The City of Roses

I could work harder at it, if I chose to pursue it as a profession. Maybe my talent level on the guitar could eventually lead to something, given enough work. I highly doubt it. I have seen talented musicians before, and I simply don't count myself among them. I make no false pretense about this. I mean, holy living fuck... have you heard me try to sing before? You're blessed if you haven't. And I TRY. Ask my roommate if you need validation about that one.

I respect anyone who chooses this as their profession - the work of their life. My profession sucks, and I can't wait until I carve out a niche for myself to improve this particular station of life. I chip away at this, with great enthusiasm and vigor, on a near-daily basis. Anyone who chooses music as their means of making ends meet is equal parts crazy and fucking insane. On the one hand, I can respect the passion inherent in making that decision. On the other hand, there is a degree of fucking delusion that I simply cannont wrap my head around inherent in following this particular path.

No, my talents are different. All aspects of my work - from here until eternity - will deal with the careful handling and prodding of people. This is what has resonated most clearly within me, through all of my life experience. My love (or gift, as it may be) is not to tell stories - it is to break down, understand, and (having taken my best swings at the prior two steps) subsequently, in any shape or form, help people to help themselves. I shy from no one, and I do my best to relate to everyone. Rarely does this approach fail...

That being said, FUCK RYAN BINGHAM. And fuck his hillbilly New Mexico friends.

My distaste for country music should be noted prior to the telling of this story. It has been my belief, for as long as I have been trying to understand how all of this shit works, that country musicians are the phoniest of the lot. This could be a result of nature, or nurture. It doesn't fucking matter. It is a genre to which I simply cannot relate. Ever. Whenever I am confronted by a country fan, I simply do my best to isolate that from the rest of their personality and judge them on the rest of their traits. What more can you do? For me, this can be a task in itself. I've never actually met a person who makes this kind of music in person. I've met rock artists, hip-hop acts, alternative acts, acoustic acts, and so on and so forth... but never a live, in-the-flesh country musician.

So tonight, I met some friends out for cocktails after a long day off of doing mostly nothing, aside from a random photographic journey and a couple loads of laundry. By around midnight, I was three sheets to the fucking wind and my car was parked somewhere where it hopefully will not be towed. That story will continue tomorrow morning, and hopefully with a happy ending. My bravado secured by the knowledge of an impending sober cab, I stepped outside of our drinky hole for a smoke. A gang of foreigners came across the street from a local concert hall toward the bar we were posted up at. I had one other member of my party of around seven with me, who promptly disappeared (roughly half way through the encounter) as he chased in a nubile young blonde back into the bar. I knew they were foreigners by their lack of regard for Minnesota's laws against indoor smoking.

Their group consisted of one dude in a wheelchair (handicap unknown), a Mexican-American dude wearing a blue shirt tucked into his ridiculous belt buckle and sporting a Pedro mustache, a few other nondescript white guys who were all wearing black t-shirts, and a pompous-looking dude with a suit coat of some kind who was wearing a white leather (faux leather?) cap with - get this - a fucking feather sticking directly out from it. Bored and hammered, I decided to investigate who these dudes were.

Guessing the chump in the pimp hat was probably the ring-leader in this particular circus, I asked him how his night was. He said he had just got done performing at the Varsity Theater and was enjoying his night, generally. My first impression of him was that he was a self-absorbed douchebag. He seemed incredibly proud of his accomplishment and what have you. Thoroughly unimpressed, I told him that the Varsity was a great place - there are only two places to perform stand-up comedy in town, and that was definitely one of them. I don't recall exactly what was said afterward, but the conversation turned quickly to his musical career as a nationally recognized country music act and not as a stand-up comedian. I would later observe others in his party explaining this to the bouncers of the bar as they were threatening to remove him from the place for lighting up a smoke inside the friendly confines. He introduced himself - sans handshake, which is always a bad sign - as Ryan Bingham.

I, of course, have no idea who the fuck Ryan Bingham is. I got the sense that they'd never been to Minnesota, so I told him about some of the great local acts we've produced. Not in a way that takes any credit for them, mind you, but in a way that I felt adequately portrayed some civic pride. The best (most commercially succesful) independent acts that have come from Minnesota in my life have been hip-hop acts. I talked to him and a couple of his man-groupies (as there was not a female within earshot of this conversation) about some of the better venues in town. One of them mentioned that he was a huge Prince fan - a sure sign of absolute cluelessness. Not a knock on Prince, but come on...

