Author: Molly Priesmeyer

Last year, the Minneapolis Police Department received a “generous gift” from Target Corporation: enough money to purchase thirty surveillance cameras, which were strategically placed within a ten-block radius downtown. We Minnesotans like to keep to ourselves, so when the ACLU tried to stand up to Big Brother, many of us quietly cheered.

Compared to other cities, though, we should count ourselves lucky. Chicago has more than two thousand surveillance cameras scanning its windy streets, and, according to a recent BBC story, the average Londoner is caught on Closed Circuit Television (the Brits’ official surveillance system) three hundred times a day.

Anyone can hack into an unencrypted wireless surveillance camera and view what the cameras are monitoring. The practice of “war spying” derives from “war driving,” where computer nerds with WiFi cards in their laptops cruise through neighborhoods and business districts in an attempt to “borrow” an unsuspecting victim’s Internet access. (“War chalking” is a system of graffiti that advertises where to find these open nodes.) War spying lets anyone with a video camera and a two-point-four GHz wireless video receiver (about fifteen dollars online) tap into the signal. Remember that creep last year who was using a camera to look up women’s skirts at Target? Wireless, if not guileless. He was spotted on Target surveillance cameras.

In San Francisco earlier this year, two war spies drove around town and picked up twelve different cameras within an hour, including one in a hotel room. And a news station in Oregon tried it out in Seattle—where they picked up images from a restaurant, art gallery, tattoo parlor, and a random room where some guy was sitting at a computer—and they ran a salacious scare story the following week. (No surprise there.)

The attraction for newscasters and non-newscasters alike seems to be not so much tapping into a prime view of that abandoned parking ramp, but in discovering illicit surveillance—in other words, spying on the spies. Or at least seeing what they see.

In the ongoing effort to nurture my own geek gene, I decided to see for myself. The same day I received my equipment in the mail, I drove around the Twin Cities looking for hidden cameras. With every muffled noise or burst of static, I almost wrecked my car trying to see if anything showed up on my video camera’s thumb-size screen. I drove through Uptown, Downtown, Edina, and St. Paul, convinced I’d soon see scenes from a locker room or bathroom where someone had hidden a camera. Worst-case scenario, I figured, I’d at least catch a glimpse of the front of a gated house as I drove by. Would they be able to watch me watching them watching me?

After a few hours of this, all I’d seen was a number of other bad drivers on the other side of my windshield. I decided to head home. Suddenly, just as I was pulling up to my house, the static gave way to a real voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe it was someone I know! I stopped in the middle of the street and fumbled for my camera. People were talking! I could make out a face. I recognized that face!

It was Cartman from South Park. I had picked up images from the wireless cable box inside my own home. I guess I left the TV on. Like Cartman says: Pretty sweet.—Molly Priesmeyer

“My issues with tanorexia go way back to high school, when tanning beds first hit the scene,” said Julie Dey, a pretty twenty-eight-year-old from Apple Valley. “Girls would make tanning appointments and get out of school to go tanning. I have pictures of girls at my prom who look like they were painted in blackface!”

Since the explosion of artificial tanning in the mid-eighties, we’ve all known people who couldn’t seem to get tan enough. Back in my day, there was a bleached-blonde cheerleader with such a severe case of tanorexia that she looked like an orange Oompa Loompa in a crotch-length miniskirt. A few years after high school, she was arrested for doing the dirty work for her drug-dealing boyfriend. During her two-year stay behind bars, she wrote a letter complaining about losing her ten-year tan because the gawd-awful place didn’t have a tanning bed. She was just the kind of person who would go to prison and gripe about its effect on her skin.

But not every tanorexic is a felon. Tanorexia can afflict the most innocent booth-bather. Take, for example, our dearly departed KARE-11 anchorman, Paul “Major Tan” Magers, whose pastel ties and handkerchiefs were the perfect foil for his constantly copper kisser. Or that beefy dude running around Lake Harriet whose wee jogging shorts show off his perpetually tanned legs of steel. Or the workout-happy mom in the cubicle next to yours who removes her wedding band at least twenty times a day to check her tan line. Unfortunately, tanorexia has many faces. (Albeit all really tan.)

According to the American Cancer Society, more than one million new cases of skin cancer will be diagnosed this year. Residents of the Sunbelt states have a one-in-three chance of being diagnosed with skin cancer, while UV-deprived Minnesotans have the lowest rate in the United States. The number of cases has doubled in the last thirty years, which experts attribute to exposure to higher levels of UV radiation and increased use of tanning beds. Booths are less likely than sun exposure to cause melanoma, the deadliest skin cancer, but they are still a factor. Despite the risks, more than thirty million Americans use tanning beds. And it’s not just Americans going under the lights. Doctors in the U.K. recently endorsed the term “tanorexic” to describe Britain’s growing legion of tanning-bed enthusiasts, though the word has been murmured among the self-deprecating fake-bakers for years. (“My friend Travis is tanorexic, too,” Dey said. “We always say, ‘Omigod! We are so tanorexic!’”)

