Someone contacted me today to share an article he found in a New York publication about racial double standards ... According to the article, some (white?) politician in Baltimore pointed out the level of violence in black neighborhoods and got clobbered as a racist in the media, while a black politician in Philadelphia went into a church and asked his black peers to "stop the violence" and got nothing but positive press for essentially pointing out the same troubling trends.
Okay. Touche. Double standard. Agreed. I'm not familiar with either of these examples, but the article made a convincing point that white folks have a tough time pointing out concerns they have about problems in minority communities, while minority leaders get a high-five for holding prayer groups to "stop the violence."
But there's more to the story.
Yes, there is a disproportionate amount of violence in certain ethnic neighborhoods, including North Minneapolis, which is predominantly black, and that's a problem that needs to be addressed. At one point, North Minneapolis was host to something akin to a third of the homicides in the city, if I remember my stats right. A troubling trend, indeed, and not identifying that as a problem does no one any good.
There does need to be some leadership that says, "What's going on with young black men between the ages of 16 and 32 in urban areas, and how do we reach them?" I've spoken to state demographics folks about the numbers and the correlations are scary.
You can predict the percentage of young white males who will die this year in drunken driving accidents, hunting accidents or by suicide. You can predict the numbers of older black males who will fall victim this year to diabetes, or younger males who will die because of street violence. You can predict the number of Native Americans who will die of obesity-related diseases or alcohol-related conditions. I'm a realist. Rather than not see a correlation between a racial group and a life threatening problem, why not talk about it, fix it, and move on?
However, I think some of the defensiveness in communities of color comes from the fact that when a crowd of white kids gets into a fight, or there's a school shooting perpetrated by a white kid, or there's white collar crime, no one writes a story saying "white kid freaks out in school library" or "a white man named Bernie Madoff embezzled millions of dollars." Then, he's just a kid, or an embezzler, and his race is pretty much ignored. Only one group gets called out by race when there's wrongdoing. The media should be consistent, no?
The other problem is, to hear people talk, you'd think that if you set foot in an ethnic neighborhood you'd be shot and killed on the spot, and nothing could be further from the truth. There's a reason Bill Clinton bought an office space in Harlem. I know a married couple of attorneys -- blonde and blue-eyed, the both of them -- who bought a nice place in Harlem and are raising kids there. I've enjoyed a nice breakfast in a Harlem diner. Is there crime at night? You betcha. And by day, it's a pretty funky neighborhood and worth a visit.
North Minneapolis, which I mentioned earlier, has a nice little YMCA or YWCA (I can't remember which) where my girlfriend plays in a soccer league. Lake Street in Minneapolis, another ethnic neighborhood, has a fun destination called Midtown Global Market where plenty of upper middle class white folks go for brunch and jazz and chess. But to hear suburban folks talk, even some of my coworkers who live in St. Paul, their reaction is: "I have an appointment on Lake Street next week. Will I be safe? I've never been..."
Showing posts with label Minneapolis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Minneapolis. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Sunday, August 30, 2009
MGMT, "KIDS"
Damn, this video is so wrong to this poor little baby! And I think that's his mother in the video. But the song plays on 89.3 FM, and it's a great song!
For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":
Video of MGMT with "KIDS"
If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...
Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":
Video of MGMT with "KIDS"
If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...
Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Matt and Kim
I love the group Matt and Kim. They're real-life sweethearts, met in art school, and live in Brooklyn, which adds to their other-worldly appeal. Kim's face when she drums is like this other-worldly ecstasy. I wish I had a hobby that drove me to such orgasmic heights. They look like they really enjoy performing .... oh, and they take their shirts off in every video I've seen!
MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH
MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH
Monday, June 15, 2009
POEM ABOUT GOD AND DROWNING
POEM ABOUT ALL OF HUMANITY AND EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, ALL AT ONCE
It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning
I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor
Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens
The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)
I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.
-- END --
It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning
I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor
Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens
The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)
I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.
