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About twenty years ago I had a spiritual awakening. Actually, it was more like a little chat. I was lying on a hospital bed, staring out the window. “Okay, I’m willing to believe you’re out there,” I said to the steam coming out of the sewer in front of St. Mary’s, “if you’ll help me quit heroin and get me out of this place.”

The sun came out from behind a cloud and on a bitter winter day in Minnesota, three thousand miles from home, I felt something… I don’t know… something big come over me. I felt something even heavier lifted off of me. I didn’t want to disappear completely so I quickly tacked on, “and please don’t make me a Jesus freak.”

I still think I’m pretty spiritual. I was baptized in the Catholic Church, and officially converted to Judaism when I was ten. Our family did Transcendental Meditation, Dad did EST, and in the last twenty years, I’ve gone to four different synagogues and attended St. Joan of Arc, the South Minneapolis Catholic church with a gay pastor and a liberal pulpit. I’ve also chanted “nam yoho renge kyo” with Buddhists, taken numerous Zen classes, prayed with Sufis in Morocco, and done a few sweat lodges and Wiccan ceremonies. I’ve haven’t gone through any rebirthing rituals in the mud, but I like my friends who have.

I know about cults, too. I lost a brother to one in California. I mingled with the Heaven’s Gate people when they came to Minneapolis to spread the word about aliens and Jesus, something I never really did figure out. They didn’t stick around to help explain it, either.

Then there’s the sect that I actually belong to—the one I’d leave, but they can’t kick me out. Once it dawned on me that I had gotten on my knees for a lot less than what a twelve-step program had to offer, I realized I had no more excuses. I’ve been going to meetings for a long time now. I spent the first few years poking at AA with a stick, waiting for something to crawl out. Nothing ever did. I’m not saying this as an official spokesmodel for AA, because there aren’t any. My observations are simply my own, based on meetings I’ve been to. I haven’t paid anything, I haven’t met anyone in charge, and there’s no mecca to which we all flock every year. People with a few hours of sobriety go to the exact same meetings as those with decades. Most detractors point to the G-word up on the wall, but I’m an agnostic (maybe a Deist) and I’ve been clean and sober for some time and no one has come to take my secret decoder ring.

When I read that Eckankar was having its worldwide seminar here in Minneapolis this month, I was curious. I had seen Eckankar stickers back home, usually on humble old Datsuns. Eckankar and I, it turns out, were both born in the early sixties in the South Bay Area. I grew up in the backwash of Joan Baez, Neil Young, Ken Kesey, Charles Manson, and Jim Jones. Right after I moved to Minnesota, my dad and his wife bought a house in the foothills above Palo Alto, in a pretty enviable neighborhood. The seller was a guy called Sri Harold Klemp, a name I didn’t easily forget. I was impressed that the leader of a religion had such good taste and resources. Klemp had sold the house so that he—and his church—could follow me to Minnesota.

Or was it just a coincidence?

The basic teachings of Eckankar are virtually identical to Hinduism: Students (“chelas”) strive to rid themselves of the karma that keeps their souls from going directly to heaven for good. This involves reading, meditating, chanting, dream interpretation, and soul travel. Chelas can advance through a numbered series of initiations that correspond to the level of their self-knowledge, “god-consciousness,” and mastery of Eck principles. High Initiates (or HI’s) get special privileges and act as mentors and leaders to first and second “circle” members. The initiation rites are secret, but you can’t be a HI without paying your dues on time for at least two years.

Eck has no rules. The official party line is that they are a group that studies spiritual principles. The group is not exclusive, and joining doesn’t cost much. You don’t have to change your clothes (no saffron robes), your religion (Jewish, Lutheran, or Catholic Eckists are simply supplementing their own religions with Eck principles), or your diet (unlike their Hindu predecessors, Eckists can and do eat cows). Sexual orientation doesn’t matter, and there’s no hanging out at the airport. In other words, Eck is not a cult. It doesn’t require much of its practitioners, at least on paper. There’s a recommended twenty-minute daily incantation of a single syllable, “Hu,” which members do together at seminars and regular gatherings.

There are twenty-six thousand Eckists in the U.S.; there are no numbers for Minnesota members. Every state has at least one local-branch “Satsang Society,” or study group. Satsangs all over the world host identical programs for both the public and for members, from studies of the Eck “bible” (the Shariyat Ki Sugmad) and other Eck religious tracts to talks like “Discover Your Greatness as a Soul” and “How to Have More Love in Your Life.”

Members and seekers can also get the Eck message on local cable stations, which usually feature videotaped talks by Harold Klemp, whose image is ubiquitous in their materials. Master Harold is the “Mahanta,” the highest human incarnation of “god-consciousness.” Klemp is just the latest of thousands of Mahantas, but there can only be one on Earth at a time. “Mahanta,” like “chela” and “Sri,” is a common Sanskrit word used in Eastern religions. (Today many of those words are trademarked by Eckankar.)

Chelas are encouraged to look at a picture of Klemp when they meditate. The official portrait can be had for twenty-five dollars, unframed or in wallet-sized versions. Nearly every photo of the Mahanta is the same: A simple, professional head shot of a bespectacled Klemp, dressed in a blue leisure suit and tie. I’d be more tempted to ask him about Roth IRAs than I would about the nature of my soul, but Eck likes that conservative image and many Eckists model their dress after him.

The slightly dated picture and the deification of his image led me to believe that Klemp no longer walked among us. It turns out he’s alive, though no one I spoke to seemed to know or care where he is or what he does for a living. But they do gather to revere him in the flesh occasionally; this month, five or six thousand Eckists will fly in from all over the world to see Harold Klemp in person as the Saturday-night headliner at the Minneapolis Convention Center.