A more genteel form of tanorexia can be found among those who use spray booths and gel applications, which mimic a deep tan without the dangerous radiation. “We have tons of clients using Mystic Tan, old and new,” said Laura Johnson. She is the manager of Boss Tanning in Golden Valley, which hosts the metro area’s highest concentration of tanning salons. The salon also uses high-pressure tanning beds, which Johnson said block ninety-nine percent of the UVB rays that cause painful booth burn. “People sometimes shy away from the lights for aging reasons. But a lot of people are tanorexic. They just like tanning. We have about fifty or so people who come in at least four times a week who I’d say are tanorexic, I guess.”

Despite the availability of gels and mist, Dey prefers tanning the old-school way. “I tried the Mystic Tan once and I went pumpkin girl,” she said. She wears her tanorexia like a gold medal (OK, maybe a bronze), and becomes defensive about her love for UV rays if lectured about their dangers. “Don’t tell me what to do with my life when you smoke a pack a day and don’t wear your seatbelt. I mean, we’re all gonna die some day. Seriously, dude.”

And for the folks who ask her where she got that great tan in the middle of February, Dey offers this: “Ummm, yeah. You just saw me yesterday? OK, I was on planet Mercury. You too can go there and get a wonderful orange glow on your skin!”
—Molly Priesmeyer

Mayor R.T. Rybak was scheduled to deliver the opening remarks at the 2004 Walkable Communities Workshop a few weeks ago, but he must’ve run up against a few obstacles on his way to the Coyle Community Center, tucked into the northernmost corner of Cedar Riverside, near the I-35/Washington Avenue interchange. According to the workshop, such obstacles could include narrow sidewalks, faded crosswalks, construction barriers, or even ugly buildings. And Minneapolis is riddled with these types of liabilities.

The workshop’s unusually large turnout of enthusiastic walkers—plus a smattering of Metro Transit workers, city planners, community leaders, designers, and a police officer—caused the parking lot to overflow with cars, mini-vans, and SUVs. For my own part, I wedged my little sedan between two dumpsters, rather than parking and walking from two blocks away. I know now what my trepidations were: There are just too many impediments to walkability, like the shattered sidewalk I spotted earlier on Cedar Avenue as I was speeding past the Triple Rock Social Club. No thanks.

The workshop was led by Deb Spicer and Peter Moe. They are from the National Center for Bicycling and Walking, and they are fluent in the language of pedestrians. “Signage,” “visioning,” and “wayfinding” were favorite words, and they also dwelled on “obesity” for a moment. According to the journal Obesity Research, Minnesota taxpayers fork over $1.3 billion each year to pay for obesity-related medical costs. Spicer said that major contributing factors to the continuing rise in the gross domestic weight are urban sprawl and a transportation system designed for cars rather than pedestrians. This situation, according to Moe, is totally “old-school.”

Based on old zoning laws, residential areas have been separated from commercial and civic centers. Thus getting to most post offices, schools, and shops requires a fair amount of driving. Moe was enthused about Excelsior Boulevard in St. Louis Park, which was recently renovated. New condos are mixed with ground-level retail sites. He said this is an example of a good new-school community plan. The wider sidewalks, numerous benches, and delightful architecture create an environment that encourages pedestrian behavior.

This is not the case with Cedar Riverside, where the group went on a “walking audit” to identify “barriers and opportunities.” Even though there were no local business owners in the group, and only two women were from the neighborhood, attendees were willing to offer their thoughts before we even got to the sidewalk: “We need signage!” “That hill is too high. It’s not safe!” “Maybe we can get some pretty, antique-looking lights, ones that arch and hang over the trees.” “Hey, what if that parking lot were turned into a little road?”

Many believe the light-rail train now running through Cedar Riverside will further boost the neighborhood, which is already viewed as a vital gateway for new arrivals, immigrants, and refugees. According to the walkability group, Cedar Riverside also needs to be an active, safe zone for pedestrians, cyclists, and transit riders. “This is where vision comes in,” said Moe, “an opportunity to turn a space into a place.” We passed in front of a housing complex, an empty lot punctuated by broken chunks of pavement and scrappy, meager landscaping. “Hey, wouldn’t this make a great plaza?” quipped a perky college student. “Maybe we could erect signs in different languages to assist with wayfinding,” said an earnest older woman. —Molly Priesmeyer

If you were lucky enough to find a job during this jobless recovery, your orientation probably consisted of a short tour of the copy room and a long trip through the employee handbook. But if you’re Jessi Peine, your new boss sent you on a six-week trek across Europe, where you toured several cheese-producing farms, devoured pounds of cheese, learned about the aging process of cheese, drank loads of wine, and ate more cheese.

