The Rake Magazine

Category: AAX

  • Country, and Republicans, First

    It was Day 2 of the Republican National Convention and The Rake
    was seated proudly in the "minor local media" section. With CityPages at
    our side, God as our witness and no actual view of the stage, the event was underway. It was quickly apparent that, in solidarity with the folks
    displaced by Hurricane Gustav, the Republicans had blown their announced agenda
    to hell and back, with only two of the originally planned speakers on tap for
    the night. The abbreviated convention also blew a sucking chest wound in the
    plans to highlight a different theme each night – forcing the party planners to
    focus instead on the Convention’s overall theme of "Country First." They
    proceeded to offer up that happily vague phrase, and variations thereof, ad
    nauseum.

    Starting off the night to set the "Country First" tone was John Boehner’s speech on the Great
    Satan that is the Democratic party, conveniently neglecting to mention that the
    pluperfect singularity of economic, diplomatic and social upheaval facing the
    country was engendered just as much by Republican as it was Democrat. Of
    course, much like at last week’s DNC, the delegations thoroughly enjoyed any
    and all mocking of the opposition, offering raucous applause and never once
    wishing they could hear a proper
    taunting as only the French can provide    .

    After Boehner’s speech, the epic notes of "Don’t Stop Believin’" by
    glam rock legends Journey filled the dead air and, as McCain’s theme song, was
    likely intended to fire up delegates and remind them that a year ago their
    presidential nominee’s campaign was dead in the water and beaten by Giuliani in
    the polls like a bad bad donkey. But judging by the choked off laughter, the
    assembled media took it as a reminder to the delegation to keep on drinking the
    Kool-Aid.

    Further compounding attempts to take the proceedings
    seriously was a short montage that truly set the tone for a night consisting of
    speeches by the Democrat who wasn’t, Joe Lieberman, and the only Minnesotan to ever
    hump the leg of a commander-in-chief     – Michelle Bachmann. Perhaps history
    will someday regard the ill-considered words announced with gravitas against
    the backdrop of a stylized Constitution as something other than a phrase taking
    us to a horrific place – "You can’t really see your country. You can’t really
    touch your country. But you can love it." However, it’s all too likely the
    robots will have assumed primacy by then, consigning us to the dark corners of
    the earth, too busy scraping for sustenance to remember the disturbing imagery
    called forth by a gathering of the old world order. And besides, there are far
    too many places in the country that would likely require a visit to Planned
    Parenthood for testing if one was touched by them.

    Sen. Norm Coleman, former mayor of St. Paul, was prevented from making his
    "really good speech" on Monday and took the opportunity to welcome the
    delegates to Pig’s Eye, confusing the hell out of the octogenarian attendees.
    He went on to give a treatise on St. Paul’s history, discussing how
    conservative values built the Xcel center, but stopping just short of launching
    into a heartfelt rendition of Starship’s, "We Built This City".
    Coleman is, of course, in a rather heated battle for one of Minnesota’s Senate seats, so grandstanding
    is to be expected. He also was the first of a long parade of speakers to wax
    rhapsodic about the many sterling qualities of John McCain, culminating in a
    story about Thomas Jefferson’s face and a vagrant on the banks of a river.
    Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t actually a euphemism for oral sex, but rather a long winded and folksy way of saying McCain would face any challenge put in front of him.

    Unfortunately, the "positive spirit of Pig’s Eye" only
    extended to those blessed with the wisdom to join the Republican party. When
    speakers weren’t praying or touting the many wonders of the McCain and Palin
    story, they were blaming the opposition for everything from the national
    deficit to Lindsay Lohan’s recent forays into girl on girl action and punditry.
    Though given how much sense she makes in her political commentary, maybe Ms.
    Lohan is on to something.

    Throughout the rest of the night, speakers took every
    opportunity to point out how John McCain has put country first. That
    conservative values are the only possible way forward for this country. That,
    by the way, John McCain was once a resident at the Hanoi Hilton, and that it’s
    okay for conservatives to love him now that he’s the only option for a Republican
    president. Michelle Bachmann, the insane light of zealotry burning brightly in
    her eyes and clad in a dress that could only be described as Cadbury Mini-Egg
    yellow, delivered her speech as if she thought she was addressing a romper room
    audience. She devoted most of her time on stage to serving as a GOP attack dog,
    telling the arena that good Christian values will guide the country, not the
    government. Sadly, any good points she
    may have made on the importance of avoiding a nanny-state paled in comparison
    to her painful pleas for delegates to come back and visit. "Because we’re nice.
    Really nice. Fucking. Unbelievably. Nice. We’re nice, goddamnit! Why won’t you
    love me?"

    Tellingly, none of the MN delegates would discuss their
    feelings about Rep. Bachmann when asked.

    From then until the keynote speakers for the night – President
    George Bush, Sen. Fred Thompson and Sen. Joe Lieberman – were ready to go, a
    parade of heart wrenching tales and presidential retrospectives rained forth
    from the sound system. The obligatory deification of Ronald Reagan, tales of
    Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders, a crass attempt at co-opting the story of
    a Navy SEAL who threw himself on a grenade to save the rest of his team in Iraq
    and was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor – these were the most offensive
    moments of the night. Country First may be the theme of the convention, but
    when politics trump the country’s history and American heroes are used to
    strengthen a political agenda, it’s obvious the country isn’t foremost in
    anyone’s thoughts.

    Oh, and by the way, has anyone ever told you that John
    McCain was a POW?

    Following these crass examples of political opportunism, our
    fearless leader made an appearance via satellite, emphasizing the disagreements
    he’s had through the years with John McCain, conveniently neglecting to mention
    the smear campaign in 2000 that left the esteemed maverick senator from Arizona feeling like so
    much roadkill. Roadkill with an illegitimate
    black baby    .

    Fred Thompson was up next, his experience as an actor
    shining through as he flowed easily from jowl-shaking recrimination against
    liberals and their media lapdogs to holding Sen. McCain aloft on a pedestal and
    thanking him for not only serving his country, but also for forgiving the sins
    of man, starring in a Tony-award winning Broadway musical that convinced
    homosexuals that they didn’t have the right to marry after all, and was the man
    who gave the reverse
    cowgirl     to the world. The
    former New York prosecutor     owned that crowd. Not only were his words treated
    as if they were carved in stone and handed down by Moses, but whispers of "He’s
    not so cute, but I’d totally do him" drifted down like so much J.Lo-branded
    perfume from the assembled group of MILFs and Stepford Wives in the gallery
    behind the press stand.

    Which made it all the more sad that Sen. Joe Lieberman had
    to follow that act. Not only did it seem as if the Xcel Center had suddenly
    been transported into an alternate dimension in which Lieberman wasn’t the VP
    nominee for one of the Republican party’s
    ultimate evils     back in 2000, the senator from CT has never displayed a
    knack for oratory, and being the only Democrat on the speaking agenda brought
    him nothing but wary stares and baffled looks as he proceeded to name check
    Clinton and not curse Obama’s name to the heavens while lavishing praise upon
    his good friend John McCain. Sen. McCain certainly wouldn’t think of providing Sen. Lieberman with
    a cabinet position, thus providing a method to his madness, right?

