Category: Article

If you visit the P.M. Bedroom Gallery in Blaine or Woodbury, you might run into Jim Borofka, co-owner of the stores and one of the last waterbed salesmen in the Twin Cities. The showrooms at HOM, for example, don’t feature waterbeds, though the store was once called the Waterbed Room. Borofka accuses HOM of “disconnecting” itself from its history, of disavowing its former cash cow. But P.M. Bedroom also changed its name a few years back, from P.M. Waterbed, in order to expand its market, update its image, and, especially, to minimize what Borofka calls the waterbed “stigma.”

Nothing conjures the decadent 1970s quite like the waterbed. Firm in the mind is the image of a giant, free-flowing bladder of a mattress undulating to the rhythms of Sly & the Family Stone, vulnerable to both hoop earrings and spiked heels. People picture mirrors on the ceiling, mustaches, and smears of Gentle Emotion Lotion. Borofka says that occasionally a customer will call and say, “‘Do you have waterbeds?’ And I say yes. And they say, ‘Are you sure?’”

And then he goes on to explain that waterbeds are not what they used to be. Designs have improved since that first “pleasure pit,” invented by San Francisco State University student Charles Hall. The problems of old have been mitigated: Interior fibers or compartments slow water flow; most modern incarnations are “soft-sided,” meaning that water pouches are encased in foam, and resemble standard mattresses. This makes for a bed that’s resistant to punctures, but still offers what waterbed enthusiasts list as health benefits, including body-molded support, constant warmth to aid sleeping, and a lack of dust, mites, and other allergens. “We can sell a soft side and, fifteen years from now, that person is still sleeping on the same surface,” Borofka said. “It wears very well.”

Borofka has slumbered on a waterbed for decades, ever since leaving his family’s Wisconsin dairy farm to attend college in Eau Claire. “I drove to school in my dad’s old truck and one of the first things I did was pick up a hard-sided waterbed. I thought, ‘I’m really getting somewhere now.’” Borofka desired something new and exciting, a way to express his independence. “Everyone who purchases an adjustable air bed nowadays, that type of clientele purchased waterbeds back then. They were curious people into new things, new technologies, not afraid to push the edge.”

Who buys them now, I had to wonder. Borofka, who sells around seven waterbeds per week, said they mainly go to “people who think, ‘We got a good night’s sleep on a waterbed, we don’t care what the neighbors say.’” He’ll gladly sell a customer whatever type of bed she wants—spring, foam, air, water. But, he confided, “In a bar over a beer, I would say the waterbed is the best bed.” —Jennifer Vogel

My older sister and I have this vulgar habit of putting dibs on our mom’s best stuff. Pointing to the valuable Roseville vases, crystal aperitif glasses, and heirloom doilies that were hand stitched by our great-grandmother one hundred years ago, we’ll march through Mom’s home, saying things like “That’s mine someday.” This strikes me now as being rather sinister, but Mom considers the behavior perfectly acceptable. She likes knowing that something of her and our forebears will endure.

What remains taboo, on the other hand, is the matter of cold, hard cash and Mom’s liquid assets. It’s impolite to talk money, you know.

I can’t be the only ungracious child to have invested energy in approximating my mother’s net worth. My algebra: Neither of my parents had been big earners, per se. But Mom did bank a life insurance payout when dad passed away, about seven years ago. I’ve never known how much. Then my grandma died last summer, and Mom inherited a little more. She has been provided for, I guess you could say, and I’ve always expected a similar fate was in store for me one day.

The “greatest generation,” of which my grandma was a platinum member, saw the rise of the middle class and is thus said to have squirreled away oodles of dough. Grandma started her golden years much in this way, having inherited plenty of money from well-off in-laws about fifteen years ago. But years of spending on health care and prescription drugs, while also floating her not-so-solvent loved ones, ate away at Grandma’s initial six-figure nest egg. And she wasn’t unique in her way; the old folks, by and large, are dying broke these days. Their baby-boomer next-of-kin can now expect to inherit on average just twenty-nine thousand dollars, according to the Federal Reserve. That’s enough to buy, say, a new Volkswagen or dig oneself out of some minor credit card debt. But it’s hardly the stuff of legacy, and probably not enough to keep trickling down the family tree.

As for the big-spending grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Generations X and Y? Well, they’ll make due with far less than twenty-nine thousand dollars. The estimated inheritance for children whose parents were born between 1931 and 1947 is nineteen thousand dollars.

These sorts of dire financial predictions have become fashionable lately—as I suppose they always do when the next generation starts writing financial advice columns. I’ve been hearing about the financial debasement of Generation X since college. And now a whole crop of youngsters is claiming to be the most maxed-out generation in the history of the world, and they’re writing books like Generation Debt: Why Now is a Terrible Time to be Young and Strapped: Why Americas Twenty- and Thirtysomethings Can’t Get Ahead. (Considering the macro-economic picture—that is, the federal deficit—they may be right after all. But obviously, no one cares about that sort of insolvency; it simply “doesn’t matter,” as Dick Cheney famously said.)

