afrojet

All Your Weeds Are Belong To Us,
Well wicked weekend. My ass is kicked from so much good outdoor activity. My hamstrings burn and when I close my eyes all I see is a fast, movie like montage, of the hundreds of fallen weeds that were systematically rooted out and destroyed by my novice green thumbs. Creeping Charlie: you will be my nemesis to the grave.

We got plenty ambitious this year with the garden edibles. We planted baby lettuce this year which has piqued the interest of the legions of neighborhood rabbits that frolic merrily through our fields. That beautiful, brilliant green shade that the lettuce leaves take against that chocolate brown dirt are tractor beams for the bunnies. I’ve erected small wire fences to keep our bouncing bunnies at bay but the look in their eyes lets me know that it’s going to be a long season (a turf battle), for they are a determined sort with little to distract them throughout the day from getting at our goodies.

All flowers are ready to pop and by this weekend we should be drowning in color and sent. Bring it.

Also, I’m a little unclear of the events that took place after two in the morning Sunday, but if anyone knows how a giant stuffed fish ended up in the back seat of my car, or if you are the proper owner of said fish, please let me know…

Drizzled to Death
Another impossibly dreary day in the land of 10,000 lakes. Something like 25 of the last 27 days of May have been overcast with heavy periods of rain. On the rare occasion when the sun does finally push through the clouds, it’s only long enough to mow the grass that now grows at an unprecedented rate of four inches a day. It’s an unbearable, unvarying weather pattern. Lileks puts it best today: “The jet stream, it seems, is like a big dog that circles our block in an endless loop, with Minneapolis as its favorite fire hydrant.”

It’s worse than winter in that during the month of January I expect things to be insanely cold with ample amounts of snow. My mind accepts that and I dress and prepare accordingly. But I expect more from the month of May. I expect to be able to wear shorts (a clothing item I haven’t even bothered to unpack from my summer clothes chest). I expect to be outside, to ride my bike, to do more in the garden then just weeding large beanstalks of overgrowth.

I remember a time when I used to live in Portland Oregon. There was this really long spell of overcast days. People were going a bit nutty. Private airlines began booking flights, for folks who could afford it, to take them up above the cloud line for an hour or two just so they could remember what the sun looked like. I’m desperate enough at this point that I would sign up for something like right now.

Last night while watching the Twins umpteenth extra-innings game I got suckered into watching the Minnesota boy win the National Geographic Bee. What drama! Although I was rooting for Minnesota all the way, I was bummed when that cute 11 year-old kid was knocked out. Then they mentioned that the 11 year-old kid had already taken his SAT’s and had scored a combined 1570. Then I didn’t feel so bad for him. The misses went online to see what school the Minnesota boy went to. Of course, it turns out the kid was home schooled. No surprise there. I kept thinking they were going to ask a question like: “name the US state that suffers from the absolute worse year-round weather EVUH?”. The Minnesota boy would have corner pocketed that answer easy.

Also, famed pirate, Blackbeards ship may have been found, and Vicelands Best Thrash Mascot (D.R.I. all the way baby!).

The Smell of Rock
Great. Just as I begin to write this post my nose begins to bleed. What timing! Some folks have spring allergies, I get spring bloody noses. I guess it could be worse, I could be in a meeting or something bleeding all over my notes and presentations.

Went and checked out the prowess of Discords latest rock offering – the Medications last night at The Entry. They were angular, melodic and thundering. A fine way to get over hump day. Back in olden times when smoking used to be legal in bars, every bar smelt pretty much the same, like a dirty ashtray. Now, with the old nicotine and tar smell absent from bars and clubs, you really get the full individual aroma of a place. At the 7th Street Entry your olfactory system gets hit hard with a wonderful bouquet of scented spices that is 100% dirty-socks-inside-your-gym locker circa junior high. Which on the face of it doesn’t really strike me as an improvement. But I read somewhere that our sense of smell is the number one trigger of nostalgia, so if all bars and clubs now cultivate their own special balmy incense, the public will be better for it in that they will have different scents associated to individual places, something that just wasn’t possible when every place smelt like a pack of Camel Lights. Not that the smells will be all that different mind you, human sweat and beer usually combine to give similar effects, but there will surely be some nuance, like being able to tell the difference between a Sonoma Red and a Willamette Valley Pinot. Discerning noses will have the advantage.

