Author: Joe Pastoor

  • On Ice

    While hockey and competitive figure skating can be brutal, they are rarely fatal. Naturally, civilians don’t normally think of ice arenas as potential morgues. But the topic came up the other day, during a minor crisis at the St. Louis Park Aquatic Park and Recreation Center. Paul Omodt, City Council member and president of the local youth hockey association, had rolled up his sleeves to help after storms had knocked out power to much of St. Louis Park. The rec center was swarming with parents of the class of 2005. They worked in the dim light supplied by a backup generator to decorate the halls, ceilings, and bathrooms for the senior party scheduled for that evening. But the pumps and filters for the water park were shut down and the two sheets of ice were melting, not slowly. The largest casualty here would likely be just a few days of summer hockey clinics. But in case of a genuine catastrophe, it might also impair an official but gruesome secondary function of the ice facility—the storage of large numbers of dead people.

    The solution, Omodt explained, is a new one thousand kilowatt-hour diesel generator that will be able to power the entire facility when supply from Xcel Energy comes up short. The City Council had just approved $280,000 to get one designed and built. While reliable refrigeration of dead people and uninterrupted hockey might be enough of a win-win for any public facility, large power consumers with this kind of backup can also earn lower rates by staying off the grid during peak demand hours.

    “Customers who have alternative sources they can switch to,” said Ed Legge, an Xcel Energy spokesman, “can become ‘interruptible.’ They have lower rates. It works pretty well.” In fact, rec center manager Craig Panning anticipates it will work so well that the discounts should pay for the new generator in about nine years.

    During these nine years, it is unlikely that the arenas in St. Louis Park will be pressed into service as morgues. For your garden-variety disaster, says Kevin Smith, “The best things are refrigerated trucks.” Smith works for the Minnesota Department of Public Safety, and when we spoke he praised the trucks for the kind of mobility and flexibility that are necessary for disaster response. “Ice arenas are part of the plan,” he said, but it would take a very high death toll to require their use. “When you go and watch a hockey game it’s not the kind of thing you think about. But somebody has to plan for these things.”

    Oddly, the Department of Homeland Security is not providing direction or funding for “these things.” It’s up to the locals, and the one person in the state who has probably planned the most for such things is Lee Spangrud. Spangrud is manager of planning and maintenance for the Minneapolis Airports Commission, and he directs the maintenance of a fleet of twenty-five refrigerated trucks designated for backup morgue service to the area. “Anything over thirty-five casualties and we would be asked to set up a temporary morgue,” he said. “Obviously, it’s something you hope will never happen.” If it does, the trucks can be scrambled and specially equipped for the myriad agencies involved, including county medical examiners, the FBI, the National Transportation Safety Board, the Transportation Security Administration, and even embalmers and morticians.”

    Shawn Wilson, an investigator for the Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s Office and a deputy coroner for Chisago County, also spoke to me recently about the ways and means of caring for large numbers of dead. Designating ice arenas is nothing new.

    “That goes back as long as this office has been in existence. The Met Center was slated as a perfect site,” said Wilson. Beyond the obvious benefits of mass refrigeration, he explained, skating rinks are very big and have no infrastructure in the way. Another consideration when designating a site for morgue use is conversion back to the original purpose. For this, said Wilson, rinks are also ideal. “The ice can be melted and cleaned up.” And, he added, there is “not much impact on the psyche” for future users compared to using, say, a school.

    Like everyone else I spoke to on the topic, Wilson anticipates the use of rinks in morgue service only in “the most extreme circumstances, where you have five thousand dead.”

    While this has not happened in Minnesota, ice rinks elsewhere have sheltered the dead from a number of disasters. In 1912, a curling rink in Nova Scotia was reportedly used for remains recovered from the Titanic sinking. After the 1999 earthquakes in Turkey, the Washington Post reported that remains of victims were placed in an ice rink in Izmit. Here in the U.S., a propane explosion in Indianapolis during a production of Holiday on Ice killed seventy-three people in 1963, and the sheet there was directly converted to a morgue. The rink in the World’s Fair New York City Building in Queens narrowly escaped similar notoriety. It was hastily prepared as a morgue on September 11, 2001, but never used.

    The most conspicuously vacant sheet of ice in the Twin Cities is at the Xcel Energy Center, which suffered the death of last year’s NHL season. I asked Ed Legge if the Xcel Center is “interruptible” and therefore able to refrigerate the dead off the grid, should a mass-casualty disaster also disrupt the power supply. Legge explained that despite the large, illuminated Xcel sign on the front of the building, the arena is a customer, not a part of Xcel Energy proper, and he couldn’t speak for it. A spokesman for the Xcel Center was able to disclose their power arrangement when I contacted him. Xcel Center depends almost entirely on its namesake for current. At the moment, the arena isn’t ready to put skaters or disaster victims on the ice. “Right now it’s just a slab of concrete down there,” he said.—Joe Pastoor

  • You Are What You Meat

    The little tag on a tray of Smart Chicken brand breasts at the Byerly’s
    meat counter said, “One hundred percent vegetarian-fed chicken.” Does
    this mean the Bush administration has finally found a use for all those
    pesky, liberal vegetarians? Or does it mean I might somehow obtain by
    proxy some vegetarian virtue from the animal that will sustain my
    carnivorous vice?

    Fortunately, the people at Smart Chicken are eager to say what value is
    added to poultry when animal products are subtracted from their diets.
    Yes, there is much waxing sentimental about “land stewardship” and
    “birds raised free range with access to fresh air and sunlight.” But
    vegetarian feed for the animals is mostly promoted as part of the
    basket of consumer health benefits, along with antibiotic- and
    hormone-free organic production methods. These claims include lower
    rates of salmonella and camphelobacter contamination in addition to
    preservation of “natural flavors.”

    And, of course, there’s the issue of those little brain-eating proteins
    called prions.The most notorious prion is the one that causes bovine
    spongiform encephalopathy, mad cow disease. BSE was introduced to the
    human food chain via cows that had been raised on feed enriched with
    sheep brains infected with a prion. British cattle acquired BSE,
    passing it along to about two hundred beef consumers in the form of
    variant Cruetz-feld-Jakob disease.

