Un-Wonderbread

I'm picky about my bread.

Blame, as I see it, is placed on WAY too many Miracle Whip and bologna sandwiches as a kid.

Side note: Mom, hogs toes and fake mayo sandies are not, have never been nor ever will be, healthy, no matter how far you stretch the imagination.

What drives me away is the consistency that Miracle Whip turns bread.  I'm convinced there is some sort of chemical interaction that happens where the Miracle Whip simply overpowers flour to turn it to a yeasty paste.

The trouble, as I see it, is the middle of the sandwich.  As I explain:

Sandwich eating enjoyment can be plotted on a bell curve.

Imagine the X axis is a constant stream of sandwich enjoyment.  Each end of the bell curve spectrum, (-5, 5), represents the start and finish of one, unique, sandwich meal.

Plotted lines close the X axis represent a positive experience, while those further away show a plausible concern with the user's sandwich interaction.

Natural eating progression of a bologna and Miracle Whip sandwich starts at the crusty edge (-5) leads to the middle (0) and finishes with the opposing crusty edge (5).

Bread crust always gets a bad rap.

However, in this case I argue, pitting a bristly crust against an abrasive substance actually elevates the user's sandwich interaction (represented by a flat line on either end of graph A above).

The density-to-taste balance on the edges of the sandwich make that portion of the experience remarkable.

Now, as you approach the middle, Miracle Whip has two factors working in it's corrosive favor:

1. By the porous nature of bread, the weakest portion, in terms of penetration, is the middle of the sandwich

2. Due to typical* sandwich enjoyment, Miracle Whip is allotted more time to absorb and weaken the middle of the sandwich, as compared to the outside 

crust

As you approach the portion of the sandwich where the Miracle Whip is most dense, you are most anxious.  The pinnacle of your meal, so you think.

A bite from the heart of the fermented dough dispenses a glue like paste to the roof of your mouth.

Your concerns level grows, as charted above, as you first realize what is happening.  As your tongue engages to clear your palate and fails to jettison the lodged residue, an unsuitable experience spikes.

You are forced to enlist the help of your fingers to clear the emulsion.  The peak of your negative enjoyment - and the reason for my bread aversion.

*"Typical" assumes the sandwich is eaten as a solitary item and not sliced into pieces, i.e. diagonal cut, party squares, halfsies

I Don't Get It

Can  someone please explain to me the point of hand-holding?

The Move

Aly and I have been knee deep in boxes full of knicknacks, bowls and t-shirts pre-dating Clinton's first term.

Nothing makes you want to purge all of your worldly possessions quite like moving.

Lifting box after box, I found myself keeping a mental list of my possessions I would consider a "must move."

Not many items made the list.

At first I was sad about this.  Then as I thought, I wondered how much crap people accumulate and drag about their life that has no meaning or value.  Probably more than they are willing to admit.  Or even realize...until you have to move it.

If my apartment was on fire, Aly and Otis were safe and I had the opportunity to grab items that had to be saved, they would be:

1. My grandfather's mid century tobacco chest

2. Bootsie - my early 80s La-Z-Boy recliner

3. My dad's 1980 ten speed Schwinn

A debatable fourth would be my trunk of photographs.  But, honestly, that thing is fricking heavy.

Das Bus

Hello.

My name is John.

Today marks the fifth consecutive week that I haven't ridden a bicycle.

I may lose it and need you to talk me down from the ledge.

It's not just not riding my bike that's driving me crazy. It's that in combination with hemorrhaging public transportation.

Before I dive into this, kudos where kudos are due:

The past two mornings have found Aly and me, coffee and gym bags in hand, running for the bus stop. Two grown people, chugging down the street, running for a bus.

Also these last two mornings the bus has begun to pull away from the curb, stop in the middle of the intersection and let us hop on.

The same elderly woman has been behind the wheel and on both occasions and has welcomed us on board with smiles as well as provided play by play commentary of each stop, our current on-time status and tips on how to retrieve lost mittens.