Is it obvious that my bloody nose has inadvertently focused the content of this post towards one particular body part?

Yes. Well I don’t want to spend this whole post writing about noses in general or my nose in particular, fascinating as they both may be. So let’s travel just a little bit up the face and branch out now in both directions and land squarely on those two little things we use for seeing. Welcome to your eyes, folks.

Still at the rock show. Set break. Relegated to the sidewalk to smoke your cigarette in the rain. Outside you really get the opportunity to see just how abominable and repellent Block E has become. It’s by far the most hideously looking building in the history of urban architecture. And yet there it sits in the middle of our great metropolis? How on earth did we let this happen?

You should take a short walk while you smoke that cigarette. Walking around the square block of Block E at night on a Wednesday could be an interesting adventure. You begin by walking North along First Avenue. First you pass the nearly empty Hard Rock Cafe and all your thoughts are drowned out by the outside PA system blaring an 80’s Aerosmith tune. You can still hear the sickie treble from Steven Tyler’s voice as you walk past the nouveau rich sliding out of their Hummers and and snaking their way up to the Le Meridian Hotel (you’ve never seen that red colored one before). A man from a low slung silver Mercedes calls you over to his car, you think ‘better not’ but you do anyway. He asks you for directions to ‘The Meridian Hotel’. You point to the big ‘Le Meridian’ sign, “you’re there buddy.”
Keep walking. Turn the corner and go East on 6th Street. Three large gentleman in expensive suits are standing outside the Fine Italian Restaurant smoking cigars. They talk basketball and pay you no attention. Now here is where it gets interesting friends. A true riches to rags story in 17 paces. About halfway down 6th Street, still within shouting distance of the three fat cats, you now come upon a wheel chair convention of three. You are flummoxed for a moment by this triad yin-yang parallelism but are taken back out of your head when one of the wheelchairs asks for a cigarette. You comply. Another asks for change. You fumble for some change as you note how poorly lit this side of Block E is. After a awhile you break from the wheelchairs and turn the corner now going South on Hennepin. Immediately, someone steps from the shadows and asks for a cigarette. You should have put yours out while you were still on 6th Street. As you gaze at the volume of people hanging out, milling about, and otherwise just waiting for a sucker like you, you contemplate what will surely be an empty box of cigarettes before you finish walking this block. The lie begins and repeats, “sorry last one”, “I’m all out of change”, “just gave away my last one”, “last one”, “I’m out”. You’ve just finished walking the ‘hand out gauntlet’ and are walking past the smoking pen (complete with bars!) outside of Gameworks when two cop cars going the wrong way up 7th Street roll up on yet another posse of three, this one of the 7XL football jersey variety. The cops move fast out of their cars and run down the three. Two more cop cars appear from out of nowhere. And that ends it. You cross 7th Street, toss your cigarette butt into a puddle and duck back inside the venue, hoping that the Rock will somehow help make sense of your brief walking tour.

Also, in other music related stuff, most of the Dischord catalog is now available through iTunes. Ian MacKaye’s latest band, The Evens are profiled on NPR. A great Flickr set of NoMeansNo from their recent Minneapolis show.

And some really kick-ass photos of menacing clouds.

Why Dex Has Me Kicking and Screaming

I’m very happily aware and fully engaged with the national do not call list but the list I’m really pining to get on is the ‘national please don’t send me any more freaking analog yellow/white pages list’. In the short time that the misses and I have lived at our present abode we have received no less than four shipments totaling at least a dozen volumes of these old model information dinosaurs. I can’t even remember the last time I had or wanted to use the Yellow Pages. Actually, come to think of it I had trouble finding a door prop for my back door Sunday, the wind kept slamming it shut. A heavy stack of Yellow Pages would have worked nicely for that. But for quick and easy access to information? Not a chance. This weekends delivery was a four volumes set. It included a Minneapolis White Pages, A Minneapolis Yellow Pages, a Twin Cities wide directory, and a local Edina compendium. Various large refrigerator magnets adorn each cover for products I would never ever want to buy; does the world really need more refrigerator magnet spam? Oh, and just for the record, we do not live in Edina! Luckily the volumes are bundled together in a sturdy plastic bag with a handle, making it easy for me to carry them from my door stoop out to the back alley for recycling. What a waste.