    Statistically, prions are a very rare encounter, not much more
    dangerous to the general public than standing between a TV camera and
    Michael Osterholm. But prion expert Will Houston admits they “stimulate
    the imagination.” Houston also pointed out that “risk” is tricky to
    assess; likelihood of infection can be very low, while outcome if
    infected can be catastrophic. Houston went to Great Britain to
    investigate BSE in 1991 for the U.S. Agriculture Department and is now
    the director of the Center for Animal Health and Food Safety at the
    University of Minnesota. He generously supplied a number of prion facts
    that justify their unusual grip on our attention. “They aren’t sexy,”
    he confessed when asked what they look like. “They look kind of like a
    twist tie.” But they can’t be destroyed with cooking the way most
    pathogens can. One reason is that they are not alive in the first
    place; they are just protein. They can also withstand temperatures of
    up to one thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

    Of course, the real attention-getter is what the prions actually do to
    their unwilling host. They don’t make copies of themselves, like
    viruses, Houston explained. “A prion is more like a domino effect. We
    all have normal prion proteins in our brains. When that abnormal-shaped
    protein encounters a normal-shaped protein, it converts it. The body
    can’t recycle the abnormal-shaped proteins and they accumulate into
    amyloid plaques.” The plaques then make holes in the brain. Centers for
    Disease Control descriptions of symptoms include “seizure, depression,
    appetite loss, ataxia, aphasia, combative behavior, memory loss, and
    coma.” Prion disease is untreatable and fatal.

    Producers of vegetarian-raised meats do not currently promote claims of
    prion safety with their products. But Mark Haskins, founder and chief
    executive of MBA/Smart Chicken, believes that especially in the case of
    poultry products, demand is partly driven by BSE fears. “I believe the
    consumer has become very discerning in the marketplace,” Haskins told
    me. “They know that the BSE challenge has come from animal proteins.”
    This sentiment was echoed by Ed, a meat-counter staffer working at the
    Wedge Co-op when I stopped by. “We have a very well-educated
    clientele,” he said, and other staff confirmed that “mad cow” is much
    on the minds of meat shoppers there.

    But prions appear to be getting educated, too. Deer and elk now appear
    to exchange the chronic wasting disease prion without the intermediary
    step of eating each other, leading to concerns about potential contact
    with farm animals. “If such transmissions were to occur,” states a 2004
    CDC study, “passage of the agent through a secondary host could alter
    its infectious properties, increasing its potential for becoming more
    pathogenic to humans.” Hopefully, smart, free-range chickens will read
    the memo: Don’t hang around the elk.—Joe Pastoor

  • Strange Flesh

    Once you’ve paid forty bucks to sit down with a hundred complete strangers wearing party hats and paper bibs, the rest should be easy. It’s so easy, in fact, that some folks put away as much as two pounds of crayfish before the American Swedish Institute’s annual krafskiva was over. Assisted by scheduled shots of aquavit, the crowd even allowed itself to be led in a three-part round, singing “R2-D2, R2-D2, 3PO, 3PO, Obi-Wan Kenobe, Obi-Wan Kenobe, Han Solo, Han Solo” to the tune of “Frere Jacques.”

    To make all this happen, Anna-Lena Skold, the American Swedish Institute’s chef, had boiled about twelve hundred of the critters with sugar and dill for this year’s festivities, a provision of about a pound per guest. But few people stuck to this ten-crayfish average. The crowd tended to divide into fanatics who cracked fifteen shells or more, and their ambivalent spouses, who put a few token samples on a plate and admitted, as did Sylvia Strand, “I’m doing this for him.” She nodded toward Rodney Strand, who predicted he would lose count at about fifteen and keep on going. Finding the meat tender and buttery, I nonetheless quit at five.

    About two-hundred million years ago (the Triassic, if you must know), when crayfish and lobsters parted ways, it’s unlikely they had hungry Swedes in mind for a destination. The crayfish side of the family had merely adapted to less spacious freshwater environments, says Dr. Keith Crandall. Crandall works in the Department of Integrative Biology at Brigham Young University, where much of the existing crayfish knowledge has accumulated. “They have also adapted to other environments,” Crandall said. “There are a number of cave-obligate crayfish without pigment and without eyes.” A lot can happen in two hundred million years, but despite their long separation, crayfish and lobsters remain “sister taxa,” said Crandall, meaning that they share a most recent common ancestor.

    Indeed, the crayfish on the American Swedish Institute’s tables looked like perfect, tiny lobsters. They even turn the same pretty scarlet when boiled. And they also come prepared for revenge on those who would eat them. Access to the meat is gained by cracking a little beast open with bare hands (no fancy lobster tools here), at which point the crayfish, as if under pressure, sprays a fine mist over the diner. Hence the bibs.

    Patty Strandquist, tablemate and English teacher from Apple Valley, was undeterred by the crayfish’s posthumous self-defense. “I’m liking it,” she said. “It’s a bit of a wrestling match.” She had brought her friend Lois from New York to enjoy this taste of Minnesota, and the pile of red shells near their plates grew steadily despite their admission that they had “no method at all” for getting at the meat.

    Lisa Niforopulos shared a technique she learned during childhood vacations in Sweden. And she wished the waitresses would quit removing her shells; she had lost count. “Now I don’t know where I’ve been,” she complained as she broke the tail clean off a cephalothorax. She sucked the meat directly out of the shell—a method Swedes consider not a vulgarity, but a necessity. (In New Orleans, where crawdads are also popular, they have a rather blunt way to describe this technique.)

    After another mandatory sing-along from the American Swedish Institute Crayfish Party Songbook, Niforopulos explained what makes crayfish worth eating in such quantity. “They’re sweet and delicate tasting. The dill sets them off nicely.” Not to mention the high lipo content, which might explain why Swedes established the tradition of bingeing on them before winter. A pound of crayfish can deliver more than eight hundred milligrams of cholesterol to the consumer. It would take five jars of mayonnaise to meet that goal, leaving an obvious choice for most folks. And, as Niforopulos concluded, “It’s fun to eat with your hands.”—Joe Pastoor

  • Stick ’Em Up!

    Phoenix Rising, a sculpture fashioned from roughly five thousand melted guns, now lies in two pieces in a storage facility. Hennepin County officials are reluctant to say exactly where, because its current condition “is not the presentation the artist had in mind.”

    The mawkish symbolism of the mythic bird reborn from ashes certainly makes it easy to guess what the artist did have in mind. But since 1992, when Hennepin County melted the weapons from its “Drop Your Guns” buyback program, the birth of a firearms-free utopia appears to have been aborted. Instead, Hennepin County has issued just about four thousand new permits to carry guns, as a result of the Personal Protection Act. This has led some to wonder if the sculpture should be melted again and recast as Don Quixote.