Not an unpleasant way to start you day. However, I tell you that to tell you this.

There has also been mornings we have stood at the same bus stop for 20 minutes in negative temperatures, to come on board in a suit and tie and sit next to a young chap who thinks it's perfectly acceptable to take a swig out of a brown bottle and hock a loogie against a handrail.

Either way, I miss my bike.

The one perk that public transportation does afford is unparalled people watching. One of, if not my top, hobby.

The Minneapolis busses are laid out with sideways facing seats in the front and in the back of the bus. The middle of the bus hosts forward facing seats, two to a side, and one row of forward facing seats across the back of the bus.

Anyone who rides the bus could probably attest to the unspoken, but understood, prefered seating locations on the bus. The sideways seats are always last to be filled due to the awkward eye-contact avoidance game you're forced to play once someone sits across from you - with the one exception of the seat directly next to the door, which is usually occupied by an elderly grandma and her walker.

The forward facing middle section isn't bad - but your still forced to deal with the semi-awkward, stranger touching my leg, situation. This gets especially hairy during the winter, when everyone has forced themselves into multi-layer poofy jackets, which easily spill into the personal space boundry.

The most coveted seats on the bus are the forward facing seats, wedged into the back corner. You are first class indeed enjoying more leg room than the peasants in the middle of the bus, a slightly more reclined seat and the fact you are wedged into a position that ensures your interaction with other people will be kept to a bare minimum.

Last Thursday I was riding the bus home, and found myself enjoying such a seat.

The stop after I board downtown is busy, and typically fills the bus quickly. Another twenty-something male boarded and sat next down next to me.

He was on the phone. This didn't bother me as much as the fact that he was wearing womens boots. Due to the number of riders causing personal space infraction, it was all I could do not to overhear his phone conversation.

"Hi Boo. Yeah, I'm on das bus. Yeah, I'm on my way home, I'm right by the Walker."

What made me raise an eyebrow was we weren't by the Walker. Not even close. We were in the direct middle of downtown. True, the bus we were on eventually rounded the corner by Loring Park and passed by the Walker, but that was a good 10 - 15 minutes from where we were located.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt. When I'm running late, and I've told Aly I'd be somewhere - I tend to exend my location a bit. He went on,

"Yeah boo. I'm getting off das bus right now. Well, I got to go - I don't my hand to freeze in the cold."

He had literally just sat down. Unless he was planning on walking to the Walker, which was suspect to being his final destination anyway, he didn't seem to be in a rush to get off the bus. He had is phone out and was running text messages as fast as his keypad could keep up.

15 minutes or so later we were cruising past the Walker and he gets out his phone. In a much different tone, he muttered,

"Yeah homie, I'm here. Okay? Okay! Good, good. Right. Okay."

In front of the Blockbuster, he slams his phone shut and jumps off the bus right before the doors close.

This was a fairly uneventful interaction between he and I. However, I found the whole vibe so strange, I put my book away and thought about it the rest of the ride home.

Undercover agent? Prostitute on the side? What the hell was this guy up to?

I landed at my bus stop before I could deduct a legitamite answer to that question. As I got up, with a perplexed look on my face, I caught eyes with a guy in lowly side seat.

I could immediately tell we were both thinking the same thing. As I rose from my seat, he made a vauge pointing jesture and mouthed to me,

"What the hell was that?"

Local Coverage

Ross' Restaurant was our local late night diner hangout growing up. I've chronicled Ross' environment and my experiences there in my personal notebooks, and still need to transfer items here.

To say Ross' is a distinctive environment is a gross understatement.

I recieved an email today, with the below Q/A courtesy of my long-time friend, Petey, who I grew up with in Eastern Iowa.



Q: How do you know you are from a small town?

A: The hometown newspaper provides Presidential Inauguration coverage from Ross' lunch counter.



