Category: Article

The other day, a man called the Minnesota Department of Agriculture to ask why the crickets weren’t chirping in the city this summer. “That’s strange,” said Dr. John Luhman, a research scientist, taxonomist, and longtime cricket enthusiast. “I heard them while riding my bike just yesterday. The crickets haven’t gone anywhere—you’d better take another listen.”

Perhaps the crickets couldn’t compete with the air conditioning, which was set to full power for most of July. Or maybe the caller was simply getting ahead of himself; Twin Cities crickets don’t really get up to speed in the chirping department until late summer. But when the time comes, those of us who enjoy a twilight stroll or sleeping with the bedroom windows open can’t escape the cricket’s noble song. And why would we want to?

An insect of the night who doesn’t emerge into maturity until the hottest months, the cricket may be the backyard’s most admired bug. His popularity was first established in ancient China, where aristocrats kept crickets as pets both for nighttime music and afternoon entertainment. Crickets are quite pugnacious, at least when starved, and thus cricket fighting enjoyed popularity among elites from the Tang Dynasty (AD 618-907) through the Qing Dynasty (until 1911). Some even say the Song Dynasty (AD 1127-1279) met its demise in part because of cricket bouts; Jia Sidao, the dynasty’s last premier, supposedly neglected important political affairs to watch his littlest warriors.

Luhman speculates that crickets’ sedentary nature accounts for much of their popularity, since the insects remain happy in cages and “you can make them do things. Like fight.” Cricket fighting continues even today, though mostly underground—which maybe seems more logical than rational. (Are there any fighting critters too small to attract the anti-cruelty crusaders?) A secret “entomological Fight Club” in Hong Kong was busted by police in 2004, netting one thousand dollars in cash and more than two hundred buffed-up crickets. Little bugs apparently mean big money, though one wonders exactly how many tickets can be sold for a live event of such tiny magnitude.

Crickets may be fighters, but they’re best known as lovers. They play the dating game as earnestly as we do, and males work tirelessly to play “love songs” that will attract members of the opposite sex. A female picks the best “musician” as her mate, then receives what Luhman called “gifts of candy”—a sweet secretion sipped from a small basin located behind the wings of the male seducer. And romance isn’t the only song in the cricket’s vast repertoire. There are distinct chirps for all sorts of situations: soft if a female is nearby, aggressive when challenging a male intruder, and loud and fast when a predator is closing in. Actually, the cricket’s tympanic organs can vibrate well beyond the sensitivity of human ears, which means we’re only getting the low end of the cricket grand symphony.

There’s a cricket celebrity (Jiminy), a cricket thermometer (the number of chirps per fifteen seconds, plus forty), a cricket mantelpiece (a brass good-luck charm), and cricket cuisine. Southern Louisiana’s Fluker Farms is the self-proclaimed “leader in live cricket production” as feed for pet reptiles. It sells boxed quantities of 250, five hundred, or one thousand, as well as smaller numbers of chocolate-covered crickets, which are not for lizards, but humans. Crickets are said to be crunchy and high in protein, and the Fluker variety comes with an “I Ate a Bug Club” lapel badge for “adventurous connoisseurs.”

Though most humans’ affinity for crickets might stop short of a meal (“unpleasant eating,” was Luhman’s considered opinion), their songs and amorous personalities do jibe nicely with our relaxed late-summer sensibilities. “You’re not going to be anywhere outdoors after June where there won’t be crickets sounding,” said Luhman. “It’s nostalgic—people associate the sound with nice memories from the summertime.”—Adam Fetcher

A hand-lettered, unprofessionally illustrated sign appeared in midsummer outside the university area’s Santana grocery. It said, “We Rent Hookahs.” Now, there are actually two small bodegas that bear the proud Santana name, and they are located within blocks of each other, where Interstate 35W crosses University Avenue and Fourth Street Southeast. But only one Santana has branched off in the unpredictable direction of offering hookah services. Is the Fourth Street Santana the vanguard of Twin Cities leisure? Or is convenience store/hookah rental one of those nonsensical, doomed pairings, like tanning beds/video rental? Luckily, these questions can be answered by anyone with fifteen bucks, an ID, and unobstructed airways. One recent evening, I gathered a few friends and went to investigate.