    And throughout the show, while speaker after speaker
    thundered and railed against "the angry left" and positioned the GOP ticket as
    the second coming of Buddha, Christ, and P.T. Barnum in one neat little package
    with a moose-hunting cherry on top, they failed to note one interesting fact –
    they somehow managed to take the Xcel Energy Center, a nearly brand new arena
    with some of the best acoustics in the nation, and make it sound stunningly
    crappy. If that’s not an intriguing metaphor for the events of the last eight
    years, I’m not sure what is.

  • Mayhem at Mickey's Diner

    Let me start off by saying, I’m not a particularly political person. I care, don’t get me wrong, but I just prefer to do what I do best, staying in the pretty bubble of art, music and what-have-you. I am an A+E Editor, after all, not a political commentator! I rarely watch TV, but when I do I often assume it’s an extra-violent news day, even though deep down I know that’s the way the world is, and I subsequently shut it out of my mind. It might be ignorant of me, but hell, my brain can only hold so much information, and the battle I’ve personally chosen is one of making sure you know exactly where to go to see the coolest art, music, and performance – and trust me, it’s not that easy of a job!

    However, I do appreciate passionate people; people who are so into whatever they are doing that it basically takes over their life and becomes their identity. I think it’s impressive and endearing (and only once in a while, creepy). My decision to cover the scene in Downtown St. Paul was fairly innocent – I not only wanted to see a massive throng of people coming together to stand up for something they believed in, but I also wanted to see what they were wearing. Yes, it’s true. After watching the Liberty Parade this past weekend, I had a feeling plenty of sassy nut jobs in outrageous get-ups would be out in full force. I was definitely right, but what I didn’t really bank on was getting tear-gassed by the end of the night.

    It was my definitely own fault for insisting on staying with the unruly masses when they came to a halt in front of Mickey’s Diner on West 7th, after a generally peaceful 4-mile march through the city to the foot of the RNC. I just couldn’t help it though. The photo ops were just too good.

    After following the some 5,000 or so protesters up from the RNC gates to the street, I was at the tail end of things, having stuck behind to snap pics of some guy who looked like Jesus swaying in front of a line of cops with a miniature rainbow flag on a stick. The scene up at Mickey’s Diner was pretty ridiculous. About 150 cops in full riot gear flanked all sides of the street, trying to herd the protesters all in one direction. One cop sat perched on the top of Mickey’s, others stood on squad cars in bad-ass RoboCop poses.

    While the majority of the march had shuffled off so as not to aggravate the cops, a core group of about 200 or so stayed behind and basically just stood there, chanting and talking smack to the lines of police. Honestly, I think both sides were looking for a fight of sorts. The cops were practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of getting to kick the crowd’s ass, and the protesters seemed to want them to do it, and were basically asking them to do it by not moving after the three warnings police gave, ordering everyone to disperse via bullhorn.

    Dumb as I am, I stayed right up at the front of the police line somehow thinking they wouldn’t actually do it, I mean, no one was threatening them, maybe they would just pepper spray a few rowdy punks and everyone else would walk quickly away, virtually unscathed. Not so much. I heard a loud pop and saw billows of tear gas start rising up in the middle of the crowd. Numerous more pops and the streets were filled with screaming protesters running aimlessly as lines of police advanced on us. I turned tail and began booking up the street, veering away from the thick line of cops liberally dousing retreating protesters with huge arcs of pepper spray as flash grenades and tear gas canisters fell all around us. People were writhing on the ground crying and screaming for medics, and while everyone ran, the police seemed to be shooting things directly at our backs. A tear gas canister whizzed by about a foot away from me, bounced off an electrical box right into my line of retreat and started seething smoke. I jumped over it with my scarf covering my face and kept on running. At some point a boy that looked to be about 16 or 17 asked me to please help him and I just yelled at him to keep running and yanked at his sleeve, dragging him on. I saw a crying girl stumble too close to the police line, which was met by a douse of pepper spray that was so extreme that it literally splashed off her face, downing her instantly. Another young kid was balled up by the doorway to an office building, clawing at his eyes and bawling while other protesters screamed for someone to help him. I’d never seen such a thing. It was like a war zone, minus the actual killing of course. Eventually I ducked around a corner and got out of the fray, coughing and rubbing my eyes until I found a bus stop bench to sit down on, regroup, and let my panic meter go down.

    I had lost my friends Stephen, Dylan and Paul, and upon calling them I found they were locked in a freezer at the Dominos Pizza place across from Mickey’s, where they had gone to get a bite to eat after the main protest dispersed. When the mayhem broke out, tear gas had apparently begun to seep in through the closed door of the place to the point that all the employees and customers had retreated to the freezer until the smoke cleared out. I think they got free pizza out of it, so that’s at least one positive.

    After about an hour of trying to cross multiple police lines that had positioned themselves all around the area, I was finally reunited with my posse, who had been on the opposite side of the line. We were forced by the police to take the long way around to the Capitol and up to Paul’s car, which was parked on University. Along the way we passed by at least 500 cops in full riot gear, traveling in menacing packs all over downtown and at the Capitol. It was quite intimidating, and a little bit shocking, considering the sheer numbers. As the protesters had been chanting all night, "This is what a police state looks like!"

    At any rate, you probably won’t be getting any more play-by-play coverage of police riots from me. I’m still jumping at loud noises, and have had enough of the smell of hippies and crust-punks to last me for quite awhile. Here’s my advice for future protesters: start running before they start shooting tear gas – it does not feel as awesome as you’d think!

    Click HERE to see even more pics snapped by both myself and Stephen from the protest and our day Downtown. We don’t have anything from the actual confrontation, as we were busy running/ hiding in freezers. Strangely enough, videos of the melee taken by Kare 11, that were up on their website just last night, are now down; however, they do have some good still shots HERE.

  • Protest Music for the New Millenium

    (Todd Smith already wrote this article)

    On stage, Steve Earle led the crowd in a sing-a-long of "Steve’s Hammer (for Pete)" – a song that picks up on that parenthetical Pete (Seeger)’s "If I Had a Hammer," from 1949.

    "I’m gonna say a line, and you’re gonna repeat it back to me," Earle said. "And none of the just-mouthin’-the-words stuff. I grew up in a Methodist church, and I know all about that shit."

    The audience, in attendance for the 1st Annual Take Back Labor Day Festival at Harriet Island, acquiesced to Earle’s demands. Hippies and hipsters, whole families and lone children, organizers in support of workers’ rights and apolitical groupies who came just to see their favorite bands – everyone yelled the musician’s lyrics back at him. Though there were fourteen-year-olds in the front row who’ve probably never even had a job yet, everyone was eager to add their own energy to the day’s momentum.

    Later, just across the Mississippi River, more than 280 protestors would be arrested for varying degrees of felonies, and a faint stench of tear gas would linger in the city’s grass. There would be a bomb threat on the Roberts Street Bridge. A man in the center of downtown St. Paul’s labyrinth-like riot gates would stand in a spotlight, preaching salvation, though no one would listen. Hidden speakers would blare "Danger Zone" throughout the metropolis.

    Now, though, at the concert, people sat cross-legged in the sun, and others kicked around a hackey-sack, and Steve Earle alternately played songs and lamented Woody Guthrie’s absence.