Yet there is gloom and doom thundering on the horizon that cannot be ignored. One estimate paints the average American as having eight thousand dollars in credit card debt. Most of us are not saving for retirement, regardless of age. Our health care costs are in a reckless upsurge. Our Social Security “net” is fraying. And as the lines between socio-economic classes continue to blur, even those of modest means have developed tastes for the finer things—certain downtown lofts and seventeen-dollar-per-pound cheeses, say. It all adds up to not very much. And unless we’re so lucky to have a rich benefactor (or two—that’s how it goes), most of us can expect little relief in the form of wealth transfer.

Mom couldn’t give Grandma’s old furniture away. But ears perked up around the dinner table one night, a few months back, when Mom broached the forbidden topic and promised to share a “little” inheritance with each of her children. How much? When pressed, Mom later issued an exact figure—five hundred dollars. Chump change. Initially misconstruing what “little” meant, one of my sibs offended Mom greatly in asking for several thousand dollars up front. Said Mom, rather testily, “This is my inheritance. Someday you’ll get yours.” And that was the end of that. —Christy DeSmith

"It’s the only high-fashion-slash-golf-school on the planet,” said local clothing designer Joy Teiken, standing in the doorway of the Como Avenue warehouse she shares with her husband, Craig, a professional golf instructor. Originally built in the early 1900s to manufacture tractors and other farm equipment, the front space retains a utilitarian air, despite the putting green and some black-and-white portraits of pro golfers.

But behind door number two exists Teiken’s ultra-feminine wonderland. Mannequins wear strappy floral sundresses and hats with silk boutonnières. Bolts of elaborate fabric burst from a wire rack or are otherwise scattered about the room. Colorful handbags dangle from exposed nails and random pegs, as if they were Chinese lanterns. A pink velour sofa sits before a giant treasure-chest-turned-coffee-table, which is all but buried in copies of W. Along a wall of south-facing windows, there are three sewing machines, and over Teiken’s worktable, rolls of ribbon hang from the ceiling as would the pots and pans in the kitchen of a serious cook—always within arm’s reach.

“I surround myself with things I think are pretty,” said Teiken, whose ideas aren’t born in the sketchbook. Rather, she lets found objects and fabrics dictate the direction of each item of clothing she sews. “A button or a pin or a buckle might be the inspiration for a piece.” A pair of oversized, vintage buttons, each with a tiny, bead-worked constellation, served to inspire a satiny, cropped jacket. A bolt of white cotton fabric, screen-printed with autumnal treescapes, informed a light-weight sheath and matching trench. “Once I find that thing that’s interesting and fun, I can take my inspiration from there.”

So, where does Teiken turn in her perpetual hunt for beautiful fabric and notions? Although she’s been spending much time in New York City and Chicago of late, doing fashion shows and tending to boutiques that stock her ready-to-wear, she’s got two local standbys: Melrose Antiques, in the East Hennepin neighborhood of Minneapolis, especially for old buttons and beads, and, of course, S.R. Harris, the go-to fabric store for any serious stitcher.

Not surprisingly, the resulting aesthetic leans heavily upon pairing old with new. Teiken likes taking apart vintage kimonos and using them to make handbags with feather trim and shiny Lucite handles, or to detail outfits made from newer upholstery fabrics. An old tablecloth recently came back to life as a crocheted, strapless dress with a trim of pink satin pleats—a creation she calls the “sleazy Easter dress.” She has a taste for flowers and plant life; and there’s a proclivity for including giant fabric buttons, shiny beads, and oversized bows wherever possible. But Teiken denies having any preconceived wants of the raw materials she hunts. When something hits, it just hits. “For me, it’s not about any one designer or time period,” she said. “It’s all about the feeling I get from it.” —Christy DeSmith

Tornadoes don’t have names, they have dates and times. The inky spiral that drops from the sky is memorialized according to the moment it touches down and stays, cuts the power, and skitters any which way it pleases across a field or farm or town.

St. Peter’s tornado struck at 5:20 p.m. on March 29, 1998. Before that day, this place was a stately, tree-lined town on the Minnesota River, home to Gustavus Adolphus College and more than forty buildings listed on the National Register of Historic Sites.

The twister destroyed some five hundred homes and buildings; it damaged 1,700 more. Trees that shaded the streets and squares of Gustavus were uprooted, leaving the school’s blond-brick buildings suddenly exposed on the hill above town. On Minnesota Avenue, St. Peter’s main thoroughfare, the century-old courthouse lost its soaring tower. Two people died in the storm, a six-year-old boy and an eighty-five-year-old man.

The Eugene St. Julien Cox House was damaged, but has since been repaired. Cox, St. Peter’s first mayor, was said to be “affable, genial, and always daintily dressed.” From June through August, visitors can tour his 1871 home, a neo-Gothic Italianate with a tower and carved eaves. It’s a fancy, gift-wrapped package that stands out among the suburban-style homes and spindly trees that went up after the storm. St. Peter’s curious mix of architecture—Summit Avenue meets Woodbury meets early, pre-condo Stillwater—causes time and geography to shift from corner to corner.

