tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68378682024-03-13T07:26:57.936-05:00Paul Lundgren's Next Levelgoodbuzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14778625797612162479noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-82277231166293229012012-12-29T22:57:00.001-06:002012-12-29T23:00:08.510-06:00Michael Sklar's carrot cake takes the cake<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pHr62DUqAC8/UN_IZOlg0kI/AAAAAAAAACA/uuyzCjG066s/s1600/Michael-Sklar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="600" width="241" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pHr62DUqAC8/UN_IZOlg0kI/AAAAAAAAACA/uuyzCjG066s/s400/Michael-Sklar.jpg" /></a><br/>
<br/>
When I worked at the <a href="http://www.duluthnewstribune.com/event/group/group/Budgeteer/" target="blank">Budgeteer News</a> in the mid-1990s, this was my second-favorite photo from the archives. It came fully supplied with the caption, just like <a href="http://paullundgren.blogspot.com/2012/08/when-i-worked-at-budeteer-news-in-mid.html">the Connie Stevens one</a> did. I'm not sure if it was ever used in the paper, or what the deal is with it, but these days the Internet tells me Michael Sklar is an actor who appeared in a handful of movies and an episode of <i>Laugh In</i>.Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-48753624538693775972012-11-12T22:49:00.002-06:002012-11-12T23:07:03.840-06:00Last Transistor ColumnI’ve been a newspaper columnist in Duluth for over 15 years, but for most of
those years my work has been in the Transistor, which isn’t really a newspaper.
(I prefer Slim Goodbuzz’s description of the Tranny as “a tacky little
pamphlet” — a phrase he boosted from a Frank Zappa song.)
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rags I wrote for in the beginning consisted of a weekly
shopper then known as the Budgeteer Press, a sloppy every-other-week disaster
of a publication then known as the Northland Reader, and a weird monthly scandal
sheet called the Ripsaw that was quickly transformed into a solid alternative
weekly before becoming a magazine and slowly meeting its demise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout my work in the aforementioned publications I
never wrote one of those “Duluth” columns — you
know, where the author waxes poetic about Lake Superior,
the beauty of the urban wilderness and the charm of living in a big small town.
Instead I’ve tried my best to be a weirdo, and I think I’ve succeeded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I started this column in 1997, Duluth didn’t generally embrace its weirdoes,
which is probably what encouraged me to become one. Now Duluth relishes its weirdoes, so it seems my
work here is done.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In recent years I’ve become the number-one bigmouth on the
local blog Perfect Duluth Day. I still cut a rant at “the man” every now and
then, but by and large I just kiss the Zenith City’s
ass. I’m absolutely amazed at how many ways the place has changed for the
better. It seems like every day there is some awesome thing happening that I’m
missing because I’m engaged in some other awesome thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best I can do to bitch is to point out that the hideous
neon blue light around the Holiday Stationstore sign on I-35 in the West End is a public nuisance far greater than the
synthetic potheads hanging around outside the Last Place on Earth. Everything else
around here is going great by my view, which makes for boring columns. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So it’s time to announce the retirement of “The Next Level.”
This is my final piece. I still have plenty of creative energy, but it just
doesn’t work in a 450-word box inside a tacky little pamphlet anymore. It’s
time for me to knock this off.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish to close with a tip of the hat to Transistor
Publisher Adam Guggemos, a colleague of mine from the Ripsaw days who admirably
soldiers forward, maintaining an ongoing platform for art, music and swearing. I’m
proud to have been a part of it and grateful for the opportunity to not write
about the lake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Paul Lundgren is no longer a newspaper columnist, but still
strives to be a nice man. You can keep up with his weirdo past and future
projects on paullundgren.com. </i></div>
Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-56801378942904048042012-10-05T17:46:00.000-05:002012-10-05T17:53:16.069-05:00Big MoneyOne of my fondest memories of 1997 was the afternoon I went for a cruise along the North Shore of Lake Superior with Ray Szmanda in a rented convertible. People of the Midwest know Ray for his role as “Menards Guy,” a husky, white-haired spokesman with a booming voice who appears in television commercials encouraging everyone to “save big money” at the popular home-repair chain store.<br />
<br />
I thought it would be funny to nickname him “Big Money,” and he didn’t seem to mind me calling him that all day long as the wind ripped through our hair along Highway 61. Taking deep swigs of Strawberry Crush from a 2-liter bottle, Big Money jubilantly offered suggestion after suggestion for things we should do along the way.<br />
<br />
“Let’s pick up George Kessler and dress him like Gilligan! He can be my little buddy!”<br />
<br />
“Let’s get tattoos! Big tattoos! Cover our whole backs!”<br />
<br />
Everything he said ended with an exclamation point!<br />
<br />
We had barely left Duluth when we saw Kate Pierson of the B-52s hitchhiking with a “Betty’s Pies or bust” sign. I hit the brakes hard and Big Money chocked on his soda. Kate confidently strode up to the car.
“You are a chocolate lover if I ever saw one,” she said while pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “And <i>you</i>,” she continued, turning her attention to my puffy companion, “are nothin’ but pumpkin.”<br />
<br />
I figured I could play this game, too, so I quickly and matter-of-factly said “apple” without so much as looking her in the eye. “Definitely apple for you.”<br />
<br />
Big Money buried his face in his shirt, wiping soda pop from his chin, then shook his head. “No no no no no!” he shouted at me, then turned to Kate. “Sorry ma’am! The boy wouldn’t know a blueberry girl if she had indigo flesh and bell-shaped flowers popping out of her blouse!”<br />
<br />
Kate shrugged her shoulders and dove into the back seat. Her eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror, and she coldly and sarcastically said, “I expect that much from chocolate.”<br />
<br />
Back on the road, Big Money and Kate talked about show business, gardening and their favorite book, <i>A Long Fatal Love Chase</i>.Unable to relate to the conversation, I focused on the scenery. Sunlight was glistening on the lake, the fall colors were brilliant and the Volkswagen van that turned into the Betty’s Pies parking lot in front of us had bumper stickers that were perfectly predictable.<br />
<br />
That’s when we met Connie, who worked at the Two Harbors Pizza Hut. She offered to take us canoeing and told us long stories of strange nights at the Earthwood Inn Motel & Bar, which she kept referring to as the “Earthworm.” We talked about going there, but decided instead to drive to Thunder Bay, where I managed to wrestle the top down on the car so we could get some sleep in the parking lot of a 24-hour doughnut shop.<br />
<br />
I can’t remember large parts of the trip, but in retrospect I would rank this day as the 24th-best of my life.
