Interlude

Well, we made it to Chicago. We originally had grandiose and much-talked-about plans of completing the blog tonight, but... We Are So Tired. And have 18 hours to drive tomorrow! So, a brief intermission will now ensue, with bloggage to likely be completed on Tuesday.

Pizza Farm- May 26th

To be honest, it’s kind of amazing this one ever happened. The Pizza Farm is only open on Tuesdays, and we and our friends, y’know, work for a living, so we had to work out a time on a weekday evening to drive out to rural Wisconsin. The logistics were intimidating.

What is the Pizza Farm, you ask? Like Isle Bun, it has a real name that we choose to ignore (A to Z Produce & Bakery) because it’s not as fun to say. It’s an 80-acre farm in Stockholm, Wisconsin, where the owners sell made-to-order pizzas with fresh ingredients from the farm. They cook the pizzas in wood-burning ovens. It is all rather remarkable.

The Pizza Farm is a do-it-yourself affair from all perspectives: the owners grow their own ingredients, and you bring all the silverware, plates, beverages, etc. There is a picnic table, but otherwise you provide your own seating. In a way, we lucked out with rainy weather, because when we got there – that’s us, Becky, Sebastian, Doug, Roz, and Tim – there were only two other groups of people. We ordered a few pizzas, waited just a few minutes, and sat down to the picnic table to enjoy our dinner.

The first thing we noticed was the kitten (or was it just a tiny cat?) wandering around our table. She was surprisingly friendly, and we decided to name her, creatively, Pizza Cat. So we had fresh pizza, a tiny cat, beer, chips and guacamole. Just how cold beer tastes better while you’re sitting in the sunshine, warm pizza tastes better while you’re sitting on a chilly farm, under a slight drizzle.

Which reminds us: the farm! The land at the Pizza Farm is both flat and hilly, and looks a lot like Ireland. It probably also looks a lot like the rest of rural Wisconsin or Minnesota, but we have sadly little experience with those regions. So we were pretty awestruck by our lush surroundings, and they were especially beautiful while damp from light rain. Like many items on The List, the Pizza Farm is like a parallel universe. This is partly because we’re a couple of city snobs who don’t venture enough outside our comfort zone, but also because you can go to a farm for pizza. That just isn’t normal.

After our meal, we hung around a bit on the patio near the stove, where we discovered another, almost identical cat who, we decided, would be known as Cat Pizza. (Did we mention we brought beer?) At one point, we noticed there were some people gathered around what looked like a pull-out compost bin. Lizzie and Roz went to investigate, and found that it was ... full of two-week-old kittens! This post so far runs totally contrary to our claim that we’re not “cat people”, but you have to understand – Pizza Cat, Cat Pizza, and obviously this bin of kittens were all among the most adorable cats we’ve ever seen. A girl standing near the bin told Lizzie about how a previous litter, except for one survivor, was eaten by a possum. This is of course a sad story, but the girl’s excitement and passion for storytelling made this a delightful exchange.

So there you have it: on a farm in Stockholm, Wisconsin, you can get a pizza that is made entirely on the premises. We should probably leave the city more often.

Bryant-Lake Bowl- May 25th

Oh man, can you feel it? Can you feel how close we are to the end of the list? For us, it’s both exciting and sad. We’re writing this post the day before we drive off to Boston, with Summit, Victor’s, and a bunch of great friends in the rear view mirror.

In the meantime, we have four more items on the list. The first is Bryant-Lake Bowl, which we visited on Monday. How to describe Bryant-Lake Bowl? It’s a bar, a restaurant, a bowling alley, a theater. The fact that it’s all these things but retains a single identity and personality is a credit to its owners and staff. When we moved here, it was a comforting place, full of laid-back warmth and good food. We also noticed a sign in the window that said “Cheap Date Night”, outlining its Monday night deal: two entrees, one bottle of wine (or two beers each), one round of bowling, all for $28. This, my friends, would never happen in Boston. All you can do with $28 in Boston is pay for half a parking ticket.

When we saw that sign in 2004, we thought, “We’ll have to do that sometime soon.” It didn’t happen, and we figured this Monday would be our chance. Then the specials didn’t look very appealing, and … yeah. Oh well. We instead had some beers and some awesome food on their awesome wood tables that resemble bowling lane surfaces, and did some bowling.

A note about bowling at Bryant-Lake Bowl: people here take it just seriously enough. Though some pros surely pass through the place, it’s mostly friends having a good time. Strikes are rewarded with joyous applause, gutterballs are greeted with either polite encouragement or severe mockery (depending on the relationship). Lizzie and I are fine bowlers, neither good nor bad, mostly just inconsistent. (How inconsistent? Monday’s game included a few strikes each, and otherwise we only got a few pins down at a time. Yikes.)

