One last thing...

We've made it to Massachusetts, and are hardly the worse for wear (though our cats can't say the same, especially the one who peed all over herself in the car outside Albany).

Thanks for reading the blog. If you're reading this, that means you. Thanks! The blog was a surprisingly wonderful way to say goodbye to Minneapolis.

There is no good way to say goodbye to our friends there, so we refuse to. Hey there friends! Come see us out here!

In fact, we may be able to provide some suggestions for awesome Boston-area fun, thanks to our new blog...


Blogberries for Sal


In which we embark on all the New England adventures we never got around to having, despite our best intentions, in 20-plus years of living here.

First Ave- May 30th

This may be the hardest post to write, not only because it is the last (!) item on The List, but because we have both had so many transcendent experiences at First Avenue. It is the best rock venue in the country, though not for reasons that are easy to pinpoint. It’s just so perfectly proportioned that, like Fenway Park, there’s no bad sightline (unless, like Fenway, you’re behind one of the few poles or the occasional extremely tall guy).

Until 1970, First Avenue was a Greyhound station. Once you know this fact, a bus station’s features are recognizable around the room: the winding but practical staircase to an upper level, the general openness of the space. You can picture ticket windows, magazine racks, boards with arrival times. Even the building’s rounded exterior resembles that of a bus station.

These days, of course, the reference point is Prince. Purple Rain was largely filmed here, but the club is more like a main character (especially since it has better acting abilities than Apollonia and Morris Day combined). As we said in our Purple Rain post, the movie transforms the club into a weird thirties nightclub-punk rock club hybrid, yet First Ave. most definitely remains First Ave. Even 25 years later, you recognize the venue’s all-black interior, the open section back near the bar, the checkered tile floor.

However, we still haven’t mentioned the best part about First Ave. Is it the upstairs restroom windows that look down on downtown streets? Or perhaps the intimate second venue called the 7th St. Entry? No. It is The Railing. Located on a ramp on the stage right floor, The Railing is the perfect place to watch the show. Not only is there a spot to lean (important for us aging youngsters), its slant is useful for the, um, shorter half of this couple. It’s from this spot that we watched the Hold Steady play a sold-out show to their fellow Minnesotans. It’s not the closest spot to the stage, but it’s the one with the best view.

When we first moved to Minneapolis, one of the first things we did was see a rock show – Rilo Kiley at the Prince-owned, now-defunct Ascot Room. Shortly thereafter, we caught The Shins at First Ave. Not only did the Ascot Room suffer by comparison, so did all rock clubs we’ve seen (its closest relative, from our experience, is probably the Middle East in Cambridge). The show was just okay, but we immediately understood the club’s reputation. No bells, no whistles, just a few bars and a good view of the stage.

We were thrilled to learn the Yeah Yeah Yeahs would be playing First Avenue in honor of our last night in Minnesota. It was a very nice gesture. Though the show was sold out, Dave weaseled his way onto the list by reviewing the opening band. The show was incredible, one of the best we’ve ever seen. Karen O was the consummate performer, dancing around the stage without losing her breath, spouting water into the air as if from a whale’s blowhole. We were so happy to run into Engum, Peter, and Katie, people with whom we’ve watched many First Ave. shows. Halfway through one of her band’s exuberant songs, Karen O. stepped on a pedal that shot Y-shaped confetti into the air, and we knew we had the perfect sendoff.

After “Date With The Night”, we took out our earplugs, shuffled through the crowd and went out the door, leaving behind both The List and Our Minneapolis.

Loring- May 30th

The Loring Pasta Bar is one of those places in Minneapolis that we wonder about. Specifically, we wonder: why isn’t it more popular? It’s usually full of people, but you never hear about people wanting to go there. Maybe it’s because the Loring Pasta Bar is in Dinkytown, the hilariously named part of the city that is crawling with University of Minnesota undergrads, out tripping the light fantastic with khaki cargo shorts and bloodshot eyes. Okay, fine. But inside the Loring, it’s a different story: vines hanging from rafters, disco balls throwing light around the room. All in an old building that used to house Bob Dylan’s apartment.

Lizzie first went there for Welcome Weekend, the yearly event at the U in which grad students take accepted students under their wing to woo them to their lab. A couple of students picked her up from the airport and whisked her away to the Loring, where she ate delicious pasta and wondered why people were doing the tango inches away from her Diet Coke. She accepted the U’s offer shortly thereafter; we all know this was not a coincidence.

Just like Bryant-Lake Bowl and Victor’s, we always take visitors to the Loring Pasta Bar, so they can see what a ridiculous place Minneapolis is. This almost always works, including the time we came with Dave’s mom and godmother Mary (the latter of whom told us a confusing story about how poker was getting popular with college students; due to her Boston upbringing, we thought for 20 minutes she was referring to the traditional German dance. Accents!).

Another great memory from the Loring is a Michael Penn show Dave attended in 2005 – it was supposed to be at the nearby Varsity, but was relocated to the restaurant because of renovation. The setting was oddly perfect for his performance, which consisted only of Penn and his guitar. He was on the Loring’s tiny stage, surrounded by swirling lights and clinking silverware. Penn looked confused, but it all made a strange kind of sense.

We went to the Loring last Saturday night, the night before we left Minnesota for good. Since there was a wedding at the restaurant until 6, and we wanted to be at a First Ave. show by 7, it was a very brief visit. But the Loring looked as charming as ever, especially in the late-day sunshine. Though the service is usually - it must be said - incompetent, we had a lovely server who understood we were in a rush. We split the mushroom penne and the artichoke ramekin (the menu accurately calls it “butt-plumping”), and walked back outside to FratLand. So bittersweet.