The conversation continued, mostly revolving around the faux-superstar who was passing through our wonderful city this evening. In the rare occasion where I'd be asked a question, I'd be simply cut off and interrupted with some story about how he was a self-made star. He seemed to me to be curious and delusional about his talents and the power of his personality.

Annoyed at this and finished with my smoke, I told them I would check them out on the internet and hoped that the next time they came through town that they would be playing at the Triple Rock or First Ave or the Entry or some similar place.

How did I mean it to sound? Well, fuck, you know me. I was hammered. The backhanded compliment is a complicated thing. It is equal parts art, science, and salesmanship. In order to attain the desired effect, you must nail all three.

Maybe it was the tone of my voice, or my obvious irritation with their douche-baggish behavior, but Mister Bingham took this compliment as a grievous personal affront. He began gesticulating madly at the ground, pointing at an imaginary worm and saying that "this is where I came from! What are you trying to say?" He was convinced I was trying to call him out on something. What the fuck it was, I had no idea. But I had obviously struck some kind of nerve or insecurity.

His ethnic friend stepped to within three inches of my face and asked me what my problem was. I told him I had no fucking idea what he was talking about. Ten feet away, Ryan Bingham was speaking in the third person about himself, loudly and to no one in particular, and how he couldn't believe the nerve of some talentless ass-clown as myself (paraphrasing). He was starting to go off the fucking handle. I feigned innocence, because, as I looked around, I saw no friendly faces. And this motherfucker seemed perfectly okay with attempting to pound my head flat.

I felt lucky, so I offered my hand in handshake position - as if offering a truce - to said ethnic friend. Sometimes, in life, you have to cut your losses. The offering of a truce can be a great way of accomplishing such a task. In other circumstances - such as this one - it merely inspires greater levels of grandstanding and bravado.

I was reminded that I would do well to go inside. I defiantly told him that I was not finished smoking. Realizing my cigarette was long gone, I fired up another.

I never got a handshake from any of them.

Luckily, there were some cool heads in his party as well who talked the ethnic dude out of said hammering. By cool heads, I think I mean "dumb rednecks who don't know an insult when they hear one". Somehow convinced that I had no ill intent, the situation dissolved.

I was definitely drunk, generally pissed off and up for it, but not while vastly outnumbered. I had a thoroughly entertaining conversation with a bystander about this later (thanks, Ruby!).

"Lemme holla at you... so I'm half-white, right, so I gotta help you white motherfuckers out sometimes. It don't matter how much you don't like the dude. You are outnumbered. So you can't be talking shit like that with no one around you. It sucks, but you just gotta shut your mouth, man. And that dude's an ASSHOLE."

Somewhat paraphrased, but definitely an accurate description of my thought process.

The remainder of the night passed without incident. But if any of the (admittedly few) readers of this space are Ryan Bingham fans, know this.

1.) He is a self-absorbed asshole.

2.) His friends are hillbillies.

3.) He can't take a fucking joke.

4.) The country accent in the songs (which I grudgingly looked up on YouTube) is fake. Just as it always is with country music.

From my chosen parking spot, I was within walking distance of three separate parks. Armed with plenty of time, I loosely plotted a route that would take me through all of them.

First up was Mears Park, located on 6th St. I've never driven by, walked through, or been anywhere near this location before as far as I can remember. It was generally lunch-break time for the 9-to-5'ers of St. Paul, so there was a measurable amount of foot traffic. The park itself is gorgeous. I appreciated the shade, as it was hotter than hell outside. It was very obvious by looking at the park that the people charged with maintaining the landscaping take their jobs with the appropriate measure of attention.

Moving along, I spotted an island with a shaded area - a bandshell, perhaps? - from the Robert Street Bridge. I would come to learn that it's known as Raspberry Island. I was king of the island, if only for a few minutes. I don't know why it seemed odd that there were no people here on a day like today, other than the park itself is located a few blocks from any street, which would be prohibitive to some people who are pressed for time.

Rice Park was the third park of the day, and I realized as I approached that I had been here before. I attended a wedding with an ex of mine around this time last year, and the reception was held at the Landmark Center.

