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Back in the seventies, one of my sisters spent a summer clopping around in Dr. Scholl’s with white cotton socks. Supposedly it was doctor’s orders—he said she had an allergy to the rubber in sneakers—but what kind of doctor would prescribe Dr. Scholl’s for an eight-year-old tomboy? Probably she badgered our mother for them. Naturally desirous of anything a sibling had that I did not, I tried out the Scholl’s one day, and naturally fell off (or out of) them, twisting my ankle and jabbing the arch of my foot with the hard edge of the shoe.

Childhood impressions die hard, and thereafter wooden-soled shoes were out of the question. But decades later, I found myself trying on Troentorp clogs. I liked that the uppers were attached to the soles with tiny silver nails, not staples, and that they were made by an old-school Swedish company. The clearance price also helped—I had little to lose.

What other shoe can inspire a brief jig while, say, waiting for a file at the printer? Maybe it has something to do with how, in a traditionally designed clog, the heel height, the tread, and the space beneath the toe are all precisely aligned to make walking on an inflexible wood sole not just doable, but delightful (think clog dancers). And maybe it’s that purity of design, or more accurately, its mix of complexity and simplicity, that is so compelling.

Clogs date back at least to Roman times, when men and women wore wooden shoes called Tyrrhenian sandals to the bathhouses. In the 1500s, affluent ladies wore a variation called a “patten,” basically a galosh, to protect their fancy fabric footwear, but eventually the clog—and the French sabot and the Spanish pantofle—became common among peasants and servants. These days people in sturdy, no-nonsense professions, cooks and nurses most notably, are often huge clog fans.

That’s another aspect of clogs’ appeal: Their vibe is hardworking yet quirky and, thanks to their long association with Scandinavians, socialistic—a different spin entirely than that of the crunchy Germany Birkenstock. Birkenstock even attempts to co-opt some of that vibe by calling various of its styles “clogs,” which points to a larger and serious problem: the corruption of the clog.

First, there’s the confusion of “slides” and “mules” with clogs; the most repellant among these styles have ungainly polyester fleece collars and backs that rise to cover just the smallest sliver of heel. Talk about a lack of commitment. The backs of real clogs are closed or open; there is no in between. This not-really-closed-or-open style has become commonplace on all kinds of shoes, and while it’s difficult to articulate, I feel strongly that there is a link between its popularity and the Democrats’ infuriating neither-here-nor-there dilemma. Then there are abominations like sneaker clogs and brightly colored plastic Crocs; the former have a troubling persistence, while the latter, I suspect, will soon go the way of Jellies. Then you’ve got spike-heeled clogs and platform clogs and the “sweater clog” offered by Steve Madden last year. Surely no one would try to make a sweater emulate a clog—why force a clog to adopt the characteristics of a sweater?

When faced with so many variations (or bastardizations) of style and function, it’s necessary to stick with the classics. But they needn’t be boring. Besides Dansko’s patent-leather and crazily striped styles, there’s always inspiration to be found trawling eBay. One vintage pair that tragically got away had huge, Pilgrim-like brass buckles—an acceptable novelty since they were produced by the venerable clog-maker Olof Daughters. My best find by far has been a vintage open-back style whose mysterious long-haired fur and elfin toes inspired observers to make cinematic references (Matthew Barney’s Cremaster films, Lord of the Rings), or to tell me it looked like I was wearing hamsters. Some things are too bizarre to resist. Now, with warm weather approaching, cute perforated clogs are cropping up, and I realize that this is a worthy obsession for all seasons. —Julie Caniglia

Standing where Cedar and Riverside Avenues cross, it’s hard to believe that this was once the blondest intersection in all of Minneapolis. In the 1800s, it was home to the city’s largest concentration of Scandinavian immigrants. Today, framed by the looming Riverside Plaza Towers and the long-standing 400 Bar, the neighborhood is still defined by newcomers, except that they are more likely to hail from East Africa than Northern Europe.