This weekend was busy with large life events. Saturday there was the possibility and potential for the big trifecta: a funeral, a baby shower, and a wedding – like watching a whole life time in a a brief 24 hour period. Driving up to the wedding reception, which was being held at some swank private golf club, my left front tire blew out. It didn’t go flat, it literally disintegrated and flew apart like something you’d see coming off an 18 wheeler cruising down the Interstate. Now I’m no stranger to changing a tire, but there was the added challenge of swapping tires while keeping my silk tie, shirt and suit from being sullied by dirt, oil and axle grease. I was hoping that if I pulled the change off without getting so much as a spot of dirt on me that I might catch the eye of someone high up in the ranks of the golf club and that maybe I might earn a free year membership for my display of utilitarian classiness (see: MacGyver meets James Bond).

Sunday, I had to go get two new front tires for the car. The service guy said it would take two hours. Hmmm…how can a guy kill two hours easily? Ah ha! How about that movie theater over there? I need something that starts right now and isn’t too long. Let’s see here…Star Wars? Nope, doesn’t start for half hour. Hitchhikers Guide to The Galaxy? Nope started 40 minutes ago. How about Kicking and Screaming? What, it started ten minutes ago and the previews are just ending? Sold! One please.

Movies are a funny thing. Had I actually ventured out on a Friday or Saturday night and made a date of seeing Kicking and Screaming, well then I would have been woefully disappointed. But when the price is matinee and all you ask of a movie is that it kills almost two hours before you have to go pick up your car, then Kicking and Screaming becomes quite pleasant and enjoyable. Funny even. I think I was the only one in the theater who was not a parent or a ten year old kid wearing a soccer jersey.

Also, a sweet stunt commercial, an Illustrated history of anti-tobacco campaigns, a video of John Deere Ballet and on a sad note, the voice of Tony the Tiger passes away.

The Gift of the Sith
We received this menacing Darth Vader gift card for use at Target Stores. ‘Press To Light’ and the saber glows and out of the voice box in the upper left comes Vader’s breathy asthma doom. I have a hunch that if you use the card at Target and you don’t buy something somehow related to the Star Wars movie (of which this is absolutely the worst offender), then, when the the cashier swipes the card during checkout, s/he will surely give you quizzical looks as you stuff your bag with Swiffer refills and the new CD you bought: Echoes of Nature: Morning Songbirds.

I have to hand it to George Lucas however, he (or more likely one of his minions) really stumbled upon something terrifying when he/they made Vader’s breath all bad-ass like that. The fact that Vader, channeled through a harmless little Target gift card, can still raise the hair on the back of my neck still says something. [Yeah it says something...it says you're a big huge Nerd! Sucker! - Triumph].

Using the Target gift card I have scientifically tested the effects of Darth’s menacing breathing on three different pets. All three animals reacted negatively towards the breathing. And all three agreed that one should put as much distance between themselves and the Darth card as possible. There you have it. QED.

Also, a great making of the Star Wars logo from the women who designed it. Man, she actually used a pencil and a ruler to make that shit! That’s so sci-fi!

[note: if you clicked your mouse where it says 'Press To Light' thinking it would do something, then you my friend are a really, really, big dork]

Delicious Morels
I was treated to a tasty lunch today by my step-father and master morel hunter. The morel season has been kind, probably due to the noah’s ark rains we’ve been experiencing here. On the lunch menu today was the classic morels over toast seasoned with butter, sour cream, garlic and lemon. Yum. The Mushroom in general is a bit of a contentious culinary sore point for the misses and me. I love ‘em and she hates them. Makes ordering pizzas very tricky. Step-father, under the nefarious publishing pseudonym of ‘Malfred Ferndock’, penned the definitive morel cookbook which if you’re interested can still be purchased at amazon. More morels at wikipedia, flickr and the great morel.