Klemp’s whereabouts aren’t the only secret in Eckankar. There are no public records for Eckankar’s finances because it is tax-exempt and qualifies as a religious organization under IRS rules. Local Satsangs that take in less than $25,000 a year don’t have to file tax returns, and nearly every Eck Satsang falls into that category. But there are no records for the headquarters, either. No one knows how much is spent on salaries or on the new building being constructed for office staff, who are currently housed in New Hope. There are, however, records of numerous properties owned and sold by the Church, some of them in spiritual and real estate hot spots like Sedona and Hawaii.

Yet members pay only $120 a year to belong ($50 for other countries). Their websites do list cover charges for many classes, workshops, and seminars, which range from $25 to $150. Those numbers don’t add up to much. But some Eckists who have left the organization say money plays a big role. One of them, Elizabeth, says the pressure to donate is constant. Elizabeth was a member from the age of thirteen, when her parents, siblings, and grandparents signed up. She recently left Eckankar and was “disowned.” Only one sister risks the rare conversation with her. When I asked Elizabeth about interviewing her parents, she said I would get nothin
g more than canned responses and outright denials. After she told me that her mother told her “never to contact her again,” I dropped it.

Elizabeth says Eck’s family rate is $160 a year, but that’s just the beginning. She says the Satsangs need donations, as do the discourse/Satsang classes, book-discussion classes, workshops for training, and regional seminars. Donations are requested from those who attend all Eck functions. Then there are books, videotapes, music CDs, pictures, posters, recruitment materials such as reply posters with tear-off information cards, business cards, bumper stickers, and fundraiser items like T-shirts, jewelry, and coffee cups, all of which can be bought by Eckankar tax-free.

Paul, who was a twenty-eight-year veteran of Eckankar and a High Initiate before he bailed out five years ago, told me that he feels his life was wasted on the organization. “I spent thousands of dollars on Eckankar,” he said. Paul believes now that it was a “fraud and illusion” designed to profit the people at the top.

Paul Twitchell, Eck’s founder, was born in Paducah, Kentucky. Like his friend L. Ron Hubbard, he published a few science fiction novels and in 1964 or 1965, after studying under a couple of Indian yogis, Twitchell introduced Eckankar to the world from his home base in Menlo Park, right near the place where my family once played miniature golf. Twitchell declared himself a “Living Eck Master” and said that he had been given the “Divine Rod of Power” by Rebazar Tarzs, a hundred-year-old man who today “still lives in a hut in Hindu Kush Mountains,” according to Eck publications.

Eck’s detractors have a hundred complaints, but most agree that Twitchell was a plagiarist. The most vociferous critic and documenter is David Lane, who says Twitchell simply cut and pasted text from books like Julian Johnson’s Path of the Masters. The 1939 book is widely considered among religious scholars to be the pioneering account of a Westerner’s interpretation of Eastern religion. Anti-cult advocates in particular cite Johnson’s first and foremost declaration that “Real Masters never charge for their services,” a passage Twitchell neglected to crib. Less academic are accounts of Twitchell’s questionable relationships with his spiritual mentors, peers, wives, and near-wives.

Twitchell died in the early seventies, around the time I was blacking out on Mogen David after my bat mitzvah. He had named Darwin Gross the next “Living Eck Master,” and he reigned until 1981, around the time I left California in search of a simpler life. It is said that Gross then handed the “Rod of Power” to Harold Klemp and soon after, Master Harold brought Eck back to the Midwest, near his Wisconsin hometown and beginnings as a Lutheran minister.

Gross, however, says that the Rod wasn’t handed to Klemp at all and that Klemp and his associates, including the current president of Eckankar, Peter Skelskey, wrested it away in what Gross calls a “coup.” Gross maintains that he is the true Living Eck Master/Mahanta and heads up his own religion, called Ancient Teachings of the Masters (ATOM). The overthrow of Gross—who looks like a guy who has a nice Mac Davis collection—doesn’t strike me as a South American bloodbath so much as an eighth-grade slap fight in the computer lab; then again, I’m an immature, superficial snob who can’t read any Eck material without thinking of a bunch of kids in a tree house fighting with foil swords stealing names from Mad magazine.

Of course, I didn’t blink when I bought pot from a guy named Gogo Garfinkel, so I decided to drop by the Eck temple out in Chanhassen and keep an open mind, at least for as long as I could go without a cigarette on their 174 acres of smoke-free grounds. It’s probably the only place in this country where you have to specify which pyramid-topped building you’re looking for, but basically the white one is Prince’s, the gold one, Eck’s.

I pass by a basket of paper slippers offered to protect the carpetand chat for a minute with the host and hostess on duty, Burdoc and Esther. Esther is really happy to see me. She’s wearing a sharp suit in a confident shade of red. Her jewelry, hair, and accessories say, “Have you had your luggage in your possession the entire time?” I like her, she’s peppy. She’s enthusiastic. Now she’s getting a little too
excited, so I ask if I can just look around for a while on my own. She tells me the official tour won’t start for another forty-five minutes. That’s fine, I say. I’ll just wander around. There are excellent walking trails outside. I’ve been out there before with my dog. Esther and Burdoc exchange looks. “How about if I show you the library?” she says brightly, while Burdoc picks up the phone.

Esther tells me that an inordinate number of moving vans were appearing in her life. She calls these coincidences “waking dreams.” First there was one on her street, then another on the way to work, and, well, you get the picture. “What does it mean?” I ask. She looks so excited. “Well, it means I’m going somewhere.”

“Really? Like a vacation?”

“Oh no, as soon as I get home I’m packing everything up. I’m going to be moving soon,” she says, with the same assurance one would use in saying that the sky is blue. I squirm out of her suggestion that we do a “Hu chant” together by asking for directions to the ladies’ room. When I return, Jennifer Exsted, Public Information Coordinator, is waiting for me. She looks out of breath. I feel terrible that Burdoc had summoned her from a picnic she was enjoying nearby at Lake Ann on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. “Oh, no, no, it’s no problem at all,” she reassures me. She shows me around the empty temple, opening doors, flicking lights on and off as we peer into one immaculate and dull classroom after another. The whole place looks like a hotel conference center. Most classrooms contain a bunch of chairs, a vase of fake flowers, and a silver dish with a doily in the bottom, presumably to muffle the sound of donated change. On the walls hang faithfully rendered paintings of visions by various Eck members. There is a preponderance of castles in clouds and vast natural settings with solemn human figures standing under stars with extra-long rays.