    The quietest presences were those backstage. During Earle’s set, a number of Iraq Veterans Against the War milled about, partaking of the festival’s various fried foods and texting friends on their cell phones. Some listened to the music, but none sang along. Certainly they seemed to be enjoying themselves, but they were distanced somehow from the celebration.

    "We came as part of a group of veterans to the DNC and RNC, to address issues affecting vets," said Eddie Falcon, who served four tours – two in Iraq, two in Afghanistan – as well as helping out in post-Katrina New Orleans. He was dressed in a black tank top, silver dog tags hanging loosely over the cloth. "We want all occupying forces out of Iraq and Afghanistan – you know, just, ‘troops home now’ – and we want full benefits for veterans. There are a lot of things that happen back home: PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), suicide, depression, alcoholism…and a lot of veterans aren’t getting the help they need."

    It’s strange and disturbing to think that of all the people gathered under the aegis of Taking Back Labor Day, the people enlisted by our government to protect our country are some of the most mistreated by their employers.

    In about forty-five minutes, when Tom Morello would be finishing his set with a rendition of Woody Guthrie’s "This Land is Your Land" (subversive lyrics reinstated), Falcon and his twenty or so peers on stage would pump their fists during the chorus and jump like they were listening to Kris Kross. Backstage, though, they were subdued, maybe accustomed to explaining their difficult positions to the media. Low-key as they seemed, though, they were very aware that they were under threat of arrest.

    Last week at the DNC in Denver, the group – then reportedly comprised of more than sixty vets – enacted Operation First Casualty, which, Falcon explained, was a piece of guerrilla-style theater.

    "With that we were bringing the war home," he said. "We dressed in our full fatigues, and had planted allies throughout the city, and we would detain them, handcuffing them and masking them in the middle of the crowd, to simulate what happens every day in Iraq."

    Then a group of veterans composed a letter listing demands they wanted to present to Obama’s campaign. They marched, Morello explained during his set, through the streets of Denver, and as they got closer and closer to the convention’s headquarters, a group of policemen in full riot gear began to block their path.

    That’s the absurd thing, isn’t it? That war veterans could get arrested during what really was a peaceful, even pacifist event – back home in the U.S.

    But the vets were undeterred. Eventually their letter was delivered and, Morello said, the dialogue with the Democratic Party will continue.
    In St. Paul the vets drafted a similar missive for the McCain camp. "Our First Sergeant got an escort through St. Paul to see McCain and bring him the letter," Falcon said. "But McCain declined to come out."

    During the latter half of the show, when the music shifted from Steve Earle-style folk rock to rap, the veterans began congregating on the wings of the stage. They danced along to Atmosphere, Mos Def, and The Pharcyde. The terms ‘PTSD’ and depression resounded in the mind – diseases that by definition set one apart form larger society. The vets had backstage passes, were touring with the musicians, and jamming on the set, but one wonders when, if ever, they’ll be able to re-join the larger crowd.

  • Politics Lite: Inside the Xcel

    After popping into PetSmart for a new dog tag and Home Depot for some new levelers, I head right next door to the Doubletree Park Place in St. Louis Park. How convenient! My plan is to catch a ride to the Xcel Energy Center with whatever delegation happens to be staying there. It turns out to be the Georgians, and they’ve taken to referring to their quarters as "The Georgia Hotel." I like their sense of claimstaking.

    A friendly man in a neon vest asks where I’m looking to go. Thinking I’m busted, despite my legitimate credentials and earlier phone inquiries, I play it cool but slightly miffed. I’ve already had to change my outfit in the parking lot after realizing how underdressed I was. Grateful for the bag of preppy teacher clothes waiting to be dropped off for donation, I throw a sweater over my polo shirt (instant fancy!) and change out of my summer sandals. These Georgians aren’t messing around: high-high heels, slinky dresses, snazzy sportcoats with zippers on the pockets.

    Now comfortably playing the role of dowdy journalist, I engage the friendly fellow in neon, who appears to be running the show. He turns out to be the brother of Debbie Woodward, the woman who turned around the Northrup King Building which houses our office. Well acquainted with The Rake, he takes a shine to me and lets me in on how things with the visiting delegates are going. "They’re dumb," he emphatically spits out. "I’m sorry?" I think I must have misheard him. "They’re just dumb," he repeats. "Did you grow up here? Be thankful you got a DFL education." He doesn’t utter these remarks in a mean-spirited way, rather he’s just surprised at how logistically difficult they’ve been to coordinate. I tell him something non-committal like, That’s always the way with big groups.

    A genuinely fancy lady approaches and asks about getting on the shuttle. She doesn’t have her credentials, but assures us both they’re simply awaiting her pick-up at the Xcel. "You oughtta work for The Rake," he points at me. "They get their folks full credentials." "I work for myself," she replies, and thanks us for our help.

    I hop on the trolley destined for Brit’s in Minneapolis. AT&T is hosting a party there for the Georgians and I’ll try to get in. On the way one of the cuter delegates talks about having eaten a cookie today. For about ten minutes she laughs about this. I am happy to see the out-of-towners making the most of our fair cities. We tour past the Sculpture Gardens, Walker Art Center and Loring Park. I take in the sights and make believe I’m viewing them with out-of-town eyes. I’m impressed by the city’s history as our trolley driver tries to be heard over the cookie laughs.

    As you may have guessed, I am not allowed into the private Brit’s party, not being from Georgia and not being a delegate. I walk a block and catch one of the fleet of tour busses headed to St. Paul. Upon crossing the river, one rider announces loudly, "Uh oh! We’re going over a bridge!" It is apparent he is looking for laughs, but the joke doesn’t land.

    To get into the Xcel I have to walk through the "FOX Experience." What you "experience" is an onslaught of Hannity and Colmes close-ups and volunteers thrusting geeky hats at you.

    Inside I immediately take in the prevalence of these geeky hats and other kitschy wears. Blinky lapel pins, red-white-and-blue everything, cowboy hats galore. Is democracy supposed to be this tacky? Is this why we alternately hate/ envy the French? Would they be caught dead in any of this garb?

    One woman in the Florida delegation catches my eye. She’s wearing a gold silk kimono-type dress with exaggerated sleeves. She’s wearing gold stilettos, big gold hoop earrings. She’s primed for Myth Nightclub. I like how she shakes her assets in time with the elevator jazz tunes blaring over the speakers. I also like the guy up high in the NBC skybox/ makeshift studio. He’s up against the glass, butt to the entire convention, shaking just like the Florida gal. I can’t tell if he’s sincerely getting down, or if he’s mocking the whole show. Whatever the motivation, he doesn’t stop for nearly ten minutes.

    In keeping with my recent State Fair binge eating, I stop by the concessions area. Two women walk by me, "They got the food thing open today!" "Well somebody got a brain!" Yes, brain indeed. The concessionaires can’t slop condiments on fast enough. They’re almost out of sweet tea. Two bratty kids wearing Dorothy red slippers cry out, "Just bread and meat! Bread and meat!" They are unimpressed with the array of cheeseburger toppings. Not surprisingly, the line for vegetarian wraps and chef salads is non-existent. These are red meat eating delegates.