One landmark that went unharmed was the Drugstore Pharmacy Museum. Located inside Soderlund Village Drug on South Third Street, the museum offers a look at the history of corner drugstores. Before pharmaceutical companies began manufacturing drugs, local pharmacists made them from scratch. Extracts like sage or belladonna were compounded with chemicals into tablets or capsules. The museum displays Victorian and Art Deco-style glass globes containing rich-colored liquids that once identified individual pharmacies. A druggist’s ability to mix his own color combinations demonstrated his competence. Glass cabinets display mortars and pestles, dozens of blue and beer-colored apothecary bottles, and some quackery—an earthenware jug holds Radam’s “Microbe Killer No. 1,” patented in 1886, the ingredients of which included wine and pink dye.

Today, Soderlund remains a working pharmacy with old-time amenities: Visitors can sit on red stools at the ornate 1920s-era marble-topped soda fountain and drink root beer, compliments of the drugstore.

A block from the river is Mike’s Stuff, an antique shop with a pleasant jumble of dishes, milk bottles, embroidered tea towels and aprons, and the adjoining St. Peter Woolen Mill. Bright skeins of wool are shelved around the room, a backdrop to women examining pattern books. Usually, an orange tabby naps in a chair near the cash register. Pinned to the bulletin board are notices for knitting and quilt-making classes. There are also some absorbing color photos that document St. Peter, old and new, before and after. One shot is of the woolen mill newly smashed by the tornado, its roof collapsed. Another shows the mill now, fully restored. —Julie Hessler

When I moved into my apartment, I inherited the previous owner’s leftover futon and threw a tapestry over it. But at thirty-eight years of age, I felt I was beyond tapestries and futons. I wanted a new couch. I decided that the only way to get one would be to unload the grubby futon. Because my boyfriend and I were spending our weekends writing and drawing together, I wanted to make this as efficient as it could be. Rather than selling the thing, I posted a sign in my building one Saturday morning. Some neighbors took it away for free; and I was grinning all the while, thinking how time with my boyfriend was worth a lot more than the fifty bucks I might’ve gotten for that futon.

He broke up with me later that night. I was trembling so hard I could barely get the key into the lock when I returned home at 2:00 a.m. Once inside, I sank to the floor to sob amid the dust bunnies. A week later, I dragged in an uncomfortable rattan settee that I found on the street; a week after that, I dragged the settee back to the street and made a $350 purchase at Upholstery World. At least it was a foam loveseat—a supposed step up from a futon. On the other hand, its cheap black fabric was a magnet for lint and crumbs—so much so that my fastidious architect friend Rafael refused to sit on it. But what really motivated me to buy a new couch was a romantic interlude in which I and another party leaned into a kiss that would have been so much better had I not slid off the loveseat and onto the floor.

I went to make the rounds at Crate and Barrel, which allowed me the pleasure of turning my nose up at all manner of contemporary sofas. Then I turned a corner into the very last showroom and my life changed, quite suddenly. I beheld the Petrie.

The Petrie is named, of course, for Laura and Rob Petrie, the fictional early 1960s “It” couple of The Dick Van Dyke Show. While everything else was gooey with thick, brick-shaped cushions, this was a firm, tailored couch—a long, white ledge with mid-century-style tapered legs. Those of us who came of age in the 1980s, with its recycled preppy tastes, respond well to such constructed forms. College housing departments fled the scene of college dorms and lounges during the sexual revolution of the late 1960s through the seventies, and only ventured back during the era that saw the return of Lanz nightgowns and ties at cocktail hour. While they planned massive renovations, there were old iron-framed beds, World War II-style blackout shades, and mid-century chairs, couches, and tables that lingered for a few twilight years, which were our years. Because of that, I had a compelling connection to this era’s style: In college we’d come back from class in our boxy oxfords, flats, and cropped tapered pants, light up ciggies, and flop down on a version of the Petrie. This sofa embodied my definition of beauty and possessed every creature comfort I’d ever known. It was perfect love, at last.

I forwarded a web link to my friends and took people back to Crate and Barrel to visit the Petrie. My friend Carla indulged me by lounging on the Petrie in the showroom and gabbing as if we were in my apartment. I prolonged my visits with less-intrepid companions by showing them color swatches and mulling over Fern versus Hydra. I had discussions with two salespeople, talked delivery. And then I started avoiding salespeople, who pretended not to see me, either.

I never really broke up with the Petrie. My visits to the showroom and to the website just trailed off. Once I had resolved to live within the boundaries of my take-home pay, I realized the Petrie didn’t fit within the scale of my economy. I had started saving to buy my own home; and after meeting with a mortgage broker, I realized how drastically a $1,500 couch (two thousand dollars with taxes and delivery) would affect my situation. So I let it go. Naturally, there was no point in shopping for a less-expensive couch: As with romance, choosing a second-best only yields sorrow. My love, however, will be remembered: I told my friend Thomas that I was writing an elegy to the Petrie and he said, “You mean the one you took me to visit? Do you think that maybe someday you two … ” I closed my eyes, shook my head no, and he sighed wistfully for both of us. —Kirsten Major

The face of George W. Bush, sliced into eleven salmon-pink fillets, is neatly arranged on a six-foot banquet table in the sunken living room of a suite at the Venetian Resort in Las Vegas. This sounds like a liberal fantasy but in fact it’s a Republican one. The fillets are dusted with something that looks like coarse, blue- and red-tinted salt. Scissors, sponges, tongs, and other mysterious utensils complete this weird tableau. In a few minutes, makeup artist Mari Okumura will begin attaching the fillets, which are made out of latex, to the face of a comedian named Steve Bridges.