I enjoyed myself far more today.

As I was about to retire to the car, I saw the dome of the state Capitol in the distance. In a weird moment of clarity, I realized that I've been living in this state for all of my 26 years. I pay tax here, and I vote. And I've never set foot near here in my entire life. Obviously, I was left with no choice but to trudge on and poke around, if only for a short while.

This was the true jump-off of summer, and there was very high potential for hijinx.  We footed it a mile and a half from our hotel to the park, cocktails in hand, and took in act after act on a gorgeous day.  It was in the mid-80's and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.  If you don't believe me, look at my arms.

My right arm is twice as burnt as my left, mostly because it spent a lot of quality time in the air.

Best act of the day?  Surprised to say it, but it was definitely Abstract Rude.  Didn't know much about him or his style before the concert, but he had a great vibe going.  Very impressive stuff, and I'll be taking in his next show at First Ave in about a month for sure.

I made the executive decision to pack the camera away for the day.  As much as I love pictures, I wanted to take in the show without having to babysit my prized possession through a crowd of drunken revelers for hours and hours.  Luckily, others in our crew were packing the photo equipment.  Eventually, pics of the day will be added to this space, along with other thoughts of the afternoon and evening.

Approximately 50 minutes remain until the kick-off of the Champion's League final.  Those unfamiliar with the sport of soccer would do well to tune in to this one.  The fixture this year features Barcelona (Winners of La Liga '09 and the Spanish Copa del Rey) squaring off against Manchester United (Winners of the Barclay's Premier League, Club World Cup, and the Carling Cup) for the title of "Greatest Club in Europe."

The CL, for me, has surpassed the World Cup in quality and excitement.  I'm pretty sure either of these teams could handle all but the best of international sides.  As a matter of fact, both sides feature players who are bonafide STARS of their international teams.

I'll be pulling hard for Barcelona to take home the crown.  They showed heart, bravery, and cruel attacking intent against the hated Chavs in their semi-final tie.  Defensively, they aren't as stout as United - and few teams are.  To win this one, they will have to play their familiar open style of play and hope they don't get burned by United's clinical counter-attack.

Looking for an under-the-radar key for today's game?  I offer the following to you.

Keita has been a key for Barca in their Champions' League run.  He serves as the anchor of the midfield, providing size and power that is lacking at other positions.  Flanked by attacking wizards Xavi Hernandez and Andres Iniesta (who is likely my favorite non-Spurs player in all the world), he has the unenviable task of disrupting United's attack.

By the nature of his position and the players he works most closely with, Keita will be counted on heavily in defense.  If he can initiate a few solid counter-attacks with help from the aforementioned duo of Xavi and Iniesta, Barcelona will have some hope of cracking the wall that is United's defence.

His unenviable task is to slow Lionel Messi.  I rate Evra highly when he's in form, but there may be no hotter player in the world than the tiny Argentine wizard.  There's no other way to phrase it - his hands will be full and this matchup could be the one upon which the title match turns.

On the Sunday before the U of M journey, Grant wanted to hit up Grand Avenue for some lunch and sunshine.  I obliged and brought the camera for a short journey.

This is my favorite pic out of the group.  The kid sitting on the statue was being yelled at off-screen by his mother.  Obviously, the statue is not meant to be climbed.  He paid no mind and surveyed the lay of the land from his new perch.  I had no idea that statue-climbing would become more relevant on Monday...

This one below is for a friend with a strange obsession with weiner dogs.  It's about a three-and-a-half foot tall carving that looks rooted in the yard.  We didn't get close enough to examine if it was a statue simply dug in or if it was carved directly from what used to be a tree.

We happened across Summit Lookout Park a bit later on.  The park itself was rededicated in 2008 and features a nice, barren patch of grass lined with benches.  There is also a dedicated brick walkway surrounding an interesting statue of an eagle owning a snake.  The park itself is set high above a road where Summit splits off to the left - the name of the street escapes me.  It provides, fittingly, a bird's-eye view of part of downtown St. Paul.

It was a gorgeous day, and these folks took advantage by playing croquet.  They're all very formally dressed, as you can see.  This was on the first nice, hot(tish) day of the summer so I could imagine some of them were a tad uncomfortable.  Still, this is a great use of the public park.

