwright’s Album 2 was released in 1971. The big airplane news in the early 70’s was the introduction of the still impressive Boeing 747, the first of which was named the Juan T. Trippe (after the Boeing CEO), commissioned in October 1970.
That once proud jet, a marvel in its day, is now an empty hulk, rusting by a roadside in South Korea. I’m not permitted to post a photo of it here but you can see it by following this link to a website called airliners.net, where there is a gallery of photos taken of the same plane in different places all over the world through it’s working life. The aircraft is a superstar, fallen on hard times.
The big concept was to operate the fuselage as a restaurant, thinking that people might find it charming to eat on a plane. But no one who has ever eaten anything on a plane could possibly think it would be fun or worthwhile to climb into an aircraft to receive a meal of any kind. The airlines created a reality too stark to overcome, and this marketing idea flopped.
Though apparently the notion still has some lift in Germany, where this unique dining experience awaits.
Cafe' Restaurant Silbervogel
Please fasten your seatbelt and share your most memorable (for whatever reason) restaurant stories.
Teenagers live such anguished lives. Here’s the latest quandary from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden.
Hey Mr. C.,
I was talking to my friend Doug about music yesterday and he said we should form a band. Not just the two of us, but us and a few other people. I said that sounded cool even though I don’t know how to play any kind of instrument and am not a very good singer, but he said that’s all right you don’t have to be a good singer to be in a band.
What you have to have is a good name with enough attitude that people will remember it. He said a good name for our band would be “The Flaming Sacks of Poop”, because it’s something shocking that you can picture and it’s real hard to forget. At first you might even want to stomp on it to make it go away but then, if you think for even a moment, you realize you’d better not. So it’s got a special appeal for the brainy audience too.
I said I did not want to be known as “A Flaming Sack of Poop”, and was thinking that a better name would be “The Kings of Seduction”, because that sounds smooth and classy.
He said “Kings of Seduction” is the kind of name people forget as soon as they hear it. They’d be left wondering if we were in charge of Seduction or Romance or Chocolates, whereas “Flaming Sacks of Poop” is the kind of name that creates a lasting memory.
We decided to let the new members of the band figure it out, so we invited Brandon and Heather to join us and we told them what the name choices were. Brandon liked the “Flaming Sacks of Poop”, and Heather was for “Kings of Seduction”, even though she is more Queen-like, personally. That didn’t really accomplish anything.
So then Doug said let’s find a middle ground just like the president did on the rich people tax and call our band “The Kings of Poop”. But then Heather said what about “The Flaming Sacks of Seduction”? This went on for a while. Compromise is hard.
Now it looks like our group is going to be called “Dung Love Combustion”, which I really hate. But unless I agree I guess our careers will never get started, and this may be my only chance to be in a band – ever. Because I still don’t know how to play anything.
Should I go along with a decision that feels ridiculous, or stand my ground?
Your rockin’ pal,
Bubby
I told Bubby he should address a more fundamental question. Can a non-musical person make a meaningful contribution to a band? Making a compromise to get the band up and running may turn out to be a mistake if the result is bad music and embarrassment. Perhaps the time spent arguing over a name could’ve been put to better use studying the guitar.
But learning things is also difficult, and inventing names is fun!
What’s the best band name you ever heard? Or would like to hear?
I know the espionage news is serious, but I can’t help thinking about what a strange word we’ve added to our vocabulary.
“Wikileaks”.
It sounds funny every time I hear it. And when I hear a funny word, I immediately want to use it in a sentence. Or better, a headline. But you know how it is with headlines. For a truly historic one to emerge, conditions must be right.
For instance, if a 1990’s talk show host got an exclusive interview on Twitter with Julian Assange, it might be called:
Rikki Lake’s Wikileaks Tweets
If the interview was altered and delayed for seven days due to illness:
Sickly Week Tweaks Rikki Lake’s Wikileaks Tweets
If Arab royalty became annoyed by the sudden changes:
Sheiks Piqued As Sickly Week Tweaks Rikki Lake’s Wikilealks Tweets
But if Ms. Lake sent her technical staff to calm the disturbance:
Geeks Speak To Piqued Sheiks As Sickly Week Tweaks Rikki Lake’s Wikileaks Tweets.