-- END --
Monday, June 1, 2009
So I was in the bathroom today at work, feeling groggy... when I was overcome by a story, sumpthin' fierce, I tell ya. It's pretty brutal, but it doesn't start out that way. I've been reading McSweeny's fantastical stories or something of the like, and this one jumped out at me...
Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:
A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.
He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.
The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.
The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.
Insert a vignette here.
Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.
Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!
The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).
The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.
The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.
He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.
Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!
The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."
Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.
I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:
The monkey!
Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.
The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!
Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.
And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.
The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.
She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.
The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.
The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.
The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.
"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.
But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.
Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.
He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.
With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.
Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.
The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.
Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.
Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.
Susie was dead.
The monkey wasn't finished.
He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.
He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.
He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.
They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.
"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."
The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.
Stella shook her head.
"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"
The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.
THE END
Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:
A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.
He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.
The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.
The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.
Insert a vignette here.
Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.
Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!
The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).
The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.
The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.
He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.
Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!
The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."
Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.
I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:
The monkey!
Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.
The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!
Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.
And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.
The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.
She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.
The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.
The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.
The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.
"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.
But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.
Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.
He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.
With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.
Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.
The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.
Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.
Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.
Susie was dead.
The monkey wasn't finished.
He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.
He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.
He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.
They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.
"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."
The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.
Stella shook her head.
"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"
The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.
THE END
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Matt and Kim, "Lessons Learned"
They're just the cutest...!!!
I would do this in Times Square, too. Provided I could keep my socks on until the end...
I would do this in Times Square, too. Provided I could keep my socks on until the end...
Monday, April 20, 2009
Merlin's Rest and french fries in malt vinegar, plus some
I discovered a new great food stuff tonight, and yes, it's worth any corresponding fats and greases...
French Fries. In Malt Vinegar. With mint sauce (light oil-based sauce, not the creamy kind). And ketchup.
Went to Lake Street pub called Merlin's Rest for its two-year anniversary. It was the owner's birthday and my friend's birthday, all rolled up into one. Good times...!
French Fries. In Malt Vinegar. With mint sauce (light oil-based sauce, not the creamy kind). And ketchup.
Went to Lake Street pub called Merlin's Rest for its two-year anniversary. It was the owner's birthday and my friend's birthday, all rolled up into one. Good times...!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
25 saddest songs of all time?
I won't pretend to know all these songs, but here's a list I found of the 25 saddest songs of all time. I certainly agree with some of these, like BRICK by Ben Folds Five, and Jeff Buckley's version of HALLELUJAH.
Listen here:
http://www.spinner.com/2007/05/04/the-25-most-exquisitely-sad-songs-in-the-whole-world-no-11/
Listen here:
http://www.spinner.com/2007/05/04/the-25-most-exquisitely-sad-songs-in-the-whole-world-no-11/
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Weight loss?
Hmmm... I weighed in today at 167 before my workout, and 164 after... That would suggest a quantifiable drop from my previous weight of 168 - 171. Or at least a pound.
That said, I kinda fell asleep before 8 p.m. last night and missed dinner, and then left the house without breakfast (as usual) this morning, and then had a grilled chicken salad from Arby's for lunch. There was a mini danish, half a donut, a brownie and two cups of coffee in there somewhere.
So the 1-lb. drop is probably a result of an empty stomach. But I'll take it!
I celebrated by downing two beers, and fish and chips smothered in malt vinegar at Merlyn's Rest. What can I say? I'm a bad boy...
That said, I kinda fell asleep before 8 p.m. last night and missed dinner, and then left the house without breakfast (as usual) this morning, and then had a grilled chicken salad from Arby's for lunch. There was a mini danish, half a donut, a brownie and two cups of coffee in there somewhere.
So the 1-lb. drop is probably a result of an empty stomach. But I'll take it!
I celebrated by downing two beers, and fish and chips smothered in malt vinegar at Merlyn's Rest. What can I say? I'm a bad boy...
Monday, March 2, 2009
Why didn't anyone tell me music could be this good?
The SilverSun Pickups have a song called "Three Seed"... and it has me!!!
So what is it about? Abortion, addiction, a street fight, a failed romance?? Others have debated the meaning, here:
SongMeanings.net
So what is it about? Abortion, addiction, a street fight, a failed romance?? Others have debated the meaning, here:
SongMeanings.net
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Art shanties in Minneapolis -- Frozen. Funky. Art.
