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Shortness

Beautiful day! Warm and sunny! Best Fall Ever!

Would you be surprised to learn I went to the Fair today? I did. Again. That’s four. Two more to go. I’m not done with it yet, obviously, but I’m also not done with it in the other sense, the OH GOD NOT AGAIN PLEASE NO phase. But it takes a lot to make me sick of the Fair. It helps to make quick feints in and out, not overstay, and have an idea what I want to do. Didn’t have any of those today, alas. Just showed up with a camera and a tripod and figured I’d see what happens.

Actually, they’re all like that.

Here’s a picture of a booth from the 70s:

And here it is today. Hardly anything has changed!

I’m doing a short vid for the paper, using stills and filters to describe the difference between the old fair and the new, the difference between the homier days and the new era, where professional signage and neon and chrome predominate. Those I do not like. They look great at night, yes, but they have no sense of place or time, aside from the bright commercial NOW. The smaller booths are the ones I patronize, the ones with low-tech signs. Every year I see the homely humble Bratwurst Mit Kraut, and I want to cry: my old friend! It has been too long!

That thing will be there forever, because the owner has the franchise on the spot, and it’s too small for anyone who wants to make big money. I don’t think he makes a ton of money, but you buy a pack of brats for three dollars, sell them individually for, say, seven, and profit just might result.

Anyway. Column and video night. Approaching the end of the great run of obligations. All starts up in earnest next Monday; bear with me, and thanks.

It’s Yellow

You can’t say it’s summer when it’s September. Might as well stop with the elaborate justifications. It’s over. I almost feel better admitting it; now I can eat.

A few people have asked me how I like the redesign of the Oval Office. Well:

It’s certainly brown. I hate the table, which looks like it was saved from a rusty Borg cube. Otherwise it has a nice autumnal feel – sedate, calm, subdued. If I was called there I would find the colors soothing, but it does sort of have a 4:00 PM-in-America feel to it. I wonder if occupants of the office request a new look because they spilled coffee on the carpet, and think: that’s not coming up. There are splotches on the carpet at work that have been there for a long time, and have survived the person who made the mess in the first place. I don’t think anyone who made the spill remembers the particular incident, or regarded themselves responsible if they walked past a year later and saw a dark brown mark of shame. I know I’d probably spill coffee on the first day of my job as President, and it would just ruin the event. The Chief Joints of Staff would come in and I’d be on hands and knees, trying to blot it up. Cream-colored carpet. Really, gentlemen, it’s just asking for this. Of course you could call in someone to clean it up, but there would be silent reproach and judgment: really? On your first day? Oh it’s no trouble at all Mr. President. I got up this morning hoping I could help make history by cleaning up a rug. Can I get you a soda so you can spill some on the leather-trimmed blotter? It was a gift to TR from the Rajah of India.

I wonder what’s in the desk drawers. Whether the President has the same things we do – a battery, an old memory card that hardly holds anything anymore, a dead pen, a Post-It note pad with ten sheets left (you can’t throw it out, but you never get around to using them all), business cards you mean to scan. Probably not.

What’s missing? A computer. It’s odd to see a desk without a computer. It’s odd to think of someone in charge having a desk that doesn’t have a computer. So . . . someone in the next office sees something important, they print it off? I know what you’re thinking: if it’s important, the President will know it. But I like the idea that the CIC might hit the internet now and then, see what’s out there. What people are saying. Maybe he has a laptop. White House standard issue. Wonder if he has admin privileges.

So the last day of summer was spent as the first day was spent, I suppose. School then, and school today. Got her out the door; blogged, edited video – no Fair today, but rather editing of previous work – then the hour rolled around, and I sat outside waiting for the bus. It was late. It’s always late the first few weeks. She came trudging up the stairs, said school was “fine,” and declined to pass along any details. I assume that if they start branding them with hot irons, I’ll hear about it. After 5 we went off to her cello lesson, and the sky was wonderful:

Passed a neighborhood theater – it’s nothing special architecturally, but the typeface is spiffy:

It spawned a Chank font a long long time ago; wonder if it’s still around . . . yes. Then I filled up the gas tank, and you’re thinking: thanks, bud, for sharing! Well, there’s a tale there: I never let it get under a half a tank, but somehow it happened – and somehow I kept pushing it and pushing it, until the needle was kissing the E. I actually got on the highway last night when it was grazing E, and thought: I can do this. Today the Element took 11 gallons, which I understood to be the capacity of the tank. Turns out it’s almost 16. Makes me wonder: did gas gauges ever accurately reflect how much you have, or have they always had a built-in safety factor? I’d like to think that in the olden times an engineer would fix a cold Scottish eye on an underling who suggested they build in a safety margin, and tell him we’re not in the business of lyin’ t’ folks about their fuel, laddybuck. A man needs to know what a man needs to know.