Over the last four years, Bridges has appeared on The Tonight Show more often than anyone not named Jay, Kevin, and maybe Gilbert, but if you saw him now, in his natural state, you wouldn’t recognize him. For the record, he’s approximately six feet tall, lanky, with fine, brown, thinning hair and light blue eyes. Dressed in a white v-neck T-shirt, jeans, and black ankle boots, and sporting a black corded necklace, the forty-two-year-old looks safely hip, like, say, a drummer in a Canadian rock band.

As he settles into a canvas director’s chair in front of the presidential facial buffet, he picks at a plate of black beans and peppers and worries about the state of his voice, which is scratchy from a cold. Then, for the next two hours, he closes his eyes and goes into standby mode, not quite unconscious but definitely conserving energy, as Okumura transforms him into the most powerful man in the world.

On a table in the corner, there are color photos of the real President Bush for reference. Okumura moves quickly and surely, patting simulated cheeks and chin flesh onto Bridges’ face with her fingers, tweezing a tiny nugget of adhesive from the nostril of his new nose. The flecks of blue and red on the facial prostheses are there to approximate the ruddiness and depth of real sixty-year-old skin. Once Okumura has secured all of the pieces to Bridges’ face, she applies a topcoat of a more flesh-like color with an airbrush, then adds nuance and detail using several fine-bristled brushes and numerous shades of makeup and powder.

Upon completion, Steve Bridges is to George W. Bush what the canals in front of the Venetian are to the actual canals in Venice: The likeness is not exact, but it’s a pretty spectacular simulation just the same. Because Bush’s face is essentially piggybacking on Bridges’ face, the resulting mug is a little oversized. And from some angles, Bridges has the plasticky, oddly tinted look of an aging movie star who’s had too much work done. But from across a room, or even closer, when Bridges assumes that familiar dusty drawl and starts cupping and pushing his hands in an effort to shepherd wayward thought fragments into something like a complete sentence, he does Bush as well as Bush does, maybe even better. The strong, crooked beak and untended eyebrows? That hardscrabble, are-you-shittin’-me squint? They’re all there.

To complete the effect, Bridges changes into a crisp navy suit and fastens a tiny American flag pin to its lapel. He’s ready for business. Tonight, that means entertaining fifteen hundred or so attendees at an open-bar reception sponsored by Cadillac, which is part of the International Limousine and Chauffered Transportation Show. When Bridges arrives outside the vast banquet room where the reception is taking place, a half-dozen Cadillac executives crowd around him, eager to shake his hand and snap photos.

In the real world, far beyond the glow of the Strip, morgues in Iraq are overflowing as the sectarian violence there escalates. Here at home, the Dubai ports deal has prompted bipartisan outrage. Republican officials are distancing themselves from their leader and Bush’s approval rating has hit an all-time low. But at the Venetian, his facsimile is the most popular man in the building.

“Is it OK if I put this Cadillac pin on you?” asks one pompadoured bigwig. When Bridges gives his assent, the man attaches the pin to Bridges’ lapel with great care and deference, just below the American flag pin.

“Can we get a photo of you all together?” asks a photographer for a trade publication.

There’s a moment of indecision about how best to set up this shot; then Bridges gets presidential. “How about right here?” he says, pointing to the wall, and the executives nod vigorously, like it’s the smartest thing anyone’s ever said.

A few minutes later, when Bridges enters the banquet room to the strains of “Hail to the Chief,” the leading lights of the international limousine and chauffered transportation industry stand as one and cheer like fat ladies at an Il Divo concert.

Bridges smiles and waves as he strides across the stage. “First I want to thank you for having me,” he exclaims after settling himself behind the podium. “And third, I want to apologize for forgetting my second point.”

He goes on to thank Cadillac for pimping his ride, and the crowd roars. One guy whips out his cell phone, punches in a number, and proceeds to repeat every line Bridges utters to the person on the other end of the call. Unlike the real Laura Bush, who stole the show at last year’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner with her same-sex horse-milking joke, Bridges works clean. Telling G-rated jokes to a couple thousand drunken car salesmen and limo drivers on holiday in Sin City may sound like a recipe for disaster, but Bridges maintains complete command of the room. “I’m a uniter, not a divider,” he asserts, bear-hugging each syllable with folksy evangelical fervor, then cuing up his punchline with a pause and trademark Dubya head-bob. “Seriously, I can’t divide.”

Many of Bridges’ jokes satirize Bush in this fashion, but no one would mistake him for Dick Cheney on a quail-hunting expedition. Instead he aims very, very carefully. Domestic spying? Outing CIA agents? The heckuva job Brownie did in the wake of Hurricane Katrina? Jon Stewart and his late-night colleagues have been gorging on such fare for months, but Bridges doesn’t even take a nibble. Instead, his act is more homage than critique, a tribute to Bush as the charismatic dunce who’s cagier than he seems. When Bridges finishes at the Venetian, dozens of people surge forward to meet him.

Meanwhile, in the nation’s capital, the handlers for the real commander in chief are planning a new strategy to improve his image: a series of April roadshows that will present the president in a looser, more playful manner. The Washington Post will eventually dub this the “let-Bush-be-Bush strategy.” Apparently the president is determined to give Steve Bridges a run for his money.