Blow It Out Your Nose
I’ve got a head cold. An all too brief moment of sunshine wrestled its way through the clouds Sunday night, just long enough for me to dust off the push mower and set out trimming the grass. It’s been raining off and on for the better part of a week now. It was getting to the point where I could stare out the window and just watch the grass grow right before my eyes. The clover is in full bloom creating exploding archipelagos of violet expanses amongst the tall dark-green grass in the back yard. It’s no more however, as my steely blade chopped though it all without discrimination. After finishing my chore my nose began to run like Giacomo at the Derby. I thought at first I was just having a case of allergies brought on by the felled flowers but by Monday morning it was obvious that it was something more debilitating. So I took yesterday slow and passed most of the day in bed honking on kleenex and reading Ted Kooser’s Local Wonder. A fantastic book of beautiful vignettes, mostly concerning life on the farm in the Bohemian Alps of Nebraska.
I also watched The Incredibles which I thought was a lot of fun. Jason Lee made for a good villain. The cool house that The Incredibles family lives in, I believe, is based on a suburban Joseph Eichler design who coincidentally was just profiled in this weekends New York Times Magazine.

Also, on a sad note, our 97 year-old silver-haired neighbor, Zelda had a major heart attack early Saturday morning. She’s comatose and in hospice care right now. It makes me sad to look out of my office window and into her living room; her easy chair is empty now and I may never again see that beautiful crop of pearly curls peeking out above the head rest as she watched her afternoon television shows.

Garage Sale Days Revisited
This weekend officially begins the garage sale season. Or as Strongbad puts it, the ‘gar-bage sale’ season. This season will be different however as the misses and I are actually planning on hosting one of our very own garage sales. Ladies will be required to wear extravagant big hats to the event and everyone will be rewarded with huge glass pitchers of Mint Juleps and a chance to enter into the afternoon Bocce Ball tournament. There’s no official date yet for this ‘not-to-be-missed’ sale but trust me you will kick yourself if you don’t come. I’ve got a collection of half burned down candles that I know you are just dying to buy. It’s really going to be a winning situation for all buyers. Hell, just throw whatever you bought from me on ebay and include a note that you bought it from world-class and internationally respected blogger, afrojet. Surely the value of said item will launch bidding wars from Nova Scotia to Zanzibar. I’m actually thinking I might include the old Solid State Hi-Fi in the sale. It’s not that I don’t use and love it still, but it is a heavy beast and the thought of hauling it around to any new location that we move to makes my lower back hurt just thinking about it.

Several neighbors on the block are running their own sales today and through the weekend. Too bad for them it’s raining horizontally and 40 degrees outside. One neighbor whose garage is perpetually overflowing with junk (mostly children’s outdoor plastic crap, dozens of signs warning back alley traffic to slow down so they don’t run over their yappy little offspring and hundreds of woven baskets and other ‘home accents’ that were picked up on sale at TJ Maxx and Tuesday Morning and have overtime become frayed and greasy). They have ceremoniously draped the entire alley with hanging ropes of connected triangular plastic flags that alternate blue, yellow and red – transforming our alley into something resembling a children’s go-cart course. I’m pretty sure that to prepare for their garage sale they randomly put small denomination prices on post-it notes, walked into their garage and threw the notes in the air allowing them to cascade down on their dusty treasures. I’m worried they are setting a tone for the whole block, one that will leave a bad taste amongst the hard-core garage sale set and cast a dark cloud of doubt on the future and success of other garage sales – namely ours. Competitive Garage Selling: the blood sport of the new millennium.

Also, a few of the fine reads that I found on the library shelves of Canoe Bay: Color : A Natural History of the Palette by Victoria Finlay (More on Victoria Finlay here and here), Mauve: How One Man Invented a Color That Changed the World
by Simon Garfield, and The Book Nobody Read : Chasing the Revolutions of Nicolaus Copernicus by Owen Gingerich (a fascinating memoir of Gingerich’s inquiry into whether anybody even read Copernicus dissertation, De Revolutionibus, which posited among other astrological finds that the Earth actually revolves around the Sun).

Out of Beta: Mr & Mrs Skelton
Well we did it! Last Friday afternoon, in a small courtroom in Ramsey County, the misses and I made things official. Rings were exchanged and vows were consummated. Sandwiched in between some foul weather days, came Friday with its brilliant sun and extremely mild temperatures, it was an absolutely perfect day for our wedding. The gracious and honorable Judge Nathanson and her staff presided, proving once again that serendipity is a fine and wonderful thing. The judge and her staff, who preside over juvenile cases, had just wrapped up an extremely tiring and emotional week. They were looking forward to ending their week with a ‘little happiness’. In my mind, the synergy of emotional outcome could not have been planned by the best wedding planner. It was a great example of ‘allowing for for things to happen’ and not ‘planning how things should happen’. For this I (and We) are grateful.