FROM: http://3minuteegg.org/
"Six winters ago, Minneapolis artist and art activist Peter Haakon Thompson teamed with David Pitman and other artist friends to construct ice houses and place them for a few freaky, frigid weeks on Medicine Lake, west of Minneapolis. The Art Shanty Projects has since become a January tradition — 20 teams of artists, designers and architects to turn their whimsy into three weeks of reality on the tundra. 3-Minute Egg poked around Saturday’s opening festivities, braving gthe Arctic winds so you don’t have to. Of course, if you care to, the Shanties remain up through February 14."
"Six winters ago, Minneapolis artist and art activist Peter Haakon Thompson teamed with David Pitman and other artist friends to construct ice houses and place them for a few freaky, frigid weeks on Medicine Lake, west of Minneapolis. The Art Shanty Projects has since become a January tradition — 20 teams of artists, designers and architects to turn their whimsy into three weeks of reality on the tundra. 3-Minute Egg poked around Saturday’s opening festivities, braving gthe Arctic winds so you don’t have to. Of course, if you care to, the Shanties remain up through February 14."
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Eviction Notice -- a little free write about love and stuff
I sat through a couple of half-day writing seminars at the LOFT literary center (a.ka. OPEN BOOK) in Minneapolis recently. One of them was a bit repetitive, so as I sat in the audience, I got inspired to work on a little piece.
Here it is. Don't know what, if anything, I will do with this, but I'm thinking of calling it "Eviction Notice":
EVICTION NOTICE
Back when we were living together, but shortly before the end, my last serious girlfriend angrily informed me I was not 'detail-oriented' enough. She was territorial about the kitchen and offered this criticism as we shelved canned vegetables together in a lower cabinet. She had more than a tone. Soon afterward, I called my older sister in New York to complain.
"You're not," she confirmed.
Ah, well.
I have learned this much from love: There are things we try to police in ourselves and improve in ourselves, but ultimately we are who we are, until we are changed. I still think my ex-love over-reacted. They were, after all, just vegetables.
Before I keep going, I should say that I am writing this in a certain context: sitting through an eight-hour writing seminar to which I've shown up 39 minutes late on a chilly Saturday morning in downtown Minneapolis; the elections of 2008 are just behind us; my rent is not due but the alarm clock we all keep at the back of our minds keeps fluttering back to the date, as if it were.
An hour's drive north, a 28-year-old man I interviewed in prison on Wednesday must at this moment be by laying in bed in his cell, no doubt meditating on his 2-year-old son, dreaming of his next visit. The prison unit is on "lockdown" because of acts of violence between prisoners, and except for my interview, he and the other men have not left their cells in days.
I had met his child for the first time two days earlier; he called every man "dada," even those flat images of men he saw flickering by on the television screen. Mother had divorced father months earlier. I'd written about them both, back before the child was born, in more hopeful days.
Last night, over goodbye drinks for a departing co-worker, I heard an old story about a school administrator who had a habit of popping Viagra pills and then walking down supermarket aisles in his spandex shorts. My co-workers thought they got him, eventually, on indecent exposure.
I am imagining a middle-aged man, hair like Caesar, pale as most Minnesotans are pale, round at the waist, dressed like an entrant in the Tour de France, trundling to a wide-eyed older woman in the dairy aisle, she of the big blue hat and the winter scarf, the crisp, refrigerator air doing nothing to cool the chemical want between his legs, his offering obvious but never mentioned, a silent hello protruding from beneath small talk about the rising price of Kemps milk.
What no one will understand later and what he cannot fully explain is that this is more than a thrill ride, an obscene bat attack on an unsuspecting mailbox, a sexualized cow tipping. He is not doing this because he can. He is doing this because he must.
I am glad I am not him. Or her.
But I am not sure how it was determined that I be neither of them, that I am me and not them. The soul is unique; our actions are self-chosen; but that's not the half of it. What more, I can't say.
