I received a Christmas bonus this week, the fine sum of $100. No, it didn’t knock my socks off; in fact it was an utterly miserable offering bordering on insult but them’s the breaks around here. All other facets of my existence are exceptionally positive so I thought I should focus less on the amount of cash and more on how creative I could be with it.
With a baby due in less than three months and Martha quitting her job as soon as the youngster arrives we have been making a concerted effort to squirrel away some rainy day money. That’s had the effect of $100 of expendable money making me lightheaded with ridiculous dreams of exuberant and opulent purchases. Ooh, an original Faberge Egg! Ok, $100 might not stretch that far but five pairs of these (LINK) bad boys could be all mine.
23 December 2005
22 December 2005
Patent pending
A while ago I started writing down concepts that I believed had the potential to become million dollar ideas. I set these thoughts aside with the intention of coming back to them during moments of boredom. Of course, most of them already exist, like the mirror that doesn’t fog up when you shave and the machine that wraps Christmas presents.
But there are a few that have definite commercial potential like reusable heat shrink tubing that would revolutionize the medical catheter manufacturing business. This idea is reliant on the development of a heat activated memory fluropolymer such as Fluorinated Ethylene Propylene (FEP). This one keeps me up at night... I can virtually smell the dollars and the respect of my fellow man.
Ok, enough shite...
Hold onto your hat because this next one is the real deal. I call it Central Tea™.
This scenario should illustrate my concept. A regular Sunday morning will find me in the shed sawing/drilling/gluing something. The radio is on, I’m nice and warm, relaxed and not thinking about work. What could compliment this perfect moment? A cup of tea, damn right. But the house is at the other end of the garden, awfully distant from the tea making machines and materials. Naturally, there’s no reason why I couldn’t go into the house and make the tea myself and nothing prevents me having a kettle in the shed and a fridge to store the milk but this still means that I have to physically make the tea. It’s Sunday and as the good book says, “Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God and in it thou shalt not do any work." (Exodus 20:8-10)
Keeping the Sabbath sacred went out of fashion years ago but it’s an infallibly moral justification to develop the Central Tea™ plan. If a man has God on his side how can he fail?
A common domestic heating technology utilizes a boiler to heat water and then distribute that hot water to a network of radiators around the house. It’s an architecture similar to the body’s arterial system with the heart acting as a pump circulating blood to all corners of the body. I’m always intrigued how the inspiration for the finest engineering solutions can be traced back to the most natural of sources. Central Tea ™ is founded on the principle that a man should be able to have a cup of tea anytime the mood takes him, without having to make it himself. Some may argue that half the pleasure in drinking the stuff is actually making it and watching it mature, but this isn’t like observing a pint of Guinness swirl and darken to life. Although I don’t like the black stuff I have always admired the patience and control of the old man sitting at a bar waiting for his pint and indeed the power which the stout has over him. I can’t imagine a more tranquil 192 seconds in life. I remember going to mass many years ago and every time spacing out during the priest’s sermon. The man of the cloth would talk for 20 minutes or more, striking fear, respect and awe in those who believed what he said. Me though, I never was able to recall one word he had spoken, because boredom or just the peacefulness of the environment had frozen my ability to think. It was and is the only time in life I have been able to enjoy a state of serene nothingness. The Zen of Catholicism.
So, no, I don’t accept as true that producing the tea is crucial to the joy acquired from its consumption. For me, tea is something that ought to be as attainable as water. What I am getting at with Central Tea ™ is that I should be able to hold a cup under a tap and out of it will pour hot tea, with milk and sugar already blended in. My location in the house is irrelevant because a system of pipes will carry the tea from its central boiler (the heart) to anywhere in the domicile or peripheral buildings, such as the shed.
Am I really asking for too much?
But there are a few that have definite commercial potential like reusable heat shrink tubing that would revolutionize the medical catheter manufacturing business. This idea is reliant on the development of a heat activated memory fluropolymer such as Fluorinated Ethylene Propylene (FEP). This one keeps me up at night... I can virtually smell the dollars and the respect of my fellow man.
Ok, enough shite...
Hold onto your hat because this next one is the real deal. I call it Central Tea™.
This scenario should illustrate my concept. A regular Sunday morning will find me in the shed sawing/drilling/gluing something. The radio is on, I’m nice and warm, relaxed and not thinking about work. What could compliment this perfect moment? A cup of tea, damn right. But the house is at the other end of the garden, awfully distant from the tea making machines and materials. Naturally, there’s no reason why I couldn’t go into the house and make the tea myself and nothing prevents me having a kettle in the shed and a fridge to store the milk but this still means that I have to physically make the tea. It’s Sunday and as the good book says, “Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God and in it thou shalt not do any work." (Exodus 20:8-10)
Keeping the Sabbath sacred went out of fashion years ago but it’s an infallibly moral justification to develop the Central Tea™ plan. If a man has God on his side how can he fail?
A common domestic heating technology utilizes a boiler to heat water and then distribute that hot water to a network of radiators around the house. It’s an architecture similar to the body’s arterial system with the heart acting as a pump circulating blood to all corners of the body. I’m always intrigued how the inspiration for the finest engineering solutions can be traced back to the most natural of sources. Central Tea ™ is founded on the principle that a man should be able to have a cup of tea anytime the mood takes him, without having to make it himself. Some may argue that half the pleasure in drinking the stuff is actually making it and watching it mature, but this isn’t like observing a pint of Guinness swirl and darken to life. Although I don’t like the black stuff I have always admired the patience and control of the old man sitting at a bar waiting for his pint and indeed the power which the stout has over him. I can’t imagine a more tranquil 192 seconds in life. I remember going to mass many years ago and every time spacing out during the priest’s sermon. The man of the cloth would talk for 20 minutes or more, striking fear, respect and awe in those who believed what he said. Me though, I never was able to recall one word he had spoken, because boredom or just the peacefulness of the environment had frozen my ability to think. It was and is the only time in life I have been able to enjoy a state of serene nothingness. The Zen of Catholicism.
So, no, I don’t accept as true that producing the tea is crucial to the joy acquired from its consumption. For me, tea is something that ought to be as attainable as water. What I am getting at with Central Tea ™ is that I should be able to hold a cup under a tap and out of it will pour hot tea, with milk and sugar already blended in. My location in the house is irrelevant because a system of pipes will carry the tea from its central boiler (the heart) to anywhere in the domicile or peripheral buildings, such as the shed.
Am I really asking for too much?
30 November 2005
Silence
"Beware of the high cost of low living", read a Christian church notice board in suburban Minneapolis. We saw that on a recent mission of discovery around the city. Yes, even the suburbs are dotted with moments of absurdity. And so to current events...
Snow falls this evening and with it comes a silence synonymous only with snow. On a normal night the pulsing, beautifully rhythmic drone of the freeway can be felt outside our house but tonight I hear nowt. Three inches have accumulated in as many hours. The white blanket absorbs and diffuses harsh street lights so that it is impossible to experience anything but tranquility.
Snow falls this evening and with it comes a silence synonymous only with snow. On a normal night the pulsing, beautifully rhythmic drone of the freeway can be felt outside our house but tonight I hear nowt. Three inches have accumulated in as many hours. The white blanket absorbs and diffuses harsh street lights so that it is impossible to experience anything but tranquility.
07 November 2005
Crushed dreams
Martha and I were at an art supplies shop this evening procuring materials for her upcoming Polaroid exhibition in Madison, Wisconsin, when I came across something so foolish and pointless I had to have it. A pack of seven assorted stick-on mustaches hung temptingly before my eyes, bright yellow packaging mocking me, demanding I take you home. A mere $3, knocked down from $5, a sin to leave behind. “That wouldn’t get you a gallon of milk for jaysus sake,” I pleaded. She was having none of it. The woman had put the foot down.
Each mustache had a name and a day of the week it was to be worn. There was “The Sheriff,” which could give an ominous, menacing and steely edge to my persona.
There was “The Barber,” thick, heavy and hanging just over the upper lip. A tough, red meaty face would need to accompany this number. Something for the weekend perhaps.
The list goes on.
I’m 26 for God’s sake! What could I possibly want with seven fake mustaches? Laugh if you wish but it’s hard to deny that a set of photo portraits with me sporting a different mustache in each wouldn’t be the funniest thing this side of Christmas.
It’ll happen. She’ll let her guard down. A weak moment will present itself. I’ll make an excuse that we need a half dozen eggs, slip out to the car and drive and break-neck speed to Roseville, pick up the mustaches and hide them in a bush outside the house. Then, when she’s out someday I’ll spend an hour or two taking ridiculous photos of myself. Is it a mark of self confidence that I share this tale or a complete absence of dignity?
Oh, it’ll happen.
Each mustache had a name and a day of the week it was to be worn. There was “The Sheriff,” which could give an ominous, menacing and steely edge to my persona.
There was “The Barber,” thick, heavy and hanging just over the upper lip. A tough, red meaty face would need to accompany this number. Something for the weekend perhaps.
The list goes on.
I’m 26 for God’s sake! What could I possibly want with seven fake mustaches? Laugh if you wish but it’s hard to deny that a set of photo portraits with me sporting a different mustache in each wouldn’t be the funniest thing this side of Christmas.
It’ll happen. She’ll let her guard down. A weak moment will present itself. I’ll make an excuse that we need a half dozen eggs, slip out to the car and drive and break-neck speed to Roseville, pick up the mustaches and hide them in a bush outside the house. Then, when she’s out someday I’ll spend an hour or two taking ridiculous photos of myself. Is it a mark of self confidence that I share this tale or a complete absence of dignity?
Oh, it’ll happen.
27 October 2005
Cowboy's
My sister works in a pub at night to fund her hectic social life and pay for a college text book or two. The following is an incident she witnessed the other night at work. Non Irish readers of this story probably won’t get it but hey, I don’t get why millions of American's like baseball or peanut butter. There are cultural differences between societies. These exist to maintain diversity, thus spawning stories...
“I saw the funniest thing on Sunday night. I really wish you'd been there with your trusty camera."
"The scene: Across from The Village Inn there's a dodgy lane where I’ve never dared go. Down the end of the dodgy lane is a dodgy stable where all the local teenage tracksuit-wearing-John-Player-Blue-smoking-cider-drinking scumbags keep their horses. Now I don't know if it was a rival band of horsemen that set the stable alight but somebody did. The little scumbags were quick enough to get their steeds (by that I mean pie-bald horsie’s) out."