    I feel like I’m in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. Everyone’s potentially suspicious: that woman in the spotless chef’s jacket; that "priest." Two very serious men walk by, one holding some kind of device, the other holding an appendage of the device. I figure it’s a bomb-sniffing metal-detector of sorts. The guy holding the device keeps looking at the dials saying, "louder, louder," as they creep slowly past.

    The speakers:

    Jo Ann Davidson, co-chair of the RNC, keeps pronouncing it "NAY-tional, NAY-tional." I’m unsure what that accent is, but it also leads her to proclaim the VP nominee’s name as "Sarah Paw-linty."

    Norm Coleman amps his East Coast tenor with several sprinkles of "haaaaahd" work, and other such classic JFK-isms. He tries a joke with the punchline of, "I’m not indecisive, am I? That coulda been an Obama campaign slogan!" The reporter beside me leans in and points out, "He used to be a Democrat, you know? Talk about indecisive."

    Rake favorite Michele Bachman takes the stage and makes Minnesotans look like a pack of idiots. "It’s not just a saying," her crazy-eyes open wider than could be healthy. "We really ARE nice here. We’re FRIENDLY, HAPPY PEOPLE! And we do have a lot of liberals in Minnesota, but they’re HAPPY liberals." How many times she repeats the words "happy" and "nice," she sounds like a foreign language learner who stopped trying after chapter one.

    Big cheers all around with any mention or jumbo-tron photo montage of Lincoln, Babs, Reagan, the usual. Babs and George Sr. do show up about halfway through the night, almost too much of a surprise for the giddy delegates to handle.

    Current President George W. Bush is introduced by his wife (in person) and speaks to the convention (via satellite). It’s only slightly awkward when he’s unsure how long to wait for laughs after cracking a joke. (Laura’s wearing a spicier outfit tonight, possibly in response to Cindy McCain’s hot number the night before. And it’s cute how she says the word "muh-skituh" when mentioning the pesky insect.) The scary stay-the-course steadfastness makes an appearance in Bush’s remarks when he proclaims, "To protect America we must stay on the OFFENSIVE."

    Miles McPherson, former San Diego Charger, current pastor, underscores that "Character is doing what’s right even when nobody’s looking." This was one of our core Army Values when I was in, although we used his phrasing as the definition for "integrity." There’s a lot of riling up the troops here that’s reminding me of past Army leaders’ attempts at the same.

    Each speaker is framed by bucolic, digitized, small-town backdrops. Sometimes they morph into wheat fields. Sometimes they’re stars and stripes. Always they are undeniably iconic Americana. And so is Miss Florida. And the brat kids wanting a plain burger. And even Norm Coleman’s gigantic teeth.

    I head back to the busses forgoing the media open bar. I’ve imbibed enough spirit here
    to keep me tipsy for a good long while.

  • Why Party Like a Rock Star When You Can Party Like a Delegate?

    Not yet near the doors of the Minneapolis Convention Center Sunday night and I am already handed Republican swag, in the form of a DVD. This DVD "as seen on CNN and FOX News" depicts on its cover the iconic image of a radical Islam toddler wielding a rifle. I politely put it in my purse as if I sincerely plan on watching.

    My guest and I are already out of sorts and being ushered in the doors through a Notre-Dame-like tunnel of earnest outcries. "Welcome to Minnesota!!" they shout. "Thank you, thank you, lovely place," we reflexively reply. We’re traipsing down a gawdy red carpet alongside thousands of genuine Republican delegates just thrilled about their Welcome Party. Having scored tickets, we’re thrilled too.

    Guests don the costume-y gear you might expect: patriotic scarves; gigantic elephant jewelry; nametags with lasso designs around the edges. There are cute elephant ears (worn on headbands), but I’d rather have the pastry. Billed as a "Red Carpet Affair," I didn’t know what to wear. Nor did, apparently, several of the delegates. But who is there to care? What with the free food and booze (as Kate Iverson so kindly mentioned I dig), most guests were quite contented. I heard one happy delegate urge his friend to move along from the meat carving station, "You can’t DRINK roast beef!"

    A few non-food or booze highlights (although the Bud Light Limes were surprisingly tasty):

    Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln. These Republicans just can’t get enough of the guy. Naturally my guest brings up the Phil Hartman "History as it Really Happened" sketch in which Lincoln is shot for being so damn annoying and raunchy while watching that fateful play. And so, I can’t give the guy dressed as Lincoln any serious attention. Nor am I all that wowed by the semi-trailer-cum-Lincoln-museum parked along one wall of the auditorium. I do like the souvenir penny/ lapel pin they give me upon exit.

    Other vehicles on display include a 1986 prototype of Reagan’s Cadillac limousine. An excited volunteer points out that Reagan made a special request to have the roof raised three inches thereby accommodating his wearing a cowboy hat inside. What a diva.

    "FDR’s limo" is also there, but it isn’t really a limo, just an old car. Delegates checking it out joke, "I bet the Democrats were giving him crap about driving this thing around! His carbon footprint, HA!"

    Party-goers wait in a long line to walk through a replica of Air Force One. I wait awhile, then get antsy for more action and head to CNN’s mobile studio. In the doors of the bus and almost out again, the guide finally asks if we have any questions. "Yeah," I say, annoyed that he needs prompting to do his job, "So what goes on here?" The answer is actually well-delivered, once elicited (all their on-the-trail coverage is filmed and edited within the bus, and we’re allowed to see the control room).

    Norm Coleman’s teeth are maybe the greatest highlight of all. One really can’t appreciate their Chicklet-like quality without seeing them up close. Rent There’s Something about Mary to remind you what Matt Dillion’s teeth look like after he gets them "done" for her. And Coleman’s tiny head only makes those capped chompers more prominent. Norm’s L.A. wife waits glassily on his arm while my co-hort makes Beetlejuice remarks about his shrunken skull, surely loud enough to be heard.

    The think tank in charge of this operation spared no expense when it came to cultivating patriotism. The frequency and volume of Lee Greenwood’s "Proud to be an American" hearkens back to my Basic Training days in South Carolina. The loon calls piped into the restrooms are something altogether new.

    Perhaps most patriotic of all is Harriet, the 27-year old bald eagle on display. We could have gotten our picture taken with the elderly Harriet, but it was more fun watching others, imagining them the would-be victims when Harriet finally snaps. I bemoan the fact she’s kept in a poorly-disguised dog crate when traveling. "But that’s an eagle crate," my friend corrects me, and then asks if I think Harriet gives autographs. My American pride is at its all-time apex.

    Overheard:

    Big guy flanked for photo op by two Miss Teen Minnesota contestants proclaims: "This makes my whole [dag-gum] trip!! [Coo-coo!]"

    "Caramelized onions?! What WILL they think of NEXT?!"

    Several of the not-found-anywhere-else exhibits mentioned here (plus actual First Ladies’ gowns, a replica of the Oval Office, and a scale model of the White House) are still on display and open to the public during the Minneapolis Convention Center’s CivicFest. See "The Rake’s Secrets to Surviving the RNC" for more info. I can not guarantee they’ll give you caramelized onions if you go.

    Click HERE to read about my misadventures inside the Xcel.

  • There's More Than One Bristol

    So, one of my fellow bloggers called my keen political insights "garbage" and asked me to go back to writing about cars.