In the midst of his 1999 campaign run, the man who was once a Yale cheerleader scuffed up and spit-polished his Texas twang. Shortly before he was elected, he bought a sixteen-hundred-acre pig farm in Crawford, Texas, and transformed it into an old family homestead, complete with a man-made lake stocked with largemouth bass cross-bred so that they’re easy to catch. When Bush became president, a private think tank, the White House Office of Strategic Initiatives, was established to tell him what to think. Five speechwriters were hired to tell him what to say. Sometimes accused of being fed lines through an earpiece when speaking in public, he is most engaging during carefully choreographed pieces of reality TV: landing jets on aircraft carriers, liberating designer turkeys from Iraq, fielding canned questions at invitation-only town hall meetings that have been carefully cast, scripted, and rehearsed. To play the president of the United States, George W. Bush is paid $400,000 each year.

To play George W. Bush, Steve Bridges earns substantially more. His fee for a private appearance like the one at the Venetian is $18,500. Bridges only pockets a portion of that—his manager, his makeup people, and booking agencies get a cut as well—but he averages around ten to fifteen engagements a month. In addition, The Tonight Show provides a weekly check to keep him on exclusive retainer.

There are other surrogate Bushes who’ve been at it longer than Bridges has, but none who’ve been quite so successful. However, were it not for a chance encounter with a talent manager named Randy Nolen, this probably wouldn’t be the case. Just as it now takes an army of advisors, consultants, work wives, counselors, media directors, and spokesmen to make a president, these days it takes more than one man to make a successful presidential impersonator. Randy Nolen is essential to the operation—he is Steve Bridges’ Karl Rove, the man with the plan to turn a promising, but incomplete performer into the top man in his profession.

Like Rove, Nolen is a fifty-five-year-old former whiz kid who never finished college. He wears wire-rim glasses, he’s graying at the temples and receding on top. Officially, he’s Bridges’ manager, but he likes to think of himself as more of a collaborator, a developer of talent, just as Rove does. Both men are energetic and focused, but unlike the pasty Rove, Nolen is tanned and tranquil, with a ready smile. And while Rove has a reputation for being ruthless, sneaky, cynical, and vindictive, the mastermind of whisper campaigns and dirty tricks, Nolen is quite candid. Even worse, he’s nice. In theory, at least, that quality is a huge liability in his profession, but he seems to have overcome whatever obstacles it’s presented.

Nolen got his start in the entertainment business in 1972 when, at the age of twenty, he turned his father’s struggling restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, into a successful rock ’n’ roll nightclub. In the late 1980s, Nolen established his own talent agency, representing around twenty performers—jugglers, ventriloquists, comics, and singers—most of whom worked in the under-the-radar but increasingly lucrative niche serving meetings, conventions, and other private engagements.

In 1992, Nolen took on a real-estate professional named Tim Watters. Watters couldn’t juggle or sing, but he did bear a striking resemblance to Bill Clinton. While Nolen was initially skeptical about working with a celebrity impersonator—“Look-alikes get booked at the county fair for $750,” he explained—he changed his mind after Watters displayed a knack for comedy. “A lot of look-alikes smile and wave at corporate receptions and that’s it,” Nolen said.

Though he had no interest in managing three-dimensional wallpaper, Nolen felt Watters had the potential to do more than that. To help Watters develop his performance skills, Nolen enlisted a comic named T.P. Mulrooney for a crash course in the craft of stand-up. Like the real Clinton, Watters was a quick study. He could sell a line, charm an audience, and conjure the spirit of the man from Hope, Arkansas. Reportedly, he even once prompted a double take from Hillary. In 1996, his best year, Watters played 177 private shows, grossed more than one million dollars, and landed a role in the movie Contact.

Then came Matt Drudge and his Code Red buzzkill. In the public sector, Monica’s stained dress turned Clinton into the star of every late-night monologue for the next two years, but in the meetings-and-events realm, where any act more controversial than the average Successories poster is considered taboo, it was a problem. “In 1998, Tim’s gigs dropped to around six a month,” said Nolen. “That’s still very good for a performer in the private sector, but it was nothing like it was.”

But it wasn’t just Monica who was holding Watters back, Nolen believed. Over time, the former real-estate agent had developed, in Nolen’s opinion, a solid twenty minutes of material. Unfortunately, his act lasted thirty. “I was always trying to get him to hire writers, but he didn’t want to invest money in that,” said Nolen. Instead, Watters insisted on writing most of his material himself. “He was good, but I felt the act could go further.”

Still, Watters showed Nolen that presidential impersonators were a perfect fit for the private market. There, audiences didn’t necessarily share the same taste in entertainment; they just happened to be at the same event. The president was a figure everyone recognized, one of the last true superstars. But who best to play the part? Saturday Night Live didn’t rely on accidents of physiognomy when casting presidential impersonators, and Nolen began to think that he needn’t do so either. The factor that had traditionally defined value for look-alikes—their striking resemblance to a famous person—wasn’t really that important. What mattered, Nolen decided, was stage presence. Everything else could be outsourced. A prosthetic makeup artist could perfect the look. A writer could produce the jokes.