"So I went out to see what all the commotion was about. The rain was torrential and there, standing outside Dario's chipper was a kid of about 7, filthy, wearing the uniform tracksuit and holding the reins of a giant black horse. I thought it totally summed up Dublin. Dirty little kid, 11 o'clock on a school night, standing outside a
chipper in the pissing rain with his horse."
"That's the stuff of guide books.”
“I saw the funniest thing on Sunday night. I really wish you'd been there with your trusty camera."
"The scene: Across from The Village Inn there's a dodgy lane where I’ve never dared go. Down the end of the dodgy lane is a dodgy stable where all the local teenage tracksuit-wearing-John-Player-Blue-smoking-cider-drinking scumbags keep their horses. Now I don't know if it was a rival band of horsemen that set the stable alight but somebody did. The little scumbags were quick enough to get their steeds (by that I mean pie-bald horsie’s) out."
"So I went out to see what all the commotion was about. The rain was torrential and there, standing outside Dario's chipper was a kid of about 7, filthy, wearing the uniform tracksuit and holding the reins of a giant black horse. I thought it totally summed up Dublin. Dirty little kid, 11 o'clock on a school night, standing outside a
chipper in the pissing rain with his horse."
"That's the stuff of guide books.”
21 October 2005
More than bricks
Watching the news this evening the main story dealt with a no-good-punk-kid who was badly injured when climbing inside a grain elevator (what's a grain elevator? this is a grain elevator (LINK)). The grain elevator in question is located in north Minneapolis.
It’s a magnificent structure and focal point for graffiti artists. The smooth concrete walls are heavily sprayed with every color under the sun. Martha and I took a bike ride there last summer to check it out because it looks like one of those places on a demolition list. It had all the traits of an abandoned industrial facility, smell of piss, carpet of beer bottles, homeless people taking shelter, hundreds of golf balls both inside and outside. Golf balls? Martha, being a shrewd logician, deduced that kids were driving golf balls at the building in a competitive window smashing game.
That day was one of the first times I paid attention to and investigated something that has been forgotten by the city. I’ll never forget it.
My pursuit of photography has ingrained in me the adage: carpe diem, seize the day. I’ve been burned many times by my failure to understand the necessity of this thinking. “Sure, I can photograph that tomorrow, the light will be better then… What’s the rush? That old blue car will still be there next weekend… I’ll just go home and get a better lens…” Never happens. The moment is always lost. Beating the odds is rare and rewarding. The University of Minnesota secretly and mercilessly tore down this (LINK) masterpiece of golden brick a few days after we had explored it. Later that month I saw “RIP MGK” sprayed on a wall nearby. Graphic and anonymous remorse for something that was so much more than just stone, glass and steel.
I find it fascinating that people I don’t even know can mirror my thoughts with what they write directly “onto” the surface of the city. A similar incident occurred late in September. It was a warm evening, t-shirt temperature. I wanted to ride my bike forever, pulling energy from my incessant enthusiasm for everything I saw, smelled and heard. I came across a few grain cars down at the train tracks. One of them had a nice piece of graffiti on it. Look what the guy wrote to the right (LINK) of the photo. Maybe you needed to be there too but it was like he was encouraging appreciation of how his work interacted with the rust, colors and the quality of the light given off by the setting sun. Amazing.
If only I could better write the words that explain the world ((LINK), (LINK)) I have discovered. I'll keep trying.
It’s a magnificent structure and focal point for graffiti artists. The smooth concrete walls are heavily sprayed with every color under the sun. Martha and I took a bike ride there last summer to check it out because it looks like one of those places on a demolition list. It had all the traits of an abandoned industrial facility, smell of piss, carpet of beer bottles, homeless people taking shelter, hundreds of golf balls both inside and outside. Golf balls? Martha, being a shrewd logician, deduced that kids were driving golf balls at the building in a competitive window smashing game.
That day was one of the first times I paid attention to and investigated something that has been forgotten by the city. I’ll never forget it.
My pursuit of photography has ingrained in me the adage: carpe diem, seize the day. I’ve been burned many times by my failure to understand the necessity of this thinking. “Sure, I can photograph that tomorrow, the light will be better then… What’s the rush? That old blue car will still be there next weekend… I’ll just go home and get a better lens…” Never happens. The moment is always lost. Beating the odds is rare and rewarding. The University of Minnesota secretly and mercilessly tore down this (LINK) masterpiece of golden brick a few days after we had explored it. Later that month I saw “RIP MGK” sprayed on a wall nearby. Graphic and anonymous remorse for something that was so much more than just stone, glass and steel.
I find it fascinating that people I don’t even know can mirror my thoughts with what they write directly “onto” the surface of the city. A similar incident occurred late in September. It was a warm evening, t-shirt temperature. I wanted to ride my bike forever, pulling energy from my incessant enthusiasm for everything I saw, smelled and heard. I came across a few grain cars down at the train tracks. One of them had a nice piece of graffiti on it. Look what the guy wrote to the right (LINK) of the photo. Maybe you needed to be there too but it was like he was encouraging appreciation of how his work interacted with the rust, colors and the quality of the light given off by the setting sun. Amazing.
If only I could better write the words that explain the world ((LINK), (LINK)) I have discovered. I'll keep trying.
08 October 2005
A tale of two cities
I often refer to this place as the twin cities because less than 10 miles from Minneapolis is another city, St. Paul. We don’t have this phenomenon at home in Ireland. Minneapolis and St. Paul are two distinctly different places. They each have their own mayor, one is a non smoking city, one is not, and both are on the same side of the Mississippi River so the comparison to somewhere like Budapest can’t be made. If you were blindfolded, tossed in the back of a van, driven around in circles for a few hours to mess up your bearings, perhaps given a few digs to guarantee disorientation, and then unblindfolded inside a pub you’ve never been in I wager you’d know what city you were in. There are unmistakable differences in the people and their behaviors. It is refreshing to experience such diversity over the distance of only a few miles in a vast country that too often looks the same, in terms of the identical retailers, chain restaurants and suburban homes that border every highway and encircle every town.
I live in Minneapolis and seldom have any reason to visit St. Paul. We pass by but not through it on our way to Wisconsin and we visit the science museum about once a year but that’s it. St. Paul is not an action packed place; in fact it is dead, always dead. Minnesota writer Garrison Keillor says that St. Paul at its busiest and wildest is like New York at 06:00 on a Sunday morning, in winter. I added the winter bit myself because although his analogy is apt and authority as a writer infallible it just doesn’t paint the picture clear enough for me. Maybe an Irish version of the comparison would be a cold, grey and wet Athlone at 06:00 on Christmas Day.
An opportunity presented itself to make a trip to downtown St. Paul today. The Minnesota chapter of the American Woodturners Association rented some gallery space and put on a show for the public. Woodturning was a vice of mine for a few years and one that will be indulged in again once a house, with shed, is bought. Incidentally, the shed will have tea making facilities. I didn’t come all the way to Minnesota to have to make tea inside the house then transport it, by hand, to the shed. To hell with that!
I drove to St. Paul giving myself an extra hour to go and check out one of the busiest freight train yards in the state. The plan was to ditch the car and explore on foot. The problem with that idea was that I possessed no small currency to plug into a parking meter. Not a big issue I thought, I’ll just go to one of the many off street car parks. The benefits of a city that people don’t visit are an abundance of good parking spots. I saw loads of places where I could park the car for the whole day in exchange for only $1.50. The problem with this city though is that there are no humans working at the car parks. I need a human being to break my $20 into smaller money which I can then put into the honesty based payment system, a huge box with loads of coin size slits each numbered to correspond to the space you parked in. You park, take note of the number of the parking space, go to the box, and lash a few quarters into the slit with your number on it. During the day I assume that somebody, maybe even a robot, does a spot check and those stupid enough to scam the place for the $1.50 fee get towed away and their car is held to ransom for nearly $200.
So, cheap car parks were off the menu. I’ll try my luck at a slightly more expensive multi-story car park or “ramp” as the Americans call them. My sense of direction is pretty shabby so this deviation from the plan of parking close to the gallery and learning the lay of the land during my hour of exploration was now in tatters. I’m not lost yet but apprehension is kicking in. I find a ramp and pull into it. I press the ticket button and nothing happens. I notice a sign that says “RAMP CLOSED SATURDAYS.” I reverse out onto the street and make a few lefts and a few rights in search of another ramp. I’m totally lost by the way. Another ramp appears on my right, I pull into it but a sign says “RESIDENTS ONLY.” Again, I fling the car into reverse and squeal off on my seemingly futile quest. I’m cursing at this point and pondering a high speed escape to Minneapolis. No, show resolve I tell myself, you’re here to see some woodturning and won’t be defeated by this crap. Ultimately I find an open ramp and ditch the car. These foreign streets hold no clues as to where I am relative to the gallery. I walk the empty streets. All restaurants and shops are closed. Time is 10:00. Day is Saturday. The occasional car drives by. Busses with no passengers glide eerily past. I’m lost and I’m lonely! Where the hell is everyone? This would be the perfect city to film a movie whose plot is the evaporation of the human race due to a pandemic disease or radiological disaster.
The gallery appears on a corner opposite a tidy park complete with a bunch of alcoholics sharing a giant bottle of vodka. I was the only person at the show. I talked tools and lathes with the demonstrator for a half hour then left. Nice guy but it was starting to get awkward when nobody else was showing up.
The sky was blue. The air was cold and dry. My hands were cracked and sore from the lack of humidity. Conditions ripe for photos (LINK) of excellent clarity.
Time to find the car. I spent about 30 minutes wandering a two block radius searching in vain. Ugly and identical 1970’s built office buildings loomed over me, blocking all warmth from the sun on an already freezing day. I called Martha, gave her the street intersection from where I was making the distress call and the address of the ramp as it was typed on the ticket. Nice touch that. She punched the start and finish coordinates into Mapquest. Mapquest displayed a map with two dots directly on top of each other. I looked across the street and noticed the parking ramp that had eluded me so well. God bless computers.
I got to the car and drove down to the ground floor via a tight helix that mimicked a water slide. I got to the pay kiosk but didn’t see any attendant. He must be on lunch I thought. Wrong, this was an automated deal. I smugly slid my $20 into the pay machine. $17 in quarters, 68 coins total pumped slot machine style into my hands. At that point I decided to get the fuck out of St. Paul before things got worse.