    I will gladly fulfill your wish. In fact, how about if I write about both?

    I will even perfume my words to make sure the wind that passes when I write about politics will not offend your hope and passion for change.

    (Trying my hand here at Obama-speak. Such crap, I know.)

    (The other Bristol? courtesy of Perez Hilton and the Cap’n)

    No, here’s the deal-e-oh-my-god. As any car guy knows, there is a great British firm that has remained in business for a half-century by the Burgermeisterish name of "Bristol."

    They got their start when they acquired the tooling for the very fine BMW 328 as a WWII war reparation and constructed their first car–the Bristol 400 in the 1947.

    This proud old firm was very hot in the automotive world last year when they claimed to have turned their current Supercar–the extremely expensive and akward-looking Bristol fighter into the fastest front-engined production car in the world (Jalopnik says 1000 plus HP).

    I am about as certain they have accomplished this as I am that Ms. Palin the Sexy Librarian (in look) will last till Thursday.*

    Its a fast moving story, still.

    And this one really doesn’t stink.

    * 11:00 PM Wednesday Night. Well, well, I am wrong again. Sexy Librarian makes me look stupider than ever. She is is going to stay. Hockey Moms, however, are still no match for Ski Moms–check out this incredible true blog.

  • A Sventabulous Time!

    What is it about Sven Sundgaard?

    All the other news anchors are just news anchors; chipper, vaguely good looking, with the ability to pull off a solid color pantsuit. But Sven, there’s just something about him. Is it his frighteningly tan skin, regardless of season? His petite faux-hawk, nice pec muscles, and suspicious gayness? What is it that makes a bizarre number of men and women in the Twin Cities extremely excited by this Kare 11 weatherman? Lured by him, drawn to him. There are innumerable blogs devoted to him…his likeness to an Oompa Loompa…questions about his sexuality. One person said he wished he could put Sven in his pocket and carry him around.

    Yesterday in the Kare 11 building at the State Fair, I got my picture taken with Sven. Hoards of excited people, myself included, had shown up to gawk at the pint sized weatherman while he predicted the forecast, live at five. He kissed babies, chatted on his cell phone, waved to the crowd. A burly, middle age man in the audience shouted, "Sven you’re hot!" The woman behind me turned excitedly to her husband and said, "He’s almost as tall as me!"

    In person, Sven comes in at maybe 5’4", and he looks startling like a troll doll. He’s a good-looking guy, don’t get me wrong. An orange, short, stubby, chipper, good looking guy. And I don’t know why, but I loves me some Sven Sundgaard. I wasn’t expecting to have my photo taken with Sven; I also wasn’t expecting to win the lottery, or hear an experimental classical music troupe perform on the U of M stage outside the food building. A band that sounded, honestly, like the worst time anyone could have tripping on mushrooms. But so it goes at the Fair!

    Yesterday, I was too tired to care. I knew it would be my last day at the Fair; I knew I wanted a malt at some point, but it was really hot and crowded. I was also playing third-wheel, and was kind of hungover. My husband has been out of town, and when he goes away, I don’t sleep well. I watch too much TV, drink too much alone, and google late, late into the night. That’s how I found this gem.

    It was my friend and her boyfriend’s first day at the Fair, and when we walked through the gates and looked out on the sea of sweaty Minnesotans, my friend turned to me and said, "I’m lost already." I am an expert at finding my way around at this point, so I became their unofficial Fair compass. Fried Green Tomatoes? Right this way. Modern Living building? Follow me.

    We had a good time puttering the afternoon away, munching on cheese curds, chocolate malts, stopping at the MPR building, the Faces of Meth booth. "I think that chick got hotter after the meth." "Meth made that guy look a lot like Daniel Day-Lewis." And then we hit the Midway.

    I’ve been intrigued by the Magnum, the sexy-shake ‘em ride at the Midway, since day one. The backsplash is a mural of Hawaiian Tropics looking girls in bikinis and it just doesn’t seem Fair appropriate. My friends wanted to ride it, so we went. The woman who tore my ticket said, "You’re going to want to tie your hair back." I didn’t, and my hair looked like spun, cotton candy afterwards.

    Sweet lord, that ride doesn’t fuck around. It spins you around, while it pulls and pushes you on a twirling circular track. It’s basically like being dizzy from every possible angle. And it is not fun. It would be fun, if it lasted for thirty-seconds. But it lasts for three minutes. I sort of had to burp at one point, while being flipped upside down, and sucked backwards, which is a sensation I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

    Then we rode the Tilt-A-Whirl because evidently, my friends like being extraordinarily dizzy. I think there are people who like roller coasters, and people who like spin-me-around rides. Yesterday, I learned I’m a coaster girl.

    I have this memory of going to the State Fair and getting a ton of free food. I’m not just talking water handouts at WCCO, and eating the rest of someone’s cheese curds. I mean: I asked the vendor – I received – no money changed hands. Pickles, cookies, pork chops. That’s my memory. Sounds too good to be true, I know. And the thing is, no one else remembers this. I’ve asked dozens of people: "Nope." "I wasn’t there." "Must have been someone else." "That sounds like you made it up."

    You can imagine my excitement when halfway though the afternoon, my friend turned to me and said, "Hey, remember that year we came to the Fair, and we got drunk off rum and Frutopia, and you got a bunch of free food?"

    "Yes!" I said, overjoyed. I’ve been dying to share this memory with someone since I was sixteen and a bunch of us did in fact, sneak as-awful-tasting-as-it-sounds rum and Frutopia into the Fair, got drunk, hung out, and I scored us a bunch of free food. "How’d you get all that free food, anyway?" She asked me, biting into her gargantuan corn dog. (I stand corrected, corn dogs are not the same as Pronto Pups, they are much, much tastier.) "I don’t know, I think I was just drunk, and annoying, and sixteen. I guess I asked."

    "Hey," we heard a group of teenage boys behind us say, "Want to see if any of the animals have afterbirth hanging out?" referring to the miraculously gross innards that accompany the cute little animals in the Miracle of Birth building. Ah, to be young again.

    "You guys want to ride the gondola?" friend’s boyfriend asks us.
    "I need more cheese curds, first," friend says.
    "Maybe a brat." I chime in.
    "With Kraut?" he asks.
    "Of course," I reply.
    "That’s a good Midwestern girl for ya," he muses, approval ringing in his voice.

    And off we went.

  • Downtown Militarized Zone

    Photos by India Bell

    Hard to believe that as recently as Sunday, downtown Saint
    Paul was a bucolic paradise ringed in chain link, the peace kept by strapping
    young men with plastic handcuffs. Sadly, the photos below didn’t jibe with the
    reality of yesterday’s protests.

    While Minnesota’s, and the nation’s, eyes should’ve been
    turned to the potential for yet another
    biblical disaster visited upon New Orleans    , and somewhere between 8,000 and
    10,000 people marched in peaceful protest against the war in Iraq, various
    social injustices, and the lack of proper bagels in the Midwest, a small group
    of asshats were doing all they could to ensure all eyes were on them. And
    sadly, they didn’t feel they could accomplish this by word or crappy bohemian
    performance art, so instead they reportedly lobbed homemade explosives, smashed windows, overturned dumpsters, attacked delegates,
    and generally demonstrated their complete lack of understanding of what free speech
    entails.