And if those emissaries had been recklessly eating fudgesicles before the meeting:
Sticky Cheeked Geeks Speak To Piqued Sheiks As Sickly Week Tweaks Rikki Lake’s Wikileaks Tweets.
If tangential observers darkly predicted unsatisfactory results, thus annoying the pocket protector wearing ambassadors:
Oblique Critiques Freak Sticky Cheeked Geeks Who Speak To Piqued Sheiks As Sickly Week Tweaks Rikki Lake’s Wikileaks Tweets.
Although those unkind observations about the work of such resourceful techno-wizards might draw an attack by angry pecking birds of prey, who show no reluctance to cover their antagonists in rivers of their own blood:
Eagle Beaks Wreak Icky Streaks Over Oblique Critiques That Freak Sticky Cheeked Geeks Who Speak To Piqued Sheiks As Sickly Week Tweaks Rikki Lake’s Wikileaks Tweets.
Recently, while going through some family papers that had been collected by my late brother, I discovered a 1902 newspaper account of a relative who died after being hit by a train. The headline read:
GROUND BENEATH CARS
Sad Death of Lola Irving Leonard
Lola Leonard
It tells the story of an 18-year-old high school senior in Yonkers, New York who was on her way home after school one rainy December afternoon. Apparently she slipped and fell while trying to board a train and the wheels of the last car ran over her legs. After an emergency amputation and four and a half hours of suffering, she passed away.
The “unfortunate girl”, as the article described her, was my great grandmother’s sister, but this was not a story I grew up with. In fact, the only “Lola Leonard” I knew of was not my great grand-aunt, but my grandmother, born in 1905, just a few years after the train station tragedy. Clearly she was named for her mother’s lost sibling. You’d think such a story would become family legend, but the episode might have been too painful pass along. I literally heard it for the first time a few weeks ago. I’m glad someone decided to save the article, and that I had a chance to see the yellowed newsprint before it crumbled away to nothing.
All of that came to mind yesterday when I spotted a You Tube video which has since traveled around the world several million times. If you haven’t seen it yet you should take a look, especially if you admire courage and like happy endings. Spoiler Alert – A man in Madrid falls off a station platform on to some railroad tracks and another man pulls him out of the way at the last possible moment.
I’ll be interested to read the complete story when someone manages to tell it. Some accounts have said the man who fell on the rails was drunk. That’s possible. Being drunk would certainly explain what happened, though there are other ways to topple off a platform.
Another account said the off duty policeman who performed the rescue ran to the spot where he jumped down on the tracks to help. Maybe so, but he seems awfully relaxed as he approaches the scene. Maybe he’s not relaxed, but exhausted, or scared. Another story claimed the rescuer’s name was “Angel”. Perhaps it was. If not, it’s possible his name will be “Angel” by the time the Hallmark TV special is filmed.
If you watch the video, note the reaction of the people in the station. Clearly they are concerned. Man on the tracks! They want to save him and they try to flag down the onrushing train. Some turn away at the last moment because they can’t bear to watch what they fear is about to happen. I understand all of that completely. I think we’d all like to be the strong person of action who moves quickly and decisively in a moment of crisis, but if I was put in the same situation I’m pretty sure I would be one of the well-meaning people who stayed on the platform, and not the hero who faced the danger.
A salute to the Spanish policeman for his physical courage!
And in the lesser category of linguistic feats, I commend one of the commentators following this story in the online edition of London’s Daily Mail.
A typographically challenged reader named Jeremy remarked about the hero:
“And he was so clam doing it!”
To which another reader named “K” responded:
“It would be difficult to accuse that bloke of being shellfish.”
What a brave bit of wordplay. My hero!
What’s the most courageous thing you’ve ever seen?
This weekend’s post is late, short and full of white space, thanks to our early December snowstorm and the 7 hours I spent on the road with family Friday afternoon, evening, night and early Saturday morning, driving to and from Northfield for the St. Olaf Christmas Festival.