I filled up at a yellow station, which was different. Usually I fill up at a blue-and-white station, or a green station if I’m heading to the mall on Saturday. Aren’t many yellows around here – and by yellow of course I mean Shell. I always feel somewhat sorry for stations whose brands are sparsely represented and have no ad campaigns. The company abandons markets all at once sometimes, but now and then they just retreat, and leave consignees adrift like shoals after the tide went out. The pump was plastered with information about Shell’s specially formulated gas, which boiled down to blah blah hydrogen blah blah injectors blah. You might think a smart petroleum company would go for the hip & flippant campaign – “Yeah, it’ll get you there” or “It’s just gas. Go over there and pay more, if you want.” But no. Me, I base my purchases on the usual intangibles that drive marketing consultants to despair. If they asked me today why I bought Shell, I’d say: it was close, it was Yellow, and I’m always amused by the company’s backstory – as I understand it, they began selling shells for decorative purposes, started a craze, then the son of the company’s founder was on an expedition to a foreign country to find more shells, and when he learned the locals also sold oil, he decided to branch out. Isn’t that cool, when you think of it? Also, the name isn’t “Pump and Munch,” which is another local chain, and sounds like a website that would be blocked at work.

Seriously: PUMP AND MUNCH. That’s the C-store brand for the Winner Gas franchise.

There’s something a bit disturbing across the street:

Between the tattered sign and the curiously inert old Beetle, you don’t get the sense of a dynamic, go-getter part of town.

Well: back to the Fair tomorrow. If you missed today’s video, it’s here, and it has a segment that just cracks me up. The tumblr blog was actually working today, which was nice; you can find the updates here if you missed them. (It’s the Institute of Official Cheer’s blog, in case you’re wondering.) Have a grand day – and see you at the Fair, perhaps.

No, probably not.

The Long Dog

Holy smoking crow, that was a day. But which one? I don’t know what day it is. Seriously: today I thought, what, Tuesday? Wednesday? The Fair planes smooth all our usual temporal benchmarks. It’s just Fair time. And that means, as I’ve warned, this is short. Everything has been placed in temporary hiatus until the Fair’s done – I’m only doing this because the computer’s chewing on the daily video, and I have some time before I have to edit shots of large statues of cows.

Today I got there in the early afternoon, went over to the radio booth to bother Dennis Prager, then shot a parade that happened by – oh thank you, minor gods who roll out photogenic events just as you wonder what you’re going to do. When that was done I headed over to the Strib booth to transfer the video, and while the laptop cogitated I went to the counter for some retail-level grip-and-grin, helping out with The Public. As I said, I love this stuff, and I got an hour and a half of it. Then! 17 minutes to make it back to the radio booth; shot into the Food Building for a hot dog with sport peppers. I love that: it sounds so jaunty, yet possibly threatening. A wiseguy in a good mood who’d buy the house a round would call you Sport. A wiseguy who wanted to taunt you before he put your hand in a vise would call you Sport. Harvey Keitel’s character in “Taxi Driver” was nicknamed Sport. So you see what I mean.

Then three hours of the Hewitt show. Grand fun. Did the last hour with Duane, aka Generalissimo, the best producer in radio – inasmuch as he’s equally adept at actually doing radio, too. He was kind enough to let me take a few segment openings, which was fun; it’s one thing to be a guest, and another to be a host. Completely different instincts. Slam that intro! Set the stage! Sail into the segment! And then –

A woman – nicely dressed, well-groomed – came out of the bar next door and stood in front of the booth and shouted REDNECKS.

Uh huh. One of the people sitting on a bench, listening to the show, said “Come back and let’s talk!” The woman kissed her fingers and placed them on her rear. Well, that’ll learn us to discuss the deficit in terms of its proportion of the GDP.

I left a few minutes early to run, and I do mean run, to the Midway to shoot the lights of the ride at twilight. The murderous heat of the day was gone; the breeze was light, the evening now dead simple perfect for summer eternal, and I got it all.

The Long Dog:

One 20-minute swing around the Midway and it was dark. Done. Fought my way through the crowds, ran across the street – last man on the bus home. One empty seat. An old, old man in a plaid shirt, alone, wearing a button that something about farming. Seat taken? He gestured to it without a word. The bus chuffed and headed off.

The old man put his head back and went to sleep.

It was a five minute ride. Take it where you can get it, I guess.

Back in the car, racing home down the highway, windows down, music loud: the summer requirement.

Now I’m finishing up the edit on the video, drinking a late-night cup of coffee: haven’t had one since 2:00, when I went to a church diner to sit with the Lutherans and sip the ichor of life from a thick ceramic cup. Oh: after the coffee I went to the arcade to play some pinball, and was delighted to see an old friend, Black Knight. He took my quarters and did not give me a game. Sigh. Found a manager, got my coins, put them in another machine – and I slapped the ball so hard it got stuck between a bumper and the glass. Sigh.

Pinball at the Fair never seems right anyway. You have your back to the world. The Fair you have to take face forward.

That’s how it’s coming at you, anyway.

Tumblr is ready to roll with six posts starting around ten, unless the automatic post function screws up, which is likely. Watch the Twitter feed for an update on the Fair video. Trust me: it has an absolutely perfect moment. I guarantee you will laugh, and I don’t say that ever. See you tomorrow.