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book “The Spowl Ribbon” is available on paullundgren.com.</i>
Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-18583624311005499282012-09-10T08:54:00.000-05:002012-10-16T22:12:56.430-05:00Murder House<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I first became aware of the Murder House in 2006. While
walking down Fremont Street
I noticed a large sign made from a 4-by-8-foot piece of plywood. It was just up
from the curb on the lawn of a deteriorating house that was mostly hidden
behind a thick wall of various shrubs and bushes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The sign was filled with writing, neatly hand-printed by way
of thick black-and-blue markers. At the top in black were definitions of the
words “paranoia,” “conspiracy,” “extortion” and “coerce.” The bottom half used
the color blue, with black returning occasionally to emphasize words and
phrases like “fraud” and “Duluth Police Department.” It was clearly the
rantings of someone whose mind was slipping. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“I have been coerced and abused still wearing a mark on
myself 1 year and six months later plus,” the sign read. “My neighbor spies on
me, I have been threatened with death to give up information on perpetual
motion or be jailed for a most indefinite time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Code breaking 9-11-2001 I was told to shut up! What a free country.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Another sign next to it complained about the “Sump Pump
Issue.” A third sign, on the roof, featured a series of triangles, circles and
numbers. I stood there and read it all, shook my head and went back about my
business.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few years later I decided to walk down the dead end on the
avenue in front of the house. From the other side I could see painted in white
on the rooftop shingles a series of solid circles and rectangles, the word
“murder” and the dates “3-23-97” and “7-12-2008.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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That’s when it became the “Murder House” to me. When I
brought it up to neighbors, I heard all sorts of stories about the paranoid
schizophrenic who lived there. A literal murder never took place, but one
theory was that the guy felt his rights had been murdered. Someone else told me
the schizo’s mother and dog died on those dates, and the paranoid delusion was
that they were poisoned. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Eventually, I heard the house had been condemned, and soon
after I noticed it had been demolished.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was only after the house came down that I got to see the
man I was already referring to as “Murder House Guy.” I didn’t know if he was
homeless or living with a cousin in the neighborhood or what, but I began
seeing this scraggly looking character riding his bicycle around with bags full
of stuff strapped behind the seat and on the handlebars. I don’t remember who
first informed me that Scraggly Bike Guy and Murder House Guy were one of the
same.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I began to notice Murder House Guy having long conversations
with different people, and as time went on I started spotting him two or three
times a week. I made a point to avoid him, not because I thought he was
particularly dangerous, but because I knew how often we crossed paths and I didn’t
want to have to engage in long conversations with him on a regular basis.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally, last month I was walking to the waterfront trail,
turned a corner by some bushes, and there he was about 10 feet away from me. I
thought it would be rude to not acknowledge him, so I nodded a hello in his
direction. Murder House Guy immediately scowled and responded by saying, “Fuck
you.” I took it in stride, chuckled, and kept walking. He mocked my chuckle and
repeated his warm greeting, “Fuck you.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, that’s it, I thought. I’m on his radar now. He knows
who I am and he clearly doesn’t like me. Or maybe that’s just how he says
howdy. Either way, I’m not inconspicuous anymore. He probably thinks I’m a
government agent conducting close surveillance of him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That night I set up a trap in my front yard in order to catch
a skunk that had set up camp under my front porch. The next morning I had my
target securely confined in the makeshift plastic tube I had borrowed from my
neighbor, which allowed me to safely blockade my porch with the knowledge that
I wasn’t trapping the skunk inside. Of course, I then had the chore of
relocating the little critter.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I opened the trap about a mile from my home near a creek at
a local park, but the skunk just sat inside and wouldn’t come out. I waited and
waited, sitting about 40 feet away inside my conversion van. Eventually, as
fait would have it, Murder House Guy came riding his bike up the street.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There he was, the guy whose first words to me just one day
prior were a disdainful “fuck you,” slowly and curiously approaching a strange plastic
cylinder that contained a no-doubt upset skunk. And there I was, unobserved in
my vehicle, watching the scene unfold.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To summarize the situation: If I tried to warn Murder House
Guy about the skunk I’d be reintroducing myself into his life and welcoming
more verbal abuse. If I let him get sprayed, he’d be sure to notice me and
perceive that I set him up, justifying a vendetta. It seemed lose-lose.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I made a snap decision to step out of my van and let him
know what was happening. He didn’t seem to recognize me from the day before and
responded inquisitively about the situation. I told him all about trapping the
skunk and my lack of success so far in releasing it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“You’re doing it wrong,” he said with a smile. “You’re
supposed to dump the skunk out of the trap over the crick so it drowns.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book “The Spowl
Ribbon” is available on <a href="http://paullundgren.com/">paullundgren.com</a></i>.</div>
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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]-->Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-50017288581103609202012-08-24T12:46:00.000-05:002012-08-24T12:48:15.123-05:00Connie Stevens enjoyed smoking pot<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nLVv6NFYKqA/UDe8-7UXjdI/AAAAAAAAABQ/Wr8kZCnM0sQ/s1600/connie-stevens.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nLVv6NFYKqA/UDe8-7UXjdI/AAAAAAAAABQ/Wr8kZCnM0sQ/s320/connie-stevens.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
When I worked at the <a href="http://www.duluthnewstribune.com/event/group/group/Budgeteer/">Budgeteer News</a> in the mid-1990s, this was my favorite photo from the archives. It came fully supplied with the caption. I'm not sure if it was ever used in the paper.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16951922368734040800noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-19136337696498172882012-02-27T12:11:00.000-06:002012-09-22T12:17:35.302-05:00MarriedHaving been married for a full two months, I have compiled
several observations on the topic. Chief among them is that marriage requires
commitment. For example, I’ve made the commitments to become fatter, hairier
and drunker than ever before. Hey, it’s not like I have to impress anyone now.<br />
<br />
There are two responses I get when people find out I got
married. Dingbats who live in a fantasy land start gushing with
congratulations. Grownups who live in reality roll their eyes and insert an
expletive into the question, “Why would you do that?”<br />
<br />
The answer is basically this: I have been in a committed
relationship for seven years, and after a certain amount of time the word
“girlfriend,” starts to sound silly. The woman I intend to spend the rest of my
life with should have a title that ranks her higher than someone I played kissy
face with in junior high school.<br />
<br />
So now I have a wife, and that title also happens to be
useful to me as a humorist. “Take my girlfriend … please,” just didn’t have a
ring to it.<br />
<br />
My bride and I found the experience of getting married to be
fantastic, but I would not recommend it to anyone else. If you are looking to
get married, here are two reasons I think you shouldn’t:<br />
<br />
1) You are not as in love as I am. You are desperate and
insecure. Someone came along who seems to tolerate you, a few friends and
family members have started teasing you that you should get married and you are
pathetic enough to start considering it. Get your damn head screwed on
straight.<br />
<br />
2) Although getting married can be fun, planning a wedding
and reception is like planning a space mission. It’s either going to be
expensive or a disaster, and it’s likely to be both. If you choose to spend a lot
of money you are a sucker, but if you don’t you are in for a lot of headaches.
The situation is totally lose-lose.<br />
<br />
Try to assign a dollar value to how much fun you can
possibly have in a single day. You lose if you spend more than that amount on
your wedding. But spending money is the only way to make things happen without
dealing with them yourself. Sure, you can get your friends to cook a potluck
for you, for example, but that means making your friends do work for you when
they already hate you for making them sit through your stupid wedding.<br />
<br />
Why don’t you skip having a meal? That would make everything
easier, right? Well, you can’t really haul people to a ceremony and then either
make them wait around or tell them to go find dinner on their own while you get
6,000 pictures taken before meeting them at the reception. And <i>you</i>
have to eat before you spend several hours yelling over loud music and soothing
your throat with wine.<br />
<br />
I know you have all sorts of objections to the points I’ve
made and still think you can have an inexpensive, fun, easy-to-plan wedding and
reception. Trust me, you are wrong.<br />
<br />
Even if you want to have a quick Justice-of-the-Peace
wedding, skip dinner and simply have a straight-up party of a reception,
there’s something you need to think about. You should never put all the people
you know together in one room.<br />
<br />
Allowing friends, family and work colleagues to mingle is a
serious mistake. Each of the people in those groups knows approximately
one-third of the humiliating episodes of your life and the range of personality
flaws you reveal in select company. If you put all of them in a room together you
will be completely stripped of whatever false sense of dignity you might have.
Proceed with caution.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man.
