All the To Do

Andrew was in town the past week interviewing for jobs, as he is moving back to the City of Lakes. In a word, I could say Minneapolis crew is "excited," but don't think it would account for the foaming at the lips, jittery anticipation, that everyone is physically displaying.
We, along with the usual suspects, spent much of the time biking, drinking beer and scheming plans to combine the two in a way to make a million dollars.

In the spirit of him moving back at the onset of summer, we participated in one of my favorite exercises - list making.
On a cocktail napkin titled, "2009 Summer To Do's," we listed out everything that needs to be accomplished by the Autumnal Equinox.

I assumed this went M.I.A. around 11:00 p.m. To my surprise, the following email turned up in my inbox today.

The list, and the additional reasons I will love this city this summer:

It Could Be Worse. I Could Be Dead.

My week.

I needed to take one right-hand turn.

I took 10,000 lefts.

Artcrank 2009

The Artcrank poster show at One on One Bicycle Studio, was nothing short of amazing.

Aly and I came home in beautiful rain with a handful of posters, like the two below.





There are few things better than bicycles, beer and local artists. Tie them together, and that was our Saturday night.

Action Figure

I've had my struggle with the bus.

Today, neither good nor bad, the strangest event occurred.

I boarded Bus 4 downtown behind two other city-ites.

As I stepped up to pay, I noticed the bus driver was hunched over.  Like when you sleep sitting up - only I could tell he wasn't asleep.  His neck was tucked down and was staring intently at his hands.

In one hand was tucked a miniature action figure.  In the other was a very small paint brush.

The driver was using intermittent bus stops, 20 second intervals at a time, to tint his army.

Solid, Liquid, Gas

The route 4 bus running north and south on Bryant Avenue passes a park at 31st Street. As I passed the park this morning, from a fogged window, I witnessed the following:

In 20 degree weather, at 8:00 in the morning with the sun not quite up, a guy dressed head to toe in Carhartt stood in the middle of park.

Mr. Minnesota stood by a truck. The truck was connected to a hose. The hose was being held tight in his hand as it blasted glacier-cold water over a field that was already covered in frostbitten ice.

Appearently, with all of the above freezing temperature we've had the last few days, the snow hasn't been growing as well as anticipated.

Just another Minnesota nuance you have to appreciate.

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?"

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.