-- cut: There was something else I was going to tell you here, but I have forgotten. --
But consider this:
At the prison I mentioned earlier, the very large associate warden came out to the guest lobby to talk to my photographer before the interview. "You're wanted in New Mexico," the very large associate warden said. "There's a warrant for you -- something about a moving violation."
"But!" my photographer said. "That was! Years ago! I thought! I paid that!"
My photographer has two or three kids. He has a wife he took to the hospital on Monday with what he prays is a cold. He did not want to be locked up with the hurt and the deadly here in Minnesota, not for breaking the speed limit a lifetime ago in New Mexico. His heart beat faster.
They did not arrest him. He promised to get to the bottom of things, to make amends.
Do you know this joke?: "How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans." The writing coach is now telling this joke to the class, and it is apropos.
That is life though. All that planning that we who call ourselves professionals pour into ourselves, it's to move us forward in one direction. But we only set the compass and head out and pray. Where we end up -- that's fate or chance or what have you.
Here's another thought: Who we are when we're miserable or tired and who we are when the sun hits us after a long gray morning are sometimes so different, it's like we've forgotten ourselves and suddenly noticed the forgetting. "I'm back," you want to say. "I feel myself again. I didn't realize I was gone but I'm back."
This may be how an alcoholic feels during lucid times. This feeling hits me often.
That girlfriend I told you about, the one of the canned vegetables. She was beautiful, that one, but it would never have worked between us. When she told me to move out, I asked her why. She said: "I'm not going to tell you. You never listen."
Ah, well.
Let me close the way a good meal starts. Here's my prayer. Here's my constant prayer: I want to let go of self-recrimination without giving up my perpetually-interrupted commitment to self-improvement; to hate my disorganization less while working on it more; to accept me without losing sight of a better me. I want to learn from the past without being tethered to it; I want to forgive everyone, including myself.
I want next year to be better than the last. I want it all fixed up and better. I want all these things and many more. But I expect nothing.
Okie dokie then. Alright. Amen.
Here it is. Don't know what, if anything, I will do with this, but I'm thinking of calling it "Eviction Notice":
EVICTION NOTICE
Back when we were living together, but shortly before the end, my last serious girlfriend angrily informed me I was not 'detail-oriented' enough. She was territorial about the kitchen and offered this criticism as we shelved canned vegetables together in a lower cabinet. She had more than a tone. Soon afterward, I called my older sister in New York to complain.
"You're not," she confirmed.
Ah, well.
I have learned this much from love: There are things we try to police in ourselves and improve in ourselves, but ultimately we are who we are, until we are changed. I still think my ex-love over-reacted. They were, after all, just vegetables.
Before I keep going, I should say that I am writing this in a certain context: sitting through an eight-hour writing seminar to which I've shown up 39 minutes late on a chilly Saturday morning in downtown Minneapolis; the elections of 2008 are just behind us; my rent is not due but the alarm clock we all keep at the back of our minds keeps fluttering back to the date, as if it were.
An hour's drive north, a 28-year-old man I interviewed in prison on Wednesday must at this moment be by laying in bed in his cell, no doubt meditating on his 2-year-old son, dreaming of his next visit. The prison unit is on "lockdown" because of acts of violence between prisoners, and except for my interview, he and the other men have not left their cells in days.
I had met his child for the first time two days earlier; he called every man "dada," even those flat images of men he saw flickering by on the television screen. Mother had divorced father months earlier. I'd written about them both, back before the child was born, in more hopeful days.
Last night, over goodbye drinks for a departing co-worker, I heard an old story about a school administrator who had a habit of popping Viagra pills and then walking down supermarket aisles in his spandex shorts. My co-workers thought they got him, eventually, on indecent exposure.
I am imagining a middle-aged man, hair like Caesar, pale as most Minnesotans are pale, round at the waist, dressed like an entrant in the Tour de France, trundling to a wide-eyed older woman in the dairy aisle, she of the big blue hat and the winter scarf, the crisp, refrigerator air doing nothing to cool the chemical want between his legs, his offering obvious but never mentioned, a silent hello protruding from beneath small talk about the rising price of Kemps milk.