His book, “The Spowl Ribbon,” is available online at <a href="http://paullundgren.com/">paullundgren.com</a>.</i><br />
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Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-81739639942719833422011-11-07T18:33:00.003-06:002012-01-10T18:37:15.751-06:00Very Short Stories (Remastered with Bonus Features)<em>This week's Next Level column has been digitally remastered. We have attempted to preserve, as closely as possible, the contents of the original work. Because of the high resolution of your computer monitor, limitations of the source document can be revealed. In storing and handling this article you should apply the same care a hemophiliac would employ while carrying a glass jar full of razorblades down a Crisco-soaked stairway to a banana patch. Should this page become soiled by fingerprints, dust, dirt, blood, Malt-O-Meal, Play-Doh or Marilyn Manson, it can be wiped (always in a straight line, from center to edge) with a squeegee or a freshly cut slab of veal. If you follow these suggestions, the Next Level column will provide a lifetime of pure reading enjoyment.</em><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Disappointment</span><br /><br />When he made it home, he kicked off his shoes and went straight to the kitchen. There was a familiar shape under the oven light.<br /><br />“Mmmm,” he said. “Someone’s baking banana bread.”<br /><br />He walked over, opened the oven door, inhaled deeply, and leaned in for a closer look.<br /><br />“Oh,” he said. “Someone’s baking a meatloaf.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sunrise at the Campground</span><br /><br />Light breaks through the insect screen overhead. Dew runs down the sides of the tent. Birds begin singing and roosters begin crowing. Cigarette smokers begin hacking and spitting.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kate’s Positive Attitude</span><br /><br />Kate: Let’s play hockey.<br />Paul: We don’t have any equipment.<br />Kate: I have a hockey stick!<br />Paul: That’s broken.<br />Kate: Then we have TWO hockey sticks!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Depth-perception Etiquette</span><br /><br />When walking past a stranger, it is considered normal and polite to say hello. From a distance greater than fifty feet, it is not.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Format Change</span><br /><br />Jeff had been working with computers all day. It was nearly midnight when he got home. He was so tired, he headed straight to the bedroom, where his wife, Hannah, was already asleep. When he turned on the light, she opened her eyes.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Jeff forgot he had changed the type style, or font, on his face to Times New Roman. Normally, he kept his face in Helvetica. Not recognizing him, Hannah assumed he was an intruder and screamed.<br /><br />Jeff was trying to decide whether to explain the situation or change his facial font back to normal when Hannah threw her clock radio at him and his system crashed.<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Unfinished Sentence</span><br /><br />The amount of pubic hair in the sink seemed to indicate<br /><br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, “The Spowl Ribbon,” is available online at paullundgren.com.</em>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16951922368734040800noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-42984399454932111152011-09-11T18:20:00.002-05:002012-01-10T18:26:38.474-06:00Attack on AmericaIt’s Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, 10:30 a.m. I’m standing in my kitchen munching on an apple. Suddenly, a huge man who looks like the pro wrestler Razer Ramon comes thundering through the front door announcing that he is an employee of the Water and Gas Dept. and needs to read the meter. <br /><br />Without asking for identification or taking any security precautions whatsoever, I show him to the basement stairway and resume chomping on my apple. Soon, my basement housemates greet Razer Ramon and he starts talking to them about how the country is at war.<br /> <br />“We’re at war, dude,” I hear him say. “Haven’t you turned on the TV or the radio yet?”<br /><br />I turn on the television and see a huge cloud of smoke and debris where the World Trade Center once stood. The news anchor explains that two hijacked passenger jets smashed into the towers, causing them to collapse.<br /><br />Razor Ramon seems to be less shocked about what happened in New York than he is that no one in my house has turned on a television or radio yet. He repeats at least three times, “I can’t believe you haven’t had the TV on yet.”<br /><br />After a few seconds Razor Ramon and my housemates join me in the living room to watch the news coverage. Ten minutes later, Razor Ramon decides he better get back to work. Shortly after that my housemates break off to go grocery shopping.<br /><br />I’m transfixed, and stay on the couch watching the live broadcast and repeated crash and collapse videos. I’ve seen enough death on the news to be somewhat desensitized to it, but this is different. It’s death on a grand scale, through bizarre tactics, with remarkable and chilling results. <br /><br />As much as I want to take what’s happening seriously, though, the various TV stations keep attempting to over-dramatize what’s happening (as if it isn’t dramatic enough on its own) by coming up with awesome titles. “Attack on America” is the first one I notice. Then I turn the station to see “Day of Terror” — which takes the word <em>tacky</em> to a new extreme.<br /><br />As the clock creeps past noon, I decide to report to work at the local weekly newspaper, where I’m being phased out of employment. As I walk down Superior Street, everything looks normal in Duluth, but it <em>feels</em> really weird. Everyone is watching each other for clues about how we are supposed to behave. The assumption at this point is that everyone knows what has happened, and the world is supposed to have changed, even though nothing has really changed in Duluth. It’s a normal day, except for the news.<br /><br />At the <em>Ripsaw</em> office, the television is on for the first time I can remember. I go into the lounge area every 10 minutes, watch a few replays, sigh, shake my head and go back to work. Everyone else does the same thing.<br /><br />It’s Election Day, so when I leave work I have two hours to vote in the City Council races before I’m due at a dinner party. Because I have recently moved to a new precinct, I have to find a registered voter in my neighborhood to vouch for me at the polling place. None of my housemates are home, so I end up going door to door, wondering if people will be suspicious of me under the circumstances. Eventually I find a guy who is willing to go vote with me if I’ll wait until he finishes dinner.<br /><br />I end up arriving late to my scheduled dinner party, where a guest is informing everyone that her brother works in the World Trade Center. She woke up this morning to her sister screaming at her through the telephone about what might have happened. Later in the day they were told their brother was not at work and is alive and well.<br /><br />Despite the good news, this dinner guest is obviously still shaken by the day’s turn of events. She expresses relief about her brother’s safety, but she is noticeably hurt that many of her brother’s coworkers — one of which is his best friend — are probably dead. Within two minutes, the dinner conversation changes to a new subject and the whole table is loudly laughing and joking as if no one died today. <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, “The Spowl Ribbon,” is available online at <a href="http://www.paullundgren.com/">paullundgren.com</a>.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-17009664508660540352011-06-27T21:36:00.001-05:002011-06-27T21:36:58.127-05:00Speech to the Denfeld Class of 1991Here we are at Mr. D’s Bar & Grill for our 20-year high-school reunion. I’d like to say right off the bat that this place has never stopped playing music from our generation, but go ahead and lose your mind when Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” comes on the sound system, as if it’s a really special moment that’s taking you back to the old days for the first time since our 10-year reunion. <br /><br />Wouldn’t it be nice if we could possibly <em>escape</em> the music from our high school days at some point, maybe just for a month or so, to allow us the opportunity to legitimately get nostalgic about it at our reunions?<br /><br />It seems that making fun of our era has actually become its own cliché. Protruding bangs and curly mullets! M.C. Hammer! White Lion! Zubaz! Winger! Pinning pants at the ankles! Church Lady! Vanilla-freaking-Ice! Our high-school years are indisputably cheesy when we focus on popular culture, because popular culture is always cheesy, whether it’s sock hops and poodle skirts, disco and bell bottoms, or sexting and Justin Bieber. Those are not the things that bind a class together.<br /><br />Having been sequestered in the same building for a handful of formative years is what makes us brothers and sisters. We certainly didn’t all get along and love each other unconditionally — that’s for sure — but a great number of friendships were forged around that clock tower, and that’s what we celebrate tonight. Professing Denfeld exceptionalism and calling upon our “Hunter Pride” are not really necessary.