We like to take people from Boston to Bryant-Lake Bowl, because many of them – including us, in 2004 – don’t have much experience with “real” bowling. In New England there’s a phenomenon called candlepin bowling, which has much smaller pins and balls. (It also predated real bowling, and was developed in Worcester, MA. Who knew?) While bowling on Monday, a strange thing happened: Lizzie suddenly remembered candlepin bowling. It was a stunning realization that, in some ways, we have become Midwesterners. But only in some ways. The day we say “pop” instead of “soda” is the day we hang our heads in shame. Mark our words.

Also: formerly dilapidated, now gorgeous historic housing

Doug, of Doug fame, decided earlier this week that our Minneapolis education was not complete unless we had been to Nicollet Island. We were a little perplexed, since as far as we could tell Nicollet Island seemed to mostly consist of a dowdy restaurant that was probably the height of fine dining in 1975. Doug assured us that there were other treasures to be found there, including one of the best views of downtown. He was right; it was gorgeous. Though slightly marred by a bunch of intoxicated 20-something guys who told us they were living in the woods and urged us not to touch their backpacks. Which we planned not to do. Apparently woodland-dwelling guys spend most of their time playing poker on their iPhones down by the river. One seemed bent on “befriending” us; upon learning that we were moving to Boston, he told us he was from there. From a little town by “the East Bay,” near “Portage.” As far as we’re aware, these are not places in Massachusetts, though we let it slide, in part because we wanted to walk around and look at the beautiful historic houses. Turns out the north part of the island is full of gingerbread-house-esque ancient wooden houses that were lovingly restored after having been nearly destroyed by neglect. It sorta looks like Nantucket, complete with stone streets and old-timey streetlights.

While walking around admiring the neighborhood, Doug and Becky discovered that we also hadn’t ever been to Milwaukee Ave and urged us to check it out. We went over there on Saturday and were stunned by how gorgeous the houses were, tucked away in the most unlikely location in the middle of a block. Apparently the street was developed as a worker’s community in the 1880’s; by the 1970’s it was in severe disrepair and nearly demolished. But wow, has it made a comeback. It’s also only for pedestrian use (except emergency vehicles), so you’re able to leisurely down the block and see only a few other walkers and kids on bikes. In our post-Minneapolis dreams, all of our friends move in there together, and eventually their tiny children run rampant down the historic street. Better get crackin’, kids.

St Anthony/ drinking outside- May 25th

As we've said a few times already in this blog, there are little things in Minneapolis that are hidden away, and surprise you when you see them. Though it's obviously no secret, St. Anthony Main isn't talked about very often, and we don't understand why. There's a movie theater, a few bars, some stores, all along this riverfront cobblestone street. While Dave is a big fan of the little old movie theater, Lizzie doesn't like its uncomfortable seats. Otherwise, we agree on St. Anthnoy Main as a beautiful spot, especially if you're...

Drinking outside! That's right, we combined two items on the list into one event. Do you feel cheated? Hopefully the "Also" bonus posts will make up for it. We are nothing if not fair bloggers. Anyway: drinking outside at St. Anthony Main. There's nothing better than enjoying a cold beer at Pracna after seeing a stupid summer movie at the theater - it's a reward for suffering through the cold, snowy winter months. The view from that cobblestone street is amazing, because you see the downtown buildings, the river, the Stone Arch Bridge, the Hennepin Avenue Bridge, the Gold Medal Flour sign. And though Pracna is sometimes full of college freshmen trying their first cigar, it's a nice place to grab a beer, some fries, and one of the best views around. We went to Pracna on Sunday night, in perfect weather. The view was as awesome as always.

And drinking outside? There are some great places to do it in Minneapolis. There's something special about sitting in the sunshine and drinking some cold alcohol, especially - are you sensing a theme? - after a horrendous winter.

We'll have more to say about the St. Anthony area in a future post (get excited!).

Purple Rain- May 24th

Um, what? Wait ... what just ... what?!

We had heard that Purple Rain isn't exactly good, that it's more of an experience with amazing music than a coherent movie. But words could not have prepared us for what we saw. Nothing.

True, it's not what one would call a good movie. But it was a really fun experience, from the surreal acting to the ridiculous script. What surprised us was how old-fashioned the story is: there's a kid (called The Kid) who wants to be a STAR!, and his band at the nightclub (which is kind of like a cross between a punk club and The Brown Derby) is struggling to survive. There's some bug-eyed dude in a zoot suit with a rival band, and an unattainable mystery woman named Apollonia. It was sort of like a movie from the thirties with all the terrible makeup of the eighties. The script is one of the worst we've ever heard, especially for including this old chestnut of a line, when the naive Apollonia, new to the big, scary city, knocks over a waitress tray: "What are you, stupid or something? Why don't you watch where you're going?"