To me, the severity of hull-arity lies in the call outs to the "garage-sale buy TV" and Ron "figuring" some of his customers would want to see the oath.

Another great follow-up to the story - while Obama was campaigning this fall, he made a stop in the Quad Cities and spoke to Ron and Cynthia (below).

If Cynthia explaining Ross' infamous Magic Mountain to the soon be President of the United States doesn't make you smile with small town fervor, I don't know what would.

Home Is Where the Ice Is

During my visit with my sister the past few weeks, she conveyed to me she loves living in Hawai'i, but sometimes faces bouts of being homesick.

If she lived on the mainland, I doubt she would live within driving distance, or even the same time zone for that matter, of where our folks still live in Eastern Iowa. But I imagine the feeling is more of a psychological one. If she is overcome with homesickness, she would be able to feel her support groups are more easily accessable.

After stepping off the plane this weekend and feeling a cold burst of air rush through my flip-flops I sent her the following text message as I was walking through MSP terminal:


"If you are feeling homesick, go to weather.com and type in my zip code. Then go the freezer, take out the ice bin and dump it down your pants."


After an inch of snow yesterday, I walked to my bus stop this morning to await in the following temperature.

As predicted, my mood is quickly shifting from supreme relaxation to irritated anxiety as I'm relearning how to cope with a gleefully-Scandanavian winter.

Unmindful, I was surly with Aly this morning as we got on the bus. As a classy bus riding citizen I whispered in angst, "There is not ONE redeeming quality of a Minnesota winter."

I usually get upset with Aly for placing the back of her hand against her forehead, sighing vainfully and making an over-dramatic statement such as this. I felt awkward as I said it, and felt even more sheepish when the woman sitting next to me in a faux-lamb skin cap and full-bodied, purple Vikings jacket shot me a glance over her Field & Stream magazine.

As a result of my third winter here, my mood about the seasons can be read like a map. We've amateurly diagnosed myself with seasonal depression.

Seasonal affective disorder (ironic the acronym is SAD...) is described as the winter blues.

Bullshit. It's the winter malaise.

You tell people you have the "blues" when you appear in a Lilo & Stitch cartoon. I tell people I have the "malaise" because each morning I wake up when temperature is below 0 without windchill pushes me inches closer to putting on my quitters, filling my closet with down blankets and climbing inside until the ice melts.

I always ask myself what is it that calls people to make their home on barren ice. That, and I've made myself a deal that for every put down, I need to give three put ups. Like elementary school.

So what do I like about winters in Minneapolis?

1. Sledding. Ice is fast.

2. Not having to give Otis a bath. 2 feet of snow does wonders for wiping grime off a dog.

3. Anticipation of the summer.

Stay warm.

Resume Dreaming

Deep breath.

I'm back in the dream shed after 17 (..ah..) days traveling to Oahu to visit my sister, Amanda, over the the holiday and then to Kaua'i for 8 days of hiking, kayaking, beaching and surfing.

With more rest than I knew what to do with, I returned to work today to find people frequently checking in on my pulse.

Never, in all of ever, have I had a such a long break of time where the biggest decision of the day was whether to take my rum drink to the beach in flip-flops or bare feet.

With more rest than I knew what to do with, I returned to work today to exercise my right as "Annoying Vacation Office Guy" as co-workers checked in on my pulse.

All day I tried repeatedly to come up with the seven word answer to the "So, how's was your trip?" but it just couldn't effectively be done.

"An epic, resounding and magically inspirational experience." came close, but at the end of the conversation you just can't put into words what an 8 mile hike on the Kalalau Trail along Na Pali coast and through a rainforest to an 800 foot waterfall actually makes you feel.

I was fortunate enough to have so many great experiences I'll have to share them bit by bit with stories and images.  I'm trying to get everything put onto Flickr and will put the link out once I do.  Three full memory cards do wonders for uploading.

As I looked out the window today and watch Minneapolis receive a whiteout, I had inclinations to book a one way for the next trip.

Good to be back.