I drove down by the river. The urban environment had failed to motivate me. The gold was there but I didn’t know what time of day the light would fall on the buildings that took my fancy, unlike in Minneapolis. I drove to where I knew there was industrial infrastructure and spotted a nice collection (LINK) of rusty storage tanks. These were private roads so I took off toward Minneapolis to avoid confrontation with any law enforcement agencies. Less than a mile into the trip I pulled over to look at a row of painted concrete pillars that supported an overhead railroad bridge. The cracked up surface (LINK) was long overdue a new coat of yellow gloss.
20 minutes later I was back on familiar turf, Minneapolis. The magnificent weather persisted so I frequented some of my favorite photography places (LINK) in an attempt to salvage the day that St. Paul had robbed me of.
Moral of the story: St. Paul is not for those easily aggravated.
I live in Minneapolis and seldom have any reason to visit St. Paul. We pass by but not through it on our way to Wisconsin and we visit the science museum about once a year but that’s it. St. Paul is not an action packed place; in fact it is dead, always dead. Minnesota writer Garrison Keillor says that St. Paul at its busiest and wildest is like New York at 06:00 on a Sunday morning, in winter. I added the winter bit myself because although his analogy is apt and authority as a writer infallible it just doesn’t paint the picture clear enough for me. Maybe an Irish version of the comparison would be a cold, grey and wet Athlone at 06:00 on Christmas Day.
An opportunity presented itself to make a trip to downtown St. Paul today. The Minnesota chapter of the American Woodturners Association rented some gallery space and put on a show for the public. Woodturning was a vice of mine for a few years and one that will be indulged in again once a house, with shed, is bought. Incidentally, the shed will have tea making facilities. I didn’t come all the way to Minnesota to have to make tea inside the house then transport it, by hand, to the shed. To hell with that!
I drove to St. Paul giving myself an extra hour to go and check out one of the busiest freight train yards in the state. The plan was to ditch the car and explore on foot. The problem with that idea was that I possessed no small currency to plug into a parking meter. Not a big issue I thought, I’ll just go to one of the many off street car parks. The benefits of a city that people don’t visit are an abundance of good parking spots. I saw loads of places where I could park the car for the whole day in exchange for only $1.50. The problem with this city though is that there are no humans working at the car parks. I need a human being to break my $20 into smaller money which I can then put into the honesty based payment system, a huge box with loads of coin size slits each numbered to correspond to the space you parked in. You park, take note of the number of the parking space, go to the box, and lash a few quarters into the slit with your number on it. During the day I assume that somebody, maybe even a robot, does a spot check and those stupid enough to scam the place for the $1.50 fee get towed away and their car is held to ransom for nearly $200.
So, cheap car parks were off the menu. I’ll try my luck at a slightly more expensive multi-story car park or “ramp” as the Americans call them. My sense of direction is pretty shabby so this deviation from the plan of parking close to the gallery and learning the lay of the land during my hour of exploration was now in tatters. I’m not lost yet but apprehension is kicking in. I find a ramp and pull into it. I press the ticket button and nothing happens. I notice a sign that says “RAMP CLOSED SATURDAYS.” I reverse out onto the street and make a few lefts and a few rights in search of another ramp. I’m totally lost by the way. Another ramp appears on my right, I pull into it but a sign says “RESIDENTS ONLY.” Again, I fling the car into reverse and squeal off on my seemingly futile quest. I’m cursing at this point and pondering a high speed escape to Minneapolis. No, show resolve I tell myself, you’re here to see some woodturning and won’t be defeated by this crap. Ultimately I find an open ramp and ditch the car. These foreign streets hold no clues as to where I am relative to the gallery. I walk the empty streets. All restaurants and shops are closed. Time is 10:00. Day is Saturday. The occasional car drives by. Busses with no passengers glide eerily past. I’m lost and I’m lonely! Where the hell is everyone? This would be the perfect city to film a movie whose plot is the evaporation of the human race due to a pandemic disease or radiological disaster.
The gallery appears on a corner opposite a tidy park complete with a bunch of alcoholics sharing a giant bottle of vodka. I was the only person at the show. I talked tools and lathes with the demonstrator for a half hour then left. Nice guy but it was starting to get awkward when nobody else was showing up.
The sky was blue. The air was cold and dry. My hands were cracked and sore from the lack of humidity. Conditions ripe for photos (LINK) of excellent clarity.
Time to find the car. I spent about 30 minutes wandering a two block radius searching in vain. Ugly and identical 1970’s built office buildings loomed over me, blocking all warmth from the sun on an already freezing day. I called Martha, gave her the street intersection from where I was making the distress call and the address of the ramp as it was typed on the ticket. Nice touch that. She punched the start and finish coordinates into Mapquest. Mapquest displayed a map with two dots directly on top of each other. I looked across the street and noticed the parking ramp that had eluded me so well. God bless computers.
I got to the car and drove down to the ground floor via a tight helix that mimicked a water slide. I got to the pay kiosk but didn’t see any attendant. He must be on lunch I thought. Wrong, this was an automated deal. I smugly slid my $20 into the pay machine. $17 in quarters, 68 coins total pumped slot machine style into my hands. At that point I decided to get the fuck out of St. Paul before things got worse.
I drove down by the river. The urban environment had failed to motivate me. The gold was there but I didn’t know what time of day the light would fall on the buildings that took my fancy, unlike in Minneapolis. I drove to where I knew there was industrial infrastructure and spotted a nice collection (LINK) of rusty storage tanks. These were private roads so I took off toward Minneapolis to avoid confrontation with any law enforcement agencies. Less than a mile into the trip I pulled over to look at a row of painted concrete pillars that supported an overhead railroad bridge. The cracked up surface (LINK) was long overdue a new coat of yellow gloss.
20 minutes later I was back on familiar turf, Minneapolis. The magnificent weather persisted so I frequented some of my favorite photography places (LINK) in an attempt to salvage the day that St. Paul had robbed me of.
Moral of the story: St. Paul is not for those easily aggravated.
02 October 2005
Harmony
On Friday night we were over at Fro and Nate's for a fire. I listened to two small-town Minnesota friends swap stories about rural entertainment. Doug offered warm and graphic memories of a combine harvester demolition derby he had attended. Nate lectured on the relationship between scraggy mustaches, NASCAR racing and support for President Bush.
Without much planning or hesitation we talked ourselves into going camping the next morning to the Minnesota/Iowa border area. It's early or maybe mid autumn now. Perfect weather for being outside. We traveled south out of Minneapolis, hugging the Mississippi all the way. It widened and narrowed many times. Old fashioned, Tom Sawyer era paddle ships steamed up and down Old Man River. Mile long freight trains snaked along each side of the water looking like a model railway from the car window.
We stopped in the town of Harmony to eat and explore. I took these photos (LINK) of the municipal water tower and an abandoned grain elevator, now home to dirty pigeons.
Without much planning or hesitation we talked ourselves into going camping the next morning to the Minnesota/Iowa border area. It's early or maybe mid autumn now. Perfect weather for being outside. We traveled south out of Minneapolis, hugging the Mississippi all the way. It widened and narrowed many times. Old fashioned, Tom Sawyer era paddle ships steamed up and down Old Man River. Mile long freight trains snaked along each side of the water looking like a model railway from the car window.
We stopped in the town of Harmony to eat and explore. I took these photos (LINK) of the municipal water tower and an abandoned grain elevator, now home to dirty pigeons.
27 September 2005
Shock and awe
One thing I love about Minnesota, and maybe the Midwest in general, is the definition of the seasons. Although each may not last an equal three months you always know where you stand. Winter is snowy and cold. The snow shovel gets regular use and handy work it is not. That slowly passes and a month of rainy weather announces spring. The countless trees burst into full foliage until a quilt of green is all you can see when you fly over the twin cities. Enter summer. Sticky, hot, brutally humid days confine me to underwear and frustration. Autumn fixes that and things cool down. The leaves phase to red and fall in great numbers. You can actually listen to them swoosh through the air in the same way that rainfall becomes audibly noticeable.
The sun is setting earlier with every evening these days. The race to get home and out on the bike with a camera before it goes to bed is almost a losing battle. This evening I won. Traffic on the highway was light. All the lights turned green for me. I rummaged up a hasty dinner, drank a cup of tea and free wheeled my hole across University Avenue to the grain elevators and freight yard, a place where I am always free from anxiety, composed and in awe. Buildings, colors, textures, rust, sounds and smells take my breath away, every time. I know the light is a photographers dream. I am a rookie but I know when I am witness to perfection. Words will never do any justice to what I’ve seen but perhaps these photos ((LINK), (LINK)) will fill the void.
Perhaps not, you decide.
The sun is setting earlier with every evening these days. The race to get home and out on the bike with a camera before it goes to bed is almost a losing battle. This evening I won. Traffic on the highway was light. All the lights turned green for me. I rummaged up a hasty dinner, drank a cup of tea and free wheeled my hole across University Avenue to the grain elevators and freight yard, a place where I am always free from anxiety, composed and in awe. Buildings, colors, textures, rust, sounds and smells take my breath away, every time. I know the light is a photographers dream. I am a rookie but I know when I am witness to perfection. Words will never do any justice to what I’ve seen but perhaps these photos ((LINK), (LINK)) will fill the void.
Perhaps not, you decide.
20 September 2005
Humble men
"I wasn't really a writer. I had seen a strange beautiful light on the hills and that was all."
Patrick Kavanagh
"The highway's a story teller. I just write it down."
Buck65
Patrick Kavanagh
"The highway's a story teller. I just write it down."
Buck65
17 September 2005
Wisconsin
We fled to Waupaca for Labor Day weekend. Fran asked for my help to put windows into his shed/cabin in the woods. I loyally assisted for a short time, then blended into the background and sucked on a few early afternoon bottles of Heineken. Fran momentarily downed tools to refresh his liver. He said to me "this is how a carpenter opens a beer" and with swan-like grace used a claw hammer to pop off the cap. A true joy to watch the man work.
I rambled through his woods, envisioning owning my own land someday on which I could build a dream home, perhaps constructed entirely from Titanium or other exotic alloys, or perhaps not. These fleeting thoughts of rural living are more grounded than one would think. A mere $130,000 will net a man a five bedroom house with a barn (LINK) and other outbuildings on a 20 acre site.
I rambled through his woods, envisioning owning my own land someday on which I could build a dream home, perhaps constructed entirely from Titanium or other exotic alloys, or perhaps not. These fleeting thoughts of rural living are more grounded than one would think. A mere $130,000 will net a man a five bedroom house with a barn (LINK) and other outbuildings on a 20 acre site.