    In America, there are approximately two hundred and fifty million firearms. Despite this penchant for personal protection, the U.S. is a world leader in homicides. So municipalities across the land have made sporadic attempts to mop up some of the excess with buyback programs and amnesties. Though Hennepin County will be smoke-free long before it becomes gun-free, the 1992 buyback, costing about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, ranks as one of the most successful programs of its kind. But across the river, Ramsey County lived up to its quaint reputation with a program that entered people in a raffle in exchange for turning in weapons. Seventy-one capital citizens dropped off guns for a chance at Twins tickets and hotel coupons.

    A similar tale has been playing out over in Iraq. The U.S. Army reported grand success with a program in Basra earlier this year that bagged four thousand AK-47s. And in June, a program in Karbala yielded “dozens” of weapons. But U.S. Army press releases have yet to boast of similar results in Najaf. There, Marines had surrounded the city and were in running firefights with the Sadr militia. Early estimates put the turned-in weapons total in Najaf at two.

    Possibly the largest turn-in ever took place Down Under. After the 1996 massacre of thirty-five people in Port Arthur, Australia, citizens responded by relinquishing more than six hundred thousand weapons. The Australian government continues to fund buyback programs to this day. Violence perpetrated by humans is down, but, according to a recent report in the Guardian, crocodile attacks are up.

    If there’s final proof that every gun turn-in program begets unintended consequences, Cynthia Gerdes has it. Since 1994, Gerdes has sponsored several toy gun turn-ins at her Creative Kidstuff toy store locations in the Twin Cities. When we spoke recently, she was unable to guess how many guns she took in. “We would fill boxes the size of thirty-three-gallon trash cans many times over. Thousands,” she said. Many of the toys are so realistic, she added, “they make the hair stand up on the back of my neck.” Gerdes always carts the weapons home for disposal to prevent them from being “recycled” out of the commercial dumpsters. Sadly, one was recovered there by a visiting nephew who took it to school and was promptly suspended.

    Back at the Hennepin County Government Center, plans are underway to re-install Phoenix Rising on a lonely-looking footing poured on the plaza facing Fifth Street. The pylons surrounding the footing are there because the slab is not level with the plaza pavers, explained senior project manager Shirajoy Abry. It would not do for a citizen to trip and fall so close to the seat of litigation for the county. Nor would that be the first trip to court for the bird. The melting of the guns in 1992 was temporarily halted due to litigation by gun owners who wanted the inventory checked for their own lost or stolen weapons.

    Later in the decade, the sculpture was mothballed during government center renovations and left in storage. Last April, just before the most recent attempt at installation, the five-hundred-pound aluminum base for the sculpture was stolen from the St. Paul shop where it was fabricated. A new one is being manufactured now, said Abry. How the fates may intervene this time is anyone’s guess. “I don’t even want to think about that,” said Abry. —Joe Pastoor

  • Cruise Control

    At approx. 1015 hours on 12/31/03 I saw a white male driving a white Ford Taurus. The male backed his car into a parking spot to my left. I was also backed in. The male began reading the paper in his car. He continued to make eye contact with me while reading the paper. After about 5-10 minutes the male got out of his vehicle with some trash in his hand. He approached on the driver’s side window. When I rolled down the window the male asked me how I was doing. We engaged in a conversation about work and the holidays etc. I told him it was my first time in the park. He said he comes down to the park once in a while. I asked him if he wanted to get in the car. He said, “If you got time.” After a short discussion over what I was reading I asked what he was “up for.” He said he didn’t know. After standing for a few minutes, I told him he could get in if he wanted to. He said, “You’re not a cop, are you,” in which I responded no. He said, “You need to be careful around here.” The man said he was going to throw his trash away and then he would sit in the car for a little bit. He walked over to the garbage can, came back, and sat in the front passenger side seat of my vehicle. . .

    There was a few minutes of looking around, then he said, “Well, do you want it or not?” I asked him again what he had in mind. He said he wasn’t sure. I asked him what he was in the mood for. He then asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I didn’t care, I would give or receive. He said, “I like to receive, myself.” … I took my department-issued badge out of my pocket and told him he was under arrest and to take a walk over to the van. —St. Paul Police Department Incident Report

    Especially in the last twelve months in the Twin Cities, closeted husbands, naughty clergymen, and oversexed gays have been caught hard at it in parks, rest stops, health clubs, and even the basement bathroom at the Southdale Mervyn’s. Since the dawn of gayness itself, sex has been exchanged in this obscure yet public ritual. In the straight world, “cruising” calls to mind eight-track tape decks and muscle cars on Main Street. In the gay world, cruising has mostly come to describe the practice of men meeting in public places for fast, anonymous sex. And the history of cruising provides a much more instructive survey of the culture clash between gays and straights than the relatively recent controversy about same-sex marriage.

    Mostly, the clash takes place when straight people try to stop gay men from doing it. Ironically, this requires police to seduce gay men in public. In 2003, responding to community complaints that men were having sex in public view, St. Paul police set up decoy operations in Crosby Regional Park, along the river south of St. Paul. Most defendants arrested here are eventually charged with misdemeanor indecent exposure, lewd conduct, and loitering. Father Edward McGrath, a priest from Rochester, was not so lucky when he encountered a decoy at Crosby Park on a spring day in 2003. According to court documents, he “cupped the officer’s genitals in his hand while slightly squeezing them,” bringing on a charge of fifth-degree criminal sexual assault. Though McGrath was acquitted of the charges last March (District Judge Joanne M. Smith found no evidence that the decoy officer had not consented to the contact, and had, in fact, encouraged it), the damage to the life and career of a Catholic priest need not be described.

    Even Father McGrath may seem lucky compared to William Plaine. Plaine was the first American on record punished for what, judging by the number of offenses alleged, could only have been cruising. In his History of New England, Massachusetts Bay Colony Governor John Winthrop reported in 1646 the following about Plaine: “…he had corrupted a great part of the youth of Guilford by masturbations, which he had committed, and provoked others to the like above a hundred times.” Community service had yet to become the fashion in sentencing guidelines. The “monster in human shape,” as the magistrates described him, was hanged in New Haven.