    Ignoring, for a moment, the larger issue of how this group
    of irredeemable twats makes it virtually impossible for any of the protestors
    to be taken seriously, they’ve created a significant public safety issue for
    the rest of the convention. The police, having seen what lengths immature
    Marxist wanna-be’s will go to "get their message across to the Capitalist
    pigs," are far more willing to deploy the more unpleasant countermeasures
    available to them. This has already been in ample
    evidence    , with pepper spray used like so much Binaca
    and canisters of caustic gasses that some claim contain tear gas, but are more
    likely to have released Axe body spray into the air – a sure way to disperse a
    crowd. Law enforcement is already being accused of being overzealous, and it’s
    sad that so many well-intentioned and peaceful activists are being caught up in
    the mess that the demonstrations have become – but it’s hard to blame the
    police when they’re forced to deal with hordes of protesters, any one of whom
    may want to cause harm in a variety of ways.

    But on a larger scale, while no one could’ve possibly
    expected protests at the RNC to remain completely peaceful, there seems to be
    precious little thought actually devoted to these demonstrations. Perhaps if
    they were facing down tanks in Tiananmen Square, violence could be understood.
    But marching the virtually deserted streets of St. Paul, it does nothing to
    advance their cause, obscuring it with sensational headlines and stories rather
    than providing an opportunity for public conversation, debate and discourse.
    It’s telling that the protesters engaged in the vandalism and violence wouldn’t
    show their faces or grant an interview. Frankly, it’s profoundly disgusting
    that anyone could consider this an effective, or even acceptable, form of
    political activism.

    The only consolation I can find in this is how
    unlikely it is any of the asshats in question are fellow Minneapolitans, since
    precious few of us can actually find our way to downtown St. Paul.

  • A Rakish Interview: Big Quarters

    In the Jasmine Deli, Zach and Brandon Bagaason – the brothers that constitute the rapper/producer team Big Quarters – don’t mess with the menu. Regulars well-acquainted with the selection at this Vietnamese spot on Eat Street, they ordered without consulting the dual-language laminated pages.

    Regularity, it might be said, is what defines Big Quarters – their work ethic, at least, if not their actual music. After the 2007 release of their debut album, Cost of Living, they’ve been working relentlessly on a number of mixtapes and EPs. Now, having devised a producers’ sort of Holy Grail, they’ve found an effective means to release them. On September 5th, they will introduce their monthly subscription system – Big Quarters Direct – where for five bucks a month you’ll get five new tracks a month, sent to your email account.

    “People have been talking about how albums aren’t relevant anymore,” Brandon said. He speaks in a drawl, as if he chews his words a little, flattening them, before spitting them out. “So this is a way to maintain a connection with fans. People who want our stuff will have it instantly.”

    Recently, a number of musical acts – most notably (and most successfully) Radiohead – have been reaching audiences by releasing their work online. Last December, Atmosphere put out Strictly Leakage for free download; earlier this year Big Quarters made the Fall in Love EP, produced in conjunction with Mux Mool, available online for free.

    (An interesting tangential story, paraphrased, because my tape recorder stopped working at some point during the interview: Zach and Mux Mool used to work together at the now-defunct Discount Video on Hennepin [its spot has since turned into a cell phone shop]. On Saturdays, only one of them would be scheduled for a shift, but both would show up, and they’d trade turns clocking in. Then, while one of them helped customers and stocked shelves and did what video store clerks do, the other would be in back, recording audio clips from the in-stock movies to use later for production. The store, Zach estimated, had over 40,000 titles, and they ended up with an unwieldy amount of samples, which they are now turning into a series of Discount Musical tracks, some of which will possibly be released – and now we get back to the main body – on Big Quarters Direct.)

    “It’s the first time we’ve been able to speed up the process of releasing music,” Zach said. He is more soft-spoken than his brother, his sentences maybe dampened by the beard that haloes his face. “We want to put out quality music every month, because now we have that capability.”

    Their compositions aren’t made for passive fans. Rather, they produce with the hope that their music is something to interact with. After Cost of Living, they released the Cost of Living Construction Kit (yours free when you sign up for Big Quarters Direct), which is actually a dissection of the original album, with both a cappella and instrumental versions of the songs laid out for other producers and MCs that might want to use them. Beyond that, though, Big Quarters hopes that people are able engage with their tracks on a more personal level.

    “Everything’s about telling our own story,” Brandon said. “Communicating, storytelling, we like to try and do that through rapping, and through our instrumentals.”

    Fittingly, their lyrics are marked by introspection. They explained that when they write about personal experiences, that’s when fans pay the most attention. The line that’s gotten them the most renown, off their song “Everyday,” is “Home of brown babies and white mothers” – an embrace of their own mixed-race heritage.

    Carrying their music over into their professional lives, Big Quarters try to promote the curative aspects of storytelling in their (our) community. By day, Zach and Brandon work with a number of youth groups – at the Hope Community, at IDDS, at the Minneapolis YMCA – teaching kids to DJ, to put together a song, and most importantly, to unleash their personal narratives.

    “It’s about therapy,” said Zach. “We hope that people can relate to us, find similarities even if their story’s not exactly the same.”

    Discerning a story from their instrumentals is a bit murkier of a task, but certainly there’s a narrative element to their production. None of their beats relies on a simple loop; rather they stoke a melody throughout the track, layering and collapsing it in progressions that never let go a listener’s ear. As far as actual sound, one might compare their production to some of the stuff RZA does for Wu-Tang Clan – full-bodied and sour and vaguely kung-fu-ish – though the recent Fall in Love EP seems to try and crack through this, bordering on pop.

    “The goal for us when we’re producing,” Zach said, “is to take something people might know, and play with it and break it down until it’s not really recognizable anymore. That’s when a beat sort of becomes our own, and we can begin to tell a story with it.”

    (If you listen to this, it’s easy to see what he means.)

    September 3rd, 2008 @ Turf Club.
    Performances by: Big Quarters, Mux Mool and DJ Anton
    21+ / $4 / 9pm

     

  • Spark It Up!

    As activists on the West Side get the shake down from the cops, and St. Paul frets and fusses over last minute preparations at RNC ground zero; Downtown Minneapolis geared up to show its artistic flair at Spark24!

    What is Spark24 you ask? Well, if you haven’t been living under a rock for the past month, you probably already know. This 24-hour extravaganza incorporated music, performance, art, dance, and partying of all varieties. If you missed it, you missed out – the spark was definitely electric!

    6pm: Arriving at the IDS

    The thoughtful peeps of Spark24 have set up an awesome media hub for journalists to not only work from, but also to party from. The ground level is sectioned off, VIP style (that’s right, you’re not invited) with gallons of fancy booze to pour down our throats and fresh fruit and Vitamin Water to get us through the night. The cute and cordial head honcho, Nicolle, flits around putting finishing touches on the space and tactfully bossing around volunteers, who wear matching t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan, "I Got Lit."