<br /><br />On a side note concerning the bonds of our shared experience, it’s interesting to consider that some of our classmates actually managed to marry each other. Though most of us had to move on to find long-term requited love — or are perhaps still searching — it’s nice to know some of our Denfeld family’s incestuous romances continue to this day, producing inbred children who will soon have their own chances at finding high school sweethearts. Hopefully they’ll be sparking on each other to a better song than Motley Crüe’s “Without You.” <br /><br />High school is but a microcosm of our lives, of course, and I have little doubt that all of us have at some point been on both ends of the bullying that occurs as we joust for status throughout our existence. When reunions roll around it can bring up yearnings for atonement. Let us forgive our 20-year-old trespasses. You shouldn’t have called me a dork, and I shouldn’t have dropped a spitball down the back of your pants. I’m glad we can move on now.<br /><br />Five of our classmates are deceased, and as the old joke goes, some of you aren’t feeling so hot yourselves. I’m relieved to say I feel fantastic at age 38, and if any of you are taking what you have for granted, I have a pair of slippers for you. They’re Doug Bragg’s slippers.<br /><br />Doug died from leukemia 17 years ago, and his slippers have been making the rounds ever since. I’ve had them for about two years now. When something silly starts to upset me, I put them on. About three seconds of that straightens me out. <br /><br />Though I am sentimentally attached to Doug’s slippers, I’ll pass them on to you in a minute if you’d like them. You are part of the family, after all. <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, "The Spowl Ribbon," is available online at paullundgren.com</em>.Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-84935518899205103292011-05-27T21:29:00.002-05:002011-06-27T21:33:12.748-05:00TrespassingOne summer night in 1992, when I was 19 years old, I came home from doing something forgettable and found three of my friends waiting for me in the parking lot. They said I should grab a flashlight and come with them on an adventure.<br /><br />We drove across town to a building on East Fifth Street, tucked in a residential area. It was called Old Main, centerpiece of the old Duluth Normal School campus, which later expanded to become the University of Minnesota Duluth. <br /><br />I was well aware of UMD, but I didn’t know about Old Main, which was built in 1901 and closed in 1985. It consisted of classrooms, administrative offices, a library and an auditorium. Two neighboring buildings were still in use by the university as office and research space, but Old Main was dark and boarded up.<br /><br />Jeff, the leader of our expedition, brought us to the west side of Old Main and pointed at an open window on the second floor.<br /><br />“That’s where we get in,” he said. “All we have to do is climb up this fire escape and shinny along that ledge.”<br /><br />The windows on the upper floors weren’t boarded, so some of the rooms were dimly lit by the streetlights outside. We mostly kept our flashlights off to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, but when we came to darker rooms we used them.<br /><br />It’s a little nerve-wracking to wander into an unfamiliar building at night, but we weren’t overly frightened. When we entered one room and flushed some pigeons, however, there was a split second we all thought death was upon us.<br /><br />Eventually, we found the way to the attic. Although we weren’t afraid of most of the building, we couldn’t bring ourselves to go up there. It might have been the amount of pigeon dung, it might have been that gaining access was tricky, or it might have been the notion that attics are extra spooky. It was probably all three. <br /><br />We left the building with no injuries and no police attention. A few days later, we decided to return in broad daylight and go up into the attic. It was a large space and proved to be the highlight of the Old Main experience. We found a box of enrollment cards up there from the early 1900s. Had we found it at night, ghosts would have stolen our souls for sure. <br /><br />Jeff discovered the building’s telephone system was still wired up, so we came back again with a boombox and connected it. Then we made a mix tape of creepy sound effects and invited some girls to come into the building with us at midnight on Halloween.<br /><br />Our plan worked at first. We managed to get the girls into the building, and Jeff was able to sneak away from the group to activate the sound system, but the music ended up making it obvious that we were trying to scare the girls, which made the whole experience entirely not scary for anyone.<br /><br />Halloween 1992 was the last time we were inside Old Main. A developer announced plans to convert the building into apartments shortly after, but on February 23, 1993, a fire gutted it. A different group of young people had gained entry, and one set fire to a seat in the auditorium. <br /><br />The remains of Old Main were mostly demolished and removed, with some of the bricks sold as a fundraiser, but the red sandstone arches are still there … memories of sweet, glorious trespassing. <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. This story is excerpted from <a href="http://www.perfectduluthday.com/2010/11/09/trespassing-at-umds-old-main-in-1992/">a longer version on Perfect Duluth Day</a>, which contains photos, more info about the building, and comments from other hooligans who entered the building.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-54770061148427146902011-02-12T10:40:00.000-06:002011-02-12T10:42:55.751-06:00Things She Said, Part TwoCammie said she has mice in her basement. She told me she catches them in sticky traps and takes them to more upscale neighborhoods to set them free.<br /><br />"I want them to have better lives," she said. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Christine said she has mixed feelings about guys who drive pickup trucks. <br /><br />"On icy winter days, when they race past my car at dangerous speeds, it pisses me off," she said. "They think they're so high and mighty up there, with their four-wheel drive, extended cab, gas-guzzling beast splashing slush up onto my windshield. <br /><br />"But when I get stuck in a ditch and a guy with a pickup shows up with a tow chain and voluntarily crawls around in the dirt to hook up my car and pull me out for free, he gives all the pickup truck guys a good name."<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Stephanie said a lot of bizarre things in her sleep. Suddenly she'd sit up and look at me with disgust, then blurt out something confusing. <br /><br />"Why are you green?" she asked one night. "Are you full of crayons?" <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Billie Jo said her dog took off after a rabbit one morning and chased it around the yard. In a state of panic, the rabbit tried to smash through one of the two-inch-square holes in the chain-link fence to escape. <br /><br />"Being thicker than two inches, the rabbit got stuck in the fence," she said. "Its little head and front legs made it through, but its hind legs and ass were trapped inside the yard. Morgan was so stunned by this she didn’t even bite the rabbit and rip it apart like usual. She just stood there and sniffed its butt. The poor rabbit kept trying to run, but it was like it was on a treadmill -- those little legs kept chugging along, but that rabbit wasn’t going anywhere."<br /><br />Billie Jo spent 15 minutes trying to figure out how to free the rabbit from the fence.<br /><br />"I didn't know whether I should just squeeze his little hind legs and shove him through or what. Eventually I grabbed some wire snips and cut the fence. The poor thing hobbled away and probably got mauled by something else before noon."<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, "The Spowl Ribbon," is available at the Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-89391738493290954332010-12-12T10:32:00.003-06:002011-02-12T10:38:28.270-06:00Things She SaidShe said, "Hi, my name is Angel. I smell like the Thanksgiving dinner you haven't eaten all summer long." That was a weird way for a stripper to start a conversation.<br /><br />Perhaps a man might expect to meet a woman at Centerfold's Cabaret who smells like green-bean hotdish, but that wasn't the case with Angel. She had just returned from the alley, where she held the hair of another stripper, Ashley, who was puking into a garbage can.<br /><br />"Is anyone ready for a lapdance?" she asked.<br /><br />"You are," my friend Chris said to her.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Joyce said she's been good friends with Eli for many years. "Back when he was chief of police, he gave me a great piece of advice. He told me if I ever had to shoot an intruder I should aim to kill. That way there would only be one side to the story."<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />Connie said every time her family had a party there was a cake, and her grandmother always took a picture of it. "After she died we had to go through all her photographs and divvy them up," Connie said. "No one wanted the cake pictures, but we all thought we'd like to have pictures of Grandma taking pictures of cakes."<br /><br />When Connie graduated from college the cake at her party came from the grocery store in a box. A sticker with the order printed on it in fuzzy dot matrix read, “full sheet decorated buttercream cake.” Her younger brother took one look at it and called it “shit-decorated buttcream cake” for the rest of the day. Connie said her grandmother didn’t like that.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Chelsey said the various rocks of the world have different psychological affects on people -- particularly agates, which are an aphrodisiac. "That's why people around Lake Superior are always thinking about sex," she said. "There are all these agates driving us crazy. It makes it hard to think about anything else."