When I ask if the temple was built with security in mind, Exsted says that the building was designed for longevity, not defense. Neither of us mentions the vandalism—including bullet holes—that the temple suffered in the early eighties, some even while it was still under construction.

At the back there is a windowless room with a few rows of theater seats, a miniature chapel. It’s meant for smaller ceremonies, Exsted says, like weddings or rites of passage for youth. Eck has no position on gay marriage. In fact, when I ask about the usual hot topics—abortion, divorce, gay rights, polygamy, plus a few curveballs I make up on the fly, such as can you be a porn star and still be a member in good standing?—she bats every one out of the park. They abide by the laws of the state. They don’t do anything outside of the law and don’t encourage anyone to do so.

I keep her in the chapel a little too long. I’m entranced by the ten pictures of Eck Masters on the wall behind the podium. One in particular looks like a roadie for Siegfried and Roy. He’s got long blond hair and blue eyes and is clearly Caucasian. Exsted tells me I’m looking at Gopal Das, “from Egypt.” There’s the famous Rebazar Tarzs, who looks like Jim Marshall, the Vikings Hall of Famer. There’s Peddar Zaskq (Paul Twitchell), Yaubl Sacabi, and the guy with my favorite name, Fubbi Quantz. The most recent addition, Kata Daki, is the only female Master. She doesn’t look as if she’s been painted by the same artist as the others and I wonder if she’s been tacked on to the lineage to show gender sensitivity. Exsted doesn’t know much about her.

Je
sus, says Exsted, was not an Eck Master. Many of the Masters were just simple people who “appeared” to those in need of guidance. You don’t even need to use one of Eck’s Masters; “it could be someone who you would say you love,” says Exsted.

“Okay, so can I just worship the Quaker Oats guy?”

“Well, uh,” she says, almost missing a step, “I guess you could, but Harold’s picture has a strong vibration.” The secrecy around Klemp, says Exsted, is intentional. He is a celebrity, and the sheer numbers of followers—reported at fifty thousand worldwide—simply makes it impossible for the Master to be available to everyone on the phone or in public. When Eck first began, the leader would wade among his students, but those days are gone, says Exsted, gazing at the Master’s picture.

When I ask Exsted if Harold Klemp is actually alive somewhere, she says, “That’s a good question. You’d have to ask him.” So people can just pick up the phone and call him? “There isn’t really the need to do that,” she explains.

She’s right. Talking to Eckists, I find that they are perfectly comfortable referring to recent discussions they’ve had with Harold even though they have never personally met him. They converse with Harold in their minds. Exsted agrees with my conclusion that Harold Klemp is in many ways like the pope. Still, for this guy whose human form is insignificant, five or six thousand people are flying in from all over the planet, paying $130 to get in ($155 at the door), and I’ll bet they won’t be expecting to hear their Master’s voice from a TV monitor.

The seminar, to be fair, is also a chance for Eckists to hang out together, to visit the temple, and to attend workshops specifically tailored to their initiate level. The theme this year is “the Year of the Eck Missionary,” and attendees will go home equipped with suggestions like “be sure to mention Eck to at least one new person a week.” I’m curious about how these “missionaries” work in an organization that claims a non-proselytizing platform.

Exsted says that these and other questions about the Master should be taken up with Eck’s president, Peter Skelskey. Uh-oh. Isn’t he one of Harold’s bouncers who snatched the Rod of Power from poor old Darwin? Then again, he is like a founding father: It would be like asking Thomas Jefferson why he kept slaves. Fortunately for us both, Exsted calls me later to say that Skelskey doesn’t want to talk to me. I bet she told him about my Quaker Oats question.

Exsted finally knocks me off the log when she tosses out a second invitation to do a quick Hu chant. I stumble. I get all embarrassed and say no. At that, she leads me out of the chapel, triumphant and ready to show me the new kitchen.

I thought very, very hard about Eck during the drive back home. I mean, there are coincidences in life that I just let go all the time. And I do have dreams that leave big footprints on most of my days, which I normally kick onto the “maybe I’ll figure it out later” pile.

Just to prove I wasn’t chicken, I tried chanting the Hu. I start with “Hoooooo, hoooooo,” and then I remember that it’s pronounced “hew,” so I start again. “Hewwww…hewwww…” Oh, no way. This isn’t going to work. All I can think of is David Sedaris’s boyfriend. Then I start wondering why David Sedaris’s voice sounds so much like Klemp’s. I give up.

In September of 1991, two thirty-four-year-old members of Eck committed suicide, one near Syracuse, New York, and one in Kansas City. Eck spokesman Kent Livingston* told a New York paper in an official statement, “These things happen with members of all sorts of religions,” he said.

Now, I’m willing to allow that two suicides might be considered an acceptable loss of life—even better than average—for a worldwide congregation of fifty thousand. But last month a small news item appeared in the French newspaper, L’Express: Ten bodies were discovered in a house in French-speaking Mauritania. The news never got picked up by English-language outlets, and the only subsequent details provided were that two of the probable instigators (the ones who died last) held Eck medallions in their pockets. The others, it was reported, had been followers of the religion who had become entangled with the pair in various money-lending scenarios. In other words, this little group of Eckists was a cult, at least by one definition.

Most Eck practitioners don’t seem to hear, know, or care about the charges being lobbed over the walls of their castle. Only a few esoteric anti-Eck books have been published, people don’t protest their meetings, and there are no instances of dramatic deprogramming rescues.