Seriously.  Croquet?  I like their style.

There was also a playground extending out from a hill in the backyard.  This viewing point was raised about six feet off the ground from the bottom of the playground, but a walkway extended directly to us from a higher point.  

I returned home in the late afternoon and decided it was time to try to capture the gorgeous trees in our courtyard.  Don't be too jealous - they only look this good for a couple weeks out of the year.  As of now, those pink petals are littering the area outside our windows.

The friendly neighborhood duck was back at his post near our pool.  I'd been hoping to catch him swimming one of these days, as I'd only ever seen him lounging poolside and working on his tan.  In the surest sign of summer I've seen so far, he dove in and went for a swim.

Usually, non-residents are not allowed in the pool but we've adopted Duck E. Fresh.  He's cool enough to qualify as an honorary pool resident.  Once the pool opens this week, I fear we may not see him for a while.  He's cool with Ryan and me, but I don't know how he feels about the rest of the people who will be descending on his home in short time.

Minneapolis - Part III

University of Minnesota - East Bank

We hit the University of Minnesota campus on foot from Grant's house, which is a good mile or so from the center of campus proper. Having lived around the area, I'm familiar with the lay of the land but for the most part, I spend my time in the surrounding area and not on campus itself. The last time I spent any quality time touring the campus was at the end of high school. I had been accepted to the U of M, but decided after the first day of 8-hour guided tours that it probably wasn't the best environment for me. Whether I was right about that will be open for debate, but it's how I felt at the time.

This time, I returned to explore on my own terms with some trusted helpers. The gentlemen brought skateboards to add some fun and speed to their travels, and I followed on foot. We put quite a few miles on for this particular day. The most interesting points in the journey are noted photographically below.

We took a lot of skating shots, but only a few of them turned out. Nick found a couple of stairs and a nice 3-foot loading dock to gap. There was a lot of unrealized potential on these areas of campus, but many sidewalks were closed to construction - restricting us mostly to the areas shown here.

We found this sculpture nestled in the center area of the campus. A fierce debate over its purpose and design ensued. Grant insisted it was some sort of cannon brace or something. Nick seemed to think it resembled some sort of telescopic device, used to scan the heavens for signs of extraterrestrial life. I could have agreed for both of them, but this is an artistic representation of one of those hypothetical things.

When I see this, I simply see a jungle gym for grown-ups.

Grant led us to another of his favorite campus landmarks - this hulking tree. I haven't seen a tree whose limbs extended so horizontally from its core. As you'll see below, this could make for an epic climbing tree. Despite the lack of campus security presence, we abstained from said climbing for the evening and made a note of its location. We shall return some time in the future to continue this particular journey.

This is the Weisman Art Museum, shown from the east. The walkway in the center of the frame was a key location in our journey. I remember it from the days of skating in my youth. Inside the tunnel? Benches on benches. On benches. Perfect for a skate.

Later on, you'll see the building and walkway from the west, shot at night.

We ran into some friends as we were skating in the tunnel. A gang of current and former co-workers were enjoying the ideal weather by biking for miles. Securing an invitation for a cocktail later in the evening, we bid them farewell and continued on our way.

From the same walkway, you could look down into an area known as the Bohemian Flats (thank you, Kim, for the proper name). The pieces of steel shown here are remnants from the 35W bridge. We are pretty close to where the accident occured, and a new bridge stands in its place. This is where they examine the wreckage.

The clock in the forefront here is part of the Carlson School of Management, where Grant spends a good chunk of his time. Creeping over the clock in the background is the Riverside Plaza, the ugliest goddamn building in our fair city. Affectionately known as the 'Crack Stacks' and 'Ghetto in the Sky' by the locals, it appears as if the building itself is preparing to mug the clock tower.

I can't wait until something is done with those buildings in the future.

We made a pit stop at Preston's on Seven Corners for some wings and a drink. Rather than resorting to single drinks, we got a fishbowl filled with some kind of mixed cocktail and drank directly from that. I do my part to remain eco-friendly.

The table of girls in the background made for some interesting eavesdropping. They'd all had an interesting weekend, to say the very least. Whatever charm they would have otherwise held over us was ruined as soon as they began to talk. I can't believe they're even in college.