19 August 2005
The Crap I Crave
Hob Nobs, Saturday afternoon pints in Hogan's, Saturday night pints in Hogan's, Sunday afternoon pints in Hogan's, the occasional fry, rain, good tea (tae), sense of humor, my shed, Galway, friends, family, stray dogs, the sea, Donal Dineen on Today FM, beer fueled madness, spuds, gravy, roast beef, Kerrygold butter, hang sangwiches, canals, The Ticket, Kehoe's, Christmas in Dublin, brown bread, small towns, Jaffa Cakes, The Pines, BBC, Channel 4, TG4, city energy, Ireland's hedonistic optimism (where are we going, who cares?), Lok Moon food...
Aside from lamenting the above there has been much tomfoolery with cameras lately.
Minneapolis is packed with disused inner city buildings ((LINK), (LINK)) which I assume were once the pride and joy of their parent corporations, before tax breaks and vast tracts of land ripe for development drove companies beyond the city limits. Examining/contemplating these buildings, for me, always conjures up images of the 1930's. An era when every man wore a hat, instead of beer people drank martini's, manhattan's or whiskey sour's, and sharp suit sporting gangsters were public heroes... good times.
By car and bike I'm discovering hidden sides to Minneapolis. Gradually it is winning me over. Affordable stuff, old and young alike walking the streets with near impunity, nice folks, diverse yet integrated population, good jobs, lakes, parks, beautiful old industrial structures (here perfectly captured by Martha (LINK)) untouched by tasteless hands or fresh paint, harsh but defined seasons, easy driving distance to brutal and almost infinite wilderness and graffiti ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)) that covers trains and walls bringing a smile to my face and a silent nod of appreciating to those who work under the cover of darkness at this fine craft.
A decent city when you do the sums.
Aside from lamenting the above there has been much tomfoolery with cameras lately.
Minneapolis is packed with disused inner city buildings ((LINK), (LINK)) which I assume were once the pride and joy of their parent corporations, before tax breaks and vast tracts of land ripe for development drove companies beyond the city limits. Examining/contemplating these buildings, for me, always conjures up images of the 1930's. An era when every man wore a hat, instead of beer people drank martini's, manhattan's or whiskey sour's, and sharp suit sporting gangsters were public heroes... good times.
By car and bike I'm discovering hidden sides to Minneapolis. Gradually it is winning me over. Affordable stuff, old and young alike walking the streets with near impunity, nice folks, diverse yet integrated population, good jobs, lakes, parks, beautiful old industrial structures (here perfectly captured by Martha (LINK)) untouched by tasteless hands or fresh paint, harsh but defined seasons, easy driving distance to brutal and almost infinite wilderness and graffiti ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)) that covers trains and walls bringing a smile to my face and a silent nod of appreciating to those who work under the cover of darkness at this fine craft.
A decent city when you do the sums.
13 August 2005
Please steal my bike
Some time in 2004 I bought a bike, that over the course of only 12 months, six of which it lived in the basement, turned into a piece of crap. You get what you pay for as they say, so I've no regrets over the purchase and sure enough the bike did serve me well during our time together. However, the time has come to get rid of the bastard. Method of disposal options are as follows:
I could sell it though I'm sure the $30 I'd get would be small compensation for the hassle involved. I could trade it in as part payment for a new set of wheels, but again the hassle of dragging it any distance can't be justified. I could give it to a local charity shop, no excuse why I shouldn't.
The plot thickens. I could throw it into a tree that lies below a nearby bridge over the Mississippi River. This tree is already full of old pairs of shoes that people have laced together and cast up into the branches. It's quite a cool thing to drive by or stand under and gawk up at literally hundreds of pairs of used shoes dangling and swaying with the motion of the tree. God knows why it began or who started it. You never see anyone actually hurling shoes at the tree yet there are more every time I look. Only recently I noticed that bikes had begun to populate the tree. There were only four or five last time I looked down over the bridge but it's obvious that something new has begun.
So, my fourth option would be to fling the bike over the edge of a bridge into a tree, but I'd rather use it as apparatus in an experiment. An experiment that will confirm or shatter some beliefs I have about Minneapolis. I've always known that the neighborhood I live in is pretty pleasant. The level of that pleasantness could never really be quantified... until now. Petty crime is what really gets to people. It wears you down, pisses you off, instills distrust between you and your neighbors. Sad to say but not long after, say, a murder, a neighborhood will recover. But, when you live on a street where plants are getting swiped from your garden, your car radio is getting robbed on an every two or three year basis, your shed is getting broken into you then live in a constant state of apprehension and suspicion and maybe even paranoia. That's Dublin. People here don't believe me when I tell them that if I left a cold, moldy, cup of tea in my front garden back home, that some scumbag would lift it the second my back was turned. The Irish rogue sees all the angles and some times you nearly admire his ability to engineer and execute the theft of objects worth no more than the price of a few pints.
Believing that petty but persistent crime is directly related to quality of life and mental well being I decided to leave my unwanted bike unlocked outside my apartment door just to see what makes the American criminal mind tick and more importantly to see if this neighborhood is as nice as it appears on the surface.
Nearly three months have passed and the bike still stands outside the door. Cobwebs stretch between various parts of the frame and rust is turning once shiny steel to a a dull red-brown color. Grass that couldn't be cut by the lawnmower because of the bike being in the way is starting to weave itself around the wheels.
I'm starting to think that nature will consume the bike before it falls victim to robbery. Conclusion thus: not a bad place to live.
I could sell it though I'm sure the $30 I'd get would be small compensation for the hassle involved. I could trade it in as part payment for a new set of wheels, but again the hassle of dragging it any distance can't be justified. I could give it to a local charity shop, no excuse why I shouldn't.
The plot thickens. I could throw it into a tree that lies below a nearby bridge over the Mississippi River. This tree is already full of old pairs of shoes that people have laced together and cast up into the branches. It's quite a cool thing to drive by or stand under and gawk up at literally hundreds of pairs of used shoes dangling and swaying with the motion of the tree. God knows why it began or who started it. You never see anyone actually hurling shoes at the tree yet there are more every time I look. Only recently I noticed that bikes had begun to populate the tree. There were only four or five last time I looked down over the bridge but it's obvious that something new has begun.
So, my fourth option would be to fling the bike over the edge of a bridge into a tree, but I'd rather use it as apparatus in an experiment. An experiment that will confirm or shatter some beliefs I have about Minneapolis. I've always known that the neighborhood I live in is pretty pleasant. The level of that pleasantness could never really be quantified... until now. Petty crime is what really gets to people. It wears you down, pisses you off, instills distrust between you and your neighbors. Sad to say but not long after, say, a murder, a neighborhood will recover. But, when you live on a street where plants are getting swiped from your garden, your car radio is getting robbed on an every two or three year basis, your shed is getting broken into you then live in a constant state of apprehension and suspicion and maybe even paranoia. That's Dublin. People here don't believe me when I tell them that if I left a cold, moldy, cup of tea in my front garden back home, that some scumbag would lift it the second my back was turned. The Irish rogue sees all the angles and some times you nearly admire his ability to engineer and execute the theft of objects worth no more than the price of a few pints.
Believing that petty but persistent crime is directly related to quality of life and mental well being I decided to leave my unwanted bike unlocked outside my apartment door just to see what makes the American criminal mind tick and more importantly to see if this neighborhood is as nice as it appears on the surface.
Nearly three months have passed and the bike still stands outside the door. Cobwebs stretch between various parts of the frame and rust is turning once shiny steel to a a dull red-brown color. Grass that couldn't be cut by the lawnmower because of the bike being in the way is starting to weave itself around the wheels.
I'm starting to think that nature will consume the bike before it falls victim to robbery. Conclusion thus: not a bad place to live.
04 August 2005
The empty west
The French and German working man enjoys between four and six weeks of holidays every year of his employed life. His Irish contemporary also fares pretty well having three to four weeks in which to down tools and appreciate life. A week at the Galway races, a break in sunny Spain, many the carefree drunken night over Christmas, a few long weekends messin' around the house. All possible for this man. The American however, he must be satisfied with a meager two work free weeks per year. I now fall into this category, and what a rough deal it is.
I remember being at a job interview about a year ago, not far from here. After meeting with a few engineers I was turned over to HR to learn of what benefits the company could offer a young man like me.
"Lay it on me" I says, and she did. "We'll, you get the healthcare, the dental, subsidized this and co-payed that... and for your first seven years with the company you are entitled to 10 days paid vacation per year." To be honest, I didn't expect any more. The medical and dental plans were very generous. I sat there forcing a smile and returning the enthusiasm that was emanating so strongly from across the table. "10 days? Great!" says I, while secretly and internally saying "screw that, gimme four weeks or you can go to hell with the job." Not the time, place or country for those thoughts of treason. Instead of trying to turn the tide on this foundation of the American working life, as much value as possible must be squeezed from time away from the grindstone. Hence, a five state, 3400 mile, 10 day trek to Montana and back.
On the fourth Friday in July Martha and I headed south on I-35 until it intersected with I-90. It was all west from there on an empty corridor through endless and perfectly geometric fields of soybeans and corn. Thoughts of camp fire cooked corn on the cob doused in butter and salt plagued my rumbling stomach. That’s some good eatin’. The land faded from green to light green with every mile and after crossing the South Dakota border it seemed that a very weak shade of brown was going to be the outcome. Rocks, hills, dust and vast open prairie replaced the crop fields of Minnesota.
We reached Badlands National Park (LINK) that afternoon. A strange rocky place that looked and felt like an evaporated ocean floor. After setting up the tent I noticed one of our car tires was slashed. Probably not maliciously since our neighborhood in Minneapolis is pretty quiet, more likely that it somehow happened on route. Given that we were only 700 miles into our trip, with many more to go we decided to get some expert advice. Having recently acquired my US driving license I drove into the town of Wall and found a garage. It was a hot, dry and dusty day. Two dormant looking pumps stood outside the garage. I’m guessing that their fuel prices were no match for the 30 pump gas stations that people can easily access along the highway. If you ever read National Geographic magazine you’ll know about the short section called ZipUSA. It usually focuses on small rural towns. Ordinary people are photographed and offer some stories about the town and their lives. Real down to earth stuff but interesting. The two mechanics who fixed our tire in Wall would make fine material for the magazine. Nothing extraordinary about them. Genuine, hardworking, friendly characters. Behind the oil, dirt, scattered tools and loud air compressor that repeatedly cut in and out this was a solid business built on meticulous work and loyal customers. There’s something reassuring about the honesty of certain people. It’s these experiences that I remember and value most.
Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. We went to bed around 20:30 and woke as the sun was coming up over the jagged horizon. Getting on the road by 07:30 allowed us to reach Devils Tower National Park in Wyoming by early afternoon. Another otherworldly kind of place. Devils Tower (LINK) is a bigger version of The Giant’s Causeway back home. Many times bigger. Millions of years ago huge hexagons of igneous material extruded out of the earth stopping at nearly 1300 ft. During the afternoon we hiked around the base of the tower, stopping to gawk and photograph. Plenty of climbers could be seen ascending the vertical rock, each dwarfed by the hexagonal columns they clung to.
This is killing me, trying to find time to sit down and write. There is simply too much to tell and the effort to transcribe my memories can't be summoned now.
I remember being at a job interview about a year ago, not far from here. After meeting with a few engineers I was turned over to HR to learn of what benefits the company could offer a young man like me.
"Lay it on me" I says, and she did. "We'll, you get the healthcare, the dental, subsidized this and co-payed that... and for your first seven years with the company you are entitled to 10 days paid vacation per year." To be honest, I didn't expect any more. The medical and dental plans were very generous. I sat there forcing a smile and returning the enthusiasm that was emanating so strongly from across the table. "10 days? Great!" says I, while secretly and internally saying "screw that, gimme four weeks or you can go to hell with the job." Not the time, place or country for those thoughts of treason. Instead of trying to turn the tide on this foundation of the American working life, as much value as possible must be squeezed from time away from the grindstone. Hence, a five state, 3400 mile, 10 day trek to Montana and back.
On the fourth Friday in July Martha and I headed south on I-35 until it intersected with I-90. It was all west from there on an empty corridor through endless and perfectly geometric fields of soybeans and corn. Thoughts of camp fire cooked corn on the cob doused in butter and salt plagued my rumbling stomach. That’s some good eatin’. The land faded from green to light green with every mile and after crossing the South Dakota border it seemed that a very weak shade of brown was going to be the outcome. Rocks, hills, dust and vast open prairie replaced the crop fields of Minnesota.
We reached Badlands National Park (LINK) that afternoon. A strange rocky place that looked and felt like an evaporated ocean floor. After setting up the tent I noticed one of our car tires was slashed. Probably not maliciously since our neighborhood in Minneapolis is pretty quiet, more likely that it somehow happened on route. Given that we were only 700 miles into our trip, with many more to go we decided to get some expert advice. Having recently acquired my US driving license I drove into the town of Wall and found a garage. It was a hot, dry and dusty day. Two dormant looking pumps stood outside the garage. I’m guessing that their fuel prices were no match for the 30 pump gas stations that people can easily access along the highway. If you ever read National Geographic magazine you’ll know about the short section called ZipUSA. It usually focuses on small rural towns. Ordinary people are photographed and offer some stories about the town and their lives. Real down to earth stuff but interesting. The two mechanics who fixed our tire in Wall would make fine material for the magazine. Nothing extraordinary about them. Genuine, hardworking, friendly characters. Behind the oil, dirt, scattered tools and loud air compressor that repeatedly cut in and out this was a solid business built on meticulous work and loyal customers. There’s something reassuring about the honesty of certain people. It’s these experiences that I remember and value most.
Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. We went to bed around 20:30 and woke as the sun was coming up over the jagged horizon. Getting on the road by 07:30 allowed us to reach Devils Tower National Park in Wyoming by early afternoon. Another otherworldly kind of place. Devils Tower (LINK) is a bigger version of The Giant’s Causeway back home. Many times bigger. Millions of years ago huge hexagons of igneous material extruded out of the earth stopping at nearly 1300 ft. During the afternoon we hiked around the base of the tower, stopping to gawk and photograph. Plenty of climbers could be seen ascending the vertical rock, each dwarfed by the hexagonal columns they clung to.
This is killing me, trying to find time to sit down and write. There is simply too much to tell and the effort to transcribe my memories can't be summoned now.
21 July 2005
MN, ND, SD, WY, MT
My first ever American road trip begins at 05:00 tomorrow morning. The map below shows the states we will be visiting. Final destination is Glacier National Park, Montana (LINK), a distance of more than 1,200 miles from our Minneapolis home. The Dunne camp is excited, having never been west of this here city. The trip will encompass so much more than our time spent in Montana. On route, we will be camping in the South Dakota Badlands (LINK) where I believe the opening sequence of Planet of the Apes was filmed, you know, the scene where Taylor stumbles out of his wrecked spaceship which has crash landed in a surreal desert/lunar type environment. Great movie.
Oh but the movie-locations-coincidentally-coinciding with our mid journey stop points don't end there. No sir. Interstate 90 sweeps into northeastern Wyoming after cutting across South Dakota leaving us close to Devils Tower National Park (LINK) where we'll pitch the old tent. Steven Spielberg made this place famous in his movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Not in my top ten films of all time but I'm sure it'll provide good meat for a story and a great photo opportunity.
14 July 2005
Train Graffiti
Weather has been hot here lately (LINK). Not hot as in getting roasted so bad that you go into work the next day and people laugh at you because you look like a lobster, nay, a different kind of hot. I go outside to my bike and before even mounting the beast small beads of sweat can be felt upon the brow. Zero exertion necessary. A wall of humidity greets me every time I leave a building. No escaping it.
Oppressive as the weather may be, I don't control it, yet. Most evenings I take a bike ride around the locality and my trusty camera often comes along for the ride.
Minneapolis earned the nick name "Mill City" for agricultural reasons. Historically, grain, soybeans, wheat and a scatter of other crops grown all over the midwest came to Minneapolis by freight train to be milled into flour and other commodities. On a side note, many farmers have now jumped from unprofitable food crop production to growing crops that can be converted to ethanol, an auto fuel additive popular here in Minnesota. Some folk won't risk putting this clean burning fuel in their cars and are often heard to say, "I'm not putting that corn gas in my tank."
It is around this grain/railway infrastructure that I can be found on a sunny evening, riding my bike and taking photos in what must look like some foreign espionage operation. Truth be told, there was a run-in with the Railway Police a few months back. Trespassing was my crime, guilty was my plea. I think the Railway Police are that fake breed of law enforcement though, similar to supermarket security guards. Had they been a force to be reckoned with I would have seen a gun on the officers belt. Instead he asked what I was up to. "Why, just taking some photos officer, nothing more, nothing less." My honesty and acknowledgement of guilt was appreciated.
Something other than the luck o' the Irish allowed me to win the day. He didn't seem like the smartest guy in the world. After listening to my accent as I explained my activities he stopped me and said "Are you French?" They have a phrase for that back home, "Fuckin' eejit."
Some photos (LINK) from this evening.
Oppressive as the weather may be, I don't control it, yet. Most evenings I take a bike ride around the locality and my trusty camera often comes along for the ride.
Minneapolis earned the nick name "Mill City" for agricultural reasons. Historically, grain, soybeans, wheat and a scatter of other crops grown all over the midwest came to Minneapolis by freight train to be milled into flour and other commodities. On a side note, many farmers have now jumped from unprofitable food crop production to growing crops that can be converted to ethanol, an auto fuel additive popular here in Minnesota. Some folk won't risk putting this clean burning fuel in their cars and are often heard to say, "I'm not putting that corn gas in my tank."
It is around this grain/railway infrastructure that I can be found on a sunny evening, riding my bike and taking photos in what must look like some foreign espionage operation. Truth be told, there was a run-in with the Railway Police a few months back. Trespassing was my crime, guilty was my plea. I think the Railway Police are that fake breed of law enforcement though, similar to supermarket security guards. Had they been a force to be reckoned with I would have seen a gun on the officers belt. Instead he asked what I was up to. "Why, just taking some photos officer, nothing more, nothing less." My honesty and acknowledgement of guilt was appreciated.
Something other than the luck o' the Irish allowed me to win the day. He didn't seem like the smartest guy in the world. After listening to my accent as I explained my activities he stopped me and said "Are you French?" They have a phrase for that back home, "Fuckin' eejit."
Some photos (LINK) from this evening.
05 July 2005
Feckin' birds
I have a splitting headache that took hold about two hours ago and refuses to shift. A serious neurological condition that is not being helped by what's going on in an Elm tree outside my window. Perched high above the street a big crow is making a long distance call to one of his friends. I can hear the recipient a few blocks away, happily replying with news of what's going on in his life. It's interesting that such small animals can generate so much noise. My crow speaks in bursts of three raspy squawks. The friend or relative waits a few seconds, processing the information, and if this is the early days of a relationship, carefully formulates a response. He then mirrors my crow's call with three identical squawks. A limited but efficient language.
The communication between the two characters is not unlike annoying mobile phone users. Both the crow and the human show complete disregard for others. There is one major difference, I can't figure out what the hell the crow is talking about, though I imagine it to be many times more intriguing than a discussion about what was on TV last night.
The communication between the two characters is not unlike annoying mobile phone users. Both the crow and the human show complete disregard for others. There is one major difference, I can't figure out what the hell the crow is talking about, though I imagine it to be many times more intriguing than a discussion about what was on TV last night.
30 June 2005
Breakfast
Breakfast is something I have only indulged in since I began working full time. Before that were the college and school years. In those days the morning meal consisted of whatever nutrients I could extract from toothpaste, a few cigarettes and maybe a bar of chocolate, if I was good.
Cereal is what God intended humans to eat in the wee hours. I am sure of this. While working at Nova Science, in Ireland, I was introduced to a brand of cereal whose recipe could only have been concocted by Him. We’re talking about Kellogg’s Just Right… “A sumptuous blend of just the right amount of four natural grains, crunchy nuts and succulent fruit.” I recall one morning in the canteen sitting across from someone slurping up a bowl of Just Right and thought I’d try my hand at a few mouthfuls. Immediate satisfaction was exhibited by making an over joyous horse type sound.
Fast forward to present day life here in America. I’ve searched high and low in countless supermarkets spanning three states. It’s a personal crusade whenever I happen to be in a new part of the country. Never have I once seen the stuff. “Kellogg’s Just Right”, I’ll say to an employee. “Do you have it?” The reply always sounds initially positive. “Oh yeah, I remember that stuff… no, sorry, we don’t sell that anymore.”
In this country you can get everything you don’t need. There used to be a game I’d play. I make up completely absurd products/services and bounce them off Martha, just to test how consumer friendly America really is. 24 hour golf club shops, restaurants dedicated to the provision of one niche food only: pancakes, drive through banks. They all exist.
A shrewd and loyal friend wanting to shed the hassle and expense of a wedding present for the happy couple could always have a few 750g boxes of said cereal shipped over. No pressure.