Online, however, it’s a different story. After slogging through thousands of debates ranging from the philosophical to the juvenile (“Hey, Doug, do you still cut your hair using a salad bowl?”), I’m frankly relieved to simply walk away from the cacophony and call it a draw.

What sticks like a JuJube in my molars, though, is Klemp’s apparent power to amend Eckankar’s sacred texts and official history. His job, in fact, is to interpret the texts and update members with the latest from Fubbi Quantz and Co. Sadly, Klemp and others have simply erased or taken out of print those publications that disrupt the current image of the organization. Not only does Eck have a very short history; it seems to be written in pencil. A few troubling citations do remain:

“…the mission of the Mahanta on this earth is to stir the millions of non-initiated into revolt against all orthodox religions. It also means that anyone who opposes the Mahanta in any of the worlds is foolish for the ECK will work swiftly in retribution.”
—Book I, p. 181

“But once the chela has become a member of the inner circle, he cannot resign. Those few have found that spiritual decay sets in immediately, affecting the health, material life and spiritual life, and brings death more swiftly.”
—Book II, p. 197 (p. 166 in older editions)

Since neither Klemp nor Skelskey wants to talk to me, I’ll assume that these citations are still in play.

One recent morning my partner’s stomach was growling and it sounded exactly like the intro to “Dreamweaver.” Clearly, all this Eck stuff was starting to get to me. What did this mean? Was he merely hungry or was Harold trying to talk to me? Maybe Harold was hungry. I read somewhere that he may be suffering from environmental illness. What could I possibly feed him? Maybe he was trying to tell me to give away my Aveda products?

I didn’t get it.

Admittedly, I was ready to have an encounter with Eck like the one I’d had at St. Mary’s more than twenty years ago. To be honest, writing full-time in rural Wisconsin does get a little lonely. I looked for a parting of the clouds, for a ray of sunshine that may have led to a fellowship like the one I have enjoyed in a variety of twelve-step programs.

In the end, I realized that the true guiding light in my life is right in front of me every single day that I am fortunate enough to open my eyes. I’m happy as a spiritual amoeba; I’ll continue gravitating toward warmth and light and avoiding cold, pointy things. It’s just a tad too noisy there among the Eckists and anti-Eckists. Besides, I tend to feel at home with loners and survivors, not joiners and believers. Out here, among the crickets and coyotes, I can hear God speaking pretty clearly. Most of all, I guess I’m no longer in the market for the surrogate sense of belonging I once got from dope and those first uncomfortable AA meetings. I am surrounded by infinite proof of a universe that has a place for me right here, right now. Besides, my God doesn’t mind if I smoke while we pass the time.

*Due to an editing error, an earlier version of this story incorrectly identified the speaker. We regret the err
or and hereby correct it.—Eds., 11/11/04

Once you’ve paid forty bucks to sit down with a hundred complete strangers wearing party hats and paper bibs, the rest should be easy. It’s so easy, in fact, that some folks put away as much as two pounds of crayfish before the American Swedish Institute’s annual krafskiva was over. Assisted by scheduled shots of aquavit, the crowd even allowed itself to be led in a three-part round, singing “R2-D2, R2-D2, 3PO, 3PO, Obi-Wan Kenobe, Obi-Wan Kenobe, Han Solo, Han Solo” to the tune of “Frere Jacques.”

To make all this happen, Anna-Lena Skold, the American Swedish Institute’s chef, had boiled about twelve hundred of the critters with sugar and dill for this year’s festivities, a provision of about a pound per guest. But few people stuck to this ten-crayfish average. The crowd tended to divide into fanatics who cracked fifteen shells or more, and their ambivalent spouses, who put a few token samples on a plate and admitted, as did Sylvia Strand, “I’m doing this for him.” She nodded toward Rodney Strand, who predicted he would lose count at about fifteen and keep on going. Finding the meat tender and buttery, I nonetheless quit at five.

About two-hundred million years ago (the Triassic, if you must know), when crayfish and lobsters parted ways, it’s unlikely they had hungry Swedes in mind for a destination. The crayfish side of the family had merely adapted to less spacious freshwater environments, says Dr. Keith Crandall. Crandall works in the Department of Integrative Biology at Brigham Young University, where much of the existing crayfish knowledge has accumulated. “They have also adapted to other environments,” Crandall said. “There are a number of cave-obligate crayfish without pigment and without eyes.” A lot can happen in two hundred million years, but despite their long separation, crayfish and lobsters remain “sister taxa,” said Crandall, meaning that they share a most recent common ancestor.

Indeed, the crayfish on the American Swedish Institute’s tables looked like perfect, tiny lobsters. They even turn the same pretty scarlet when boiled. And they also come prepared for revenge on those who would eat them. Access to the meat is gained by cracking a little beast open with bare hands (no fancy lobster tools here), at which point the crayfish, as if under pressure, sprays a fine mist over the diner. Hence the bibs.

Patty Strandquist, tablemate and English teacher from Apple Valley, was undeterred by the crayfish’s posthumous self-defense. “I’m liking it,” she said. “It’s a bit of a wrestling match.” She had brought her friend Lois from New York to enjoy this taste of Minnesota, and the pile of red shells near their plates grew steadily despite their admission that they had “no method at all” for getting at the meat.

Lisa Niforopulos shared a technique she learned during childhood vacations in Sweden. And she wished the waitresses would quit removing her shells; she had lost count. “Now I don’t know where I’ve been,” she complained as she broke the tail clean off a cephalothorax. She sucked the meat directly out of the shell—a method Swedes consider not a vulgarity, but a necessity. (In New Orleans, where crawdads are also popular, they have a rather blunt way to describe this technique.)