    William Plaine was certainly not the world’s first cruiser. “Australopithecene,” said Jean-Nickolaus Tretter, when I asked him to date the practice. Tretter is curator of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender collection at the University of Minnesota Libraries. If a history exists of anything gay, it’s here. Located eighty feet underground at the Elmer Andersen Library, the Tretter Collection in GLBT Studies is, depending on one’s point of view, either a gold mine or a cesspool of gay history, artifacts, memorabilia, and minutiae. Reporters and researchers make regular use of the archive, and Tretter said it has also become an indispensable resource for anti-gay activists seeking to document the sins of homosexuality. Security is tight, the humidity and temperature controlled. In the event of fire, sprinklers could damage surviving materials, so smoke detectors instead trip a system that evacuates oxygen from the air. The gnomish, bespectacled Jean Tretter himself took me down the elevator shaft and through the airlocks for a tour of the archive. The Tretter Collection began as a hobby, but outgrew Tretter’s St. Paul apartment when he gained a reputation for accepting orphaned materials. Boxes of gay Americana, gay pulp novels and ’zines like Holy Titclamps started showing up on his doorstep “like abandoned babies,” he explained.

    For an ostensibly covert activity, cruising has left a surprising paper trail. Tretter has found turn-of-the century newspaper ads for what were euphemistically called “friendship clubs.” Another of his treasures is a preserved green carnation. “This was an identification symbol for cruising in the nineteenth century, especially in Victorian England,” said Tretter, adding that this is most likely the signal Oscar Wilde would have used when he cruised St. Paul’s Rice Park in 1878, after an opera date with Bishop John Ireland. “Using specific symbols for cruising is probably about four to six thousand years old,” Tretter said. Perhaps the most popular of these symbols is the now clichéd hanky code. “You would find the standard old-fashioned 1940s hankies that look like the back of a deck of cards,” he explained. “Depending upon the color and depending upon the pocket you put it in, it told what your particular preference was sexually. It was cruising taken to its ultimate. Because you could look at this guy and say, ‘OK, he’s wearing a red hanky in his left-hand pocket. He must be into…’ whatever it was, what particular type of sexual act. Some of the old travel guidebooks actually published the codes.”

    Other signals have been far more subtle, said Tretter, especially in modern times. “Say you’re at Southdale and you’re on an up escalator and you see this really cute guy on the down escalator. You would start whistling the tune to, say, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ You would stop halfway through. If he picked up the tune and then finished it, you knew that he was cruising and he was interested in you.” Another popular signal at one time was a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes placed on a bar and stood on end. A man could reply by doing the same with his pack.

    Tretter spoke of these elaborate rituals mostly in the past tense. To hear it from the St. Paul police, cruising has indeed lost much of its celebrated subtlety. Though he admits that the criminal sexual assault charge against Father McGrath was a bit of a reach, Sergeant Jerry Vick of the vice unit says that decoys at Crosby Park were having too easy a time of it when they first cracked down. “Last year, they [cruisers] were very aggressive. You wouldn’t even say anything and guys would grab you or expose themselves.” When I mentioned I would be visiting Crosby myself to observe the scene, he cautioned me. “You’re going to be like a blonde walking past a construction site.”

    Further evidence that the delicate exchange of cruising signals and codes has given way to a coarser approach can be found at a website called cruisingforsex.com. It’s an adults-only site with a warning that begs minors to stay away for the sake of everyone involved. For straight folks who have ever wondered exactly what some gay men do in the privacy of a public restroom, it supplies a thorough, graphic education. For gay men, it is a detailed guide to “cruisy” locations all over the world, giving specific addresses, phone numbers, and ratings. There are numerous locations in the Twin Cities.

    Comment threads supplied by cruisers are often a bit pedestrian, like “I had trouble finding the parking lot described here. Better directions would have been helpful.” Others go into more detail about the kind and quality of action. One enthusiastic cruiser described a scene of “close to thirty guys” on a Thursday night. These explicit comments can sound like absurd, X-rated eBay recommendations. “Two guys were practically sucking [everything] that was put in their face. I’ll definitely be back!”

    Entries for Crosby Park last spring, flagged with red “Heads Up!” tags, documented the decoy activity that bagged McGrath and many others: “Several arrests were made here in the last week, with undercover cops leading men on and then pulling out the badge as soon as a touch starts. Three arrests, including two priests, hit the news. It’s bad enough they had cameramen walking around filming for the TV stations…” “Undercover activity has greatly increased with lots of entrapment. It’s not safe at all anymore…”

    It was probably inevitable that when cruisers headed for the web, those devoted to stopping them would follow. The City of St. Paul’s anti-prostitution website, which publishes the names and mugs of suspected johns, has been so popular that the police department has now readied a website to publish the photos of men convicted of cruising-related crimes.

    “Putting them on a website is like putting them on a fence,” said defense attorney Randall Tigue of the plan. Tigue represents an Eden Prairie man arrested at Crosby. Despite his objections, Tigue believes the website meets the constitutional test. What is most troubling about such additional penalties, he said, is that most men who are busted for cruising have not actually committed a crime. “It’s the use of police to manufacture a crime,” he said of the decoy operation that caught his client. “It’s the defendants who are the victims and the police who are the perpetrators.”

    Because a large number of cruisers are closeted men, a website posting may be the cruelest penalty of all, said Minneapolis defense attorney Jerry Burg. I met with Burg over coffee near his downtown Minneapolis office to talk about how his clients become entangled with the law. Burg is gay, and after coming out he started getting cruising cases by referral. He is now half of Heltzer & Burg, a firm specializing in the many and varied legal needs of GLBTs.

    Some of Burg’s clients have become suicidal over the prospect of far less exposure than the website. “One of my very first clients in the early nineties was a gentleman in his sixties who had called me for an appointment,” recalled Burg. “And then he called from the hospital. His wife had found him nearly dead from carbon monoxide asphyxiation. That really slapped me.”

    “About fifteen years ago we had someone commit suicide over getting a citation,” recalled a Minneapolis officer who asked not to be named. Minneapolis has its share of cruisy spots that generate perennial complaints, but this officer wondered about the wisdom of St. Paul’s website. “Is it worth that? I don’t think so. These guys are consenting adults. I don’t see them as sexual predators.”

    Even so, the St. Paul website is only the latest in a series of escalations in the way the capitol city deals with cruising crimes. Most authorities use local indecent exposure ordinances against cruisers, and often handle the offense with a ticket. But a couple of years ago, defense attorneys started seeing a new number in charges originating in St. Paul. It was Minnesota statute 617.23. At a glance it reads much like a typical municipal ordinance against indecent exposure, citing as guilty any person who, in a public place, “willfully and lewdly exposes the person’s body, or the private parts thereof” or “procures another to expose private parts.” The statute also contains subdivisions for violations in the presence of a minor under the age of sixteen and intentional confinement of other people witnessing exposure.