Cereal is what God intended humans to eat in the wee hours. I am sure of this. While working at Nova Science, in Ireland, I was introduced to a brand of cereal whose recipe could only have been concocted by Him. We’re talking about Kellogg’s Just Right… “A sumptuous blend of just the right amount of four natural grains, crunchy nuts and succulent fruit.” I recall one morning in the canteen sitting across from someone slurping up a bowl of Just Right and thought I’d try my hand at a few mouthfuls. Immediate satisfaction was exhibited by making an over joyous horse type sound.
Fast forward to present day life here in America. I’ve searched high and low in countless supermarkets spanning three states. It’s a personal crusade whenever I happen to be in a new part of the country. Never have I once seen the stuff. “Kellogg’s Just Right”, I’ll say to an employee. “Do you have it?” The reply always sounds initially positive. “Oh yeah, I remember that stuff… no, sorry, we don’t sell that anymore.”
In this country you can get everything you don’t need. There used to be a game I’d play. I make up completely absurd products/services and bounce them off Martha, just to test how consumer friendly America really is. 24 hour golf club shops, restaurants dedicated to the provision of one niche food only: pancakes, drive through banks. They all exist.
A shrewd and loyal friend wanting to shed the hassle and expense of a wedding present for the happy couple could always have a few 750g boxes of said cereal shipped over. No pressure.
19 June 2005
Camping
A three day week is a sweet thing indeed. On Thursday morning, after miserably failing a driving test, Martha, Fro and I drove north for a long weekend of camping.
George H. Crosby Manitou State Park (LINK), or Bill Cosby Park as I call it, lies about 50 miles north of Duluth, Minnesota on the edge of vast Lake Superior. We stopped for lunch in downtown Duluth. A major port city even though on a lake. Northern Minnesota is known as The Iron Range due to the abundance of iron ore in the region. All visible heavy industry in Duluth revolves around ore processing. While driving out of the city I looked up at an overhead railway bridge. It must have been 75ft above road level. As far as the eye could see were a string of identical carriages crawling toward a white smoke belching plant. The scene looked like a rollercoaster ride as it begins its initial journey along the rails.
Lake fronted northeastern Minnesota enjoys a beautiful summer climate compared to landlocked Minneapolis where July/August temperatures can and do reach the high 90's and the parallel insult, humidity, measuring as high. The enormous body of water that is Lake Superior acts as a giant heat sink absorbing the sun's rays. It would take years to heat that quantity of water to even lukewarm, so when a breeze blows off the lake and onto land it is cool and refreshing. As I said, summer in Duluth is sweet but winter is hell with snowfall measured in feet and duration of ground coverage measured in months. That welcome breeze from the lake turns evil making you wish you could crawl into a bears den and sleep it out until spring.
Bill Cosby Park has a population of Black Bears. Although not as big as their grizzly cousins I don’t think I’d like to happen across one while alone at night. The bear presence and our instinct for survival forces us to take certain precautions. All pic-i-nic baskets, food and food waste has to be stored in a bag. The bag is then tied to a rope and pulled up into a tree out of reach from hungry bears. I whipped up a rope system that would shame an above average outdoors man. Patent pending.
As I write this I am sitting on a rock on the edge of the powerful Manitou River that cascades noisily over a rocky river bed diagonally bisecting the park. Silver Birch, Maple, Pine, Cedar and many more tree varieties populate the banks and surrounding woods. Storm felled trees provide all the firewood we could ever need. The trick is getting to the good wood before the ants reduce it to soil. The water is the color of organic apple juice, tinted by the iron in the earth. Protruding rocks provide resistance to the rivers flow and generate plenty of whitewater. I’ve yet to see any brave soul canoe it.
It’s interesting to look around and acknowledge that nothing has ever been changed by people here. The park is managed by the state but the human influence can only be seen in the water pump two miles from our tent and the hole in the ground that serves as the toilet. It’s not your average tents in a field, vending machines everywhere kind of place. There’s no shop, showers, electricity, noise or litter. Each tent is nearly a quarter mile apart. It’s the most cut off from civilization I’ve ever been. We saw no more than 30 people all weekend! The woods are dense and getting lost looks all too easy. Whatever I learned in the scouts wouldn’t be enough to get me out of here alive. The few knots I remembered came in useful though.
Late evening is fire time. Fro chops wood and builds a fire. The fire must be enjoyed without its liquid partner, beer. Not an option this weekend. Beer is heavy and we have too much already to haul from the car to the tent, a journey of over two miles through woods and fast changing topography. Another factor is that all rubbish must be taken home. It’s all fun and games when drunk around a warm fire, but transporting a scatter of empty but heavy bottles back to the Honda is not my idea of a good time. If I was fond of the hard stuff a half bottle of whisky could be accommodated, but I’m not, so I’ll have to rely on sobriety and the sound of the rushing Manitou River to put me to sleep. Life could be much worse.
I made friends with this (LINK) guy.
George H. Crosby Manitou State Park (LINK), or Bill Cosby Park as I call it, lies about 50 miles north of Duluth, Minnesota on the edge of vast Lake Superior. We stopped for lunch in downtown Duluth. A major port city even though on a lake. Northern Minnesota is known as The Iron Range due to the abundance of iron ore in the region. All visible heavy industry in Duluth revolves around ore processing. While driving out of the city I looked up at an overhead railway bridge. It must have been 75ft above road level. As far as the eye could see were a string of identical carriages crawling toward a white smoke belching plant. The scene looked like a rollercoaster ride as it begins its initial journey along the rails.
Lake fronted northeastern Minnesota enjoys a beautiful summer climate compared to landlocked Minneapolis where July/August temperatures can and do reach the high 90's and the parallel insult, humidity, measuring as high. The enormous body of water that is Lake Superior acts as a giant heat sink absorbing the sun's rays. It would take years to heat that quantity of water to even lukewarm, so when a breeze blows off the lake and onto land it is cool and refreshing. As I said, summer in Duluth is sweet but winter is hell with snowfall measured in feet and duration of ground coverage measured in months. That welcome breeze from the lake turns evil making you wish you could crawl into a bears den and sleep it out until spring.
Bill Cosby Park has a population of Black Bears. Although not as big as their grizzly cousins I don’t think I’d like to happen across one while alone at night. The bear presence and our instinct for survival forces us to take certain precautions. All pic-i-nic baskets, food and food waste has to be stored in a bag. The bag is then tied to a rope and pulled up into a tree out of reach from hungry bears. I whipped up a rope system that would shame an above average outdoors man. Patent pending.
As I write this I am sitting on a rock on the edge of the powerful Manitou River that cascades noisily over a rocky river bed diagonally bisecting the park. Silver Birch, Maple, Pine, Cedar and many more tree varieties populate the banks and surrounding woods. Storm felled trees provide all the firewood we could ever need. The trick is getting to the good wood before the ants reduce it to soil. The water is the color of organic apple juice, tinted by the iron in the earth. Protruding rocks provide resistance to the rivers flow and generate plenty of whitewater. I’ve yet to see any brave soul canoe it.
It’s interesting to look around and acknowledge that nothing has ever been changed by people here. The park is managed by the state but the human influence can only be seen in the water pump two miles from our tent and the hole in the ground that serves as the toilet. It’s not your average tents in a field, vending machines everywhere kind of place. There’s no shop, showers, electricity, noise or litter. Each tent is nearly a quarter mile apart. It’s the most cut off from civilization I’ve ever been. We saw no more than 30 people all weekend! The woods are dense and getting lost looks all too easy. Whatever I learned in the scouts wouldn’t be enough to get me out of here alive. The few knots I remembered came in useful though.
Late evening is fire time. Fro chops wood and builds a fire. The fire must be enjoyed without its liquid partner, beer. Not an option this weekend. Beer is heavy and we have too much already to haul from the car to the tent, a journey of over two miles through woods and fast changing topography. Another factor is that all rubbish must be taken home. It’s all fun and games when drunk around a warm fire, but transporting a scatter of empty but heavy bottles back to the Honda is not my idea of a good time. If I was fond of the hard stuff a half bottle of whisky could be accommodated, but I’m not, so I’ll have to rely on sobriety and the sound of the rushing Manitou River to put me to sleep. Life could be much worse.
I made friends with this (LINK) guy.
30 May 2005
Wisconsin
On Friday we pointed the car toward Wisconsin to spend the long weekend with Martha's family. Traffic was light and we made good time, reaching a sleeping Waupaca well before midnight. The desire to go out and hit the bottle at that time of night is decreasing with age and knowing that a good hangover will ruin an entire weekend we went to bed.
Outdoor shenanigans began early on Saturday. Fran offered the option of physical labor on his land and I accepted. One pile of wood was broken down into three piles. Usable construction timber, burnable firewood, dead wood with no other use than to be thrown on top of a new pile dedicated to decaying branches, leaves and other tree matter. A man with piles. Some two hours later Martha and Marci arrived on the scene with supplies of Heineken and cheese sandwiches.
Good weather is never to be wasted. Later that same day we set fire (LINK) to a bunch of wood, had more beer and began to wish that we brought tents. Looking up at the stars and enjoying the warm crackling fire Fran summed up life at that point in time: "eat food, drink beer, burn wood."
The rural night sky is as black as coal and millions of stars are visible. What appears to be thin dusty clouds is actually the Milky Way galaxy, our home. Beer and stars, makes you think. Good times.
Outdoor shenanigans began early on Saturday. Fran offered the option of physical labor on his land and I accepted. One pile of wood was broken down into three piles. Usable construction timber, burnable firewood, dead wood with no other use than to be thrown on top of a new pile dedicated to decaying branches, leaves and other tree matter. A man with piles. Some two hours later Martha and Marci arrived on the scene with supplies of Heineken and cheese sandwiches.
Good weather is never to be wasted. Later that same day we set fire (LINK) to a bunch of wood, had more beer and began to wish that we brought tents. Looking up at the stars and enjoying the warm crackling fire Fran summed up life at that point in time: "eat food, drink beer, burn wood."
The rural night sky is as black as coal and millions of stars are visible. What appears to be thin dusty clouds is actually the Milky Way galaxy, our home. Beer and stars, makes you think. Good times.
21 May 2005
Another cool weekend
On Friday night we went over to Nate and Fro's house. They live in northeast Minneapolis, a part of the city that I hope to call home sometime next year. My crude words or photos will never be able to describe how fantastic an area it is. Giant trees hang low over the pleasant streets, strange and interesting shops can be found on Central avenue, amazing old industrial buildings are as numerous as houses, a constant stream of slow moving freight trains bisects the neighborhoods with their horns blasting loudly all day and all night. Soon after we arrived the outdoor fire was set up. We gathered round (LINK) and had a few laughs.