But you know all this, because we were apparently the last people on earth to see this movie. In Minnesota, people see Purple Rain shortly after birth, in that little room where all the babies are in bassinets. There's a screen hanging in every just-born baby room at every Minnesota hospital, with this movie on repeat, and babies' first words are either "Morris Day and The Time" or "Doves cry", and instead of saying they "went wee-wee", small children say they just "purified themselves in the water of Lake Minnetonka". It's true, look it up. No wait, don't.

The music, of course, is amazing. Dave's favorite Purple Rain song is "Take Me With U", Lizzie's two favorites are "When Doves Cry" and the title track (she couldn't narrow it down to just one). And seeing First Avenue in a movie is a surreal and exciting experience, especially since so much of it is unchanged - except for the garish neon lights hanging down from the ceiling.

All in all, we are very glad we finally saw this movie. We just don't really understand why it exists in the first place.

Walker- May 23rd

We like art as much as the next two people, but we’re no experts. And we both secretly kind of dread going to art museums, because there’s nothing more exhausting than walking slowly from quiet room to quiet room, with aching feet and diminished attention spans. We admire those who can do such things, but we are not always capable.

The Walker Art Center, then, is the place for us. It’s quiet, but it’s also made for exploring. We found instant favorites when we first visited after moving here, and now each room has its trademark piece: there’s The Room With The Warhol Jackie O.’s, The Room With The Gold Toilet, The Room With The Nazi Propaganda Contrasted With Disneyland Characters. (There is also a small room containing an interactive computerized dolphin oracle. We will just … leave that at that.)

We’re Walker members, but we don’t come to the museum nearly as often as we should. Especially since it’s always an extremely easy experience: park the car on a side street, show your card at the desk, wander around and look at the amazing art. Like the democratizing power of Nye’s, there’s a lack of pretension at the Walker that tries to put every visitor at equal footing. Their commitment to education is admirable.

When we went on Saturday (are you starting to realize how busy we were on Saturday?), we checked out the Elizabeth Peyton exhibit, which was pretty cool, though neither of us quite understood the big deal. She’s a portrait artist, and the figures in her pieces include her friends, rock stars, and Napoleon, and while they were excellent (Dave especially loved the Christ-like Pete Doherty), the Walker usually chooses … more interesting people. (Aw, art snap!)

The Chuck Close exhibit from a couple of years ago was a highlight, as was the Richard Prince show last year. And though the world has more than enough ways to view the work of Diane Arbus, it was astonishing to see those photos up close.

And every time we go to the Walker, we make sure to visit their awesome gift shop. Most museum shops have paintings on t-shirts, but the Walker goes further: there are tons of books, some Walker merch (we recommend the “Closed Mondays” coffee mugs), and various knick-knacks (the power strip in the shape of a man, the flash drives masquerading as mix tapes). It’s the perfect store for an institution that values creativity, both the people who provide it, and the people who appreciate it.

feet in the Mississippi- May 23rd

Liz(zie) here again. I first visited Minneapolis during the summer of 1997 to check out colleges with my dad. He spent a couple of hours driving around, fruitlessly trying to find a place where we could walk into the Mississippi River, being repeatedly thwarted by concrete walls, fenced-off embankments, and cliffs.

To some extent, the Twin Cities seems to have the same relationship with the Mississippi that Boston used to have with the Central Artery—it’s an impediment, an obstacle to build overpasses and underpasses around. It is not an attraction. Which is really too bad, because it’s the Mississippi River! Come on, Minneapolis! Show it some love!

When my dad visited a few years ago, we finally figured out a way to get down to the water, over at Minnehaha Park. There is some kind of connection between this park and Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha . Either the connection’s murky or I’m too lazy to figure it out. (Maybe someone can illuminate us in the comments section.) Bizarrely, the park apparently contains a 2/3 size replica of Longfellow’s house in Cambridge, MA. Huh?

Aside from the Longfellow kitsch, there’s an awesome area where Minnehaha Creek converges with the Mississippi, about a 10-15 minute walk through the woods from the falls. When we went out there the other day, it was full of people drinking Coors Light and fishing in the river. Dave got surprised by a “big wave.” We got our feet wet. It was lovely.

Victor's- May 23rd

At the time of this writing, we’ll only be in the Twin Cities for four more days. Which means we’ll be doing the final two items on The List in that amount of time, an almost disappointingly easy task. We rather hoped we’d be working on this until the very last second, visiting four diners and a comedy theater on the way to 94 East. Oh well.

Saturday was a big day for The List: we took care of three big items, and visited one site that wasn’t even required. It all started with a visit to Victor’s, for which we called Doug, who had never been there. Doug is something of a food connoisseur, so it was therefore inexplicable that he had never visited Victor’s, a tiny Cuban restaurant in South Minneapolis that specializes in the best pancakes your mouth has ever had.