<br /><br />She presented this bit of information as if she read it in a scientific journal. At first I considered searching the Internet or going to the library to see if I could find data to support or refute the claim. Then I decided it didn’t matter either way. Knowing the truth wouldn’t change my life at all. <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, "The Spowl Ribbon," is available at the Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-86145321008914830852010-11-17T17:22:00.002-06:002010-11-17T17:26:07.673-06:00AbductionTodd Franik pleaded guilty last week to abducting a West Duluth girl. The incident happened three months ago, within a block of my home. I was working at my desk when Franik grabbed the girl and shoved her into the trunk of his car. <br /><br />If I had looked out the window at the right moment, I might have witnessed the abduction or perhaps even prevented it. Whenever Franik's case pops up in the news, I think about the extremely peripheral role I've played in his life.<br /><br />Franik is four years older than me, and we lived less than three miles apart as kids. I have no memories of him, but the odds are pretty good that we crossed paths numerous times. We certainly had some of the same influences.<br /><br />My fiancé's uncle remembers Franik attempting to steal his cap when they were kids. "I went after him and punched him in the face," he recalls. Uncle Lennie must not have punched Franik hard enough to make the lesson stick.<br /><br />Franik took more from me than a cap. He abducted one of my neighbors. I never got the chance to punch him in the face for it, but I don't let that bother me much.<br /><br />What bothers me is that I really don't have any attachment to the kids in my neighborhood. I don't know the names of any of them — not Franik's victim, not any of her friends, not one single kid out of the dozens I see playing outside. <br /><br />When I was a kid, I knew the names of all the adults on my block, and they knew mine. That didn't protect me from potential abductors, but at least I felt like grownups were moderately interested in my life. <br /><br />Now, I'm the adult, and one of my neighbors is taken to the edge of town against her will, sexually assaulted, and left bound and gagged in the woods. My reaction is to become temporarily interested in her welfare, then quickly go back to paying no attention.<br /><br />I doubt any of the neighborhood kids know my name, but I'm sure they're aware of me. I'm the guy with the mean dog. That's not who I want to be, but it's what circumstances turned me into. Who am I to go against circumstances?<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at the Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.</em>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16951922368734040800noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-1141496810468629412010-10-11T12:22:00.000-05:002010-11-17T17:21:01.376-06:00Suicide NoteIf you find me dead, it wasn't suicide. This is the opposite of a suicide note. I'm making a public announcement that I’m basically happy and have no plans of taking my own life any time soon.<br /><br />Sure, I might seem down at times. Like anyone, I wish I had more in life. I'd like more money, more free time and a garage door that actually closes. But I do have a lot in this world — a steady income, people who love me, my health — so I can't really complain.<br /><br />If anything tragic should happen to me, the potential of foul play having been involved should be thoroughly investigated. I'm not saying that I have more reason to fear for my safety than anyone else, but one can never be sure about these things.<br /><br />Keep in mind that accidents do happen. Sometimes I like to go for long walks and I usually wind up on the edge of a cliff at some point, which has resulted in a few close calls over the years. It gets slippery on the top of Casket Quarry in winter, for example. <br /><br />If you said something unkind to me recently, don't feel bad about it. I can honestly say I'm not holding any grudges. It would be a shame if I were to accidentally plunge to my death and leave you thinking you were responsible in some way.<br /><br />If circumstances change, and I decide to kill myself, I'll be sure to compose another note clearly outlining my rationale. So remember, if there's no note accompanying my remains, I guarantee an accident or homicide has occurred.<br /><br />I am a writer, after all. How could I just stick my head in a gas oven without saying goodbye to this cruel world in roughly 400 words? Such an assignment would certainly put the "dead" in deadline, that’s for sure.<br /><br />Of course, I'd probably get writer's block and have to keep living for years and years, agonizing over draft upon draft of my final composition, until I'd finally succumb to that most dreaded of all fates — natural causes.<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at paullundgren.com.</em>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16951922368734040800noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-82124096988238342772010-09-13T17:11:00.000-05:002010-11-17T17:14:34.436-06:00Back to SchoolThis is not your ordinary back-to-school article, boys and girls. This is practical advice from a class clown who went on to graduate from a middle-of-the-road university, almost with honors. So pay attention, my horny little pizza-faced friends. <br /><br />First and foremost: There is a common misconception that the best time to misbehave is at the end of the school year. The theory, apparently, is that if you follow the rules at the beginning of the year, you can expect some slack if you screw up in the spring. Nothing could be further from the truth.<br /><br />If you behave well at the beginning of the year, you raise the faculty's expectations of you and provide evidence that you know right from wrong. Also, you risk having a whole year of work pulled out from under you by zero-tolerance policies. You don't want to become another horror-story-kid who didn't get to graduate because of indulging in senior skip day or flunked a final. <br /><br />Clearly, if you confine your most serious rule breaking to the beginning of the school year you'll have much less to lose, particularly if you attend a public school. Remember, the school district gets money from the state based on the number of students enrolled. It is simply not cost-effective to expel you at the beginning of the year. <br /><br />A few other random bits of advice:<br /><br />• Your teachers will think twice about busting you for cheating on a test if you go so far as to have the answers tattooed on your forearm.<br /><br />• Keep in mind that, though it is illegal for anyone under the age of 21 to buy beer, it is perfectly legal for anyone to buy barley, hops and yeast. Also, the easiest day to get into bars with someone else's I.D. is Halloween. Plan ahead.<br /><br />• While we're on the subject of alcohol: If your friends are pressuring you into heavy drinking — beer bongs and whatnot — and start calling you a wimp, there is a solid way to fight back. Invite them over for what you promise will be a wild party. Tell them you are making a wopatusi, or "wop," which is a punch made of fruit and vodka. When your friends show up, lead them to the bathroom, and show them that you have prepared the wop in your toilet. When they refuse to drink, tell them they are lightweights who don't know how to party. <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His fascinating book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at the Duluth Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.</em>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16951922368734040800noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-1168028359169052072010-08-16T14:16:00.000-05:002010-11-17T17:09:07.927-06:00Wrong TargetDear guy who was snooping around outside my house last week,<br /><br />Are you serious? You're thinking about breaking into <em>my</em> house? Obviously you aren't very far along with your research. For starters, why don't you just <em>look</em> at my house? Don't you think you can do better?<br /><br />You should be able to determine from across the street in broad daylight that anyone who lives in a house like mine has less than $100 cash on hand and absolutely zero diamonds or precious emeralds. <br /><br />If you're so poor that my spare money sounds attractive, perhaps I should inform you that I keep it in one of those giant Schmidt beer-bottle coin banks. Have fun making a speedy getaway with that.<br /><br />Perhaps you haven't noticed the "Beware of dog," sign on my fence. I know, that isn't always a cause for concern, but in this case it is. I guarantee that if you enter my house a 96-pound Doberman will eat your face.<br /><br />Allow me to offer you some helpful advice, since I have a college education and am not presently under the influence of methamphetamines. Breaking and entering is a dangerous and serious crime. If you're going to take the risk, give yourself a chance for a big score. In other words: Go steal from the rich, you moron. <br /><br />Those people who live in big castles outside normal neighborhoods like mine have a lot of nice things you can make off with, and there are fewer neighbors nearby to catch you in the act. <br /><br />Wealthy people go on long vacations, allowing you to take your time and do the job right. Many of their houses have driveways that allow you to pull right up to giant double doors for easy loading.<br /><br />Even if I had an awesome widescreen digital TV -- which I obviously don't -- getting it through my narrow hallways and doors would require solving the kind of complicated geometric equations that led you to drop out of school and go into thievery in the first place.<br /><br />So, the next time you put on that hooded sweatshirt of yours and go lurking in the night, use some common sense. Find a nice suburb or lake property to target. Leave your neighbors alone. Pawning compact discs is just not lucrative in today's market.