What no one will understand later and what he cannot fully explain is that this is more than a thrill ride, an obscene bat attack on an unsuspecting mailbox, a sexualized cow tipping. He is not doing this because he can. He is doing this because he must.
I am glad I am not him. Or her.
But I am not sure how it was determined that I be neither of them, that I am me and not them. The soul is unique; our actions are self-chosen; but that's not the half of it. What more, I can't say.
-- cut: There was something else I was going to tell you here, but I have forgotten. --
But consider this:
At the prison I mentioned earlier, the very large associate warden came out to the guest lobby to talk to my photographer before the interview. "You're wanted in New Mexico," the very large associate warden said. "There's a warrant for you -- something about a moving violation."
"But!" my photographer said. "That was! Years ago! I thought! I paid that!"
My photographer has two or three kids. He has a wife he took to the hospital on Monday with what he prays is a cold. He did not want to be locked up with the hurt and the deadly here in Minnesota, not for breaking the speed limit a lifetime ago in New Mexico. His heart beat faster.
They did not arrest him. He promised to get to the bottom of things, to make amends.
Do you know this joke?: "How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans." The writing coach is now telling this joke to the class, and it is apropos.
That is life though. All that planning that we who call ourselves professionals pour into ourselves, it's to move us forward in one direction. But we only set the compass and head out and pray. Where we end up -- that's fate or chance or what have you.
Here's another thought: Who we are when we're miserable or tired and who we are when the sun hits us after a long gray morning are sometimes so different, it's like we've forgotten ourselves and suddenly noticed the forgetting. "I'm back," you want to say. "I feel myself again. I didn't realize I was gone but I'm back."
This may be how an alcoholic feels during lucid times. This feeling hits me often.
That girlfriend I told you about, the one of the canned vegetables. She was beautiful, that one, but it would never have worked between us. When she told me to move out, I asked her why. She said: "I'm not going to tell you. You never listen."
Ah, well.
Let me close the way a good meal starts. Here's my prayer. Here's my constant prayer: I want to let go of self-recrimination without giving up my perpetually-interrupted commitment to self-improvement; to hate my disorganization less while working on it more; to accept me without losing sight of a better me. I want to learn from the past without being tethered to it; I want to forgive everyone, including myself.
I want next year to be better than the last. I want it all fixed up and better. I want all these things and many more. But I expect nothing.
Okie dokie then. Alright. Amen.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Held at pepper-spray-point during Republican National Convention, Rage Against the Machine aftermath
Oh. Man.
I almost got arrested tonight while on assignment covering RNC-related protestors. I had to kneel in the middle of the street with my hands on my head and a pepper spray gun trained pretty much directly on me. I then had to beg my way out of a mass arrest that netted 30 others. I'm glad I didn't have to spend the night in jail, but it all worked out swimmingly given that I have such a beautiful and trustworthy smile... :)
Last night it was tear gas (which hurts like a mother f%^ker!) that got ignited a few feet behind me while I was covering a protest march. Tonight, the "on your knees! hands on head!" treatment. I hate to say it, but the kookiness of the RNC has actually been kinda fun....
Covering the protests and security skirmishes surrounding the Republican National Convention is a bit like being a kid in Disney Land trying to chase a paper airplane that keeps flying away.
You almost catch up to the airplane, but a giant spectacle or security roadblock of some sort gets in your way, and you end up detouring in and out and under novelties of all strange shapes and sizes to get back to where you wanted to go. Only by that time, the paper airplane has flown somewhere else.
Tonight the airplane I was assigned to chase was not in St. Paul but in Minneapolis. A bunch of us reporters were told to be ready for possible confrontation between police and the self-described anarchists coming into and / or out of the "Rage Against the Machine" concert at the Target Center in the bar / club district of downtown Minneapolis. I got there at 6:30 p.m. and waited and waited and waited; nothing happened until nearly midnight.