    What sets the statute apart for cruisers is the “enhancement” feature. Simply put, a previous conviction for the same offense elevates a misdemeanor to a gross misdemeanor. Other enhancements can lead to felony charges, which in turn can lead to sex-offender registration. While the felony enhancements are triggered by the act of restraining another person or the presence of minors, attorneys like Burg are nervous. It was only two short years ago that Lawrence v. Texas overturned sodomy laws that had forced consenting partners to register as sex offenders in some states. Jim Rasor of the Rasor law firm in Royal Oak, Michigan, said that he knows of at least three cases in that state where laws similar to 617.23 have led to registration for cruising crimes. But even if a cruiser is unlikely to trigger the felony enhancements in the statute, the planned website looks like de facto sex-offender registration to many defense attorneys.

    Another escalation in cruising enforcement is mandatory booking. “St. Paul and Fridley are now requiring that defendants come in and get booked—formal booking with fingerprints and photographs,” said Burg. The St. Paul City Attorney’s office refused to discuss their motives for the practice, or any of the city’s other anti-cruising efforts, but Burg noted that the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension only accepts records accompanied by fingerprints. He also sees no coincidence in the fact that BCA records are the source for employers doing background checks: “It’s a way of bringing these offenders into that database and upping the ante in terms of the consequences. For most of these guys, the real negative that will happen to them is if they apply for a job with a thorough background check.”

    It’s been more than a year since the cops and cameras put Crosby Park on the “Heads Up!” list at cruisingforsex.com. The park is reached by a steep drive intersecting Shephard Road near Cleveland Avenue. The road goes past the Watergate Marina before leading to three separate parking areas, all of which offer good views of approaching traffic. The park itself covers one hundred and sixty acres of Mississippi River bottomland and forest, stitched by nearly seven miles of foot and bike paths. With its remote location, urban proximity, and public facilities, it’s a cruiser’s trifecta. And it doesn’t take much of an eye for action to see that plenty is still going on. Single middle-aged men back their cars into parking spaces and roll down their windows, making it possible for another car to drive forward into the adjacent space, lining up the driver’s side windows for a chat. A pair of men emerges from the wooded paths and wordlessly separates, each walking to a different car.

    Like many other idiosyncrasies of gay culture, gay men tend to cite closeting as a major factor behind cruising. I had several conversations on the topic with Travis Stanton, editor of the Minneapolis GLBT magazine Lavender. Stanton said that even though only a small percentage of gay men cruise, closeting can play a role in the development of sexual habits. “While in the closet, gay men are unable to discuss relationships, desires, or even who they find attractive. Consequently, there is often a sense of sexual freedom upon coming out,” said Stanton, adding that in many cases, “the coming out is only to one’s self.” For closeted men, the anonymity of cruising may be a practical necessity as much as an act of sexual discovery.

    Stanton also observed that anonymity brings thrill-seekers into the game. “For some, there is a voyeuristic, exhibitionist motive. Those individuals believe the sexual experience is heightened by the risk involved with public sex.” It is this feature of cruising that has generated almost as much friction within the gay community as it does with law enforcement. In public image and public policy, today’s mainstream gay agenda is same-sex marriage rights, all day, every day, and straights have heard the news. Cruising does little to cultivate the wholesome family image promoted by gay marriage advocates. “There is a definite rift in the gay community between some who feel it is important to present the public image and those that feel being gay does not automatically make them public representatives of the gay community at large,” said Stanton.

    Yet another controversial look at cruising seeks to explain it biologically. Syndicated sex columnist Dan Savage, for example, has argued that the fabled male sexual imperative has generated habitual promiscuity in the absence of (also fabled) female restraint. A Minneapolis man who has been arrested for cruising (speaking on condition of anonymity) put it this way: “If straight men could cruise women the way men can cruise men, they’d be doing it all the time.” I encountered this declaration a number of times while talking to gay men about cruising, and the consistent implication is that straight men don’t simply because they can’t.

    “I believe this image is slightly flawed, but it may account for a small percentage of the men who participate,” said Travis Stanton of the theory. He also pointed out that straight sex is everywhere. It gets depicted on billboards, in diamond ads, sitcoms, rap videos, and Top Forty hits. “And don’t tell me that men and women don’t park and have sex in cars,” quipped Randall Tigue.

    “Straight cruising takes a more public and certainly more socially tolerated form,” concluded Stanton. “The concept of make-out point is as American as apple pie, but if the rendezvous involves two gay men, rather than the captain of the football team and head cheerleader, it’s prosecuted as if the two were selling crack to kindergartners.”

    Without civil rights laws to protect gay couples from evictions and job loss for simply taking someone home, cruising, paradoxically, was the original safe sex. Oddly, gay efforts to be more like monogamous heterosexuals are now more threatening to anti-gay activists than lewd conduct in public view. The conservative Minnesota Family Council devotes most of its energy these days to supporting state Senator Michele Bachmann’s constitutional amendment to prohibit same-sex marriage. But president Tom Prichard was uncharacteristically short on opinions when I asked him what he thought about the escalating cruising enforcements in St. Paul. “Just enforce the law, I guess,” was all he had to say.

    If the religious right fails to see imitation as the greatest form of flattery in same-sex marriage, cruisers are finding it’s an even worse deal that decoys have become more and more practiced in the art of seeming gay. Unlike prostitution busts, where the financial transaction defines the crime, cruising decoys must encourage some sort of sexual activity to take place to make the arrest. Jerry Burg says that because of this gray area, vice decoys depend on escalating their provocations to produce the desired results. He says that an undercover cop will sometimes actually ask his target to expose himself, to “show me what you got.” And to get him to do it, an officer has to talk and act like he is himself cruising. It’s “not the kind of language you hear on ER. They’re talking sex language.”

    “Not just anyone can do it,” said Sergeant Brian Rogers. Rogers coordinates vice enforcement with the Minneapolis Park Police. He carefully selects and trains decoys because, he says, “We want to make sure we deal with these people in a professional and courteous way.” Rogers also doesn’t favor the harsher measures across the river. The Minneapolis Park Police citation for “prohibited conduct” can be settled out of court. Cruisers are not booked, he says, and they can settle their fines on the spot, like a traffic ticket. “These guys are different from guys exposing themselves around the lakes to women and children. Those are the guys you want to get.”