Nolen had begun to think like Karl Rove. As detailed in the book Bush’s Brain, when Rove first identified George W. Bush as a potential political candidate, Bush knew more about major-league baseball statistics than he did about public-school budgets. He cared more about major-league-baseball statistics than he did about public-school budgets. But he was also engaging, he had family connections, he knew all the right potential donors, and he had stage presence. Everything else could be outsourced.

In 2001, shortly after September 11, Nolen found his Bush. “I was calling a booking agency on behalf of one of my clients,” he said. “When I was put on hold, I heard Steve doing his impressions. He really had Bush down, I thought, so I wanted to find out more about him.”

At the time, Bridges was thirty-seven years old. He was living, it turns out, a life that was in some ways the opposite of the president’s. As a young man, he’d been full of serious purpose. The son of a Baptist minister, he had plans to follow in his father’s footsteps, first earning an undergraduate degree in theology, then a master’s in education while working as a part-time youth minister in Fullerton, California. As he grew older, however, he realized that what he really wanted to do in life was fool around. “During that last year at the church I was doing more and more comedy,” he said. “I asked people what they thought and they all said, ‘You gotta go for it. Your impersonations are good.’ ”

For the next decade, Bridges worked steadily, mostly in the private sector where his clean brand of comedy was in higher demand than it was in the clubs. But it was a tough way to make a living. Sometimes he took day jobs to make ends meet—working the counter at a deli, mowing lawns. When Nolen contacted him, he was renting a room in someone else’s apartment. “Like most comics, I’d been looking for some kind of a break,” he said. Suddenly, someone was telling him he could book fifteen gigs a month, appear on The Tonight Show, land roles in movies. All he’d have to do was learn to delegate.

“The more I thought of putting together a forty-five-minute show that was just one character, the more I was like, ‘Yes, let’s hire writers,’” said Bridges. First, however, came the face: In contemporary politics, appearance always trumps content. To create Bridges’ new look, Nolen hired prosthetic makeup artist Kevin Haney, a movie-industry veteran who’s won an Oscar for his work on Driving Miss Daisy, turned the elfin Martin Short into porky talk-show host Jiminy Glick, and, in the early 1980s, worked on the low-budget horror favorite, Basket Case.

But as hard as it may have been to design a tiny, murderous Siamese twin monster who lives in a basket, simulating the face of someone as instantly recognizable as George W. Bush presented a unique challenge. If Haney didn’t nail the resemblance, the world would easily see it: Bush was simply too well-known to get it wrong. The development process took three months. The result of those initial efforts was a latex mask that looked like Dubya’s face on the outside, while snugly conforming to Bridges’ face on the inside.

If the Supreme Court had ruled in favor of Al Gore in 2000, a single-piece mask may have been sufficient. But it didn’t offer enough flexibility needed to play a president whose face actually moves. So Haney deconstructed the mask into eleven smaller pieces. This gives Bridges the opportunity to wink, smirk, squint, glower, waggle his eyebrows, and generally contort his faux features in whatever way an occasion demands, just like Bush does.

Once they’d perfected the look, Nolen hired a group of writers, led by comedian Evan Davis, to help Bridges approximate Bush’s unique brand of lexical alchemy. “Basically, it ends up costing us around a thousand dollars for a minute of new material,” Nolen says. So far, he’s invested more than $150,000 in the writing alone. Here, Bush has him beat—the highest-paid White House speech-writer earns $161,000 annually, and throughout his reign, Bush has always employed at least three speechwriters and sometimes as many as five.

But Nolen has arguably gotten a better return on his investment. Bridges debuted as Bush in early April, 2002, first at a series of local and state election wrap-up parties in Illinois, then at several showcases for private-event bookers around the country. By the end of the month, Judy Woodruff was interviewing Bridges on the street in front of the White House for a segment that appeared on CNN’s Inside Politics. That summer, he made his Tonight Show debut, and in the fall, he started playing private engagements for a ten-thousand-dollar fee. This figure soon rose to $18,500, and in the fall of 2004, when Bridges was in peak demand due to the presidential race, it hit twenty-five thousand dollars.

Nolen and Bridges have talked about releasing a DVD, and sometimes, especially when he’s working out new material, Bridges plays a comedy club in the Los Angeles area as Bush. Except for his appearances on The Tonight Show, however, he mostly stays out of the public realm of entertainment; corporate shows and other private events are his bread and butter. “I think if he did public shows or a college tour, people would yell things, try to disrupt him,” says Nolen. “He doesn’t need anyone throwing pies at him, or anything like that.”

To this end, even President Bush himself has weighed in. In February 2003, just a few weeks before the invasion of Iraq, Nolen and Bridges received an invitation to the Oval Office. “It was surreal,” says Bridges. “We were giddy as schoolchildren.” Bush said he appreciated the humorous-but-polite tone of Bridges’ portrayal, and even invited him to do some fishing in Crawford. “He also gave us some advice,” said Nolen. “He said we should be careful about how we use this, because in the wrong hands, there was a chance it could be used against the best interests of Americans.”