Peine is a cheese specialist at Lund’s. Since her education abroad, and her installment at the Penn Avenue store, she has come to know her cheese-loving customers on a first-name basis. They bombard her with questions and cheese stories the instant she slips behind the counter and puts on the tall, white hat that designates her as a food expert. When I approached her the other day, she was huddled with a customer. “I just got back from Norway,” the customer bragged. “I shoved a cheese wheel in my jacket, and they never found it!” She’d successfully smuggled some gjetøst past the eagle-eyed customs officials.

“As a kid who loved food, I always thought you could only be a cook or a housewife,” Peine told me. “I never knew you could do this. And I studied microbiology for a while, which is all about bugs. And bugs make cheese…”

Yes, bacteria make cheese, and cheese is more popular than ever, especially artisan cheese. Like the secret societies of wine, chocolate, sushi, and even cigars, the world of fancy cheese is a complicated one. Peine’s job is to steer you in the right direction, which sometimes means not following your nose.

First of all, “American cheese” shouldn’t be confused with American cheese. Cheeses made here are not necessarily inferior to, say, French cheeses. In fact, in recent years the most expensive and sought-after specimens have been produced in the U.S. “There’s a cheese called Pleasant Ridge Reserve from Wisconsin that is beautifully made, and their cows have acres and acres to graze on, which is very important, because the cows need a steady diet of fresh grasses,” Peine said.

There’s only one problem with American cheeses: Due to FDA regulations, the milk has to be pasteurized (which means heating it to 161 degrees Fahrenheit). This adds a cooked taste to the cheese, and destroys many of the natural enzymes that cheese tasters celebrate. The alternative is to age a cheese for at least sixty days, which also kills most harmful bacteria. But because of what Peine calls an epidemic of food paranoia, most American farms will pasteurize instead of risking the aging process. “We’ll never taste a really fresh, unpasteurized cheese unless we’re in France,” Peine said.

That said, we still can serve plenty of super-stinky cheeses that are dripping with bacteria. Peine doesn’t carry Limburger, the infamously stinky German cheese, because it fouls up her entire cheese case, and because, she says, there are better stinky cheeses out there. “There’s Taleggio from Italy, which is lovely. It just stinks to high heaven, but has a really nice and clean pure cheese flavor.” An ancient Italian cheese carried around the globe on the winds of World War I, Taleggio is creamy, rich, and buttery, and will make a fickle guest either love you or hate you, depending on his or her nose.

Even if you’re serving a wheel whose mere odor will insure plenty of elbow room at the cheeseboard, it’s important not to overwhelm your guests with too many alternatives. Three to five cheeses are all you need, in a nice array of colors, textures, and milks. “Do a nice goat, sheep, and cow,” Peine counseled. “Sheep and goat have that lovely tang, totally different from cow’s milk.” Peine suggested serving Humboldt Fog, a funky-looking goat cheese from California that has a layer of vegetable ash between two layers of white cheese. “That’s the thing: Most of the ugliest cheeses taste the best. They’re not supposed to look perfect,” she said.

There are other simple truths to be aware of: It’s best to pair cheeses and wines by region (reds and whites are both fine) and relative strength on the palate. Always make sure your cheeses are served at room temperature. (Enough with the food paranoia; Peine says cheese can sit out for hours, even days.) Also, never cut the cheese. “Let the guests cut what they want,” Peine said, cautioning against airing the cheese too much too soon. “Don’t let the hard work of those little animals go to waste!” Serve your cheeses with a fresh baguette or bland crackers. You do not want to overpower the cheese. Or you can just scarf it down on its own. “You don’t really need bread,” Peine said. “You don’t need crackers. You can eat it with a spoon if you want.” Face it: If you were worried about offending your more sensitive guests, you probably would have stuck with the cheddar cubes.—Molly Priesmeyer

A yellow electric scooter lies on its side in the middle of 38th Street and Park Avenue. It’s just past 2 a.m. (hooray, new bar time!), and I swerve my Mazda into construction to keep from running it over. The scooter lies among flashing orange-and-white traffic horses and chunks of broken pavement, like a glowing offering from the street gods. I stop in the middle of the road and get out to inspect it as if it were an injured kitten I need to swoop up and rescue. There are no scraps of mangled metal. There’s no evidence it was involved in a collision with another vehicle or wayward street sign. Instead, the poor thing is just abandoned. Alone and dejected. Like a culprit in a recent crime spree, left behind to defend itself.

If the murmured rumors around my Powderhorn neighborhood are to be believed, this little motorized scooter is an awesome new tool for petty crime, a mode of transportation that’s quick (maximum speed: twenty-two miles per hour) and untraceable (it doesn’t require a motor-vehicle registration). They’re cheap, easy to get, and—apparently—easily ditched.