    But no matter whom they are looking for, tumescent men prowling lavatories and parks will most likely be considered a nuisance long after they gain the right to marry the kindred souls they meet up with. And so they will be busted. And despite the less-punishing approach in Minneapolis, they “go into a complete panic right away. They can’t pay [the fine] fast enough and just get out of there,” said Rogers.

    Or, as Jerry Burg explained, “They’re feeling incredibly stupid and manipulated because they thought they were with somebody who wanted to be with them.”

  • Feeling the Knead

    Is St. Paul Irish? Mostly not—there is an embarrassment of Lutherans and Germans—but that doesn’t stop the city from promoting a credible St. Paddy’s Day parade. Since the capitol city pulls off this stunt each March without a hitch, why shouldn’t it also decide, now and again, to become the seat of the defunct Austro-Hungarian Empire? Denise Kapler sees no reason why not. She has twice transformed the Landmark Center into the summer palace of Emperor Franz Joseph, for an event called the Viennese Ball.

    The same skeptic who asks what is Irish about St. Patrick’s Day in St. Paul might be forgiven for wondering what is Viennese about the Viennese Ball. It turns out that St. Patrick’s Day is the wrong model. These Viennese folks are more like Trekkies, “except we’re going back in time, not forward,” Kapler pointed out a couple of days after this year’s ball. Viennese Balls have been popping up all over the country, attracting an itinerant following with a devotion to historical authenticity that can only be found in people pretending to be someone else. “The Viennese Ball has a lot of historical significance. We’ve done a lot of research to find out exactly what we have to do,” said Kapler. The requirements are daunting: rich, heavy foods, a lot of costumes, and speaking in the passive voice. Last year’s ball was a particularly good one. Kapler even snagged a real archduke. Though he holds no actual title in his native Austria (no empire, remember), Emperor Franz Josef’s great-grandson Markus Salvator von Habsburg-Lothringen regains his station on St. Paul soil. He exerts his considerable influence primarily on the dance floor.

    Some of the pressure for authenticity rests on the shoulders of another person with identity issues. Giving his name only as “Klecko,” the production manager of St. Agnes Bakery admits his real name might sound Irish. I visited the cavernous bakery the day before the ball to see what he had prepared for the royalty. The most astonishing loaves—yes, bread can be astonishing—were what Klecko called “the visuals,” which would not be eaten. The fifty or so visuals included Polish sourdough wheels of about two feet in diameter called sun breads, with pumpernickel and flax seed in patterns on the top. Several pale loaves of single-time sourdough of about three feet in length were each studded with four rounds of raisin pumpernickel in a row on the top. Four is a lucky number in Austria, explained Klecko, “and there are a lot of superstitions in the bread.”

    The bread that would actually wind up on the table was simpler, but the standards of authenticity, Klecko learned, are tougher. Rolling a rack of dinner rolls out of the proofer, he noted the aroma. “Seventy percent of the moisture in this dough is beer,” he said, “To the Germans, that’s like going home.” But at last year’s ball, he noted, the ethnic judges declared the rolls were a half-ounce too big.

    Klecko, however, is no stranger to imperial and dynastic pressures in the kitchen. In his twenty-three years of baking (he looks about twenty-five), he has baked wild-rice sourdough for Mikhail Gorbachev and dinner rolls for the New York Yankees. He’s catered for the notoriously choosy Steve Tyler, the wide-mouthed singer of Aerosmith, who Klecko says was once a baker himself. Klecko even developed the humidity-resistant brat buns for the Xcel Center.

    While pseudonyms are built on careers like this, Klecko reflected for just a moment about the pitfalls of fame in wholesale baking. “Who wouldn’t want to bake for the New York Yankees? But if you mess up they can have you hung.” Such are the risks of working with ersatz royalty.—Joe Pastoor

  • The Mortarboard, the Sheepskin, and the Dixie Cup

    Nothing was normal on the morning of Wednesday, November 5, at Stratford High School in Goose Creek, South Carolina. For one thing, there were no drugs in the school. If there were, the fourteen police officers plus one drug-sniffing dog should have found them when they swept into the school, guns drawn, and sent students sprawling against their lockers and on the hallway floors. Some students were handcuffed, others covered with guns. A stocky officer dressed in blue jeans with a Kevlar vest over his T-shirt grabbed an African-American boy off the floor, spinning him in a 180-degree arc and slamming him back to the floor. The surveillance video that captured this scene, despite its jerky, stop-motion quality, shows a bit of swagger as the officer walks away. Stratford Principal George McCrackin had reported “an influx of drug activity,” though police found no drugs or weapons.

    The video clip, widely aired around the country last fall, got the attention of school administrators and parents but only, it seems, for a couple of weeks. Though it is destined to become classic footage from the war on drugs, it no longer truly shocks. On one hand, local communities have always used public schools as a crucible for social activism. On the other, the federal government tends to pursue policy goals in schools, in the name of its educational mandate, that have rarely been achieved in the extracurricular world. Between the two, the force of the law tends to land on schoolchildren with surprising regularity.

    In 1963, Alabama Governor George Wallace famously blocked an entrance to the University of Alabama with his own person to prevent the scourge of black scholarship. Six years before that, Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus called on the National Guard to prevent the entry of nine black students into Little Rock’s Central High. The U.S. Army was then deployed to forcibly desegregate schools (though the GIs didn’t stick around to combat mortgage redlining and other forms of discrimination that persisted outside public schools for years afterward).

    Now, under the flag of drug prevention, dogs and feds are back at the schoolhouse door. And this time they brought specimen cups. Urine testing of students to detect drug use has now begun to march across the U.S., with new support from the Bush administration. The decision that opened the doors to testing without suspicion originated in Oklahoma. In 1999, a student named Lindsay Earls took umbrage when, in order to remain in her school choir, she was required to produce a urine sample under the supervision of school faculty. She was not suspected of drug use, but the school board had implemented a policy that required testing of students participating in all extracurricular activities. With counsel from the American Civil Liberties Union, Earls challenged the policy and scored a victory in the Tenth Circuit. But on June 27, 2002, the U.S. Supreme Court decided in favor of the school district. To many concerned about civil rights, this decision marked the sudden and complete expulsion of the Fourth Amendment from public schools.