That first picture is a very good representation of what happened when we sat down: Doug was speechless. He did not expect to see the wall-to-wall graffiti, nor the bright colors at which the building’s exterior only hints. Doug had made the transition from Kansas to Oz.

Doug had two banana pancakes, and we split the ranchero cubano and one banana pancake. This is the breakfast we usually have at Victor’s, because we have found that it’s a perfect pairing, and the perfect amount of food. It’s filling, but you don’t feel like you’re about to die of stomach explosion. Their food is almost inexplicably delicious. There is an “Americano” side to the menu – full of usual breakfast fare, such as scrambled eggs and omelettes – and a “Cubano” side, with plantain, black bean, and mango dishes. While their American fare is excellent, you come to Victor’s for Cuban food.

While you eat, you stare at the walls. Every surface at Victor’s a handwritten message, from notes to Fidel to remembrances of that day’s breakfast. It’s all an exercise in attention and memory: can you eat a plate of eggs while reading the “Got Tostones?” note on the ceiling? Well, can you, punk?

We will miss Victor’s, and we will miss that Oz feeling of going from black and white to Technicolor. Go there now and stuff your face.

Nye's- May 22nd

It takes a special amount of confidence to have this as your website. That’s right, fools, they’re saying. We don’t need photos or a menu, we just need a single phrase: “The Best Bar In America”. Says who, you ask? Says Esquire magazine, that’s who. Glad you asked.

“Everybody says that stepping into Nye's Polonaise is like stepping back in time, and, for once, it's true--to a time before even electricity,” said Esquire writer Chris Jones three years ago. “The walls are paneled, the tables are Formica, and there are people who have worked at Nye's for forty years.” It’s all very accurate. You walk over the Nye’s threshhold and you’re immediately in a parallel universe, one in which the art direction of The Big Lebowski is the basis for an entire reality.

Nye’s is both dimly lit and full of bright colors. The staff isn’t unfriendly, but they’re not about to dish out Minnesota Nice: when we went on Saturday, Becky proceeded to find us a table, but the hostess stopped her and sternly explained the waiting process. (Also in attendance: Peter and Doug, both of whom appreciate a good bar, and the latter of whom wrote this wonderful Nye’s appreciation.)

Though its Best Bar In America award is well known in Minneapolis, the establishment gets less attention for being a restaurant. But it’s the restaurant experience you’ll really appreciate, as you sit down in a gold-glitter booth and eat your mouth-wateringly delicious pierogies. True, you’re also (hopefully) sipping a Grain Belt Premium or Summit and watching the old men at the bar trade stories about working at the Pillsbury factory, but Nye’s isn’t so much a bar as it is a culinary and visceral experience.

You’ll want to visit Nye’s at night, not only because it simply is a nighttime experience, but because you’ll otherwise miss the piano karaoke. It is for this event that you’ll witness “Sweet” Lou Snider play piano while patrons of all ages and backgrounds belt out a Sinatra standard. In fact, the best part about Nye’s in general is that people from all walks of life are treated equally here, as frat boys and grandparents sit next to each other at the bar. Nye’s is a Great Equalizer, an urban populist in which wood-paneled walls and multi-colored lights are unironic and achingly sincere, and hanging there just for you. Just don’t seat yourself.

Cedar Lake- May 20th

Lizzie here. Dave’s on hiatus for this post, since Cedar Lake is really my great Minneapolis love.

As Dave noted, each Twin Cities lake has its own special tagline. If Lake Harriet’s motto is: “Oh Right, Lake Harriet,” Cedar Lake’s motto is: “Never heard of it.” For some reason, even many longtime Twin Cities dwellers seem to have no idea that Cedar Lake exists, which is bizarre, since it’s about a 10 minute walk from uber-popular Lake Calhoun. Those who have heard of it tend to identify it solely with the debauchery of Hidden Beach, a one-time “illicit nude beach and hippie hangout.”

When we first moved to Minneapolis, I used to go running around Lake of the Isles all the time. At some point I heard that there was a bigger, quieter, less inhabited lake over to the west, and decided to check it out. I wasn’t disappointed. On the east side, you run through the woods next to the train tracks. The lake appears and disappears to your left as the trail winds around. The north side is the best: suddenly you’re out of the woods and in a giant field of prairie grass as tall as your head. (Erm, if you’re 5’1”, anyway). It’s just you, the wind, the prairie grass, and the trail.

Dave and I went over to go for a swim on Wednesday night. Instead of going to Hidden Beach (which is no longer so hidden), we went to Point Beach, one of the major ones with a parking lot, etc. Given that it was 93 degrees out, it wouldn’t have been surprising to see it clogged with people. But it was just us, a surly dad in the lifeguard chair, and his preschool-aged daughter, flopping around like a fish on the beach. It was lovely.

You really should check it out sometime. Or, erm, maybe not. Wouldn’t want it getting crowded.