<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is paul [at] geekprom.com.</em>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16951922368734040800noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-83388205910100564012010-07-23T10:26:00.002-05:002010-07-23T10:30:49.340-05:00Vulgar GraffitiThe most common word in graffiti is "fuck." It often appears by itself — a single word left for others to ponder for decades or else paint over. It is probably meant to express general dissatisfaction with life. An expanded version of the sentiment might read: "I wish to say 'fuck you' to every random person who passes here. Such is my anger with the state of affairs in this world and the specific circumstances I deal with in my personal life. Though most people are not necessarily responsible for the things that upset me, I nonetheless hold everyone in contempt."<br /><br />It is also not uncommon to see the word "shit" spray painted as a one-word message, which leads me to believe the act of graffiti is more about exercising the ability to be profane in a public and semi-permanent way than about getting across an idea. At least, I hope so. It seems unlikely that graffiti artists write "fuck" and "shit" as instructions to encourage public fornication and defecation. If they did, they could be much clearer by writing, for example, "shit here."<br /><br />It's quite common to share ones appreciation for hard rock music through spray paint. Black Sabbath and Slayer seem to be the most popular. Rap and hip-hop are also associated with graffiti, but pop music seems to be virtually unrepresented. One would be hard pressed to find the names Gloria Estefan or Toby Keith spray-painted anywhere. <br /><br />Although spray paint was around in the 1950s, it seems like honoring musicians through graffiti must have started in the late '60s, since the appropriate music styles were not available before then. It's hard to imagine "Carl Perkins rulez" or "Nat King Cole kicks muthafucking ass" on the side of a warehouse.<br /><br />Song lyrics also show up in graffiti from time to time, like: "Break on through to the other side." Psychedelic sentiment seems to be the most popular. There are plenty of people who express their love for someone through graffiti, but it usually takes the form of a direct declaration — "Matt loves Cammie" or "M.P. + C.S." — rather than lyric quotations like, "Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor, and I love you." <br /><br />More often than lyrics, vandals use a direct message to express their appreciation for rebellion, simply painting the words "smoke dope" or "get high." Other times it's just a simple note to let you know that "Brad smoked weed here: 3-21-99." This graffiti would be more useful if it were written in the future tense. <br /><br />Dates are also used to commemorate sexual acts, usually fellatio. It's common to use the letters "B.J." to denote "blow job." Considering that it must be difficult to negotiate oral sex under bridges or on the sides of cliffs, it is perhaps an event worthy of marking the area with "B.J. 3-14-2010" when it happens, but I tend to think this type of graffiti more often reflects wishful thinking than reality. <br /><br />Perhaps these people should start painting their bedroom walls with dates, like notches on a bedpost. There would be no fear of being caught by police, so they could be specific, without the need to abbreviate: "Mary Dittburner bent me over the dresser and pegged me with a dually inserted boomerang, Election Day 2008."<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail@paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-19773422552612131902010-06-23T10:22:00.000-05:002010-07-23T10:26:18.840-05:00Should Oberstar bother with debates?Democratic Congressman James Oberstar is up for reelection again. He's been representing Minnesota's Eighth District since 1974. That's 18 terms, going on 19. In 2008 he won with 78 percent of the vote and declined all invitations to debate his opponent.<br /><br />Allow me to repeat, in case the part of your brain that processes civic pride missed the key part of that opening paragraph: Oberstar was overwhelmingly reelected to the U.S. Freaking Congress, even though he refused to attend a single debate.<br /><br />Prior to Election Day 2008, Oberstar appeared on WDSE-TV's <em>Almanac North</em> program and made a statement that should have been jaw-dropping to anyone who tuned in. Julie Zenner, co-host of the show, asked the congressman why he refused to debate Republican Michael Cummins. <br /><br />"He claims that he's offered to debate a number of times and that your campaign has refused," Zenner said. "Is that a fair characterization?"<br /><br />Oberstar responded: "I don't recall. That's a standard gimmick by challengers. (They say) 'I want to have a debate every day.' There's not much to debate with him, frankly. He's a nice fellow. I've met him. I met him up at the Chisholm Fire Days parade. We had a picture taken together with him and his daughters, and he's a very nice fellow. But I don't think there's anything of substance to debate."<br /><br />Now let's review. First, Oberstar claimed to not remember if Cummins wanted to debate at all. Then, he suggested that Cummins wanted to "have a debate every day." <br /><br />After declining to participate in any debate, Oberstar actually referred to his opponent's desire to debate as "a gimmick." The public exchange of ideas between political candidates is apparently not something a high-ranking member of the United States Congress should feel obligated to respect in the interest of informing voters, it's just a scheme his opponent used to get attention.<br /><br />Oberstar also said he didn't think there was "anything of substance to debate," as if there were no issues in contemporary American politics that citizens should have been concerned about. <br /><br />Has anything changed since then? Will Oberstar give his opponents the time of day in 2010? Will voters even care? Probably not. <br /><br />Still, a handful of candidates have entered the race. Democrat W.D. Hamm will face Oberstar in the primary election August 10. The winner will go up against Independence Party candidate Timothy Olson, Republican Chip Cravaack and the Constitution Party's Richard Burton in the general election Nov. 2. <br /><br />Maybe one of those guys will come up with the right gimmick.<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail@paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-38200182931926096942010-05-23T10:17:00.000-05:002010-07-23T10:20:22.881-05:00SomnambulismHoney, something bad happened last night while you were asleep. Calm down, it's nothing major, but I feel like you should know about it. If it happened once, it could happen again, and it could be worse next time.<br /><br />I had a dream that we were outside on the porch having a barbecue. You were sitting on one of those plastic chairs at the table, and I decided to walk over and put my arm around you. Everything was perfectly normal.<br /><br />At the same time that I put my arm around you in the dream, however, I also put my arm around you in bed, while we were sleeping. I didn't get my arm up high enough though, so I elbowed you in the forehead.<br /><br />You slept right through it, so obviously I didn't elbow you very hard. I woke up right away and felt really weird about what happened. I asked you if you were awake and you didn't say anything, so I guess it's no big deal.<br /><br />I saw a TV news report a long time ago about sleepwalkers that I'll never forget. One old guy put his wife in a chokehold. He was dreaming that he was wrestling a deer. He said in an interview, "I could've broken her neck."<br /><br />Another guy had a dream he was playing football. He got out of bed and tackled his dresser. I think there was another guy who woke up standing on his dresser, ready to jump off, not quite knowing why.<br /><br />That's some creepy stuff, honey. I've never done anything like that before, except last night with the elbow. I don't think it will happen again, but maybe you shouldn't sleep so close to me at night.<br /><br />Have you ever heard of that syndrome where people sleep for days and days at a time? If I have to have a sleeping disorder, that's the one I want. I mean, I'm tired and could use the rest, and it sounds like no one would get hurt.<br /><br />One time I was camping in Montana and this guy wigged out and started flopping around in his sleeping bag and screaming in the middle of the night. When we told him about it in the morning, he said he was having a dream that he was flopping around in his sleeping bag and screaming on purpose in order to scare us. It worked.<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book, The Spowl Ribbon, is available at the Duluth Electric Fetus and online at paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-26940255144745151742010-04-30T10:14:00.000-05:002010-07-23T10:21:48.868-05:00Never LearnThere are some lessons in life that we'll just never learn. Over and over, we make the same mistakes, wondering all the while how we manage to repeatedly be so stupid. <br /><br />Even when we recognize our own poor judgment in time to prevent potential mistakes, we often find a way to rationalize going ahead with foolish behavior, as if we have no self control. <br /><br />Some mistakes are big mistakes, like driving drunk, having unprotected sex or getting into a knife fight. Although we sometimes get away with those mistakes, there are long-term consequences when we don’t, so there is greater incentive to correct those types of behavior.<br /><br />The damage caused by small mistakes, however, can exist only briefly -- maybe a matter of minutes or hours. Even though we regret what we’ve done, it's easy to do it again and again, because there is no lasting scar.