Next to neighborhood stalwarts such as the Wienery and the labor-party-endorsed Mayday Books, newer entities have moved in, like the Dar Al-Hijrah Islamic Center, which shares its space with the Cedar-Riverside cop shop, and the Al Karama Mall, offering fine furniture and digital versions of the Koran.

Despite Mohammed’s presence, the neighborhood retains its reputation as a hard-drinkin’ destination with a few hard-luck regulars. Bars and clubs line the streets, from the Triple Rock Social Club to the Nomad World Pub to more purposeful drinking haunts like Palmer’s. Throw in throngs of U students straight outta Ames, and you’ve got a neighborhood with a distinctly transient feel. The ubiquitous ads for phone cards and money transfers only add to the effect.

Life for Cedar Avenue’s newest homesteaders still seems firmly rooted in Africa. Aside from a few mini groceries selling Syrian bath products and locally made flat breads, most of the area’s Somalis shop at a makeshift market at 419 Cedar Ave. S. This place would seem forlorn if not for the smiles and laughter of the women hawking colorful long skirts, tunics, and headscarves, all of which can be admired in cracked mirrors alongside machine-made prayer rugs, plastic flowers, and incense.

Another favorite destination is Ubah Restaurant and Coffee, where men in kufis and henna-dyed beards slurp down steaming soup from plastic bowls and watch Al Jazeera on the big-screen TV. It’s hard to go unnoticed at Ubah, especially if you’re a lily-white woman. Each new customer gave me a curious once-over before sitting down. And I got the sweetest smile from the slight young man who wiped my table.

It occurred to me while sipping coffee that this is exactly what the Department of Homeland Security is most fearful of: foreign-born, Islamic, Al Jazeera-watching men. But from where I sat, it looked like they were probably discussing the weather and their kids and telling jokes. Cancel that code orange.

Cedar-Riverside remains, as always, a sort of cultural chameleon. But just as in the seventies, the word on the street is “peace.” Now it just sounds more like “salaam.”

—Sarah Lemanczyk

With his wide-set, almond-shaped eyes and dark-coffee complexion, the statuesque Ini Iyamba possesses a sort of chiseled, architectural beauty, which is only enhanced by a devout commitment to fitness. The other day, he wore an outfit that complemented both God-given and hard-won features: closefitting jeans and a snug vintage tee, tight around the shoulders, with rainbow letters spelling “Fascination.” A daring pair of white, faux snakeskin loafers finished the jaunty look.

Iyamba owns Ivy, the Calhoun Square boutique that, in the year since it opened, has become known for its exotic, funky selection of denim and other casual clothing for women. But even while admiring gold-threaded hoodies and tiered cotton skirts, it’s hard not to notice how great Iyamba looks, whether he’s in an old track jacket or custom-tailored cuffs.

Finding out where he shops for his own clothes involved a tasteful display of his wardrobe staples in Ivy’s backroom: Jockey V-neck T-shirt from Target; knit pageboy cap; monogrammed, cashmere sweater from J.Crew; glow-in-the-dark, seventies-era Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey tee, a thrift-store find; reconstructed vintage Levi’s—a limited edition from Barney’s New York; custom-made black dress shirt; Puma trainers; and pinstriped trousers of uncertain origin.

“Dress pants are huge,” he said, holding this favorite pair to his legs. “I come from a culture in which everybody gets dressed up in their Sunday best.” Iyamba was born in Nigeria, and although he moved to the Midwest when he was ten (he attended St. Thomas Academy in St. Paul and the University of Wisconsin at Madison), in terms of fashion, it is the styles worn by his African compatriots that left a lasting impression. “In the summer, they’d have on their dress pants with sandals and a singlet,” he said. Later, he would cite their influence on his own penchant for fedoras and pageboy caps.

“Every man should have a custom-tailored suit,” he said. “But they’re not cheap, so a lot of men can get a custom shirt instead.” He showed how his black dress shirt had been darted at the waist. “If they’re working out, they probably have broad shoulders, so there’s going to be some excess fabric,” he said, gesturing with his palm toward his slender mid-section. “I have about twenty black dress shirts—the majority of them, maybe fifteen, with French cuffs. And I wear them like the French do: un-cuffed.