Also: Summit Beer

Look, we know: there are “better” local beers. The entire Surly lineup, for example, is probably more to a beer connoisseur’s taste, and could beat up any Summit beer in an alley fight. But Summit Extra Pale Ale goes down easier, and tastes better while you’re sitting outdoors, than most beers. It is tasty.

And there’s this: when we moved here, we knew next to nothing about Minneapolis. As Craig Finn says in the Hold Steady song “Stevie Nix”, “When we hit the Twin Cities, I didn’t know that much about it/I knew Mary Tyler Moore, and I knew Profane Existence.” Same with us, except we didn’t know Profane Existence. When we swallowed our first sips of Summit EPA, we gave each other looks that said, “Oh wow. This city might be okay after all.”

We started making a mental list of things that make Minneapolis great – some of which are on The List that inspired this blog - and there, nestled between The Hopefuls and the St. Paul Saints, was Summit. We don’t have much experience with its many varieties, though someday we’ll tell you the story about the time we had way too much Mai Bock and somehow stumbled home from the C.C. Club, only to wake up the next morning with the worst hangovers either of us has ever experienced. We are no longer very fond of the Mai Bock.

There are some things about Minneapolis we can experience remotely: the media, the music. But unless Summit gets distributed nationally, we won’t drink it again for a long, long time. You can bet we’ll be drinking it, and drinking to this city, the night before we leave.

Brave New Workshop- May 17th

Dave here. Can we get real for a second? Like, BFF real? Hellmann's Real Mayonnaise real? I know you don't like improv comedy. Even people who do like improv comedy don't readily admit it, because it can be an awful thing. When improv comedy is done poorly, there's nothing worse. It makes you think of Robin Williams, of that group at your college featuring that guy who pretended to play electric guitar by holding a tennis racket. But here's the thing: when improv comedy is done well, it's the best thing on earth. True fact.

And there's no better place to see it than Brave New Workshop. Is their improv good every time? No. But that's what makes improv so exciting to watch - it could all go terribly wrong at any moment, and it sometimes does. But the improv at BNW, especially Improv A Go Go on Sunday nights, is often spectacular. I did improv in college, and I loved it, but it wasn't until I started taking classes at BNW a few years ago that I realized: I'm not so good at this. I know I'm funny enough, and I was always good for a quick laugh when doing improv in college, but coming up with a character's point of view and sticking with it? Not so much. It's really, really hard, which means the people who are really good at it are incredible to watch. And the secret to it all: it's not jokes that are funny (at least, you shouldn't be trying to make funny jokes). What's funny is the fact that this entire world full of interesting people just suddenly happened.

I'll spare you more improv nerdery, and instead tell you to go see Improv A Go Go. Brave New Workshop is such a great little theater. It's also the longest-running satirical theater in the country. While the theater gets a lot of their revenue from their regular scripted "reviews" - the latest of which is called How To Make Love Like A Minnesotan II: Love Is In Bloomington - their improv is the best thing to watch. Whether you go to Improv A Go Go or Tuesday's Six-Ring Circus (featuring Brave New Institute students), it only costs a dollar to get in, and if you go to Go-Go, you're guaranteed to see someone hilarious. (Last Sunday was the Improv A-Go-Go 7th Anniversary show, which featured almost all of the theater's "main stage" cast: Lauren Anderson, Joe Bozic, Josh Eakright, Mike Fotis and Bobby Gardner. The only person missing was the awesome Ellie Hino.)

My favorite BNW group is Ferrari McSpeedy, featuring Mr. Fotis and Mr. Bozic, who pile exasperation on absurd situations. That picture over there is of Fotis and me on Sunday night. (Recounting improv scenes rarely ends well, but I will say this: the best moment of the night was a Sartre-esque Ferarri McSpeedy scene in which two characters are stuck in a Kum & Go convenience store. Lizzie and I found this especially funny because we saw a Kum & Go in Des Moines once, and couldn’t believe our eyes. Who would come up with such a name?!)

But anyway. Go see it sometime. Support local theaters making stuff up for you, because they don't get paid much to do it. While you're at it, check out the Brave New Workshop podcast, which consists entirely of the main stage cast sitting around and talking shit. It's glorious.

Isle bun- May 17th

First things first: the name of this establishment is supposedly Isles Bun & Coffee, but we refuse to believe such a thing. We have always called it Isle Bun, because … it sounds better? Okay, we don’t know why we call it that. We just do.

We used to live at Humboldt and 28th, around the corner from Isle Bun. At first it was fantastic, because we’d stagger out the door on Sunday morning, get a giant cinnamon bun, go home, sleep it off. Then we realized: we can’t do this all the time, because not only will we die at 27, we wanted it to be a special occurrence. A friend of ours recently said he doesn’t put milk or sugar in his coffee, because what if you’re at a restaurant sometime in the future, and you’re used to having milk and sugar in you’re coffee, and there isn’t any? That was the most New England thing we’d ever heard. And it sounds like our bun philosophy.