After another mandatory sing-along from the American Swedish Institute Crayfish Party Songbook, Niforopulos explained what makes crayfish worth eating in such quantity. “They’re sweet and delicate tasting. The dill sets them off nicely.” Not to mention the high lipo content, which might explain why Swedes established the tradition of bingeing on them before winter. A pound of crayfish can deliver more than eight hundred milligrams of cholesterol to the consumer. It would take five jars of mayonnaise to meet that goal, leaving an obvious choice for most folks. And, as Niforopulos concluded, “It’s fun to eat with your hands.”—Joe Pastoor

Ernesto “Che” Guevara has come a long way. Once best known as a fierce companion of Fidel Castro, he now graces the T-shirts of revolutionaries, as well as assorted hipsters, celebrities, and stoners who couldn’t find Che’s native country (Argentina) on a map. Since the release of The Motorcycle Diaries, a film based on Che’s memoirs that emphasizes his wandering, Kerouac-like persona more than his communist heroics and martyrdom, sales of posters, buttons, and other Che merchandise have soared. Che is more popular than ever, even if his socialist ideals have run aground.

If becoming a martyr, a cult of personality, and a sex symbol weren’t indignity enough for a Marxist, his image has now been copyrighted. A Georgia man named David McWilliams is claiming he has an exclusive license to reproduce the famous Che photo anywhere in North America—and he’s threatening to sue anyone who violates this right. That includes Northern Sun, the charming boutique for radicals in South Minneapolis. “Please send a list of total inventory on your shelves, and forward same to us for destruction,” McWilliams commanded in an email to Northern Sun owner Scott Cramer on August 17. “Failure to comply with these requests will result in our pursuit of all legal remedies available to us.”

Cramer says he initially agreed to start buying all of his Che merchandise from McWilliams’ company, but then he found out the T-shirts were made in Honduras, a country with terrible labor conditions. Who exactly was this man who claimed to own Che? When McWilliams refused to supply Cramer with T-shirts made in the U.S.A., Cramer was forced to keep all Che products out of his catalog and website until he and his lawyers could figure out what to do.

McWilliams did not respond to my friendly inquiries. But according to Cramer, McWilliams says he purchased the license from some Frenchmen after they threatened to sue him for violating their copyright. How the Frenchmen got rights to the photo is unclear.

The iconic image of Che comes from a photo taken in 1960 by Cuban photographer Alberto Korda. The print collected dust in Korda’s studio until 1967, the year of Guevara’s death, when a visiting Italian publisher got a copy of the print from Korda, brought it back to Europe, and sold more than two million posters. Korda could do nothing, because Cuba had, until 1997, refused to join the international Berne Copyright Convention.

Even then, Korda only bothered with one lawsuit, against Smirnoff Vodka in 2000. They wanted to use it in an ad campaign. Korda said he didn’t mind if people reproduced Che’s image “to propagate his memory and the cause of social justice throughout the world,” but he was against using it to sell alcohol, or “for any purpose that denigrates the reputation of Che.” He won the case, and he donated all the money to Cuban hospitals.

When Korda died in 2001, the rights he had exercised passed on to his daughter. She has been twice as aggressive in suing people who use the image for political causes, particularly those she feels her father would abhor (one anti-Cuba and another anti-abortion). But it is unclear whether she has ever profited from any licensing schemes. Some sources say it is not Korda’s daughter, but Che’s estate, that now controls the copyright.

“That was my first mistake,” says Cramer. “When McWilliams offered to send me proof, I said, ‘No, that’s okay, I believe you.’” Cramer consulted a copyright lawyer, but he could offer little advice without actually seeing documentation of McWilliams’ rights.

But Johnny Havana, a merchandiser based in Toronto who runs TheCheStore.com, says Cramer did the right thing. After dealing with similar threats a year ago, Havana did some research and concluded that it wasn’t worth it for a small company to take on McWilliams. “I would have had to go to France to fight.” Havana says McWilliams sells him a good product and he’s never had any complaints. And the T-shirts Havana gets are all made in the United States, he says.

So why did McWilliams tell Cramer he could only buy Che T-shirts made in Honduras? “It’s a big company,” says Havana. “He can do whatever he wants.” In other words, capitalism wins. —Katherine Glover

Michael and Ann’s boy, Nathan, was robbed. Not that he cared, because he didn’t. But I saw the whole thing, and, of the twelve “Best Bagger” contestants, he was the class of the show. The way he studied the relative bulk, density, shape, and fragility of some twenty-five pounds of groceries. And the way his fingers twitched over the folded bags. Eye of the tiger—cool, focused, dangerous. And when the clock started, the loose and willowy sixteen-year-old (6’2″ and 120 pounds, with groceries) moved in about a hundred directions at once, like a Swedish Vishnu. In one deft move, he cradled the eggs, swooped the boxed-rice side dishes three at a time, and snagged fish crackers on the way into the bag. He was not just lightning-fast and graceful. Nate Bjornberg respected the groceries. Even the Dinty Moore products. He respected the heft and invincibility of the cans, the regular beauty of the box, the golden thirds created by half-gallons of milk. He respected the levity of paper towels, their happy-go-lucky nature. Even though there was no meat or produce in this contest, I can imagine his long fingers reading the prayer of the nectarine in its smooth flesh, and tracing the whole life of the heifer and whether it found any joy as he slipped the round steak in next to the tilapia fillets. I’m just saying, Nate was robbed.

Anyway, the bagging contest. It’s legit. Established and organized by the National Grocer’s Association about thirty-five years ago, it’s open to any bagman, -woman, or -teen employed by a store that is a member of the Grocer’s Association. The Minnesota Grocer’s Association organized the 2004 Best Bagger contest, held recently at the Mall of America, to determine our bagman at the national contest in Las Vegas next February. A couple of things to note: pro bagging is a man’s sport (there were no female contestants among the twelve state challengers) and only eighteen states participate in the national Best Bagger contest. Some stores hold a preliminary competition to determine their representative at the state meet. Nate had already vanquished all comers at his store, the Highland Park Lunds (picking up $100 for the trouble), and spanked the competition in a metro-wide contest (winning another $200). He’s no rookie.