Everyone loves the Owl

It’s a warm night. Could be June; could be July. Except of course it isn’t, and that makes all the difference in the world.

“Summer’s over,” daughter sighed. She was sitting outside with her chin on her forearm, staring into the distance.

“No, it’s not,” I said. Cheerfully. “Summer doesn’t end until after Labor Day. There’s more left! Autumn doesn’t start, technically, for a few weeks.”

“But school starts tomorrow.”

I thought a moment, and nodded. “You’re right. Summer’s over.”

Can’t quite agree completely, though. As noted, Labor Day, and a three-day weekend: whoo, hoo, etcetera. And the Fair’s still going on. Have I mentioned there’s a Fair?

Because there is, and I’m going back on Monday for a big two-video shoot and three hours of radio. Went Friday, and did my “personal appearance.” Always a joy to meet the readers – thanks to all who came out! When not talking to readers I was fielding the main question of the day: “do you have that thing?”

So a lady asked. “That thing.”

“No,” I said. “We’re out. But we have a few whatsis left.”

“I want the thing,” she said, playing along.

“I actually know what you mean by thing,” I said. “You mean the lip balm.” Every year at the Strib booth we give away lip balm. Last year it was Bacon flavored. “You mean this.” I mimed smearing a stick over my mouth.

“That’s it.”

I said we were out, but a new shipment was coming at 3:30. “And you know what the flavor is this year? It’s Corn on the Cob.”

Some people seemed more thrilled by that idea than others. I think it smelled like dog paws. This is not a criticism; everyone who has a dog likes the smell of dog paws. You just don’t want to tell people it smells like dog paws, because they might get the wrong idea. Let them figure it out for themselves. I also gave out many free bags; people love those bags. We sold subscriptions, and told people where they could get deep-fried pickles.

I love working the booth. Brings back the old days of waitering, where every customer interaction has the possibility for fun and sport, if they’re willing to play. You also get the opportunity to talk to Completely Random Minnesotans with whom you would otherwise never chat, and quite a few came up to talk about my shirt. It had the Red Owl logo. People love the Owl. He either reminds them of being a kid, going grocery shopping with Mom, or being Mom, grocery shopping with the kid. One fellow pointed and me and walked up and said “Red Owl” in an astonished voice, as I was wearing the picture of a twin sibling who’d been kidnapped in ’67. “I was a baker there for 25 years,” he said. He stared at the Owl. “Where did you get that?”

I told him, and he was surprised to learn it was a new shirt, not something I’d found in a thrift store. At a record store? Really? So the kids today, they like the Owl?

The kids like the Owl. Well, some of them. Some people think he looks angry, or at least intent on something that seems quite personal.

Ran to the office, filed a column I’d written in the back of the Fair booth, then went home to get ready for a wedding at the Mill City Museum.

Lovely venue, although you had to think of the guys toiling in this brick house in 1877, sweaty, covered with dust, and you wonder what they’d think of a couple getting hitched in their finery in the ruins of the structure, in the impossible year of 2010. Afterwards I found myself talking to a couple, the way you end up just talking to strangers at a wedding – somehow you’re all connected, so it’s not like you’re all total strangers – and then dinner. Fish. While we ate the bridal party stood up and told stories designed to embarrass the couple and express their eternal affection. Then I went home and watched “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”

Now that I think of it, I hope I didn’t jinx anything.

Saturday . . . what? Oh. Right. Had some people over, since Hugh Hewitt was in town, and we always have a shindig here at Jasperwood. Since my wife was going to a BBQ for the newlyweds, I had to prepare the food and fixing on my own. She just about had a stroke when she looked in the fridge and saw some Target lunchmeats, but I explained that was for daughter’s school lunch. I bought proper cold cuts, rolled them into attractive cylinders, and put out those cheesy little multicolored plastic swords. And also some cheese. So that was six hours of palaver in the gazebo with a fine crowd, as good as it gets. Everyone left at 2 and I spent a half an hour cleaning up, then sat outside and listened to music on my iPod until 3 AM. Some days you hate to let go. Morpheus has to gently take it out of your hands.

Now the crickets are telling the temp; the planes have stopped, and the water splashes in the fountain. Summer still seems content and secure. It’s not over yet. But I hate to drive past the beach tomorrow, and find it empty. Or pass the playground and see the fountain’s turned off at the wading pool. One by one, the signs appear. Summer never really ends – it wanders off, no longer interested in us, and sober fall walks us down the path to the place where everything nothing grows or blooms.

Then we turn around and Fall is gone, too.

Mill District, sunset, Summer 2010:

Friday: Big Nothing

Sorry, I’m spent, and in a very bad mood continued over from last night by popular demand. I was watching “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” thinking “amateurs.” But it’s off to the Fair again. Here’s another crappy pseudo-tilt-shift picture from yesterday:

More Fair stuff throughout the day – just check Twitter. Back Monday with a much better mood.

Post around 10 AM

Stay tuned.