After the proceeding, and before our familial dinner that night, the new Team Skelton went for cocktails at the Saint Paul Hotel were we were treated to a fine bottle of champaign and some great stories and tips from our hostess on how to ‘go on the road’ with the newly reunited Motley Crue. Odd newlywed advise for sure, but I’ll be damned if I”m not going to try and find some use for that wisdom down the road.

The familial dinner was very nice and delicious. Much toasting – emotions were more full and effervescent than the champagne in my glass.

Next it was off for a brief but relaxing honeymoon at Canoe Bay. I believe the ‘no children’ policy is what makes this place special. Before we got to Canoe Bay there was a brief road food stop at an unmentionable fast food eatery. Standing in line waiting to order we were directly behind the ‘walking birth-control billboard’ family. One kid whined about the lack of a ’strawberry’ option to his dessert in such a horrible bouncy frequency that I could actually feel all my involuntary muscles spasm whenever he would hit certain pitches. We couldn’t take it and had to bail. I want to make a sticker that says “Return to Sender: This Child is Broken” that I can slap on kids like that.

The silence of Canoe Bay was wonderful. They also have an amazing library on the grounds. Gentle classical music, wine and coffee are available to guests as they peruse the library. Dinner at the bay was a formal jacket required deal, which I mention only because I found it humorous to walk through the woods to dinner in a suit and see other folks appear mysteriously from the woods wearing their best.

Everything on the honeymoon would have been pure bliss if it wasn’t for our northwoods friend The Tick. Sunday morning after a leisurely breakfast we went for a walk on many of the trails around Canoe Bay. The hike was about three miles in total. After the walk we retired to the Library. The misses immediately noticed a tick on her neck. Ticks, if you don’t know this, love to head towards the head or other ‘warm spots’ on your body.

The tick sent Ms. Skelton into immediate panic. We immediately went into tick check mode, where you behave like monkey’s going through each others hair. Nothing was found but throughout the day I discovered one on my pant leg and then discovered two more traversing my neck-line before dinner.

Then much later in the evening as I was getting ready for bed, I did a full tick check on my unmentionables. Nothing. But when I turned around and looked at my ass in the mirror, I noticed a big black spot on it. I immediately tried to brush it off but it was apparent that it had begun to burrow. It must have been there all day long. So I had to come out to the living room and tell Ms. Skelton that one of her new roles as my wife was to get in the bathroom and remove this sucker from me. She of course balked at this cause she can’t even stand to look at them. But after threats of divorce were offered she acquiesced. She attempted to remove it with a kleenex but the fucker was too buried. So she had to pinch it between her fingernails and pull it out. It felt like someone was pulling on a piece of my ass with a needle nose pliers.

Tick was then ceremoniously flushed down the toilet.

And thus began our married life.

Garden Stretches
The Star Tribune has gone a little nutty this morning. Perhaps they’re just getting excited over there about the possibility of a new outdoor Twins Stadium. I don’t know. And maybe it’s just me, but I found the paper’s photo gallery of garden stretches both inspired and hilarious. And then there’s a fine story about 3M scotch tape. In which we learn “oddball uses of Scotch tape reported to 3M over the years” included:

• Covering cracks in the soft shells of fertilized pigeon and turkey eggs, which later hatched.
• Attaching labels to horses that were being auctioned.
• Patching the ceiling of an apartment in Bangkok, Thailand.
• Attaching a flashlight to the underside of a gun barrel when hunting barnyard pests at night.
• Binding together chickens’ legs while they are weighed.

Also, they’ve been running ads during The Shield for what looks to be a kick ass new series called 30 Days. It’s simply Morgan Spurlock of Super Size Me fame seeing what other terrifying things he can do for 30 days.

And, a movie starring Luke Wilson and Jack Black, with a soundtrack by Mark Mothersbaugh that I haven’t seen!?!? Does such a film really exist? Yes it does. It’s called Bongwater and apparently it is so terrible it went right to video.