“Vintage, for me, is really big,” he continued. “It personalizes your wardrobe. All my vintage shopping is done at Tatter’s. My friends and I call it ‘The Dusty.’” Iyamba held up a classic Tatter’s find: a seventies-era polo sweater done up in bright orange and ivory stripes. “I was once offered $300 for this,” he said, in all seriousness.

With the first birthday of Ivy last month, Iyamba began stocking menswear. So far the offerings are light, but they impressively straddle the expanse between pantywaist and Navy Seal. They include dress shirts in contrasting floral and camouflage prints—sometimes in a single garment; a line of sandal-loafer hybrids by Lacoste that are made with Louis Vuitton leather; ball caps with skull and sergeant-stripe appliqués; and lots of high-buck designer denim—most notably, Evisu, a top-dollar line with cult status (thanks to various pro athletes and rap stars). Even at more than $300 a pair, Iyamba says customers have been gobbling these up. “But I actually like ‘em. They fit really well,” he said. So he’s keeping a pair for himself, too. —Christy DeSmith

Cell phone chirps, caller ID says it’s my wife calling. “Hi Honey!”

“Do you have a minute?” Uh-oh. I can tell by the clipped tone of her voice that this is not my lovely, doting bride, the future mother of my children, calling to say she loves and misses me while I’m away for a conference. This is business; and I already have the fear.

“Um, yeah, I’m just taking a break between speakers. What’s up?” Wait for it.

“How much money have you spent?” Gulp. This is a loaded question. As the household chief financial officer, she knows exactly how much I’ve spent.

“I dunno, a few hundred dollars, something like that? Vegas is kind of expensive sweetheart … ” Sweetheart. Thrown in as an act of desperation as I try to take mental tally of how much it’s been. I realize I have no idea.

“Expensive? I guess so. You’ve spent more than six hundred dollars. In less than twenty-four hours.”

Shit. “No I didn’t. I couldn’t have. Six hundred dollars? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure. Yesterday you had withdrawals of $200, $280, $100, and then $100 today. So actually, that makes $680.”

Blink. Blink. The click-pinging of slot machines and other casino din, which I’m sure she can hear in the background, mock any attempt to account for having spent six hundred dollars, constructively, in Las Vegas.

“What on earth did you spend all that money on? I thought this was a corporate thing.”

“Well, um, I dunno, Vegas is expensive, you know cabrideslimosdrinksdinneralittle gamblinganothercabridetceteraandsoon—are you sure it was that much sweetheart?”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘sweetheart’? You never call me that.”

“Well, you know, honey, stuff just kinda, adds up. I’m really sorry sweetheart.” I am in full retreat. I am pathetic. Dear God, why didn’t I let this go to voicemail.

“Sorry? What the hell is wrong with you? And stop calling me ‘sweetheart’! We’ll talk about this when you get back. And try to make it home without spending too much more. I love you.” Click.

My wife and I rarely fight, but when we disagree, it’s usually about money. Yes, we fit that textbook example of domestic discord. We have one bank account, which collects both our paychecks. As a mortgage banker, I deal with other people’s money all day, helping them budget and plan for what is normally the largest expense in their lives. The last thing I want to do when I get home is account for my own finances. (The very thought of balancing even my own checkbook gives me jaw-clenching anxiety.) So rather than being the carpenter who lets his own house go to ruin I entrust my wife, a sales representative by day and domestic goddess by night, with handling all the finances. She manages our money, pays all the bills, keeps us on budget, and does a fantastic job. I love her for it. It’s an arrangement that works well for us—that is, until I periodically screw it up.

For the record: The CFO occasionally blows off budget, too. But here’s the thing: I’d been blowing dough as if it were all my own—we’ll chalk it up to a twenty-four-hour bug. Even though those dollars were being spent on things my wife and I would agree are valid social/business purposes, the fact that I didn’t track it, or at least warn her I’d be high-rolling, was what put me in the doghouse. Between the two incomes, our account was plenty padded. There wasn’t a cash-flow problem. This wasn’t about money in the least.