<br /><br />Take, for example, burning your mouth. How many times have you done that? Anyone with even a shred of intelligence should have figured out by the age of six that hot soup scorches the human tongue. <br /><br />Yes, there is immediate gratification in not waiting an extra two minutes for your pizza sauce to cool. But that gratification is quickly lost, along with layers of skin from the roof of your mouth, if you don’t have patience. We all know that. We've all made that mistake before, probably hundreds of times. When are we going to learn?<br /><br />Another food-related mistake is overeating. Just because there's a lot of food on our plates, and it's delicious, doesn't mean we have to hurt ourselves and ruin the experience. But, for some reason, we do it over and over again. We even look forward to special days like Thanksgiving, when we can gorge ourselves sick. <br /><br />Maybe there's something deep in our animal mind that remembers hunting and gathering and how food can be scarce, so we stock up whenever possible and cram it down quickly.<br /><br />That's obviously irrational, though. We've all had a few French fries swiped from our plates, but when was the last time someone came sprinting by and stole your burrito while you waited for it to cool? <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. Getting sunburned every spring is his favorite little mistake. Buy his book, “The Spowl Ribbon” at the Electric Fetus or online at paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-67211424162933855392010-04-20T04:38:00.002-05:002010-04-20T04:50:44.932-05:00The Greatest Inventions of All TimeIt's difficult to pick one invention to stand out as the greatest of all time. There are so many man-made wonders that enrich our lives every day and make us question how we ever lived without them. For example: the wheel, the flushable toilet, the bikini, beer, Velcro, eyeglasses, the atomic bomb and plastic storage containers.<br /><br />The printing press and the Internet are certainly great inventions, but they make it just as easy to spread lies as the truth, so I can't rate them high on my list. They certainly don't rate above plastic storage containers, which have brought society nothing but positive outcomes.<br /><br />It wasn't long ago that people had to go to grocery stores and beg for flimsy cardboard boxes whenever they needed to package their belongings. It was difficult to get a good grip on those boxes and you never knew when the bottom would fall out and all your Smurf glasses would smash at your feet. But plastic storage containers are lightweight, sturdy and stackable, with easy-to-grip handles on the sides. They are one of the greatest inventions of all time.<br /><br />I think there are only maybe a dozen inventions I would list ahead of plastic storage containers, and all of them are forms of contraception. I'd even put the withdrawal method near the top of the list. I know it's not very effective, but it was a good start.<br /><br />Computers might rank high on many people's list, but not mine. I know computers often make our lives easier, but they also drive us nuts.<br /><br />There is a computer-related invention, however, that I think has potential to become the greatest of all time. It's the keyboard command "Control + Z." That is the magic key combination which allows you to undo your previous action. Say, for example, you are composing your master's thesis and accidentally delete the entire text. All you have to do is simultaneously press the Control key and the letter Z to restore it. <br /><br />The most impressive thing about Control + Z is that it is still in its infancy. There are countless other real-life uses for this technology that haven't been perfected yet. We're only a few years away from being able to take back the stupid things we say out loud with Control + Z.<br /><br />When that spurned ex-lover of yours cries out, "I thought you said you loved me," you'll soon be able to reply, "Sorry baby, Control Z" and wipe the slate clean. You could undo a whole relationship -- so it never existed. <br /><br />It's along those lines that Control Z will one day become the greatest invention of all time. It will put any other form of contraception to shame.<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His book "The Spowl Ribbon" is available online at <a href="http://www.paullundgren.com" target="blank">paullundgren.com</a>.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-17082042140464503592010-03-13T09:24:00.001-06:002011-05-21T07:04:53.811-05:00Sympathy for the Ball SlasherOne of the most bizarre news stories of 2009 involved a guy who broke into a health clinic and slashed exercise balls with a sharp knife to fulfill a sexual urge. The story landed on the front page of the <span style="font-style:italic;">Duluth News Tribune</span>, and the guy soon became well-known around town as the "Ball Slasher." <br /><br />Something about the story has bothered me for months. No one, not the media and not the various people talking about this in barrooms and barber shops or anywhere I've been, have been able to explain exactly what could go on in the process of slashing an exercise ball that would produce sexual gratification.<br /><br />How does an exercise ball fetish work? Does he <span style="font-style:italic;">penetrate </span>the ball? Does it pop and snap back, so it's like a whips and chains thing? Does it deflate like a farting whoopie cushion, giving off a little tingling sensation to the ol' genitals? <br /><br />Where is the media when the people have questions they want answered?<br /><br />I am perhaps bothered more by this than most people, because I have an exercise ball. It belongs to my fiancee, but she keeps it in our home, in my office. So there I am, working alone each day with this sweet voluptuous exercise ball -- this big, glowing fluorescent blue bulb calling to me from across the room ... all ... day ... long. <br /><br />Of course, I'm not really tempted at all by that seductive orb in the corner because I don't even understand what I would do to act on my impulse. Would I slash it slowly or with a violent stabbing motion?<br /><br />Of course, while I'm sitting in my office thinking about this, I'm constantly aware that just down the hall is a wide array of kitchen knives. If I'm going to write about this, certainly I should do some research and slash a ball, right?<br /><br />There's really only one thing stopping me: What if I really enjoyed it? I have seen this story play out in the media, and it is not an outcome I would choose for myself. Clearly there is a lot at stake.<br /><br />Some people react to this subject with disgust, but I'm not sure why. As weird as the fetish is, and as much as I don't understand it, I have sympathy for the ball slasher. He has a history of mental illness that influenced his exploits, for starters, but what people should also realize is that his kink couldn't have been easy to keep private.<br /><br />Most people have weird sexual desires of some kind, and it's generally preferred that we not get into those details in newspapers. It should be noted, however, that ball slashing is a difficult hobby to sustain. Exercise balls cost about $10 each on the low end. Even if you can afford them, you'll look kind of suspicious going into Kmart every day buying the same thing. <br /><br />Once you break into a fitness center, you kind of have to do the slashing on site, because you can't really steal a dozen exercise balls. What are you going to do, juggle them on the way out? You can't take them out the door one at a time; they'd probably roll down the avenue. You can't drag them out in a giant mesh bag; there's no way you'd get that through the door.<br /><br />The main reason I have sympathy for the ball slasher is that he tends to get lumped in with another bizarre sex-related crime story. I'm referring, of course, to the guy in Superior who had sex with a dead deer he found on the side of the road.<br /><br />Yes, Duluth has the exercise ball slasher and Superior has the deer carcass molester. These are our people. This is our heritage.<br /><br />Superior and Duluth have had a long standing rivalry, spending the past 150 years trying to one up the other. This time, Superior has finally won.<br /><br />Mental illness was involved in both cases, as I guess it would have to be, but I still think it's fun to imagine the ball slasher and the deer carcass molester in prison together.<br /><br />"Hey buddy, what are you in for?"<br /><br />Although the deer carcass molestation wins in terms of being icky, I have to say that all points for sheer innovation have to go to the ball slasher. Most people were familiar with the concepts of bestiality and necrophilia before hearing about what happened in Superior. But I doubt many considered they could get their jollies slashing exercise balls.<br /><br />Again, though, I should emphasize that it is wrong to lump these two crimes together. The ball slasher turned himself in and faced charges of first-degree damage to property. We think his fetish is weird, but we wouldn't lock him up for that alone. On the other hand, someone who humps a dead animal needs to be carefully monitored.<br /><br />One thing I wonder about the ball slasher, though, is whether he could have patched balls for reuse rather than seeking out new ones. Then he could have been considered a nice, normal person who happens to have an exercise ball covered with duct tape and shoe glue.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.</span>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-92046932180878346582010-02-21T15:32:00.000-06:002010-04-21T15:33:41.846-05:00Still Seeing GhostsDr. Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister of the Third Reich, is reported to have said or wrote at some point in his miserable life: “Repeat a lie a thousand times and it becomes the truth.” That quote and attribution have been repeated well over a thousand times.