The third weekend in May of every year is when Art-A-Whirl (LINK) goes down in northeast Minneapolis. It is an open studio and gallery tour where hundreds of artists throw open their doors and display their works. There is more going on in this city that I ever knew. We spent all day Saturday and most of Sunday moving from one gallery to another. They were in breweries, on boats, in warehouses and in private homes. We saw art that was great and not so great and we ate as much free food as we could without being too obvious, even though stuffing ones pockets with handfuls of pretzels is quite a visible act. No shame.
The third weekend in May of every year is when Art-A-Whirl (LINK) goes down in northeast Minneapolis. It is an open studio and gallery tour where hundreds of artists throw open their doors and display their works. There is more going on in this city that I ever knew. We spent all day Saturday and most of Sunday moving from one gallery to another. They were in breweries, on boats, in warehouses and in private homes. We saw art that was great and not so great and we ate as much free food as we could without being too obvious, even though stuffing ones pockets with handfuls of pretzels is quite a visible act. No shame.
08 May 2005
Seating rules
Last night we had a few at Keegan's. Pretty authentic Irish pub. The drinks are expensive and the music is too loud. On our table Martha noticed a small sign that said "This table is reserved for a minimum of 3 people." The sign was obviously meant to deter people from hogging too many seats, seats that could be utilized by a greater number of patrons.
"But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence..."
I had a black marker in my pocket and offered it to Martha so that the sign could be doctored. The 3 was quickly changed to an 8 and the sign was put on the table next to us. No sooner had the sign been placed on the table than in the door walked a group of three men. They made their way over to the free table but upon noticing the new seating restrictions made a u-turn and chose a different place to sit.
"But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence..."
I had a black marker in my pocket and offered it to Martha so that the sign could be doctored. The 3 was quickly changed to an 8 and the sign was put on the table next to us. No sooner had the sign been placed on the table than in the door walked a group of three men. They made their way over to the free table but upon noticing the new seating restrictions made a u-turn and chose a different place to sit.
30 April 2005
Fire
Last night I was party to a back garden science experiment. We were over at Fro and Nate's house enjoying a fire they had on their patio. The smell of burning wood, the sight of flames leaping toward the dark sky and a few bottles of beer is the perfect way to spend an evening. But where there's fire there's messin'. Various objects were lobbed into the fire and turned to ash. Then somebody tossed a beer bottle into the flames. We watched the bottle slowly begin to glow, taking on an orange lava type color. Slowly but surely the glass reached its "softening point."
Softening point: The temperature at which glass will deform under its own weight.
We watched in drunken fascination as the bottle sagged and folded over on itself. When taken out of the fire on the end of a stick it quickly cooled and became brittle. End of experiment, end of story.
Softening point: The temperature at which glass will deform under its own weight.
We watched in drunken fascination as the bottle sagged and folded over on itself. When taken out of the fire on the end of a stick it quickly cooled and became brittle. End of experiment, end of story.
17 April 2005
Down at the train tracks
This weekend was mostly spent outdoors since the weather was so feckin' beautiful. We peddled all over the place enjoying the sights and sounds of a city that continues to reveal new sides all the time. An opportunity presented itself to cross another All-American activity off the list. I've been to a baseball game, I've eaten hot dogs, I've been to rummage sales, I've tasted (and spat out) root beer... and now I can say that I've gone down to the train tracks and crushed coins. Cycling along Energy Park Drive I happened upon some suitable tracks. Knowing that freight trains run quite frequently on this line I laid a quarter on the rail. I sat patiently in the hot sun and waited for a train to flatten my money. Thirty minutes later and still no train so I set off on the bike but left the money in place. Almost as soon as I cycled off a train blasted past me so I turned the beast around and returned to the scene of the crime. And there she was, flat as a pancake and smooth as if she had been polished. Wish I had of witnessed the action. Next time.
02 April 2005
Walking project
A friend of mine back home is undertaking a masters degree in digital art and technology. Martha and I participated in a project for him today. It was a walking project and involved us downloading 25 audio instructions that we put on my ipod and randomized. Then every three minutes we are told either to go left, right, back, forward... you get the idea. During each three minute track we are obliged to make some sort of visual or textual recording of anything that interests us along the way.
Initial skepticism on my part gave way to pure enjoyment as we were forced to interact with the city in a controlled fashion. It was interesting to come across so many intriguing people and situations that would have remained otherwise hidden from our lives had we received a different instruction that led us down another street. I frequently give up on this city and proclaim that there is no good stuff in it, but I am usually proven wrong and this project confirmed that. Simply kicking back and waiting for a city to come knocking on your door with a list of fun activities is not going to happen. Seems to be a two way process.
We picked Central avenue in northeast Minneapolis as a good starting point. It's a higher end of the low income bracket blue collar type of neighborhood. There are freight trains running through the area, beautiful old warehouse buildings, a strong Russian and eastern European presence, plenty of hardware shops. It feels like a real community, the type of existence where you could go next door to borrow a shovel, be offered a cold beer and then spend hours talking about nothing in particular. And what's wrong with that? Absolutely nothing. It's got that very, very tiny hint of danger but overall is just full of normal people doing normal and abnormal stuff.
Some of the fun and peculiar happenings we experienced:
During the first few minutes of the project we were instructed to make a left, so we did. We walked by a funeral home. There was a ladder leaning against a wall right under an open window. A man in his late seventies and wearing a tailored suit was trying to get out the window. Why? We joked that he was assumed dead and thrown into the pine box only to awaken, break out of the coffin and then escape the funeral home to go and avenge his non-death.
The walking continued, sometimes doubling back on itself due to the random order of the audio instructions. We made our way up a steep hill of a street. Again, a ladder plays an important part in this tale. We came across a man in his early thirties carefully descending a ladder. In his right hand was a small cage containing a frantic squirrel. At home squirrels are happy-go-lucky characters who enjoy public affection. Over here they are as populous and as troublesome as rats. They have a habit of making a home for themselves in every available wall cavity of a house. Imagine the noise and the smell? Martha asked the guy could she take his picture and I inquired about the fate of the caged squirrel. The man replied, with a dry smile on his face "probably gonna put him out of his misery."
On we went, enjoying more and more this part of the city. Nice location for a future home? We came upon an elderly couple sitting in their front garden on neon plastic chairs. The man had a big spongy booze nose and was smoking the stub of a fat cigar. They were just sitting there enjoying the fine Spring weather. We asked could we photograph them. The man was into the idea. His wife was slightly nervous. He spoke for her and we took a few shots anyway. Nice folks.
Maybe a half hour later we came to a four way intersection. There was a church on one corner, houses on two other corners and some small commercial but out of business building on the remaining corner. In front of this was an old Ford pickup truck. Three men were standing around the truck. They saw us across the road with the cameras and started shouting over "hey, take our picture!" We crossed the road and a had a chat. They told us to title the photo "Three Guys Looking for Work."
I enjoyed the forced interaction between us, other people, locations, time. I suppose I could try and think about it in more detail but it was just simply a good time.
The result (LINK) of Emmet's toil.
Initial skepticism on my part gave way to pure enjoyment as we were forced to interact with the city in a controlled fashion. It was interesting to come across so many intriguing people and situations that would have remained otherwise hidden from our lives had we received a different instruction that led us down another street. I frequently give up on this city and proclaim that there is no good stuff in it, but I am usually proven wrong and this project confirmed that. Simply kicking back and waiting for a city to come knocking on your door with a list of fun activities is not going to happen. Seems to be a two way process.
We picked Central avenue in northeast Minneapolis as a good starting point. It's a higher end of the low income bracket blue collar type of neighborhood. There are freight trains running through the area, beautiful old warehouse buildings, a strong Russian and eastern European presence, plenty of hardware shops. It feels like a real community, the type of existence where you could go next door to borrow a shovel, be offered a cold beer and then spend hours talking about nothing in particular. And what's wrong with that? Absolutely nothing. It's got that very, very tiny hint of danger but overall is just full of normal people doing normal and abnormal stuff.
Some of the fun and peculiar happenings we experienced:
During the first few minutes of the project we were instructed to make a left, so we did. We walked by a funeral home. There was a ladder leaning against a wall right under an open window. A man in his late seventies and wearing a tailored suit was trying to get out the window. Why? We joked that he was assumed dead and thrown into the pine box only to awaken, break out of the coffin and then escape the funeral home to go and avenge his non-death.
The walking continued, sometimes doubling back on itself due to the random order of the audio instructions. We made our way up a steep hill of a street. Again, a ladder plays an important part in this tale. We came across a man in his early thirties carefully descending a ladder. In his right hand was a small cage containing a frantic squirrel. At home squirrels are happy-go-lucky characters who enjoy public affection. Over here they are as populous and as troublesome as rats. They have a habit of making a home for themselves in every available wall cavity of a house. Imagine the noise and the smell? Martha asked the guy could she take his picture and I inquired about the fate of the caged squirrel. The man replied, with a dry smile on his face "probably gonna put him out of his misery."
On we went, enjoying more and more this part of the city. Nice location for a future home? We came upon an elderly couple sitting in their front garden on neon plastic chairs. The man had a big spongy booze nose and was smoking the stub of a fat cigar. They were just sitting there enjoying the fine Spring weather. We asked could we photograph them. The man was into the idea. His wife was slightly nervous. He spoke for her and we took a few shots anyway. Nice folks.
Maybe a half hour later we came to a four way intersection. There was a church on one corner, houses on two other corners and some small commercial but out of business building on the remaining corner. In front of this was an old Ford pickup truck. Three men were standing around the truck. They saw us across the road with the cameras and started shouting over "hey, take our picture!" We crossed the road and a had a chat. They told us to title the photo "Three Guys Looking for Work."
I enjoyed the forced interaction between us, other people, locations, time. I suppose I could try and think about it in more detail but it was just simply a good time.
The result (LINK) of Emmet's toil.