The process of renting the water pipe is straightforward; predictably, in exchange for the hookah, my driver’s license is held hostage. Unpredictably, an employee of the grocery is posted outside to monitor the situation. Although this employee is not issued a hookah, he may smoke cigarettes at his leisure. The hookah itself is suspiciously ornate, decorated with a riotous combination of embroidered fabric, hammered brass, and painted, colored glass. It’s flashy, with no sense of Scandinavian reserve, an artifact straight out of Alice in Wonderland.

An intimidating moment arises when it is time to choose the moist, moss-like flavored tobacco used for pipe smoking. The options are orange, strawberry, cherry, Jamaican rum, margarita, grape, menthol, and pineapple. Bonnie Bell lip gloss is available in these same flavors, so my mind darts back to junior high. I hazard a guess. “Cherry?” But the correct answer turns out to be pineapple.

The modest smoking area outside Santana is not what it could be. But why cheapen this relaxing ritual with gimmicks, tricking out a space with tufted pillows or draping fabric, crafting a simulacrum of some imagined Middle Eastern oasis, or maybe the inside of I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle? Honest people, puffing on a hookah with a panoramic view of I-35W, have no need for it. A set of gray plastic lawn furniture will suffice.

An attractive, lanky young Santana employee named Chris takes care of packing the tobacco into the water pipe’s bowl, carefully covering the bowl with aluminum foil and then pricking the foil with a dozen little holes, through which the heat will flow on its way down to the glass chamber.

When the tobacco is smoldering like charcoal, the hookah is ready to smoke. Disposable plastic mouthpieces are provided for the squeamish. Our young guide makes a valiant effort to explain the technique without comparing it to smoking a bong, which is tactful of him. As you draw on the mouthpiece, you pull the smoke down through the chambers, into the filtering water, and bring it up the hose and on into your lungs. Withdraw your lips from the pipe and exhale, comfortably—for the sensation is far more gentle than that of a cigarette. The smoke is lighter, and it leaves a very faint, fruity taste on your palate.

We sit, and puff, and get used to the novelty of the pipe. The fifteen dollars includes enough tobacco to last well over an hour, and there is nothing else to do but sit and watch this corner of the world go by. The air is cool, and people are enjoying the respite from summer’s oppression. The Santana night cashier, a Brazilian woman dressed like a tropical bird of paradise, visits leisurely. “Most of the hookah smokers who come in here, I think there are more women than men. It’s surprising, right?” Store patrons, bicyclists, cabdrivers—everyone looks inquisitively at the sight of the rococo hookah bubbling away on the sidewalk. As the 6C bus pulls up and a steady stream of cars come in off the highway, two women passing by on a late-night errand curiously request a trial drag. One of them gives the hookah a level gaze and offers a candid assessment: “I’d be putting a bud in that, for sure.”—Sarah Askari

Don Nelson’s white minivan looked pretty much like every other vehicle in the parking lot behind the Green Mill restaurant on Hennepin Avenue. But the moment Nelson opened the rear door, out of the dark interior came frantic grunting. When he opened the gate to a portable dog kennel sitting on the floor, the grunts grew into squeals and the squeals to high-pitched yelps.

Oval nostrils and bristly nose hair pushed hard against the door of the kennel. The strong little shoat—this one a small, white-haired Hampshire pig—flung open the door and ran in tiny circles in the relative freedom of the vehicle’s cargo space. As pigs go, this one was pretty cute: squeaky clean, animated, and noisy. He was about ten pounds of grunting, oinking, and snorting energy. Despite

appearances, the piglet, named Perfect, was not Don Nelson’s pet. After its month on the road, it’s back to the farm for Perfect, its show-business days just a hazy memory. From there, well, its future is pretty much tied up in country-style ribs on a foam tray at the grocery store.

Nelson was once a farmer, and like every farmer, he knows the difference between livestock and pets. For more than fifteen years, he’s visited with thousands of Minnesota public schoolchildren to teach them about where their food comes from, and who grows and raises it.

“A lot of urban kids have this image of a farmer as an unsophisticated hayseed, a guy who walks around in bib overalls and a straw hat,” said Nelson. He tends to show up at school assemblies, pig in hand, dressed rather like a poet—in a natty sport coat, wool trousers, and turtleneck sweater.