Heats of three baggers face off at long folding tables topped with the same groceries in the same configurations, and two folded paper bags. (The national contest has a heat for both paper and plastic, because we live in a world of choices.) Contestants are provided with a list of the groceries that will be used in the competition and, yes, some do go out and buy them and practice. For most, like Nate, it’s just another day at the office. Scoring criteria are as follows: speed—ten points; proper bag-building—ten points; weight distribution—five points; style/appearance (of the bagger)—five points. As far as speed goes, anything under twenty-five seconds receives full points. Just to give you an idea, all twelve Minnesota baggers filled two bags in less than a minute. Try that yourself at the co-op sometime.

Proper bag-building not only maintains the groceries in pristine condition for the ride home, but also allows the bagger to maximize the grocery load without sacrificing aesthetics. The fundamentals of bag-building? Solid foundation with four square corners, glass should never touch glass, eggs near the top but secure, and paper products on top. Ideally, the two bags should not vary in weight by more than one-half pound; that gets full points. Points for style/appearance are a giveaway. To my eye, Nate clinched it by having had a haircut just for the event, as evidenced by the whitewalls.

When all three contestants in the heat are finished, the panel of judges (board members of the Minnesota Grocer’s Association) record times and weights, inspect the bags, and assign points. Third place at the state checkout earned $100, second place was tipped $150, and first place got $500 plus $250 in travel expenses plus airfare and hotel for two in Las Vegas (since many winners are minors, it’s usually a parent filling the other airplane seat). The purse at the national contest is $2,000 for first, $1,000 for second, and $500 each for third, fourth, and fifth. Minnesota has never had a national champion. There was a lot on the line.

After Nate’s third-place showing, I was a little vexed to learn that he had not worked for ten days because he’d been at soccer tryouts. Soccer tryouts! Nonetheless, he effortlessly dusted Noah Schwalbe of Waconia in a nail-biting bag-off for third place. The second-place finisher was nowhere, in my opinion. And the winner, while formidable, did not demonstrate even half the grocery awareness and sensibility Nate did. Kyle Schultz of Chris’ Food Center in Sandstone took the honors. Last year’s Best Bagger also came from Chris’ Food Center. Eight of the recent champions have come from Chris’ Food Center. In fact, Chris of Chris’ Food Center was a past Minnesota Best Bagger. Does that seem funny to you? Obviously this is a bagging dynasty patterned after the Eastern European sports machine.

Just so, Nate is pretty philosophical about the whole thing, and by that I mean bagging, the bagging contest, and life in general. What he likes best about bagging is “the money, and it’s easy, and it’s something I can get my mind on.” There’s nothing he really doesn’t like about it. Except maybe oozing meat and fish, because it smells. He notices purchases only when people buy weird stuff like Ex-Lax and diapers at the same time. When I asked about the effect of fame and fortune on his work life, Nate replied, “I think I did get a raise.” Spoken like a true artist.—Sarah Barker

One recent afternoon, I tried dialing up Fred Hribar, my old typewriter repairman. I got a busy signal, which I hoped for Fred’s sake was as promising as it was anachronistic. When I eventually managed to get him on the line I said, “How’s business?”

“There ain’t none,” Fred said with a chuckle. You won’t find a more cheerful bunch of fatalists than the typewriter repairmen of the Twin Cities. Assuming, that is, that you could actually find a bunch of typewriter repairmen in the Twin Cities. (Maybe, in fact, bunch isn’t quite the right word; handful would perhaps be more like it, allowing for the loss of a finger or two to shop accidents.)

“Everything’s pretty much died,” admitted Hribar, who has been servicing typewriters since 1961. “I’m one of the last dogs left—Friendly Freddie the Freeloader—and these days I’m more or less just putzing around the house. Stuff now is made to be obsolete; if it breaks down you just pitch it in the dumpster.” Hribar is sixty-nine, and he can remember when things were different. For decades he owned Gittins Typewriter on Chicago Avenue, and he was an authorized Brother technician, doing a quarter of a million dollars a year in sales and service.

“I remember when the old IBM Selectric ball machine first came along, people thought that was the greatest thing in the world,” Hribar told me. “Then the daisy wheel models hit the streets and pretty much killed off the ball machines. Once computers became affordable, typewriter sales went to hell and the service followed. It got so bad that I rented out my building on Chicago—it’s a gun shop now.” Today he works out of his house in Hopkins.

I hauled a portable Brother manual typewriter around with me for twenty years; it’s a beautiful little turquoise-enameled tank with a pop-off top, and the thing still works like a charm. Whenever I needed a new ribbon or a cleaning, Fred was my man. He can still spit out my machine’s specs off the top of his head. “Oh, hell yes, that thing’ll last forever,” he said. “Takes a T-5 ribbon, still being made by General Ribbon out of California.” I kvetched that since I started working mostly on computers eight years ago I’ve gone through three different machines. “That’s the story of the world,” he said with a shrug. “Everything’s changing all the time, and things go to hell in a hurry. So much of the stuff that’s out there now costs so much to fix that it’s cheaper to just go buy a new machine.”

Hribar said, “If I make $100 a month I’m doing pretty good. It’s a dying racket, and I guess I’m dying right along with it. You watch it all disappear and there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. I live with reality, and I deal with it. What the hell, I’ll go fishing. And if I could find a rich woman to support me in my old age, I’d be doing just fine for myself.”