So far, however, in the insular, relatively controlled realm of private entertainment, Bridges has only been a force for unity. When Norman Lear hired him to play a birthday party for his former production partner, he had a roomful of

Hollywood liberals in hysterics. “Dustin Hoffman was doubled over laughing the whole time,” said Nolen. At a book-signing event that Jerry Seinfeld organized, Eliot Spitzer, attorney general of New York and a front-running Democrat in this year’s race for governor, loved Bridges’ routine.

“I remember one lady who told me to go
F- myself, but that hardly ever happens,” Bridges said. “Usually, it’s the other way around. People are speechless. They’re stuttering. They know I’m not the real president, but they love him so much they just can’t stop hugging me. I’ve even had a few women grab my butt.”

One person who has yet to succumb to Bridges’ charm, however, is fellow fake president Martin Sheen. Last year, Bridges was asked to appear at a charity benefit in Beverly Hills. “The people who were organizing it were trying to get Martin Sheen to come out and make an appearance with Steve,” Evan Davis recalled. “They were asking me if I could write some lines that Sheen could say about Steve’s impression of the president. But then they called back and said, ‘Martin Sheen will not be seen on the same stage with someone who even looks like Bush.’ ”

Team Bridges is a bipartisan affair. Nolen and Bridges are conservatives; Evan Davis and many of the other writers are liberals. Ultimately, however, they insist that Bridges’ act is nothing more than entertainment. “For me this is not about politics at all—this is comedy,” Bridges insisted. “Our goal is to keep the act non-partisan and fun,” echoed Davis. “I deal in character and relationships. That’s where the humor comes from.”

For some liberals, however, a simulation as accurate as Bridges’ is too compelling to deploy in such gentle fashion; it’s like using a sixteen-wheeler as a grocery cart. “We’ve received a few calls from Democratic candidates to basically bash President Bush,” Nolen said. “I got a request for Steve to read a script as part of a classroom project for young kids. The whole thing is anti-Bush—we’re not even going to respond to it. We’re not any sort of political arm of the president, but we want what we do to be respectful.”

Sometimes, Nolen said, they wonder if they cross that line, but they really shouldn’t worry: Bridges is the best ambassador the president has. Indeed, during the photo op that followed Bridges’ performance at the Venetian, a woman made a telling remark. “We hope you take over for the guy who’s in there now,” she exclaimed, clearly fed up with the genuine article but nonetheless smitten with his latex doppelganger.

That’s because Bridges isn’t playing Bush circa 2006. Instead, he’s playing an earlier, more appealing Bush, a Bush unsullied by history. His Bush is the cocksure charmer who doesn’t take himself too seriously. The middle-aged corporate slacker who cluster-bombed sentences into verbal rubble but would be hard pressed to find Iraq on a globe.

The testy, defensive Bush who insists that secret wiretaps are necessary to protect freedom and liberty does not exist in Bridges’ universe. Neither does the Bush who treats his constituents like slightly deaf koala bears as he explains for the umpteenth time why he can’t simply wave a magic wand at gas pumps to reduce the price of unleaded.

Instead, Bridges offers an apolitical Bush, which, while it may be unintentional, is a stroke of political genius. Divorced from actual experience, the president’s charm goes on the offensive again. Campaign-trail Bush re-emerges, and it’s 1999 in America, a return to the peace and prosperity of that era.

None of which seems lost on Republican party officials. Bridges is a favorite of the Republican Eagles, a super-elite Republican National Committee group of the party’s most generous donors. During the Republican National Convention in 2004, Dick Cheney was the opening act at an Eagles function, and Bridges closed the show. More recently, Bridges almost served as a replacement for the real deal at another RNC function. “We received a last-minute call from the people who plan events for them,” Nolen explained. “There was an event the president was scheduled to attend—both a reception and a dinner. But he couldn’t make the dinner, and [the planners] thought, ‘Well, these donors are going to be disappointed—can we get Steve Bridges to fill in for him?’ ”

Bridges already had an engagement booked—these days, with the help of Kevin Haney’s facial prosthetics, he also now impersonates Arnold Schwarzenegger—so he couldn’t help out on that occasion. But in the future, who knows?

At Backwardsbush.com, a clock counts down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds left of Dubya’s reign. When it finally zeroes out on January 20, 2009, Bridges’ lucrative career as the leading George W. Bush impersonator won’t grind to an immediate halt—six years after Bill Clinton left office, Tim Watters still gets gigs. But George W. Bush will no longer be the world’s most powerful and recognizable figure; someone else will assume that mantle. And, thus, the job of top presidential impersonator will be in play too.

Like incumbents everywhere, however, Steve Bridges is not prepared to give up his office so easily. Instead, he aims to be the first three-term president since Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

During the 2004 election, Kevin Haney created a John Kerry face for Bridges, so if the Massachusetts senator makes another run in 2008, Bridges is ready to go. He does the voices of Al Gore, Howard Dean, and John McCain too, and believes he can adapt to any electoral outcome. “We actually considered, in sort of a lighthearted moment, of having Steve do Hillary,” said Nolen. “He thinks he can get the voice down.” In the end, though, they chose an alternate plan. If Hillary wins the 2008 election, Bridges will play Bill and they’ll find a woman to play Hillary.