For several months each year, Nelson spends his day going from school to school in and around the Twin Cities, talking with elementary schoolchildren about pigs and turkeys and agriculture in general. It’s a job he likes, and according to the teachers and students, he’s good at it. These days, most children think of livestock only in the abstract—their pork chops and chicken nuggets coming from machines at the food factory, not from living, breathing, grunting beings like Perfect.

Even in rural towns like Litchfield and Willmar, kids don’t know much about farming anymore. “All agricultural areas are now suburbia,” said Nelson. “Even the communities that do have livestock are suburbia. The Litchfield area, for example, has livestock, but there’s probably only a single farm kid or two in the whole school, even there. Years ago there used to be a high percentage of farm kids in small-town schools, but no more. If I go into small towns with the pig and talk about hogs, it’s just as new to them as it is to kids in the city. They’ve never been on a hog farm.”

The only problem with Nelson’s gig is how fast his assistants—who are always named Perfect—grow up. “I can only keep any one particular pig for three weeks, and then it’s just too big to take around,” he said. “When I start out with a new pig, it weighs around ten to twelve pounds. Three weeks later, it’s thirty pounds. My arm gets sore from carrying it around.”

In the pizza parlor parking lot, the show was over. It was time to herd Perfect back into his kennel, despite his enthusiasm for the prevailing scent of pepperoni and sausage hanging on the air. Perfect’s little home, I noticed, was outfitted with a heat lamp to keep him cozy and warm—not unlike the to-go counter inside Green Mill.

—William Gurstelle

At 120 years old, the Grand Army of the Republic Hall over in Litchfield is one of the last-standing halls of its kind in the nation. It’s an inconspicuous building: narrow, pallid, sunk between two ugly, newer structures in the middle of a residential block. It hardly looks deserving of all the festoons Litchfield will bestow on it this month for an anniversary celebration. Built in 1885 to resemble a fort, the building was intended to serve Civil War veterans, much in the same way a VFW hall serves veterans of our day. That noble purpose lasted just two years, though; in 1887, the hall was donated to the city of Litchfield and became the area’s first library.

Today, the Grand Army of the Republic Hall functions largely as a Civil War museum, thanks to a 1961 addition that houses period wedding dresses, artillery heads, and “hairwork.” (Wreaths and wall sculptures made of human hair were all the rage in the late 1800s.) In the front room, wall-to-wall shelves sway with Civil War-era books, mostly thick, dusty volumes recording engagements between the Union and Confederate armies. A middle room serves as a public meeting space and is often reserved by Girl Scout troops and book clubs. In the spirit of the original building, the Minnesota chapter of the Ladies of the Grand Army of the Republic holds regular meetings there, too.

The walls of the hall are bedecked with portraits of Litchfield’s “Boys of ’61”—old black and white photos of solemn, bearded faces crowned with union army kepis. Many Ladies throughout the state are related to these fellows. “I have three here,” bragged Lois Morlock, who showed me her great-grandfather and two great-uncles. “I have two,” said Jeanie Shoultz Doran, a sixty-something woman with a head of windswept gray hair and an American flag-themed cardigan sweater. She pointed out a great-grandfather and a great-great-uncle.

The Ladies of the Grand Army of the Republic is not unlike the better-known women’s auxiliary, the Daughters of the American Revolution, except, of course, the Ladies must trace their lineage to a Civil War Union Army vet rather than one from the American Revolution. Many women belong to both organizations and a slew of others: Daughters of the American Colonists, New England Women, the Military and Hospitalier Order of St. Lazarus, or, in rare instances, United Daughters of the Confederacy. It all depends on who the dead ancestors are, and this can become a bit of an obsession. “Once you get into these organizations, it becomes a challenge to see how many you can qualify for,” said Morlock.

Maureen Minish and Roberta Everling, the youngest women at the meeting (sixty-five and forty-ish, respectively), met at a Daughters of the American Revolution meeting a few years back and have sustained a friendship ever since based on their shared passion for genealogy. “We found that our ancestors were both at the Battle of Vicksburg,” said Everling. Her cheeks flushed a shade to match her pink pearl necklace.

“You know it’s an old group when I bring down the median age,” joked Minish. She and Everling sat side by side at the head table with Minish acting as interim president, leading this meeting of a dozen mostly seventy-plus Ladies. Normally a brusque, gravel-voiced woman, Minish eased into a purr while leading the Ladies through their rituals: recitals of “The Lord’s Prayer,” “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the Pledge of Allegiance, and “The American’s Creed.” When that was finished, she turned to Doran, the group’s pianist, and politely said, “At this point we usually sing a hymn. Do you know a hymn?”