    Fourth Amendment protections against unreasonable searches have eroded gradually in public schools for about eighteen years. Back when Nancy Reagan was urging kids to Just Say No to drugs, the U.S. Supreme Court just said no to probable cause. In 1985, the justices decided against a New Jersey high school student who argued that getting caught smoking cigarettes did not constitute probable cause to search her purse. The court held that “The Fourth Amendment’s prohibition on unreasonable searches and seizures applies to searches conducted by public school officials and is not limited to searches carried out by law enforcement officers. Nor are school officials exempt from the Amendment’s dictates by virtue of the special nature of their authority over schoolchildren.” While this upheld a portion of the Fourth Amendment, Justice Byron R. White went on to state that “school officials need not obtain a warrant before searching a student who is under their authority. Moreover, school officials need not be held subject to the requirement that searches be based on probable cause…” This deletion of warrant and probable cause left only the more subjective barrier of “reasonableness” between students and searches.

    A further erosion of the Fourth Amendment came in 1989. The Veronia school district in Oregon had decided it was reasonable to test the urine of athletes, regardless of individual suspicion. With probable cause no longer a concern, Justice Antonin Scalia found abundant justification for random drug testing because “in small town America, school sports play a prominent role in the town’s life, and student athletes are admired in their schools and in the community.” Apparently, admiration of these athletes declined when, in Justice Scalia’s words, “Students became increasingly rude during class; outbursts of profane language became common. Not only were student athletes included among the drug users, but as the District Court found, athletes were the leaders of the drug culture.”

    Justice Scalia agreed that the student body at large needed protection from the decadent-yet-admired athletes, and found it easy to dispense with the privacy expectations of the unruly jocks. He did this by reaching back past the Fourth Amendment to a legal source from eighteenth-century England, in which Sir William Blackstone wrote that a parent may “delegate part of his parental authority, during his life, to the tutor or schoolmaster of his child; who is then in loco parentis…” In this case, however, the parents of student James Acton had declined to delegate authority over his bladder to the school. Nevertheless, again citing “reasonableness,” the court decided in favor of the school.
    So by 2002, the reasonableness of testing urine without a basis in suspicion had been well established. That’s when the case from Oklahoma appeared to test the reasonableness of the Supreme Court itself, as Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s fourteen-page dissent observed: “The particular testing program upheld today is not reasonable, it is capricious, even perverse…. If a student has a reasonable subjective expectation of privacy in the personal items she brings to school… surely she has a similar expectation regarding the chemical composition of her urine.”

    Writing for the majority, Justice Clarence Thomas reviewed the urine-collection procedure: “Under the policy, a faculty monitor waits outside the closed restroom stall for the student to produce a sample and must ‘listen for the normal sounds of urination in order to guard against tampered specimens and to insure an accurate chain of custody.’” While Justice Scalia seemed to prefer eighteenth-century British law to the U.S. Constitution, it’s hard not to speculate that Justice Thomas drew on personal experience in describing the process used in Oklahoma as “even less problematic” than the “negligible” intrusions in Veronia, Oregon. In the end, the court decided that if Lindsay Earls wanted to sing for the choir, she would first have to pee for the principal.

  • Down Force

    The now ubiquitous spoiler—that horizontal fin typically perched on the trunks of sports cars—goes way back, back before the elevated brake lights that now decorate them on every third Honda you get behind on Lake Street. In the early days of Gran Turismo racing in Europe, about forty years ago, the spoiler was the solution to the problem of “lift.” At one hundred miles per hour and greater, the massive airflow under race cars has a tendency to lift the rear of the vehicle, depriving the wheels of traction, and preventing—as physicists and motorheads everywhere know—the transmission of power to the road surface. Clever engineers decided to capture the force of air rushing over the top of the car with a wing-shaped appendage on the back that would transmit that force down to keep the rubber on the road. In the sixties and seventies, Ferrari and Lamborghini added spoilers to their production cars, and it was only a matter of time before everybody wanted one.

    The family tree of such bolt-on beauties has deeper roots, of course, than GT racing and Ferrari envy. Some would trace the lineage back to the Cadillac fins of the fifties, or even the running boards of the forties. But it took dealers a while to realize what kind of market share they were giving up to classified advertisers in the back pages of car magazines. By the seventies, enthusiasts were spending thousands to “personalize” their cars, and dealers were still just peddling rustproofing and the odd set of floormats after the deal. The enhancement trend reached the average consumer in the eighties as itinerant installers went from dealer to dealer like gypsies, dressing up defenseless, ordinary sedans with euphemisms like the “spring package” (white spoiler, white wheel covers, and a pink stripe on a white car) and “performance group” (rear-deck wing, chrome wheels, low-profile tires).

    Observing the force that spoilers exerted on consumers’ wallets (if not their wheels), most dealers have now folded accessory departments into the showroom. To see the very latest in auto prosthetics, I paid a visit to a suburban metro dealer whose manager kindly asked that no one be named, though I can safely disclose that they sell a brand that rhymes with “gourd.”

    The strangest new things are now sprouting from trucks. Our manager estimated that eighty-five percent of all new models are “personalized” before delivery. The decline of the once popular visor (so many fallen to automatic car-wash brushes, said the manager) has given way to “vent shades,” which are plastic deflectors apparently designed to keep air from entering the window, even if it’s open. “Cab back spoilers,” a matched pair of wings mounted vertically to the top of a pickup box where it meets the back of the cab, are still in some demand, but the strangest thing has to be the “tailgate spoiler,” a narrow little wing stuck out on the end of a pickup box like the last hot girl to leave a party. SUV buyers hate to be left out of anything, so they can get a “rear air deflector” mounted near the top of the tailgate too, though frankly, it’s less of a statement.

    Despite the caricature that spoilers have become on trucks (and yes, even minivans), they have enjoyed a huge comeback in the street-racing subculture, where the Honda Civic (no kidding) has muscled into the gearhead niche inhabited thirty years ago by Novas, ’Cudas, and GTOs. Known either disparagingly or venerably as “riced-out,” depending on whom you talk to, Civics and even Acuras now appear alongside their big-block ancestors on the Porky’s scene in St. Paul, dressed in ground effects, $2,000 worth of trick wheels, and massive homemade spoilers that look like they might have been stripped from a Cessna.

    Ever mindful of our readers’ needs, we found an expert to explain what folks are actually getting for their aftermarket dollar. Automotive engineer Simon Palko took a strong stand for fiberglass conservation. “You’d be better off throwing fifty pounds of bricks in the back,” he said of the various truck enhancements I described, adding that the wind drag inherent in pickup and SUV design is merely exacerbated by the add-ons.