30 March 2005
Eulogy to Bob
The family dog back home passed away yesterday after a long battle with cancer. Everyone who ever had a dog will always say that their mut was the best in the world. I know that our dog was far from perfect and that's what made him great. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, he was the worst possible watchdog, he always slept on the job, he begged profusely, he stole food, he crawled into unreachable holes and ripped your favorite socks to bits. He had few tricks to his name. Ask him to roll over and he would look at you with a face of absolute stupidity. He didn't understand the game where the owner throws a stick or ball and the loyal hound retrieves the object so it can be thrown again. He survived a kidnapping in 1996. He was gay for about a two year period. He fancied himself as a ladies man but I never actually witnessed him hooking up. He sometimes went missing but always showed up many hours later contently sitting outside the front door of the house as we pulled into the drive. He liked to chase pigeons. I was always impressed with the tiger like approach he used when trying to catch one of these rat-birds. He would drop real low and slink slowly toward the birds. Inevitably they got away every time. The list goes on and on. I'll continue to enjoy the memories for many years to come.
19 March 2005
John Law
We had a run-in with the police last night. Nothing as dramatic as one might see on an episode of COPS but that's probably a good thing. Yesterday was Kelley's birthday. We had a party in the apartment. A very respectable and well behaved crowd enjoyed a moderate dose of booze and decent helping of light snacks. The Americans have manners. No doubt about that. Such a contrast to some of the parties I have been to back home where peoples CD's end up in the microwave, amateur stuntmen cycle bikes down flights of stairs, stuff gets stolen, stuff gets smashed to smithereens, furniture gets burned. Of course, this is hilarious when it's someone else's property being destroyed.
The music, drinking and casual but friendly mingling continued past midnight. Around 01:15 two of Minneapolis's finest literally strolled into the kitchen. The people living below our apartment, who are younger than us and at home asleep on a Friday night, had called the police to complain about the noise. You'd think it would be easier to knock on our door and ask us to turn down the music. Obviously not. The two cops were clearly quite confused by the reason for the call. They were probably expecting a bunch of wild naked lunatics to be dancing around the place and snorting cocaine off a toilet seat. They apologized for disturbing us. That's right, they were sorry for interrupting our well behaved party.
My spidey senses tell me that the hostility between the neighbors and ourselves will escalate. I've already traded harsh words with one of the whistle blowers. I am quite content to let it be a long, drawn out, petty and devious campaign of revenge and reprisal.
The music, drinking and casual but friendly mingling continued past midnight. Around 01:15 two of Minneapolis's finest literally strolled into the kitchen. The people living below our apartment, who are younger than us and at home asleep on a Friday night, had called the police to complain about the noise. You'd think it would be easier to knock on our door and ask us to turn down the music. Obviously not. The two cops were clearly quite confused by the reason for the call. They were probably expecting a bunch of wild naked lunatics to be dancing around the place and snorting cocaine off a toilet seat. They apologized for disturbing us. That's right, they were sorry for interrupting our well behaved party.
My spidey senses tell me that the hostility between the neighbors and ourselves will escalate. I've already traded harsh words with one of the whistle blowers. I am quite content to let it be a long, drawn out, petty and devious campaign of revenge and reprisal.
12 March 2005
Deals a plenty
I got a real taste of the America everyone loves to hate today, and I liked it. Kelley and I went to an outlet mall in Albertville, located about 30 miles from our apartment. An outlet mall is basically an architecturally criminal bunch of buildings that house name brand stores like Nike, Calvin Klein, Benetton... selling their wares at rock bottom prices. They're literally giving the shit away. To get there you have to travel beyond the seemingly endless suburban sprawl. Yes, it does end somewhere and fertile farmland survives beyond that point. Not for long. There is no shortage of space in this country and therefore no plans to slow the pace at which cities and suburbs spill out from their points of origin while devouring more and more green fields. The big cities are quite densely populated but go west and you'll see that even the poorest of people live in dwellings that enjoy a footprint much greater than their equally worse off European counterparts.
The outlet mall. It's ugly. It's soulless. It's full of annoying people, but my god it's good value. One pair of Levis, one pair of jeans from the Gap, a shirt and jumper/sweater from Benetton, another jumper/sweater this time from Old Navy, and about three other items since forgotten. How much? About $100.
I remember times at home going into town with a hard earned £100 in my pocket and hoping to exchange this for a pair of jeans and maybe a shirt or two, if I was lucky. What a fool I was.
The sweetness of a good deal is one of life's many pleasures.
The outlet mall. It's ugly. It's soulless. It's full of annoying people, but my god it's good value. One pair of Levis, one pair of jeans from the Gap, a shirt and jumper/sweater from Benetton, another jumper/sweater this time from Old Navy, and about three other items since forgotten. How much? About $100.
I remember times at home going into town with a hard earned £100 in my pocket and hoping to exchange this for a pair of jeans and maybe a shirt or two, if I was lucky. What a fool I was.
The sweetness of a good deal is one of life's many pleasures.
07 March 2005
Clichés
I've heard many clichéd statements in my time, such as when playing Monoploy and someone will think it very original to say "Imagine this was real money?"
Irish people will be very familiar with what gets said when enjoying a Cadbury's Creme Egg around Easter time. It is customary to proclaim "Imagine you could get an easter egg that was actually a massive Creme Egg?" Sure, it would be great to be able to buy such an Easter egg.
As nice as that would be it would probably cause death. I came across a site recently where some guy took matters into his own hands and made his own monster egg.
Check it (LINK) out.
Irish people will be very familiar with what gets said when enjoying a Cadbury's Creme Egg around Easter time. It is customary to proclaim "Imagine you could get an easter egg that was actually a massive Creme Egg?" Sure, it would be great to be able to buy such an Easter egg.
As nice as that would be it would probably cause death. I came across a site recently where some guy took matters into his own hands and made his own monster egg.
Check it (LINK) out.
04 March 2005
The Miser's Gold
I counted the contents of my spare change jar this evening, or my holiday jar as it has become known. Martha and I, and maybe some other good folks, will be heading to Glacier National Park, Montana this summer. Around that time the coins from this very jar will be converted into a nice wad of notes. Soon after, these very same notes will be bartered for petroleum distillate that will propel our vehicle west. And what of the dirty jar and its worth? $160 at latest count. Sweet.
Counting my change coin by filthy coin brought to mind a story we learned at school a long time ago, "The Miser's Gold". The miser was an old guy who lived alone in a dilapidated old house. He spent every night repetitively counting his stacks of coins by candlelight. The old bastard was too tight to splash out on a few 60W bulbs. Of course, this was a children's story and through colorful illustrations and simple mental imagery we were persuaded to agree with the futility of greed and understand its effects. My cynical adult mind has been thinking about the tale of the miser and has come to the conclusion that he was not the smartest economist after all. Surely if he had of taken his money to a bank offering competitive rates of interests on savings accounts they would have been happy to nurture his fortune. Likewise, if he had of maintained his house thereby keeping its market value steady he may have been able to live a less frugal and more enjoyable life.
Someone really needs to write a sequel.
Counting my change coin by filthy coin brought to mind a story we learned at school a long time ago, "The Miser's Gold". The miser was an old guy who lived alone in a dilapidated old house. He spent every night repetitively counting his stacks of coins by candlelight. The old bastard was too tight to splash out on a few 60W bulbs. Of course, this was a children's story and through colorful illustrations and simple mental imagery we were persuaded to agree with the futility of greed and understand its effects. My cynical adult mind has been thinking about the tale of the miser and has come to the conclusion that he was not the smartest economist after all. Surely if he had of taken his money to a bank offering competitive rates of interests on savings accounts they would have been happy to nurture his fortune. Likewise, if he had of maintained his house thereby keeping its market value steady he may have been able to live a less frugal and more enjoyable life.
Someone really needs to write a sequel.
21 February 2005
The Windy City
Went to The Windy City (a.k.a. Chicago) this weekend. I am certain that I could be extremely content living there.
When one visits a city with a population of 8,272,768, one of the top five tallest buildings in the world and is next to a lake that is actually bigger than Ireland one should attempt to capture these wonders on camera. As you can see (LINK), I have failed miserably to do so.
When one visits a city with a population of 8,272,768, one of the top five tallest buildings in the world and is next to a lake that is actually bigger than Ireland one should attempt to capture these wonders on camera. As you can see (LINK), I have failed miserably to do so.
08 February 2005
Pancake Tuesday
Today the world celebrated Pancake Tuesday. Martha was kind enough to organize the cooking of the pancakes. She used soy milk, which was a potential argument starter, but in truth yielded pancakes that were above par.
22 January 2005
Messin' in the snow
Last night was no typical Friday night "down the pub". Snow fell heavily during the day. I would hazard a guess at 12 inches in less than eight hours. That's enough to draw some cities to a complete standstill. Not this city though. The snow plows were out in force followed directly by the salt trucks.
I arrived home much later than normal but in a good mood. A few inches of snow blanketing everything in sight has the power to make you forget about any other crap swirling around in your head. I asked the room-mates what the plan for the evening entailed. The reply: sledding, or flying down steep snow covered hills on a plastic dish shaped object as I like to call it.
We drove a few miles to the park with the good hills. Naturally, we brought some booze to quench the thirst developed from running back up the slopes to repeat the sledding process. One friend brought a bottle of Jameson. I stuck with the beer. Probably not as good at warming your internal organs though.
Martha lost the car keys in the snow. The next time we see them will be when the snow melts in April. I was having too much fun to get stressed out about the loss of a bunch of metal. Up and down the hills we flew. The impact of the hard frozen earth on my arse was felt more and more as we sledded down the same run. The maiden voyage on virgin snow is pretty cloud like. I imagine that more of this great winter activity will be enjoyed as the snow continues to fall.
I arrived home much later than normal but in a good mood. A few inches of snow blanketing everything in sight has the power to make you forget about any other crap swirling around in your head. I asked the room-mates what the plan for the evening entailed. The reply: sledding, or flying down steep snow covered hills on a plastic dish shaped object as I like to call it.
We drove a few miles to the park with the good hills. Naturally, we brought some booze to quench the thirst developed from running back up the slopes to repeat the sledding process. One friend brought a bottle of Jameson. I stuck with the beer. Probably not as good at warming your internal organs though.
Martha lost the car keys in the snow. The next time we see them will be when the snow melts in April. I was having too much fun to get stressed out about the loss of a bunch of metal. Up and down the hills we flew. The impact of the hard frozen earth on my arse was felt more and more as we sledded down the same run. The maiden voyage on virgin snow is pretty cloud like. I imagine that more of this great winter activity will be enjoyed as the snow continues to fall.
02 January 2005
Christmas in Wisconsin
The Dunne family was in town for the Christmas holidays. They brought with them many foods unique to the old country.
There's nothing like the aroma experienced while picking ones nose after using the same hand to eat a bag of Tayto cheese and onion crisps.
There's nothing like the aroma experienced while picking ones nose after using the same hand to eat a bag of Tayto cheese and onion crisps.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)