<br /><br />Another version of the quote goes like this: “If you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it.” There are at least another dozen versions of Goebbels’ quote floating around. I like to believe that he never said or wrote any such thing. That would make for good irony.<br /><br />It has always been interesting to me how easy it is to spread a rumor and build or destroy someone’s reputation. It’s as easy as opening your mouth or moving your fingers. <br /><br />The truth should be enough to destroy anyone’s reputation, but the truth is generally hard to come by. It’s much easier to lie, exaggerate or guess than to search for the truth. What’s the difference anyway?<br /><br />One day the world is flat, the next day it’s round. One day the universe is contracting, the next day it’s expanding. One day there isn’t a god, the next day there is. If we can’t figure out the big questions, good luck proving your spouse is cheating on you or that it even matters.<br /><br />I wrote two stories in 2001 about how I see ghosts. The stories were complete and utter baloney. I made them up. I wouldn’t recognize a ghost if it jumped out of my cereal bowl and stole my nose. I mean, what is a ghost anyway?<br /><br />Years later, a woman approached me and asked if I was the guy who sees ghosts. She had read my stories and really enjoyed them. I told her that I don’t actually see ghosts, but she refused to believe me. As if she knew better than I did!<br /><br />Well, the truth is, it doesn’t matter whether I’ve seen a ghost or not. I can easily lie about it either way and no one will ever prove the truth. If you want me to see ghosts, then I see ghosts. <br /><br />A special note to that woman: Thanks for continuing to read my column. By the way, not only do I see ghosts, I <am> a ghost. I’ve been watching you for a long time now, and I think you have some atoning to do.<br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-58237686476233293342009-12-19T15:06:00.005-06:002010-01-26T09:38:00.660-06:00Anny's JournalOn Oct. 10, 1909, Axel and Anny Lundgren, my great grandparents, began their 14-day journey from Sundsvall, Sweden to Duluth, Minn. Anny kept a journal of the trip that was translated in 1998 from Swedish to English. <br /><br />Axel and Anny began by train, traveling through Sweden on their way to catch a ship to Grimsby, England, and eventually to America. I've gathered for this column some excerpts of Anny's now-100-year-old account. It begins with a bit of comedy.<br /><br /><blockquote>Oct. 11<br />It got real crowded in the Gothenburg wagon [train car]. We were 32 people in the same group going to America. When we came to Storvik, a man who was a bit sour came in. It started to smell worse and worse. He had messed in his pants. <br /><br />We had to run into the other wagon, where we had to stand. The wagon where the man was became empty. When soldiers came on, they ran into the empty wagon, but they soon ran out of there in different directions.</blockquote><br /><br />They crossed the Atlantic on the RMS Lusitania, an ocean liner that was famously sunk by German torpedoes six years later -- an act which led the United States into World War I. Axel and Anny's trip wasn't quite as bad, but it had its moments. <br /><br />During the first days of ship travel, there were terrible storms and seasickness. During a nighttime storm off the coast of Ireland a fireman died of mysterious causes that Anny is only able to describe by writing, "They say he had a cramp." The next day, she wrote about the fireman's funeral.<br /><br /><blockquote>Oct. 18<br />They swept him in a tarpaulin and carried the American flag. There were so many people, we couldn't see or hear the ceremony, other than that they blew in a horn and placed the body in a casket to put in the sea. <br /><br />We had lunch at noon. It was mutton, green soup, pickles, egg omelet, pudding and oranges.</blockquote><br /><br />The transition from a funeral straight to a mutton lunch probably wasn't intended to be comical, but I get a kick out of it. This next excerpt has a similar thing going for it.<br /><br /><blockquote>Oct. 19<br />Now begins the most terrible storm. But now in the afternoon it has become totally calm. It's now more beautiful than ever before. It's time for vaccinations now.</blockquote><br /><br />I don't really understand this part, but it's my favorite.<br /><br /><blockquote>Oct. 21<br />Yesterday they gave a man delirium and a little was buried in the sea. A woman became insane.</blockquote><br /><br />The ship finally reached America at New York. Anny noted that "It went good. We didn't have to pay any taxes." The train to Duluth passed through Montreal, Canada. Things didn't go well there.<br /><br /><blockquote>Oct. 23<br />We were not allowed inside any station. They want nothing to do with immigrants. When we arrived, a fine gentleman came and showed us to the worst joint there is. <br /><br />We had to go down into a cellar, which had three big halls. In the first hall there were only Chinese people. In the second, it was Italians and more Chinese, who were as good as naked. It smelt so bad that we were almost poisoned by the air. <br /><br />In the third hall, to which we were heading, there was commerce going on, but [few people] bought anything. <br /><br />The Norwegian gentleman treated dinner. It was ham and eggs with coffee, which tasted terrible. The girls said it was root coffee. We left it, because it was horrible. We've never had such a day. We had no choice but to hold our noses.<br /></blockquote><br />And, of course, it had to end this way:<br /><br /><blockquote>Oct. 25<br />The conductor says that we'll be in Duluth at 10 a.m. It's been snowing here.</blockquote><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com.</span>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6837868.post-12486165557338975162009-10-07T04:54:00.003-05:002009-11-07T05:01:19.067-06:00Only the Paranoid Shall SurviveHere I go, strutting down the street with my earphones pounding some good rock and roll. It's a beautiful day, and I'm feeling fantastic. I might just break into some air guitar and not care if anyone is watching.<br /><br />Suddenly, I hear shouting. A wild-looking old man is screaming out his kitchen window at me. He looks kind of like a cross between Albert Einstein, Christopher Lloyd and Studs Terkel.<br /><br />I pull out my earphones to hear what he's yelling. "Come in here and plug in my phone!" he says. "It came out of the wall and I have to make an emergency call! Please help me!"<br /><br />Of course, it would be my pleasure to help an old man who needs my assistance, but I do live in a world that requires caution in these situations. This guy looks totally insane, and even though any number of neighbors might watch me go into his house, they might not be concerned enough to make sure I come out.<br /><br />I approach the window seeking repetition of the facts, hoping it will provide me some clarity. "Your phone came unplugged?" I ask. <br /><br />"Yes, will you plug it in?!?" he shouts. "Please help me. I can't plug it in because I shake too much."<br /><br />The man lifts up his hand, which trembles wildly, as if he has Parkinson's Disease or some other motor-skill impairment. I'm pretty convinced I should help him, but I ask one more question just to prolong things, hoping someone will come along and give me the confidence of knowing there's a witness to this. <br /><br />"What is the emergency?" I ask. <br /><br />"My phone is unplugged!" he yells back. <br /><br />"You said you have to make an emergency call," I explain. "Who do you need to call?" <br /><br />"I need to call my son! I want him to come over!" the man says, as if that's a legitimate emergency by itself.<br /><br />Although I'm not satisfied with his answer, I decide to give in at this point and help. As directed, I enter the fence in the backyard and go in the house through the porch. A dog at the end of a chain barks at me the whole way.<br /><br />The old man is sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the entry. I seem to startle him when I walk up, asking where the phone connection is. He points to the wall on the other side of the table, where the cord is indeed unplugged.<br /><br />I move very cautiously through the kitchen, expecting someone to emerge at any moment to attack me with a rag of ether. In a few hours I'll wake up in the basement to find out I'm starring in the new <em>Saw</em> movie.<br /><br />Plugging in the phone, I notice the plastic tip that locks the plug into place is broken, which means the plug will easily slide out again soon.<br /><br />"The little tab jobby is broken on the plug," I say. <br /><br />"What?!?" he shouts. <br /><br />"It's plugged in now, check for a dial tone," I say, deciding not to complicate things.<br /><br />"Yep, it's working now! Thank you very much!"<br /><br />"You're welcome."<br /><br />So there was nothing to it. I just helped an old man plug in his phone. It was a simple good deed that I had feared might be a foolish risk to my life. <br /><br />Part of me feels bad about not trusting this helpless old man, but part of me realizes that paranoia -- perhaps in some situation in the past that I never fully understood -- could be the reason I'm alive today. Perhaps it pays to err on the side of caution.<br /><br />The thing is, it's generally not screaming lunatics that try to lure you into a trap. They just run up to you on the street and start biting your face apart into chunks. It's the people who go out of their way to be friendly and normal looking who utilize deception. When dealing with crazies, it's probably better to beware of the obvious. <br /><br /><em>Paul Lundgren is a newspaper columnist and a very nice man. His e-mail address is mail @ paullundgren.com</em>Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04641456695623230697noreply@blogger.com