So we only go to the fantastic Isle Bun every once in a while, and it’s a revelation every time. It’s only a slight exaggeration to say that the cinnamon buns are as big as your head. They’re also gooey and warm, and topped off with as much frosting as you can handle (and as much as you can get from the self-serve tub near the door). If you’re not feeling up to the head-size variety, you can try the bite-size kind, which the Isle folks call Puppy Dog Tails. They’re strips of pure joy.

We went back to Isle Bun on Sunday morning – that’s when their food tastes best, when you’re trying to cram in happiness before Monday happens – and luckily the ferocious bees that usually patrol the storefront flower pots weren’t out yet. (Dave has a phobia.) Though the original plan was splitting one bun, we ordered two. (When we arrived, Dave said, “I wonder if that’s too ambitious.” Lizzie replied, “I wonder if that’s not ambitious enough.” Who can argue with logic like that?) We bit into them and remembered why we used to go there frequently, and now only sometimes. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, especially when there’s lots and lots of butter involved. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to take a nap.

Also: The Replacements

We’ve decided to throw a few extra posts in here, things that aren’t on The List but have nonetheless factored into our Twin Cities experience. This one will be written from Dave’s point of view, because while Lizzie loves music and likes this particular band just fine, it’s Dave – me – who flipped out about them. So: the Replacements.

I’d heard the name before, and I’d heard Paul Westerberg – I’d even heard his ridiculous “Dyslexic Heart” song from the so-nineties-it-hurts movie Singles (you know it, your memory just did you a favor). But I’d barely heard the Replacements, and when we moved here, the lore was everywhere: the band once haunted the C.C. Club, Bob and Tommy’s mom is still a waitress at the Uptown, there’s a bench named after Bob over by Lake Of The Isles, the cover of Let It Be was shot at 2215 Bryant, Bob died at an apartment across the street from Bryant-Lake Bowl. Also, they made some of the best music ever made.

At first I (very) snobbily chalked this reputation up to a city grasping for musical relevance. Prince? Of course. Soul Asylum? I remember them being huge, so why not. The Replacements? Really? Then I bought Pleased To Meet Me. (I started with that mid-career one because it had the only Replacements track I’d heard before – the sweet-as-candy “Can’t Hardly Wait”.) I was immediately addicted. The tinny 1987 production was a little jarring at first, but the amazing songs shone through: “Never Mind”, “Skyway”, the brilliant “Alex Chilton”. Who were these guys?

Next came Let It Be and Tim (of those, I’m one of the few who prefer Tim; I’ll spare you the argument, but head here if you’re interested). Those two just about killed me. They also cemented for me why Midwesterners love them: they were also-rans, sometimes forgotten amid hype about the coasts. They were mascots, and though the aw-shucks look was mostly a put-on – they deliberately fucked up gigs lest anyone take them too seriously – it worked, and still does.

Local music fixture Jim Walsh wrote a very good oral history of the Replacements called All Over But The Shouting, in which someone says the band’s attitude was a balance (or imbalance?) of “I Don’t Give a Fuck” and “I Give More of a Fuck Than Anyone Else on This Planet”. While that sounds like the insincerity of a New York hipster, in that description I hear what I love about Minneapolis: this city is awesome, but, uh, it’s not that awesome, so don’t come here and tell everyone and blow it for the rest of us. It’s the drunken blow-off “Mr. Whirly” followed by the heart-stopping ballad “Within Your Reach” on the album Hootenanny, a shrug followed by a bid for legitimacy.

But this kind of thing is written about the band and its city every day, and like the band itself, it is either pure bullshit or absolutely real, or maybe both. Likewise, I once interviewed Walsh about his book, and when I asked him for his favorite Replacements song, he laughed and said, “I don’t know. It changes all the time. It’s an impossible question, because A, I don’t really go into that kind of sports stuff about music, but, B – my favorite Replacements song is ‘Favorite Thing’.”

Dave’s favorite Replacements tracks on Sunday, May 17, 2009:

10 Shiftless When Idle
9 Color Me Impressed
8 Favorite Thing
7 Here Comes A Regular
6 Within My Reach
5 I Will Dare
4 Bastards Of Young
3 Can’t Hardly Wait (The Tim Version)
2 Kiss Me On The Bus
1 Unsatisfied

Al's- May 13th

How to describe Al's Breakfast? There are a few words that come to mind, and they are all "tiny". Actually, two of them are "delicious". We'd been meaning to head over to Al's for a very long time, but it takes some planning.