    The wi-fi center is set up in the old Williams-Sonoma space on the skyway level, where computers wait for journalists and bloggers to use freely. I’ve brought my trusty laptop and camera and will continue to check in all night long, recappin’ and posting pictures, as I slowly deteriorate into a sleep deprived mess – which you’ll probably be able to detect by the level of inappropriateness and lack of proper English in my posts as the night wears on.

    My first stop tonight will be the super-ultra VIP Media party at Mill City (again, you’re not invited!) where I hope to snap some pics of newsy celebs, or at the very least, Jeff Passolt. Check back later to see what kind of shenanigans I get into to as well as lots of pictures by me and my bff/photographer Stephen Stephens (yes, that’s really his name) who will be my party poppin’ right hand man all night!

     

    8pm RNC Media Party @ Mill City Museum/Guthrie

    Upon approaching the Mill City in Stephen’s beat up 1990
    Toyota, police and party volunteers barricaded the streets, only letting
    credentialed press through to attend the party. Mostly surrounded by black SUVs
    and the like, we eventually got through, parked, and met Rake editor Jill
    Yablonski, who gushed, "There’s so much free food and booze I think I am
    going to die."

    Unexpected "guest star," as Veep nominee.

    The party was awesome. Some of the first familiar faces I
    saw were my pals Greg Jansen and Paul Durham, who were there shooting photos
    for Twin Cities Luxury and Fashion. "Can you believe this shit?"
    Jansen asked. And no, I couldn’t really believe it. Spanning from the Guthrie’s
    patio, through the Mill City Farmers Market and Museum, and even out to River
    Road where the closed off street was tented for a good city block and lined
    with food vendors and bars – all free of course – I can only liken the party to
    a "fancy State Fair." I overheard someone saying that 7 million
    dollars was spent on the party, if that tells you anything. Who paid for it,
    I’m not altogether sure – but they definitely know how to throw a party.

    While the booze flowed and hundreds of media-types from all
    over the country mingled and whooped it up, Stephen snapped pictures and Jill
    and I stuffed our faces and drank mojitos, keeping our eyes peeled for the
    likes of John Stewart, Anderson Cooper and other celebs – who never
    materialized. We did get Passholt though (see first post). And R.T. Rybak. And even an
    all-American Lady Liberty sucking on a Marlboro and texting.

    11pm Northern Exposure Art Show

    Stephen and I met up with Jill again, this time with her
    boyfriend Tim in tow. Our disorganized itinerary was supposed to kick off at
    the Chambers, but we made a pit stop at Steve Sugarman’s latest "pop-up"
    gallery – a short-run show held in an empty commercial space just off 8th
    & LaSalle entitled Northern Exposure.
    The reception technically ended at 10pm, and there were only a couple randoms
    milling around so we made a quick swoop through the exhibit, which included
    work by such local art characters as Scott Seekins and Brant Kingman, among probably 30
    others. Stop in before September 7th to check it out – it’s a pretty
    awesome show.

    11:30pm Chambers Hotel

    We ran into our friend Kristoffer
    at the Chambers and kicked it in the courtyard sipping $10 vodka tonics while
    admiring the extreme douchebaggery of the clientele. Made up of predominately
    Abercrombie-esque young professionals and leggy blondes in mini-dresses trying
    to catch the eyes of deep pocket hotel guests, the crowd seemed oblivious to
    Spark24, the RNC and even life as we know it outside of the swanky bubble of
    the hotel.

    We popped into the 5th floor "Red, White and Fucking Blue
    Bar" where the action was almost cringe-worthy. A DJ played predictable drunken
    crowd-pleasers such as Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative while red-faced
    delegates in hot pink feather boas did dorky jigs and cat-like euro-babes posed
    on expensive furniture that peppered the space. We stood on the balcony patio for about 10 minutes
    and made the decision that we needed to leave as soon as possible, but not
    before taking a spin down the stairwell that is filled with colorful graffiti from top to bottom. All in all, while tonight’s crowd left something to be
    desired, the Chambers is still a beautiful spot, with cool art at every turn. Try checking out an art opening in the adjacent Burnet Gallery some
    time – the crowd is always chic, the wine flows like water and the exhibits are quite impressive.

    12:30am First Avenue: Too Much Love

    Jill, Tim and Kristoffer all ditched us after Chambers, but
    luckily we hooked up with our cute friends Jahna
    and Danielle outside the Ave
    for some Too Much Love action.
    Filled with hundreds of bandana-clad hipsters/college kids, as per usual, TML,
    a huge weekly dance party, always succeeds in making me feel old and
    uncoordinated. Hundreds of fashioned-out 20-somethings dance the night away,
    pressed up against each other in a throng, that to me, looks almost dangerous.
    Once last year I actually got drunk enough to dance (I’m usually a stalwart
    observer) and ended up in an uninvited "man sandwich" with a couple of sweaty
    Belgians – hence the end to my TML dancing days.

    Stephen and I downed a couple of vodka Redbulls, chatted
    some of our dance party-prone friends up and watched breakdancers battle it out
    on the stage. Too Much Love seemed to be the typical weekly crowd,
    though I did see a troupe of unmistakable delegates party-train through the
    club with drinks held high, hooting and hollering and still wearing their power
    suits at 1 am.

    1:30am The Fine Line: Myspace Most Beautiful People Party

    Our first inkling after leaving First Avenue was to hit up
    Club 3 Degrees – an all-Christian nightclub right off of 5th &
    Hennepin. Sadly it was closed, with no young republican bible-bangers in sight.
    Considering the club doesn’t serve alcohol, and good Christians probably go to
    bed at a decent hour, it probably makes sense, though to me it doesn’t quite
    compute. No alcohol? Weird.

    Anyhoo, Kristoffer sent me a text on his way home with a
    message pertaining to the scene outside of the Fine Line, it read, "Regular
    yahoos x 100. Not Pretty." So of course we had to check it out. We talked our
    way in and surveyed the scene – pretty much everyone was drunk as hell, booze
    was spilled everywhere on the floor and no one looked particularly "beautiful,"
    mostly just glazed over and a little snakey. Some drunk chick rammed into me,
    and said "excuse you, bitch," and alternately, a big, muscle-bound black man
    sensually, and randomly, caressed my back as I walked by. The highlight was a
    raging drunk yokel with chest tats, who could only point at another guy and
    repeat over and over "that’s my brother, that’s my bro." No obvious republicans
    in sight here, unfortunately.

    2am: The IDS

    Upon return the media center, we found the doors locked –
    with all our gear inside. No security guard or Spark volunteer in sight. We
    rattled around and finally found a nest of teenage thespians holed up in a back
    office in their pajamas, working on a 24-hour play, (which will be performed
    tomorrow at 4pm in front of the IDS, so check it out). They perked up at our
    arrival, feeding us Doritos, donut holes, carrots and Rockstar Energy drinks,
    and seemed genuinely concerned for our situation. We meandered around a bit,
    then decided to just head to Orchestra Hall where Spark24 was in full swing,
    despite our intention to give you a 2am update.

    2:45am: Orchestra Hall/Peavey Plaza

    We strolled from the IDS to Orchestra Hall, bitching all the
    way about how our feet hurt and how our legs were going to be sore tomorrow. On
    arrival at Peavey Plaza we were greeted by a lively and diverse crowd, ranging
    from glammed-out fashionistas, mangy hippies, scruffy rockers, and even an
    elderly couple. Young flower-child looking chicks twirled sparklers and danced
    around the plaza, drunk jocks stumbled about swearing liberally, and hungry people of all styles
    lined up to pay an enterprising food vendor $5 for a single hot dog.