Things aren’t quite so dire at Vale Typewriter, Inc., in Richfield, where owner Mark Soderbeck still keeps regular hours. Vale’s been in business since 1956, and Soderbeck has owned the place for twenty-eight years. On the afternoon I stopped by, Soderbeck was hanging around the backroom, shooting the breeze with Ted Schroeder, a retired typewriter tech who was with Royal and Metro Sales for forty-two years. It was immediately apparent that Soderbeck and Schroeder had spent more than a few hours telling old war stories and commiserating over beers. They recalled the days when there were upward of twenty-five different repair shops in the Twin Cities, and the state vocational schools (and Stillwater State Prison) offered programs for aspiring repairmen. A behemoth like IBM employed more than a hundred repair techs in the metro area alone, and Royal had twenty-two working out of its shop in Minneapolis. Today there are only two typewriter manufacturers left in the world, and most of the old fraternity of repairmen have died or retired.

As office machinery evolved over the years, and electric typewriters gave way to electronic models with computerized components, Soderbeck took classes to stay abreast of changes in the industry. Though he now also services printers, fax machines, and copiers (and makes office calls), typewriter sales and repairs still account for seventy percent of his business. “Things just sort of keep plugging along,” Soderbeck said. “I’ll see quite a few of what I call heirloom machines, things people just want to restore. And I still pretty regularly sell manual typewriters to young people who apparently want to be writers and think it’ll give them some kind of edge. The old manuals just don’t break down. There are also still some things that are just plain easier to do with a typewriter—envelopes, labels, carbon copies where you need that impact; it’s quicker to roll something like that into a typewriter and bang it out. I suppose as soon as the government comes up with forms that you can fill out online, that’ll be the demise of the typewriter business.” Schroeder listened to this prediction, chuckled, and nodded his head in agreement. “Oh yeah,” he said. “We’re a dying breed. Ten years from now there won’t be any of us left.”—Brad Zellar

Far be it from me to question the wisdom of Mother Angelica, but why does her Eternal Word Television Network exile its hottest property to the small-screen Aleutians of Saturday afternoon? With a roster of repeats and retreads trying to fill up a twenty-four-hour cable schedule, EWTN leaves only disoccupied weekenders to savor G.K. Chesterton: The Apostle of Common Sense, the best literary television show nobody’s ever seen and an undiscovered gem of the Twin Cities.

If it’s been awhile since you thought about Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936), the English essayist, novelist, playwright, hagiographer, Catholic apologist, and journalist, then the Bloomington-based American Chesterton Society is here to set you straight. Chesterton, says ACS president and Apostle host Dale Ahlquist, was the greatest writer of the twentieth century. “He said something about everything,” Ahlquist asserts. “And he said it better than anybody else.”

Or, at least, he said it more paradoxically than anybody else. In one hundred nonfiction books, five novels, five plays, more than four thousand newspaper columns, and, most famous, his popular “Father Brown” mysteries, Chesterton was the Prince of Paradox, a master of phrases and imagery that turn arguments inside out and ideas upside down. Some examples:

The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason.

A citizen can hardly distinguish between a tax
and a fine, except that the fine is generally
much lighter.

The weakness of all Utopias is this, that they take the greatest difficulty of man and assume it to be overcome, and then give an elaborate account of the overcoming of the smaller ones. They first assume that no man will want more than his share, and then are very ingenious in explaining whether his share will be delivered by motor-car or balloon.
There is nothing that fails like success.

The one genuinely dangerous and immoral way of drinking wine is to drink it as a medicine.

We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild [train] engine strikes a distant station?

Chestertonian paradoxes serve various purposes: to cut through received ideas, to render an opponent’s argument absurd, to follow reason to its logical end. But taken together, they place Chesterton among the revolutionaries of modern literature. His best novel, 1908’s The Man Who Was Thursday, a philosophical mystery about undercover policemen tracking anarchists, is a proto-surrealist work of non-sequitur images, shifting ideas, hints of divinity, and dream logic. In his nonfiction Chesterton was at once plain and absurd (“One elephant having a trunk was odd: all elephants having trunks looked like a plot”). The cliché of modern criminal fiction, that cop and crook are mirror images, owes something to Father Brown, whose central sleuthing device is a conviction that he is no better than the criminal he catches. Jorge Luis Borges claimed Chesterton as an influence. Franz Kafka was a fan. In leading their respective countries’ revolutions, Michael Collins and Mohandas Gandhi drew on lessons from The Napoleon of Notting Hill, Chesterton’s libertarian fantasia of a self-selected premodern community battling a total world government.

So why isn’t G.K. Chesterton better known? To the folks at the American Chesterton Society, it’s a scandal, with possibly anti-religious overtones, that Chesterton (a staunch defender of Catholic authority and a late-life convert to the Roman church) is no longer taught in schools while his secular and atheist interlocutors George Bernard Shaw and H.G. Wells are held up as literary giants. “The world finds it much more convenient to ignore him rather than to engage with him in argument,” says Ahlquist, “because to argue with Chesterton is to lose.”

To keep that argument alive, the Chesterton Society hits the public with Gilbert magazine, a schedule of symposia and lecture tours (Ahlquist promotes Chesterton as a full-time job), book sales, and the Apostle TV show.

The Apostle of Common Sense is appealing in large part because of its not-ready-for-prime-time format and style. From a set at EWTN’s Alabama studios decorated as a gentleman’s study with first editions, comfy leather chairs, Chesterton memorabilia, and a fireplace, Ahlquist delivers the good news in a leisurely, anti-televisual manner; he has the quiet confidence of a man assured that error must ultimately yield to truth. Direct quotations from the author are delivered by Normandale College professor John “Chuck” Chalberg, dressed as Chesterton on a stage set done up as a foggy London street. In an episode devoted to the question “What’s the one Chesterton book I should read?,” Ahlquist commits the classic salesman’s gaffe of not knowing when to stop. He recommends four categories—the Elementary Chesterton, the Indispensable Chesterton, the Fundamental Chesterton, and the Necessary Chesterton—and each category contains four or more books! This is full Chesterton immersion, powered by the host’s infectious enthusiasm for his subject; you’d have to be a pretty jaded viewer not to feel some urge to hang with Dale Ahlquist in his study, exchanging Chestertonisms far into the evening.