Six hundred dollars at Target? At Sam’s Club? At Pottery Barn? That’s no problem for her (and for me, just to be clear). These are legitimate expenses; food for the family, household maintenance, and nesting materials to make for a happy home. But six hundred dollars in Vegas with nary a throw pillow to show for it? You have no idea. —Alex Stenback

Recently, the American College of Emergency Physicians issued a national report card on the state of emergency medicine, and the whole country received a grade of C-minus. Minnesota, which is generally the slightly smug and self-satisfied Lisa Simpson character amongst its peer states in these ratings, was issued a slightly improved C-plus, a devastating blow to our “quality of life”-based ego. (Granted, one of the college’s five criteria was Minnesota’s medical-liability climate, where we were rated a D-minus, a grade which one presumes would be improved by a medical-liability damages cap or by exporting HMO hawk Mike Hatch to Wisconsin.)

Recently, I had a firsthand opportunity to test our state’s emergency

preparedness at an early morning bio-terrorism drill at one of the metro area’s major hospitals. I was forwarded an invitation that went out to hundreds of public-health students at the University of Minnesota, soliciting volunteers. It may have been the fact that the drill started at 6:00 a.m. on what turned out to be the coldest day of winter thus far, or that we were advised to wear a swimsuit under our clothes in order to retain modesty during a decontamination shower, but in the conference room where the drilling team assembled, I was one of only three volunteers who weren’t actually employed by the hospital. Our small but brave cadre of outsiders received many thanks, complimentary coffee, and a single powdered doughnut that we were asked to smear on our clothes and faces in order to simulate an anthrax exposure.

While I yearned for more fully developed backstory (“OK, you’re a renegade genetics researcher, and your attempts to create the world’s first pig-soybean hybrid have drawn the ire of animal-rights extremists. One day you receive a suspicious envelope … ”), we volunteers were merely asked to run into the emergency room and tell the attendant we believed we were exposed to anthrax at a building across the street. Emergency-room workers were not supposed to be tipped off to the drill, but some may have grown suspicious at the post-midnight assembly of two shower tents, one in a heated garage and one outside the main entrance, in below-zero windchills.

The organizers staggered our arrival at the emergency room. I was volunteer number seven, so by the time I walked in, the novelty had worn off for the nurses on duty. They barely raised an eyebrow, and, from behind protective glass at the desk, they directed me back outside to the ambulance garage in order to be decontaminated. In the garage, the mood was not so blasé, and there was a lot of muffled consultation going back and forth between hospital staff members clad in hazmat suits who, with their bright-orange boots, looked like a cross between Oompa Loompas and astronauts. In a barely intelligible voice, one of them told me to come with him to the outside shower, but before I could even protest, news arrived that the waterlines to the outside shower had frozen. My relief was short-lived as I stripped down to my swimsuit and was herded into the garage’s shower tent, blasted with water that was only slightly warmer than ice, swaddled in towels, and then rolled in a wheelchair into the ER, where I and my fellow victims were “monitored” for signs of infection by the nursing staff.

At a debriefing that followed, the problems were enumerated: the hazmat suits took too long to don, there was a shortage of bags for contaminated clothing, and the “victims” did not receive quick or understandable instructions. But these problems paled when compared with the adventures of one of the hospital staff’s more entrepreneurial victim-volunteers: When he found himself undirected and unsupervised in the garage, he wandered into the ER and beyond, presumably “infecting” entire wings of the hospital. What’s more, a hospital security guard who had been in an infected area returned to the situation-control room, thereby “infecting” the response-management team. The drill organizers assessed these events soberly. Clearly, this exercise was a starting point, but there would seem to be many more early mornings—and powdered doughnuts—in all of their futures. —Dan Gilchrist

Tri Mai is a bachelor, though not of the beer-and-babe-poster variety. He keeps his South Minneapolis foursquare house immaculate. Precision and aesthetics rule the roost in equal measure, and this balance is everywhere. It’s in the play of light through three stained-glass panels suspended in his front windows. It’s in the careful arrangement of living room chairs, all nine of them, into intimate groupings.