    We got inside in time to catch the much buzzed-about Cloud
    Cult, and stuck around for Chris Koza, both of whom sounded simply amazing in
    the acoustically dreamy Orchestra Hall auditorium. Two artists painted live as the music played. Stephen snapped pictures
    while I sat sullenly in a seat in the back of the hall, eating a $5 bag of
    mini-donuts and worrying about when I’d be able to get at my laptop, which was still left in the now-locked up media center. Eventually, I ran into Nicolle, who
    assured me I had full access and just needed to find the security guard to let
    me in, which I hadn’t really occurred to me, of course.

    5am: Peavey Plaza

    Stephen had randomly met Rake music writer Erin Roof in the fray, and
    reported back to me that her favorite actor is R2D2. Good to know. We also ran
    into our friends Johann and Enrique
    and chatted it up for a spell, complaining about how cracked-out we were on
    Vitamin Energy drinks, and again, how our feet hurt. Ironically, a few minutes
    later some drunk jackass wobbled by, stomped on both of my feet,
    muttered something, and then fell up some stairs without looking back. That
    was my cue to leave, so Stephen and I slowly trekked back to the IDS where we did
    eventually find the security guard to let us in – and here we are.

    It’s 7:30am and I might
    snooze on a chair for a bit before heading back out. I plan on keepin’ my
    promise (sort of anyway, despite my pending nap) to keep you abreast of the
    sitch down here. Keep your eyes peeled for reports on performance at Peavey
    Plaza and the Liberty Parade – coming soon!

    9:30am: IDS

    After a fitful one hour half-snooze on a particle board slab in the backroom of the media center, with an empty messenger bag as my pillow, I decided to say "screw it" and get up. Strangely rejuvenated, although I didn’t actually fall asleep, I perked up at the thought of hot coffee and possibly something egg related.

    Stephen was still sprawled on the little bank of mismatched chairs I’d left him on before I cuddled up on my slab. He looked super comfy.

    We’re going to get breakfast, then venture out into the wild once more. I think we look like crazy people though; we definitely feel a little crazy.

     

    10:30am: Peavey Plaza

    After fueling up on $16 platters of eggs and plenty of
    coffee at the Marquette Hotel’s restaurant, we set out for Peavey Plaza. The
    crowd was comfortably scattered through out the area, enjoying the smooth jazz
    stylings of a guy with a mohawk and his band. We found a shady patch of steps
    to perch on and settled in to check out the show. Seeing as neither of us had
    slept, our A.D.D. was in full effect.

    Honestly, I really can’t tell you all that much about the
    performers as I was busy doing things like counting hobos and gossiping with
    Stephen in my surreal state of conciousness. We did deduce, however, that at least 8% of the audience was homeless.
    I gave someone a dollar, then got into a very one-sided 20 minute conversation
    with a guy who called himself "Captain Kirk" and claimed to be on methadone. He
    chatted me up about a substance abuse center called Access Works that gives out
    free needles, and also pizza gift certificates to meth-heads who show up to
    Tuesday meetings, lovingly dubbed "Crystal Tuesdays." We also saw a darling
    family with two storybook-cute toddlers wearing "Obama Rocks" shirts, and
    everyone in the immediate vicinity was fawning over them – including Captain
    Kirk who, despite his druggy glow, seemed like quite a decent fellow.

    Other highlights included the Mu Taiko drummers who jumped,
    stomped and beat their way to an exuberant round of applause. Next up came a
    weird modern dance troupe who were literally dressed like they were on their
    lunch break from the Wells Fargo phone bank and had just decided to do an impromptu
    dance routine on their way back from Panera. They were definitely graceful and
    talented, but the whole clothing thing really confused and distracted me, but
    maybe I’m missing some deep point. If that’s the case, Wells Fargo dancers,
    please explain.


    1:30pm Nicollet & 8th

    The Liberty Parade has trumped Pride as my favorite parade
    ever. It kind of reminded me of a traveling politically themed science fiction
    convention – lots of weird shit and an endless stream of bonafied eccentrics
    with their zany meters set to maximum – in other words, awesome. A red,
    white and blue float complete with a sassy broad straddling a huge silver
    rocket and five or six equally bawdy babes with strap-on missile dicks singing,
    dancing, gyrating and talking smack about McCain. A gaggle of moaning zombies
    ambled by, followed by a car sporting a sign that simply said "Brains." A
    charming and cute safe-sex fairy skipped merrily by, covered with
    color-coordinated condoms and waving a magic wand. A gang of nonsensical Ren Fest
    types danced down the street to the theme song from the show, The Fresh
    Prince of Bel Air,     while flanked by faux secret service.

    My fave part, however, was when my other
    bestie Clement rolled up (in a sense) on his "Humping Bike," later dubbed "Tour
    De My Pants" – an exercise machine converted into a bike that requires
    its rider to pump and thrust his body in a "humping" motion to propel the
    bike. Clement only busts out the Humping Bike for special occasions like
    parades or bike fests, and he’s got a whole list of hilarious lines he loves to
    yell out to spectators like, "Are my undies showing? No? Do you want them to
    be?" or "Save a horse, ride a cowboy!" among naughty others. Not sure what
    the Humping Bike actually has to do with liberty, but it sure makes me giggle.

    2:30pm: Loring Park

    Stephen and I are running on empty, laughing maniacally at
    each other’s bad jokes while parked at a picnic table on the fringe of the
    action. All the parade participants have ended up here to celebrate and to set
    up shop for whatever word-spreading, performing or socializing suits their
    fancy. This event, while flanked generously with police in full gear,
    definitely seemed more Mayday Festival than political uprising. Everyone seemed
    to be in high spirits, and parade-goers even chatted up the po-po, who milled
    around the park in packs.

    We ran into tons of our friends, including Vicious Circle
    writer Andy Sturdevant who happily manned the entrance to the Summit beer
    garden in full summer beard. Bands and DJs played, wacky activists hammed for
    their respective causes with humor and creativity, and people of all political
    stripes enjoyed the breezy summer afternoon in Loring Park.

    4:30pm: IDS

    We eventually lugged ourselves out of the park, bedraggled
    and confused, to start the trudge back to the IDS Center, with Clement humping
    alongside us. I swear I felt blisters on my feet pop, as we’d been walking all
    over downtown since about 6:30pm Saturday, and Stephen complained that he felt
    like he might literally keel over at any moment. By the time we hit the media
    center to upload the pictures from the today’s excursion we were crabby and
    snapping at each other, but in a satisfied, "we did it" sort of way. All in all, a fun and crazy 24 hours, and a
    fitting kick-off to this week’s upcoming insanity – which we hope is as
    peaceful and positive as this weekend’s comeraderie insinuates. Thanks to the awesome Spark24 crew who was there with us each step of the way in sleep deprivation.

    Check www.digitalcrushphoto.com for more
    pics! We’ll have even more from our Spark24 shenanigans to share within the next couple days.

    Thanks for reading, I’m going to bed!