Is Chesterton really underappreciated? I’m not so sure. He’s never gone out of print. He’s received accolades from such leading lights as W.H. Auden, Ernest Hemingway, Gabriel Garcia Márquez, Kingsley Amis, and Anthony Burgess. San Francisco-based Ignatius Press is currently working on the thirty-sixth volume of a Complete Works. He’s the subject of two magazines. (Hardcore Chestertonians can supplement the populist Gilbert with Seton Hall University’s more scholarly Chesterton Review.) Chesterton himself showed up as a character in Neil Gaiman’s legendary Sandman comics in the early 1990s. The columnist George Will quotes him regularly. He has fifty-nine entries in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Then there’s The Apostle of Common Sense: Neither Shaw nor Wells is the subject of a weekly television series—even Bill Shakespeare doesn’t have one. In terms of literary reputation, Chesterton seems to occupy the catbird seat: He’s still read, still admired, still adored by a devoted fan base, but he’s not so prominent that his deficiencies as a writer and philosopher come up for regular review.

Still, if you’re convinced your guy is the greatest writer of the last century, any neglect will seem like an insult. “I do really feel that part of it is a conspiracy,” Ahlquist says. “The leading thinkers in our colleges and universities don’t want the kind of thinking Chesterton represents.” One Chesterton Society member, a Lawrence University student named Christopher Chan, did his senior thesis in the form of a five hundred-page novel and lecture demonstrating Chesterton’s superiority to such modernist luminaries as Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster, and James Joyce.

My own Chesterton fandom could be called “enthusiastic but qualified.” His fictional characters are as perfunctorily differentiated as chess pieces, and his dialogue tends to consist of a declaration followed by a rebuttal. He rarely uses one word where fifty will do, with the result that beautifully turned epigrams often mutate into page-gobbling digressions. Even if you have an appetite for verbal paradox, Chesterton can be wearying when he (frequently) paradoxes on autopilot. And his consistent distaste for any character of Semitic origin creeps out even broad-minded readers.

A deeper question is whether Chesterton belongs more to theology or to secular literature—and even there, his output is too exhaustive for easy handling. “More perhaps than with any other writer,” says Neil Gaiman, a lifelong fan, “you have to read Chesterton critically; you have to find diamonds in the chaff. That’s part
of what makes him wonderful; he was larger than life in every way. But one of the results is that he wrote too much.”

In the process, he produced something to attract and repel everybody. Social conservatives who love his anti-progressive zingers have little time for his anti-imperialism and contempt for the wealthy. Libertarians attracted to his small-government, pub-based localism balk at “distributism,” Chesterton’s effort to overlay a feudal economy on a private-property society. Even science- fiction fans who grok works like Thursday and Notting Hill can’t abide his lofty (and, frankly, often ignorant) dismissals of science and technical progress. “The Man Who Was Thursday would make a great movie,” says Gaiman. “But again, he’s so big: Are you selling him to Pynchon fans? They might like him. To science-fiction fans, who also might be interested? To Christians, who might appreciate this idea that God is large enough to contain the devil within himself?”

“Big” and “large” are favorite terms when Chesterton is discussed. He offers such heavy doses of charm and self-deprecation, such a generous helping of mental energy and comical phrasing, that it’s easy to see why the Society’s nearly three thousand members and subscribers love to spend time with his six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound ghost. And, ironically, the multi-volume syllabus Dale Ahlquist suggests is inviting because of its breadth, the serendipitous pleasure of dipping at random into the ocean of Chestertonia.

The Apostle of Common Sense has just begun its third season, with a slightly expanded format and a troupe of actors performing scenes from the author’s work. “Chesterton himself said that every great writer will go into a period of eclipse after his death; and if he comes back it will be for the right reasons,” says Ahlquist. “Now people are rediscovering him, as a universal writer. The more I read Chesterton the more I’m confirmed that he’s one of the most complete thinkers who ever put pen to paper. I feel lucky to be the one trying to promote him.”

I don’t think that promotion will lead to Chesterton’s displacing Shaw, Wells, or Joyce in whatever “the canon” is these days. Nor, for fear of enraging the ghosts of James Branch Cabell, Joseph Hergesheimer, and Jerome Weidman, do I claim that he is the twentieth century’s most forgotten popular writer. But I suspect the Chestertonians are right about something. What keeps me coming back to Chesterton is his tendency, even at his most witty or lighthearted or smugly pontifical, to court a sense of cosmic dread and despair. I suspect he writes so frequently about tradition and sanity because he has an oversize horror of their opposites. In the following passage from his great 1908 apologia, Orthodoxy, you get a forecast of the infinite-but-bounded universes Borge and Kafka would write about a few years later:

The grandeur or infinity of the…cosmos added nothing to it. It was like telling a prisoner in Reading gaol that he would be glad to hear the gaol now covered half the country. The warden would have nothing to show the man except more and more long corridors of stone lit by ghastly lights and empty of all that is human. So these expanders of the universe had nothing to show us except more and more infinite corridors of space lit by ghastly suns and empty of all that is divine.

Maybe Chesterton’s real reputational counterpart is another prolific, demotic, roughly contemporary writer with glaring weaknesses and superhuman strengths, one who was also deeply skeptical of the Enlightenment, and who also can be described as “wildly popular” and “sorely neglected” at the same time. If G.K. Chesterton was the twentieth century’s Gallant, H.P. Lovecraft was its Goofus. Chesterton imagined a God large enough to contain the devil; Lovecraft imagined a devil large enough to contain God. Read a sample of their works together—say, Chesterton’s story “The Angry Street” and Lovecraft’s similar “The Music of Erich Zann”—and you’ll see how the one’s witty rationality and the other’s howling madness go together like sweet and sour. You don’t have to believe in the God of Roman Catholicism to dig Chesterton any more than you need to believe in Cthulhu to appreciate Lovecraft. But when the two are working their magic, both ideas seem completely plausible.