Al’s is a diner, and its assets are statistics: a width of 10 square feet, 14 stools, 59 years. The line frequently winds out the door, mostly because of the limited dining space, but also because the patrons know it’s worth the wait. We had put this off until we had a good weekday morning to try it (weekend waits at Al’s are legendary), and Dave’s day off on Wednesday provided the perfect opportunity. Or so we thought: we showed up at 9 a.m. and waited for an hour. We suspect it was because it was the last week of classes at the U; the student behind us had her dad in tow, and they were discussing various logistical plans for heading back home (long line + long wait = unavoidable eavesdropping). They also were eerily similar, and at one point both imitated The Count from Sesame Street. At first it was cute, then we wanted to punch them out of carb-withdrawal rage. Then there were the students ahead of us, who fidgeted like toddlers and often made their way around us to go outside for fresh air. Result? Desire to punch in the face.

Our rage was later soothed by the oh my god so delicious food. Dave ordered some scrambled eggs with ham and mushroom, Lizzie had the walnut blueberry pancakes. The food was great, the coffee was amazing. The staff was very entertaining, assumedly because yelling and making fun of each other makes working in a tiny space bearable. A shaggy server in his early twenties chatted with patrons about a recent finding that only three in 18 study participants could distinguish paté from dog food. (As the waiter pointed out, this either means we’re serving our pets gourmet food, or America eats shitty paté. Perhaps we’ll never know.)

It’s hard to describe the Al’s atmosphere, perhaps because there’s so little space. But it’s crammed with cultural detritus, from yellowed photos to Minnesota State Fair memorabilia (including the recent Obama campaign sign reading “Change On A Stick”). The walls are the color of waffle batter, and we ate to the sounds of A Tribe Called Quest’s People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythms. We love you, breakfast. Stay in touch.

Riverview- May 11th

We love movies. We'll spare you the corny details, but much of our high school existence was spent watching a movie in someone's shag-carpeted basement (Woody Allen's Manhattan was a favorite). So we go to movies fairly often, but paying $10 to sit through a 20-minute Pepsi commercial isn't a very enticing option (that's mainly Dave's opinion; he is an old, cranky man). Enter the Riverview Theater. Located in a little residential neighborhood in East Minneapolis, the theater has been around since the fifties, with what appears to be all its original, though refurbished, decor. They show "second-run" movies (Coraline and Gran Torino are playing now) for $3. The theater itself is massive, and the perfect place to see a movie that matches its grandeur (or doesn't; we saw the amazing Pineapple Express there, and the movie and theater shared a sense of mock grandeur).

We went to see To Catch A Thief at the Riverview last week (it's part of their Alfred Hitchcock Film Series, which ends Tuesday with the wacked-out Vertigo), and we were surprised to find a huge line. Was it the economy? The end of a restless spring? Whatever the case, the theater was packed for one of Hitchcock's lesser-known movies, and it was great to see.

The movie itself was much more fun than either of us expected - you might even call it a "romp", which can't be said for many of Hitchcock's other movies (though I tend to refer to Psycho as "an unconventional romantic comedy"). It was routinely hilarious, full of Cary Grant bon mots and Grace Kelly innuendos. See it, then picture a packed theater full of people laughing at lines like "I'm sorry I ever sent her to finishing school. I think they finished her there." Sassy!

Walk around the lakes- May 10th

You hear about how Minnesota is the "Land of 10,000 Lakes", and you think, "Well, good for them. I like lakes." Then you get on with your day: go to the bank, pick up some bread, testify in that assault case, drop off the dry cleaning, etc. But it's not until you come here that you think, "Dang. They're not kidding about those lakes." Even in the metro area, they're everywhere. There's Lake Calhoun (for people-watching during the Parade Of Attractive Jerks), Lake Of The Isles (for your introspective walk among the weeping willows), Lake Nokomis (for when you're in that neighborhood but don't know why), and finally, Lake Harriet (motto: "Oh Right, Lake Harriet").

When we moved here, Lake Of The Isles was only two blocks away, so it was our lake of choice. We'd stroll over at dusk, take a walk around, enjoy the quiet. It really is a lovely spot, with a curvy perimeter and lots of little nooks. Once in a while, when we were feeling up for the challenge, we'd head over to Lake Calhoun. Calhoun is always crowded, and for good reasons: it's a straightforward running route, it's full of hot (yet usually obnoxious) people and their adorable dogs, and it's got an awesome restaurant called The Tin Fish, which has very good fried fish sandwiches.

 

Overall, we love the lakes. It's a funny thing to turn a corner and suddenly see a huge body of water, and though other cities have their lakes (we hear there's a pretty big one in Chicago, WHATEVER), it's great to be in a city where one can take you by surprise. When we first moved here in August 2004, it was amazing to see all the boats sitting on Calhoun, rocking back and forth with the wind. You don't think of those sights when you come to a city, but there they were. We've got the Charles River in Boston, but it's not quite the same - it's huge, for one thing. It's beautiful, but it's not intimate. And we're pretty sure there are no fish sandwiches. What gives, Boston? Not enough seafood around? Aw burn.