When the concert let out around 10:30 p.m., a fair number of drunk hooligans blocked First Avenue outside the performance center, trying to excite the crowd. Police had been waiting in droves for such an occurrence; they lined the sidewalk of First Avenue in large numbers and blocked off the avenue across 6th Street and 7th Street in even larger numbers, with helmeted cops on horses, bike cops, SWAT, and all kinds of vehicles. We're talking dozens, if not hundreds of officers armed with large wooden sticks, pepper spray and more.
After more than an hour, and several rebellious chants of "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me," the 6th Street crowd eventually dispersed with only one arrest. The 7th Street side was more heavily saturated with anarchists, as opposed to silly drunks, and they seemed to feel that if they could only push back the police and force them to let them march in the middle of the street, they would ignite the revolution that changes the world. Who am I to question such logic? So they marched. The police stood their ground for a while, then fell back, unwilling to unleash force.
About 200 or so marched for blocks and blocks, weaving between cars, but eventually stopping at 7th and 2nd Avenue, in front of the WCCO / Ameriprise Financial buildings in the financial district. That's where two bike cops kinda drew a line in the sand, stopping the front dozen or so in the crowd with their bikes. I thought, this crowd (which was down to about 75 at this point, all told, I bet) is going to overwhelm these guys.
Suddenly, an all-terrain vehicle with two cops on the back of it zoomed into the intersection, one guy had his beanbag or rubber bullet or pellet gun raised at us, and I heard two pops. I ran down half a block down 2nd Avenue like a #$%Q# bat outta hell. Scar-eee.
But being stupid -- and being paid to be stupid -- I just had to venture back. A group of 30 - to - 50 people were in the intersection now, including one of my coworkers. After a few minutes, a row of bike cops swooped in and circled the intersection. We were surrounded on all sides.
My co-worker and I ventured to one end of the intersection and politely asked if we could be excused from the circle. The cop said, "No, go the other way." So we did. At the other end of the intersection, we made the same request. That cop also said, "No, go the other way." We suddenly realized we weren't going to be let out.
And the bike cops were only perimeter people. They were the fence. Next came the enforcers.
The bike cops were quickly joined by armed, helmeted, Storm Trooper-like SWAT types all in black, with weapons out. A cop with a pepper spray gun was screaming at me to get down on my knees and put my hands on my head.
So I did.
I couldn't stop smiling a nervous smile. They announced that "everyone in this intersection is being put under arrest." I thought, oh man, my first night in jail!!
But then I noticed that a bunch of cameramen were walking out of the circle. "Hey, I'm media too! They're letting those guys go!" I yelled over to one of the officers. They directed me out of the circle, and I mentioned that my co-worker was media too and on his knees not far behind me. I was free! He was too! Yippeee!
That was about it.
Most everyone else got arrested, though the police chief met with the now large crowd of gathering reporters and said they'd only be charged with misdemeanors. A handful of juveniles and concert-goers who had been looking for their parking ramps were also let go.
the end bye bye see ya later!
P.S. Looks like the Pioneer Press was also there:
FROM:
30 arrested
All Headlines
Thirty people arrested in Minneapolis following Rage Against the Machine concert
Pioneer Press
Article Last Updated: 09/04/2008 01:09:17 AM CDT
Roughly 30 people were arrested in downtown Minneapolis Wednesday evening as they marched through the streets after a much-anticipated Rage Against the Machine concert.
It began when a group of about 200 people began slowly marching from the Target Center on First Avenue, where the concert ended about 10:30 p.m., chanting slogans about democracy and "taking the streets."
The Target Center had been surrounded by dozens of police in full riot gear, anticipating trouble following clashes with protesters in St. Paul on prior days during the Republican National Convention.
As the group walked southeast down Seventh Street, police began tapping the ankles of stragglers, telling them to get off the street and onto the sidewalk. At one point, a group of officers in a six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle fired two rounds from what appeared to be either a beanbag or pellet gun.
Several people who were at the concert said they also saw police use pepper spray on individuals walking from the concert.
By the time the marchers reached the corner Seventh Street and 2nd Avenue South, they were down to about 75 people. The group stopped and started cheering, before a few called out "let's keep on taking the streets."
Some of the crowd dispersed as more police arrived on bikes and horses. Just after midnight, police circled the group, ordered them to the ground and cuffed them.