But perhaps in simply impersonating the president (or the first gentleman), Bridges is setting his goals too low. No one expects the commander in chief to be an operating system anymore; an interface will suffice. In this manner, Bridges excels. He can play to a small group of executives, or a huge TV audience. He can take a line he’s said a hundred times already and still make it sound fresh. The camera loves him. Corporate America loves him. He’s even big in Dubai, where a businessman recently paid him fifty thousand dollars to play at an economic summit.

Bridges doesn’t have a famous father, but with the help of Kevin Haney, he’s a very familiar brand nonetheless, and potentially, the ultimate end-run around the Twenty-second Amendment. Bush could run again! Only it wouldn’t be Bush, it would be Bridges. Somewhere in Malibu, Martin Sheen is praying Karl Rove hasn’t thought of this yet.

Calhoun Square shoppers peek into Aura during the day and see no action, just stools flipped on top of tables. Dedicated purely to nocturnal enjoyment, the former 101 Blu space is atmospheric and alluring, ushering in nightfall early with a happy hour that includes delicious mini sandwiches–BBQ pulled pork, BLTs, and tangy El Cubanos. Unusual bar snacks like beer-battered asparagus, rich crab cakes, and fiery Tabasco-dipped calamari are a zesty prelude to the evening hours, when the focus gradually turns toward the nighclubbing crowd. 3001 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-821-0008

Near Block E on March 31, spring arrived with a .44-caliber bang.
The hero of the day was Minneapolis Police Officer Jomar Villamor, who quickly apprehended the suspect. It turned out that Officer Villamor was working off-duty, as were many of the police who responded that Friday night to the murder of a Minnetonka mortgage underwriter.
Though the city can’t afford to “recklessly” staff up, uniformed Minneapolis police are allowed to work off-duty up to sixty-four hours per week! The same families who keep exurban highways and byways are itching to clean up our entertainment district. Why not let the
private sector provide this win-win?

Perhaps if Augusten Burroughs’ successful memoirs Running With Scissors and Dry hadn’t made addiction look like such a profitable publishing proposition, James Frey wouldn’t be tormented by persistent nightmares in which Oprah chases him down dark alleys brandishing his own shaken “memoir” and calling him a lousy liar. Burroughs is one of those writers who’s often accused of being self-absorbed and glib, and those traits are certainly on display in this essay collection, whose topics include his life, his addictions, and his work history. But like the most mesmerizing party guests, Burroughs talks about himself so humorously and with such eccentric charm that his stories are best enjoyed first, and questioned later. 7 p.m. 300 Washington Ave. S.E. Minneapolis; 612-625-6000; www.bookstore.umn.edu

Native Minnesotan women spend the majority of each year with their bodies covered from head to ankle out of environmental necessity. Somali women residing in Minnesota have a similar head-to-ankle requirement, although the practice of wearing a modesty-preserving veil, or hijab, has its roots in tradition rather than meteorology. Pitted one against the other: Which bundled-up look has more flair? The Somalis have the competitive advantage in this instance, because nothing done in Thinsulate or fleece pulls an outfit together quite like a long, elegant veil.

The magic of the veil is in the line it creates. The eye is drawn to the face, initially, and then follows the graceful curve of the fabric downward like the cascading hair of a Texas cheerleader in a shampoo commercial. Veils aren’t supposed to be flirty, right? Hair is flirty—that’s why it needs to be covered. Yet veils made from lightweight fabric move with the neck, just like long tresses do. Maybe it’s just a sneaky way of getting the same effect as synthetic hair extensions.

The flow of the veil continues unabated over the shoulders until it reaches the hem. This is where, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, Somali women stay in the game whereas many other Muslim women drop the ball. To keep the line rolling the full length of the body, the veil must complement the cloth of the garments beneath it. If the hijab has a floral pattern on a white background, but the rest of the outfit is a navy blue, the eye will jump where the fabrics clash and that sense of grace will be lost. The fabrics don’t have to be of the same material, and they don’t necessarily have to be the same color, but they must not quarrel. The Somali women I encounter, and envy, while wandering through malls or grocery stores seem particularly adept at maintaining the sweep of the line, and it is not uncommon to see a young sartorial stunt-pilot pull off tricks like pairing lilac chiffon with indigo denim. At one of the local Somali malls, I pestered a pair of chic women in their twenties. A regal beauty with incredible bone structure had arranged her black hijab over olive-green clothes with such attention to shape that her outfit seemed no less tailored than a Chanel suit. Her companion wore a periwinkle velvet blazer that was perfectly accented by an ivory headscarf patterned with pale blue and fawn stripes. How do they manage it? Apparently, sheer quantity helps. “I couldn’t even guess how many scarves I own. Every imaginable color,” said Sophia Ali.

Contrast this elegant and simple vision with the choppy chaos of recent fashions. For instance, I spent the past winter parading about in gaucho pants. This is intellectually confusing not only because I have neither cattle nor pampas on which to herd them, but also because the pants that actual gauchos wear are called bombachas. It’s aesthetically confusing because gaucho pants end well before reaching the ankle, destroying the natural flow of the leg line. This summer, 1980s-style leggings will perform a similar amputation on calves near you! Short-sleeved shirts will be cutting arms into twos, belts will be carving figures into fatty halves, yet Somali women will remain serene, their faces framed fetchingly atop hidden curves. Though their motivation may be modesty, sometimes it seems they’re just plain showing off. —Sarah Askari