We crawled there and slid home.
Our big plans to dine at the pre-performance smorgasbord turned into bananas and pretzels from a highway rest stop. But at least we stayed out of the ditch and were in our seats before the first note sounded.
Amazingly, I started out this trip with no windshield scraper in the car. It seems I always have to go through one storm without it before I remember to toss the thing in back. Why is that? I know I’m not the only one to do this, but it seems incredibly dumb, none the less.
The rhythm of the wipers pounding on accumulating ice put me in mind of the holiday classic, “Up On The Housetop”.
Ice on the windshield, freezing hard.
Out I jump with a Visa card.
Scraping away with a thin flat thing.
So we can hear all the Oles sing.
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ice on the windshield, slip slip slip!
Oh what a jolly winter’s trip!
First comes the traffic that’s mostly stopped.
More icy build-up that must be chopped!
Thousands of lights that are mostly red.
Sending a message – slow ahead!
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ice on the windshield, crack crack crack!
Sliding along down a slushy track!
Next comes the traffic with room to flow.
This is no better than stop-and-go.
Pressing my bumper, an SUV.
Feeling much nearer, my God, to thee.
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ice on the windshield, clump clump clump!
Oh what a lovely, snowy dump!
Last comes the part where we make it home.
Plowing through snow with a sing song poem.
White knuckle driving will stress your heart.
All worth the trouble for choral art.
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ho ho ho, who wouldn’t go?
Ice on the windshield, smook smook smook! What is the worst snowy trip you took?
Once legitimate and now somewhat sensational journalist Bud Buck has decided to turn his limited attention to Minnesota’s Gubernatorial Race. He sent a note yesterday promising a story that would “break the recount wide open”. Bud told me to watch for his “bombshell”. Naturally I was suspicious. Bud has a tendency to rely on a single source for his reporting. A single source if you don’t count his vivid imagination. When the story arrived this morning I saw proof positive that I had good reason to be concerned.
Galactic Fraud Hinted At!
By Bud Buck
Scientists studying the galaxies have reached a startling conclusion that should cause Minnesota election officials to re-examine their methodology and data.
In a paper published this week in the science journal “Nature”, researchers have determined that there has been a massive undercounting of the number of stars in the sky. Previous assumptions made about star populations based on the density of our own Milky Way may have led enumerators to overlook gazillions of faint stars known as “Red Dwarves”. New scholarship suggests there could be trillions of these uncounted furnaces in some elliptical shaped galaxies alone.
This revelation was eagerly seized by activists following the re-count in Minnesota’s Gubernatorial race. “Note that these stars are categorized by cosmologists as “red”,” said Julius Blustering, a self-described ‘constitutional astronomer’ who has been camped in front of the Secretary of State’s office since mid-November. “There was no mention in the paper of any undercounting of “blue” stars.”
Standing in front of his three cornered tent that mimics the design of the well-known Patriot hat style, Blustering pointing out that conditions in the larger universe are often mirrored on a much smaller scale here below. He demanded that the Minnesota Secretary of State use a similar methodology to the one used in the star study to cross check the gubernatorial ballots from last month’s election.
“The scientists figured out they had something wrong in the count when they examined the temperature of distant galaxies. There were differences in the readings that could only be explained by the presence of a larger than expected number of red stars,” said Blustering. “I call on the election officials to use the last remaining Shuttle launch in conjunction with the Hubble Space Telescope to train those same scientific instruments on every Minnesota precinct. If the temperature readings mirror the actual division of votes, no problem. But if things don’t match up, that’ll be a clear sign there are more red votes than the ‘official’ tallies indicate!”
Blustering’s demand was dismissed by election officials as impractical, unscientific, unconstitutional, and possibly a delaying tactic intended to create a political advantage for one side in the dispute.
“Nonsense.” said Blustering. “We’ve been looking at the stars for several thousands of years and are just now getting the count right. What I’m proposing will take less than half that time.”
Trail Baboon 