 

We walked around Lake Harriet last Sunday, and it was the typical scene: a few walkers, a few runners, some dogs, and one guy who was extremely out of shape and giving it his all (no, not Dave - but wow, you'rehilarious). The Minneapolis skyline was in perfect view, and while it's not an interesting skyline, it was a reminder that Minneapolis is full of everything, all closeby. Then

 we walked home, cooked up some veggie burgers, and listened to The Local Show on the porch. There are many things here we'll miss.

C. C. Club- May 8th

Ah, the C.C. Club. There isn't much to add about its history - it's where the Replacements spent most of their heyday, which means Minneapolites over 35 wax rhapsodic about the gum under its tables - but there is always more to say about its coziness. Despite its rough-and-tumble reputation, the C.C. Club is a warm, comforting womb of a bar, with padded walls and red-orange lighting. It's both loud and intimate, dirty and immaculate. Is a paradox of cheap beer and we love it.

We went there last Friday (we know, we have to be better about updating this thing promptly). It was after we'd used the wi-fi at the awesome Common Roots Cafe, which is only across 26th Street but is otherwise a world away. NPR hipsters with laptops gave way to bearded hipsters with wallet chains, Surly Cynic gave way to Summit EPA (but it must be said that the drink of choice is definitely PBR; it just fits). The food is glorious bar fare: cheese curds, fries, greasy sandwiches. (On Friday, we ordered quesadillas that burned our mouths and insides, but we'll chalk that up to ineffective jalepeno distribution.)

While the C.C. Club's jukebox is somewhat renowned, and I've always had a good time with it, there's a surprising lack of variety. (Five Atmosphere EPs? Really?) Nonetheless, the volume level is perfect, so no matter how loud the bachelor party at the next table, you'll hear your queued song eventually. (We'll stress "eventually" - it's a popular box, and many music snobs frequent the place.) On Friday, Dave couldn't help but choose "Here Comes A Regular", the Replacements' ode to the bar. Actual regulars must hate hearing that song, but he had to be that guy. Just this once.

The C.C. Club, despite its quasi-tourist reputation, is exactly the unassuming spot you expect. A dive, a hole in the wall, a neighborhood haunt for the locals. In all these aspects it succeeds tremendously.
(Postscript: this bar was once chosen by Esquire magazine as one of the best bars in America, just like another item on our list. What place that could be?? Guess you'll just have to keep reading the blog, sucka.)

Our jukebox choices, 5/8/09:
"Kiss Me On The Bus" - The Replacements

"De La Souls" - P.O.S.

"Here Comes A Regular" - The Replacements

"I Will Dare" - The Replacements

"Salt Of The Earth" - The Rolling Stones

"Buena" - Morphine

"Spanish Bombs" - The Clash

St. Paul Saints- May 7th

Minor league baseball is amazing because it combines two contrasting ideas: sleek, muscular, extremely talented people doing things you can't do, and a fat man blindly rolling oversized bowling balls into giant milk bottles. There is professionalism on one hand, amateurism on the other, and ice-cold cups of watery beer in between. In short, everybody wins.

As Boston natives, we are completely spoiled when it comes to baseball. Fenway Park is a perfect stadium (John Updike once accurately called it "a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark"), so small and intimate that "stadium" doesn't really apply. So when we went to our first Twins game at the Disgusting Old Metrodome (this may not be its actual name; we'll check on that), we were very disappointed. Though sparkly white when built in 1982, the Metrodome's interior and exterior hue is now the color of roadside snow in March. Nasty.

We therefore quickly sought outdoor baseball and ended up near the railroad tracks in St. Paul. While Midway Stadium isn't exactly lyric, it's a lovely place to see some baseball. It also houses the expected quirks of the minor leagues, including a pig mascot named Mudonna (get it?!) and an announcer who solemnly intones "train" whenever one rolls by the outfield. There is also a tradition in which a lucky (?) fan is secured into a Velcro harness in right field and, upon catching a fly ball, wins (?) a cash prize. And did we mention Bill Murray is a co-owner? We didn't? Bill Murray is a co-owner.
We always find ourselves in the general admission seats along the first base line. It's here that you get the real experience: on our most recent trip, we sat near a group of guys who were heckling one of the opposing team's outfielders, using insults that ranged from the arbitrarily profane to the keenly observational ("He's running! Run! Run! Run!").

After moving to Massachusetts, we'll have the Lowell Spinners, whose loom-inspired name is so innocuous it makes the Saints sound like a bunch of Crips. We've never seen that team in action, but we have a feeling it won't quite be the same as sitting in Midway Stadium. If there's no pig, we're leaving in a huff.