    What about the Civics cruising Lake Street like nobody’s business? Palko pointed out that all of these cars are front-wheel drive. Were they to go fast enough to generate lift, he said, “adding down force in the back is acting like a lever, reducing force to the drive wheels in the front.” He doubts, however, that many of them reach the velocity where it matters. “With most of those cars, for every fifteen horsepower they add in performance modifications, they add fifty pounds of plastic for cosmetics. It all kind of balances out.”—Joe Pastoor

  • St. Paul’s Lunch Lady

    I don’t know whether I was having a nightmare, but I recently woke up wondering what it takes to produce 48,000 meals a day. So I invited myself to the St. Paul Public Schools’ nutrition services headquarters to find out.

    The answer, supplied in the person of Director Jean Ronnei, is nerves of steel. District 625 serves more than eight million meals and snacks per year on a budget of $17.9 million dollars, and the buck stops with her. Supplies arrive daily at the central facility near the fairgrounds. Here the food is prepared, then delivered to more than seventy schools with a fleet of only six vehicles. When I arrived at the 72,000-square-foot kitchen, I was met with evidence of Ronnei’s aide-de-camp efficiency. She had a manila folder with The Rake written on the tab, containing a sample of school lunch menus, stats (23,000 gallons of ketchup served annually), and a recipe for 1,200 pizzas.

    In contrast to the frazzled, jumpy nature of restaurateurs trying to orchestrate a few hundred meals in an evening, Ronnei led me on my tour with the composure of someone who’s kept things well in hand for fifteen years. It may be her background in hotel hospitality that taught her to hide the sweat. But it was also clear she had nothing to hide. The place was spotless and running smoothly—no vulgar mechanics cursing seized-up mixer motors, no fetid heaps of waste, no vats of steaming Soylent Green. Among the eighty or so production machines on site, my favorite was “Wally,” a Brobdingnagian kettle in which 250 gallons of sweet-and-sour sauce simmered at exactly 180 degrees.

    Many of St. Paul’s 43,000 hungry students eat breakfast, lunch, and after-school snacks at school, making the district the most important source of their daily calories. Presumably, this is a wretched fate. Oliver Twist would not have asked the beadle for seconds at my school. The memory of thin, rubbery burgers, glutinous casseroles, and flaccid green beans haunts the nation’s school cafeterias to this day. When Ronnei and I lunched at St. Paul Central High, site supervisor Pat Mergens, a twenty-three-year veteran of the trade, sat with us and recalled those dark days. “We pretty much never used a vegetable that wasn’t out of a can. Maybe a tossed salad every now and then. I liked meatloaf and mashed potatoes, so we made meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

    Times have changed, and school lunches have too. Today, for example, St. Paul schools consume 1,100 pounds of chili powder per year, and 3,700 gallons of jalapeños. Ronnei and I were treated to teriyaki chicken breasts on wild rice, broccoli au gratin, strawberries (frozen, but good quality), and French bread. There were five other entrée choices. Students weren’t throwing food; they were eating it. Trays carried past our table revealed the popularity of the breaded chicken patty. Kitchen manager Wanda Christianson boasted that since lowering the fat by eight grams and improving the quality of the meat, they’ve been putting out 450 patties a day.

    It wasn’t hard to get opinions from the kids. “I’ve got something to say,” piped up Nathan Giles, a precociously bearded lad who had chosen the teriyaki chicken. “Public school food is really good. I enjoy it every day. The stereotype is, ‘Oh, the food in the schools is sooo bad.’ It’s not.” He looked around, surveying his classmates for contradictions they did not offer.

    Ronnei asked what I thought of the food, even though she had already made it clear she answers to no one but the kids. “I have the greatest customers in the world. And the greatest job. Who could argue with the joy of feeding kids?” I only cook for two, but I wouldn’t dare.—Joe Pastoor

  • Meet the Meat Guys

    “Psst! How about a case of meat? Good stuff. Great price. C’mere and have a look.” It happened to Joe’s wife one day as she pumped gas on her lunch break. She and a friend followed the peddler to a van in the Amoco parking lot to have a look. It was tempting. The beef was nestled in a box, frozen and shrink-wrapped so tight it looked like dark red ingots. And it was cheap—$130. To make a strange story short, they bought the meat. They split the case, and Joe’s wife drove her share home, where she struggled for half an hour to get it all in the freezer.

    Not everyone thinks of beef in terms of “a case.” We all know that a case of beer is twenty-four bottles, and a case of the flu is about ten days. A case of beef, to help you get your head around it, is four T-bones, ten filets, eight strips, ten sirloins, twelve to eighteen tips, and eighteen patties—a five-year supply for Joe and his wife. And Joe was, to say the least, suspicious of the circumstances. “It could be stolen,” he scolded his wife, “or recalled for contamination.” He would exercise more caution, he claimed, if he were buying crack.

    Because Joe is me, and because I get paid to do it, I checked out the only lead in the case. On the side of the van, one witness said she saw lettering: “The Meat Guys.” A Dex search yielded a pair of phone numbers. The Bloomington number was disconnected. Messages left at a number in Newport, Minnesota, went unanswered. The website MeatGuys.com displayed the message “The Meat Guys website is temporarily down. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”

    Inconvenience be damned, I spent a Monday morning driving to the address attached to the Newport phone number. If there was a pair of guys butchering neighborhood cats in some remote exurban garage and selling it to gullible suburban wives, I was going to get the story before the I-Team.

    I was greeted in the small front office of the Meat Guys building by the Meat Guy himself, Mike Meyer, a tall, fit thirtysomething in a clean white shirt and jeans. Qwest had been out to fix their phone system last week, he apologized, but the “Spirit of Service in Action” had somehow left them without Phone Service in Reality. Meyer was amused by the cloak-and-dagger story of the clandestine purchase, and explained that drivers with something left over from their delivery routes are free to sell it off. “How do you like the meat?” he wanted to know. My favorite was strip steak, marinated in Worcestershire, olive oil, and wine, grilled fast over charcoal and hickory. The T-bones ended up smoked, shredded, and simmered with garlic, peppers, and onions to make a delicious burrito filling.

    Meyer and co-owner Michael Gott have just wrapped up an unexpectedly good first year, with around one million dollars in home-delivery sales, and he chatted for a bit about The Meat Guys’ future. They are opening a branch in Phoenix, and he has dreams of nationwide markets. “My personal goal—it’s kind of goofy,” he mused, “but if we could get the money, I’d like to sponsor a Meat Guys NASCAR car.” I can’t wait to see the decals.—Joe Pastoor