“I know ‘Jesus Loves Me,’” said Doran. She quickly thought better of it. “I know! Let’s do ‘Amazing Grace.’”

Once the ceremony concluded, the ladies got down to business. “Since we don’t have any Civil War veterans anymore, we have to support other causes,” said Minish, smiling stiffly. The ladies agreed to disburse funds to the V.A. hospital, landscaping at Lakewood Cemetery’s Grand Army of the Republic memorial, and to send a twenty-dollar American flag to the National Armed Forces Service Center. They hurried through the financials, seemingly eager to eat lunch together around a table spilling with goodies.

As they cheerfully nibbled on turkey bun sandwiches and chocolate-chocolate chip cookies, the ladies took turns outlining their family trees for one another. They were ignoring the ominous “Boys of ’61”—who appeared cross-eyed, rogue, and unappetizing from their giant portraits overhead—and turned to one of their most important functions: shamelessly recruiting new members. They began speculating about the potential qualifications of their guest. “I bet you qualify,” chirped Everling.—Christy DeSmith

When Bob Mould visits First Avenue, the paint on the walls heats up and starts to become liquid again. Stalactites of tobacco exhalations loosen their grip and drop from the ceiling. And the eardrums of people in the audience begin to ring in a way that will never completely go away, but it won’t hurt until they file out into the street, so they stay put, rapt in the presence of this former local boy and one of punk rock’s living legends. Mould’s new album, Body of Song, revives the gritty rock he left behind on 2002’s electronic Modulate, but the influence of the dance floor has left a permanent mark on his sound.

Does the electronic vibe come from your life in DC?
Yeah. It’s everywhere, in the restaurants, clubs, and gym. I got into it in 1999, after The Last Dog and Pony Show tour. I just liked the feel-good nature of it; it was so against everything I knew. And the density of the tracks and the technical production is really fascinating. The sounds were so foreign. I wanted to know how they did that.

How does making dance music differ from writing rock songs?
Making music that’s meant to be used on a dance floor is like creating cinema. It’s drama, it’s repetition, and the technical aspects are different. I’ll deconstruct songs and focus on parts that I think are good for the setting they’ll be used in. I just did a Low remix, and I think I’m doing a Liz Phair remix. She’s really excited about it. It’ll be fun–I’ll use it when I deejay.

You’ve been taking some heat from your punk fans for using the vocoder. What’s your defense?
On “(Shine Your) Light Life Hope,” those were vocals that came out one morning when my voice was not warmed up. Spiritually, it touched me so deeply that I saved the vocal. I kept going back and trying to duplicate it, but I never got the same feel–it was a beautiful emotion that was slightly out of pitch, and I had a tool that could correct it. Rock purists get so hung up on technology getting in the way, but listen: That’s a perfect example of technology saving a spiritually perfect moment. I’m finessing the essence of punk rock right there, and if you don’t see it that way, hit the “next” button.

How does living in D.C.’s political world affect you?
I see a lot of political figures out and about, but we all have lives beyond our work. I know lobbyists, people who work for Republicans, people who work with Democrats, and at the end of the day, we all need to use the same shower at the gym. It sort of shows me the futility in being as violently opposed to everything as I was twenty-five years ago. Change moves slowly, and we’re all people. Unfortunately, there are a select few out there right now who are making the world a really difficult place.

As a gay man, you’re being directly targeted by some of those people. How are you reacting to that?
I’m getting more involved with Human Rights Campaign, Freedom to Marry, and the Antiviolence Project. I try to do what I can to make things better for my community, but I live in a bubble. Someone the other day said, “The world is so anti-gay right now. America is so anti-gay.” And I thought, yeah, but I live in the middle of four gay neighborhoods and I rarely leave. So am I being unknowingly marginalized, or am I gentrifying yet another neighborhood? I can never tell.

You’re not too worried about things?
Well, we’re only going to have another two or three years of this, because this regime is self-destructing. We’re going to be left with an ugly situation. Inner cities always get beat up when the Republicans are in power. They let the homeless and the insane starve on the streets and it creates all kinds of violence and tension, and race relations get bad. But it’ll all get rebuilt in due time.

Bob Mould plays at First Avenue on September 28; 612-332-1775, www.first-avenue.com