My interest was piqued: Why have these vehicles suddenly appeared all over the city? Why don’t their drivers need to be licensed? Where can I get one? Like any informed and cost-conscious Twin Citizen, I assumed I could find answers at Target. Making my semi-regular visit for Frappuccinos, refrigerator magnets, and overdue wedding gifts, I saw a crowd gathering around rows of boxes the size of a guitar case. There it was: The “E-Scooter,” ready to unfold, charge up, and take on a crime-free joyride. Yes, enviro-friendly transportation now comes in a box for the bargain-basement price of $199.99. Battery included!

Leoch, the makers of the E-Scooter, began licensing their product to Target earlier this year. According to the China-based company’s sales manager, a friendly woman named Anne Daisy, Leoch’s sales have increased by fifty percent during the last year. “Our scooter keeps gaining popularity because of its convenience and fashionable style,” Daisy said. And what about its effectiveness as a getaway vehicle? “I haven’t heard anything until now,” she said. “People mostly use it for amusement and shopping.” The Minneapolis police couldn’t confirm the crime rumors, either. “I haven’t heard anything,” said a Third Precinct officer. “If someone hasn’t figured out how to do it yet, I’m sure they will soon,” he said, with a tone of world-weary resignation. He didn’t thank me for introducing the idea. —Molly Priesmeyer

It’s well past the 10 p.m. curfew Minnetonka imposes for minors, and 40 teenage boys are in lockdown. They’re spending the next 10 hours at Game Tech, at an all-night LAN-o-thon, where they will battle each other in video-game tournaments until 8 a.m. LAN parties are erupting all over the country, and serious gamers are paying big bucks to spend the night networked with each other. Tonight’s entrance fee is $25. Most of the kids admit their parents are footing the bill.

Despite the signs that say “all-night party,” I’m convinced I’ve stumbled into the wrong place. The room is crowded with 17 computers and numerous TVs with video-game consoles. It looks more like a Best Buy warehouse than a party palace for Gen Y kids with attention deficits. But there are telling details: A collection of action-figure miniatures? Check. A raft of junk food? Check. Extreme beverages? Check. (“Have you ever had Bawls Guarana?” one boy asks me. “It keeps you up all night. We drink it all the time.”)

Game Tech owner Kevin Meitsma is the lone chaperone. A father of two of the teenage partygoers, Meitsma jumps on a table and lets out an earsplitting whistle, by way of laying down the ground rules. “You will not leave this room,” he commands. “But what if we have to go to the bathroom?” a boy asks. Yes, that’s allowable, young man. “You will listen to me when I’m talking,” he says. That’s not so easy.

When they find out I’m a reporter, massive cheers erupt, and they do their best Wayne and Garth “We are not worthy” cries, despite the fact that the Saturday Night Live characters hit their peak well before these kids had their first dial-up connection. (See, so media-savvy.)

Another boy, 15-year-old Eachan Lunn of Minnetonka, is skeptical. “You’re not going to write a typical story about how violent video games are and scare our parents, are you?” To be sure, the brace-faced boys will be spending all night gorging on an all-you-can-eat Happy Meal of violence, whether it’s playing Capture the Flag in Unreal Tournament 2003, engaging in World War II combat missions in Battlefield 1942, randomly killing each other in Counterstrike, or whacking prostitutes and suspendered stockbrokers in Vice City. But to be fair, the stockbrokers beg for it (“Don’t mess up my hair!”), and it is a virtual reality.

According to Game Tech rules, the kids must get their parents’ permission to stay and play. “I just, like, tell them how much fun it is,” says 14-year-old Mike Dunn. “They totally understand because they were geeks when they were younger, too.” Wearing an oversized Nirvana T-shirt and a computer-geek-chic haircut, Dunn says he wants to open a Japanese restaurant with all the cash he’ll earn as a video-game programmer. What’s so great about video games, dude? “I like that I can die. And still not be dead,” he says, with a smirk.

What unites Dunn and everyone else in the room is their pride in being self-proclaimed geeks who are more into computers than girls or booze or skateboards or any of the other temptations of modern boyhood. I learn that, after 10 minutes, I hold the record for a female visit. I learn that, despite their nerd status, a few of the guys have girlfriends other than Lara Croft. And I find out that, unlike the little punks I knew when I was a teenager, these guys would rather play a hand of Magic than take shots of Mad Dog. They call themselves teenagers? I was expecting to bear witness to some form of illicit behavior, at least a few punches thrown or a bottle of contraband smuggled. But I discovered that, in this parallel universe, these 14-year-olds are able to hold more interesting conversations than most 30-year-olds I know. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I do know it’s 1 a.m., I’m completely Bawls-free, and Real World reruns are whispering my name. Though I don’t need to, I ask permission to leave the premises.—Molly Priesmeyer