"We are free citizens of America, and we are here because we love our country," said a girl
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Advertisement
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
who was leading the crowd, who refused to give her name.
"We were at the Rage concert, and they are taking it of context. We were just marching," said Dan Rarick, of Hutchinson, immediately before the arrests. Rarick said he was a U.S. Marine veteran who served in Iraq.
"They're taking it a little to the extreme," added his friend, Joe Tschumperlin, of Shakopee, also a Marine veteran. Seconds later, the arrests began.
Minneapolis police chief Tim Dolan, who was on the streets monitoring the situation, said "I'm surprised it wasn't a little worse based on the last few days in St. Paul."
He estimated about 30 people were arrested for blocking traffic, and expected them to be charged with misdemeanors.
Fred Melo, John Brewer, Mara H. Gottfried and Tad Vezner contributed to this story.
I almost got arrested tonight while on assignment covering RNC-related protestors. I had to kneel in the middle of the street with my hands on my head and a pepper spray gun trained pretty much directly on me. I then had to beg my way out of a mass arrest that netted 30 others. I'm glad I didn't have to spend the night in jail, but it all worked out swimmingly given that I have such a beautiful and trustworthy smile... :)
Last night it was tear gas (which hurts like a mother f%^ker!) that got ignited a few feet behind me while I was covering a protest march. Tonight, the "on your knees! hands on head!" treatment. I hate to say it, but the kookiness of the RNC has actually been kinda fun....
Covering the protests and security skirmishes surrounding the Republican National Convention is a bit like being a kid in Disney Land trying to chase a paper airplane that keeps flying away.
You almost catch up to the airplane, but a giant spectacle or security roadblock of some sort gets in your way, and you end up detouring in and out and under novelties of all strange shapes and sizes to get back to where you wanted to go. Only by that time, the paper airplane has flown somewhere else.
Tonight the airplane I was assigned to chase was not in St. Paul but in Minneapolis. A bunch of us reporters were told to be ready for possible confrontation between police and the self-described anarchists coming into and / or out of the "Rage Against the Machine" concert at the Target Center in the bar / club district of downtown Minneapolis. I got there at 6:30 p.m. and waited and waited and waited; nothing happened until nearly midnight.
When the concert let out around 10:30 p.m., a fair number of drunk hooligans blocked First Avenue outside the performance center, trying to excite the crowd. Police had been waiting in droves for such an occurrence; they lined the sidewalk of First Avenue in large numbers and blocked off the avenue across 6th Street and 7th Street in even larger numbers, with helmeted cops on horses, bike cops, SWAT, and all kinds of vehicles. We're talking dozens, if not hundreds of officers armed with large wooden sticks, pepper spray and more.
After more than an hour, and several rebellious chants of "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me," the 6th Street crowd eventually dispersed with only one arrest. The 7th Street side was more heavily saturated with anarchists, as opposed to silly drunks, and they seemed to feel that if they could only push back the police and force them to let them march in the middle of the street, they would ignite the revolution that changes the world. Who am I to question such logic? So they marched. The police stood their ground for a while, then fell back, unwilling to unleash force.
About 200 or so marched for blocks and blocks, weaving between cars, but eventually stopping at 7th and 2nd Avenue, in front of the WCCO / Ameriprise Financial buildings in the financial district. That's where two bike cops kinda drew a line in the sand, stopping the front dozen or so in the crowd with their bikes. I thought, this crowd (which was down to about 75 at this point, all told, I bet) is going to overwhelm these guys.
Suddenly, an all-terrain vehicle with two cops on the back of it zoomed into the intersection, one guy had his beanbag or rubber bullet or pellet gun raised at us, and I heard two pops. I ran down half a block down 2nd Avenue like a #$%Q# bat outta hell. Scar-eee.
But being stupid -- and being paid to be stupid -- I just had to venture back. A group of 30 - to - 50 people were in the intersection now, including one of my coworkers. After a few minutes, a row of bike cops swooped in and circled the intersection. We were surrounded on all sides.