At thirty-five, Mai runs his own business building high-end audio equipment in his basement and selling it worldwide. He’s also an accomplished culinary artist, creating savory delights with little more exertion than other guys might put into heating a can of chili. Still, he hands me chicken wings and cheese bread in the lid of a to-go carton before we settle in to spin some records.

Mai’s stereo occupies as much space as a grand piano or the couch a future girlfriend might want to move in. Two speakers masquerading as bookcases anchor the room. Each is driven by a power amplifier the size of a steamer trunk. A rack of brushed steel components, topped with a granite slab, provides a solid foundation for the turntable.

Watching the needle descend onto the first record of the evening, I am hypnotized by the tonearm silently tracing the groove. I’m conjuring images from under the hood of a sports car as the dulcet voice of Annie Lennox drifts out into the room. Every nuance is audible: the soft intake of breath, even the creak of shoes on the floor.

“Women have all sorts of ways to be flashy: shoes, jewelry, hairstyles, clothes,” Mai muses. “But what do men have? Cars, watches, gadgets—that’s it. Strength is no longer the essential trait, so either our brain, wallet, or dick is bigger.” He gestures at his stereo and says, “I guess these are my beautiful peacock feathers.”

The amplifiers he built for himself glow with electrostatic tubes like a peacock’s iridescent courtship display. But the prime feather in Mai’s fan, the flagship product of his business, is the Tri-Planar Mark VII Precision Tonearm, or simply, the Tri-Planar Ultimate. Among audiophiles it is considered one of the best in the world. One reviewer for the Absolute Sound magazine complained in jest, “Hell hath no fury like a reviewer scorned by a component that refuses to let him down in at least one or two areas.” You can purchase your own Tri-Planar Ultimate from Mai’s website (www.triplanar.com), but at four thousand dollars, turntable not included, it’s not exactly for the average listener.

Mai, however, would love to see that change. “Too many people waste their money on crap,” he says, lowering the arm onto another LP. “Why not spend a little more on something well made, take care of it, and have it last the rest of your life? Everything I make will last a hundred years.”

When Mai was ten years old, he boarded a boat and left his family and his native Vietnam behind. Faced with little opportunity besides mandatory military conscription at fifteen, he set out in search of a better life. After spending more than a year at a refugee camp in the Philippines, he was finally welcomed into a foster family in Coon Rapids, Minnesota.

“Myron and Thelma Nash showed me the good life,” he says. “They showed me unconditional love. If I ever get to heaven, it will surely be because of them.”

While he had some exposure to music from the Nashes—mostly in church—Mai admits he wasn’t really captivated until his freshman year at St. Olaf College. There he dated a German classical violist named Katrine who played him the first vinyl record he’d ever heard.

“It was Heaven or Las Vegas by the Cocteau Twins,” he laughs. “The sound was different from anything I’d heard before. It was fuller but incredibly subtle. It showed me that music could have a body. I was hooked.”

Over the next decade, vinyl addiction would take him into the Twin Cities’ burgeoning rave scene and through a two-year stint building amplifiers for Atma-Sphere Audio. Mai eventually earned a graduate degree in sculpture from MCAD, and ultimately ended up building tonearms with the inventor of the Tri-Planar, a watch-maker named Herbert Papier. When Papier retired in 1999, after a two-decade quest to perfect the Ultimate Tonearm, he handpicked Mai to be his successor.

“I’m privileged Herb had the confidence in me to pass on his business, that I’ve been able to make something out of it, something successful.” He pauses to set the needle on the last record of the evening. “I’ve set up a pretty nice life for myself. I’m surrounded by beauty.” He glances round the room. “Though I’ve been thinking I should get rid of one of these chairs and get a loveseat.”

—Sam Ridenour