My co-worker and I ventured to one end of the intersection and politely asked if we could be excused from the circle. The cop said, "No, go the other way." So we did. At the other end of the intersection, we made the same request. That cop also said, "No, go the other way." We suddenly realized we weren't going to be let out.
And the bike cops were only perimeter people. They were the fence. Next came the enforcers.
The bike cops were quickly joined by armed, helmeted, Storm Trooper-like SWAT types all in black, with weapons out. A cop with a pepper spray gun was screaming at me to get down on my knees and put my hands on my head.
So I did.
I couldn't stop smiling a nervous smile. They announced that "everyone in this intersection is being put under arrest." I thought, oh man, my first night in jail!!
But then I noticed that a bunch of cameramen were walking out of the circle. "Hey, I'm media too! They're letting those guys go!" I yelled over to one of the officers. They directed me out of the circle, and I mentioned that my co-worker was media too and on his knees not far behind me. I was free! He was too! Yippeee!
That was about it.
Most everyone else got arrested, though the police chief met with the now large crowd of gathering reporters and said they'd only be charged with misdemeanors. A handful of juveniles and concert-goers who had been looking for their parking ramps were also let go.
the end bye bye see ya later!
P.S. Looks like the Pioneer Press was also there:
FROM:
30 arrested
All Headlines
Thirty people arrested in Minneapolis following Rage Against the Machine concert
Pioneer Press
Article Last Updated: 09/04/2008 01:09:17 AM CDT
Roughly 30 people were arrested in downtown Minneapolis Wednesday evening as they marched through the streets after a much-anticipated Rage Against the Machine concert.
It began when a group of about 200 people began slowly marching from the Target Center on First Avenue, where the concert ended about 10:30 p.m., chanting slogans about democracy and "taking the streets."
The Target Center had been surrounded by dozens of police in full riot gear, anticipating trouble following clashes with protesters in St. Paul on prior days during the Republican National Convention.
As the group walked southeast down Seventh Street, police began tapping the ankles of stragglers, telling them to get off the street and onto the sidewalk. At one point, a group of officers in a six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle fired two rounds from what appeared to be either a beanbag or pellet gun.
Several people who were at the concert said they also saw police use pepper spray on individuals walking from the concert.
By the time the marchers reached the corner Seventh Street and 2nd Avenue South, they were down to about 75 people. The group stopped and started cheering, before a few called out "let's keep on taking the streets."
Some of the crowd dispersed as more police arrived on bikes and horses. Just after midnight, police circled the group, ordered them to the ground and cuffed them.
"We are free citizens of America, and we are here because we love our country," said a girl
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Advertisement
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
who was leading the crowd, who refused to give her name.
"We were at the Rage concert, and they are taking it of context. We were just marching," said Dan Rarick, of Hutchinson, immediately before the arrests. Rarick said he was a U.S. Marine veteran who served in Iraq.
"They're taking it a little to the extreme," added his friend, Joe Tschumperlin, of Shakopee, also a Marine veteran. Seconds later, the arrests began.
Minneapolis police chief Tim Dolan, who was on the streets monitoring the situation, said "I'm surprised it wasn't a little worse based on the last few days in St. Paul."
He estimated about 30 people were arrested for blocking traffic, and expected them to be charged with misdemeanors.
Fred Melo, John Brewer, Mara H. Gottfried and Tad Vezner contributed to this story.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Strange Days and Carrie Bradshaw
I have seen everything and it is strange.
Two women and a gay man just shared a sugar cookie three-ways in my office.
One of the women is now walking around the office, trying to unload the remaining THIRD of the cookie on whoever wants it..
It is a Carrie Bradshaw cookie. As in, the star of Sex and the City, sitting with legs crossed on a bench, looking glamorous, sugar-coated onto a cookie.
Two women and a gay man just shared a sugar cookie three-ways in my office.
One of the women is now walking around the office, trying to unload the remaining THIRD of the cookie on whoever wants it..
It is a Carrie Bradshaw cookie. As in, the star of Sex and the City, sitting with legs crossed on a bench, looking glamorous, sugar-coated onto a cookie.
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