Summer's Cruelty

Last weekend I was over at a good friend’s house to do a load of laundry and play Transformers with his four-year-old. All went well just shy of catching Megatron’s right hook to my cheek without provocation. I guess when you’re Optimus Prime, you have to be a little more aware as I was half-watching a History Channel special on Nazism in America. Yes, Finn was his delightful little self per the usual. Perhaps he was just a bit too generous this time however.

It started the next day. Just a faint tickle in the back of my throat. I was so very astonished but disregarded it as allergies. I consumed the four remaining cough drops I had in my apartment from the previous rhinoviral-related episode to fall asleep, just a little perplexed.

The next day I was dragging. My energy never seemed to replenish. That afternoon, I reconsidered my presence at a client boat outing on Lake Minnetonka. I went though, and was delighted. The boat seemed to be swaying a bit more than the horizon line would indicate. I drank a few more beers hoping that was it. As I drove to a friend’s house afterward to watch a movie, I sniffled a little and noticed my sinuses were totally plugged. The cause of my dizziness was not the boat or the beer (well, the beer is not entirely innocent of fault).

After the movie, I knew sleep would be an evasive little animal all night. And it was. The nasty tasting cough drops didn’t help and just left their nastiness in my mouth. My left leg became terribly sore, the muscles aching so intensely all I could do was whimper. Breathing through my mouth was a challenge until mercy available itself a nostril opened up.

I was determined to skip work the next day, then remembered a few critical meetings I had. Arriving an hour late and having the good fortune of no one noticing, I began a day of utter misery. It was like treatment in a rehab facility for me. Denial was my mantra. No, you don’t have a summer cold. You don’t have a summer cold. You don’t have a summer cold.

As all highly regarded treatment facilities go, I arrived at the truth. I have a summer cold. The day progressed slowly. A small landfill of tissues accumulated in my wastebasket by my desk along with half a dozen emptied cups of tea with honey. Sneezing with regularity drew ire and horror from my colleagues as they skidded backward in an attempt to avoid my leprotic-level contagiousness.

I lost my sense of taste today, which means I’m about forty-eight hours from recovery. My will has not been broken. Though my poor bike has not seen nearly as many miles this week, I shall once again reclaim my ways and habits. Summer colds are a daft affair, filled with irony and subtle cruelty. But this aggression will not stand. This virus had its day in the sun and my immune system will prevail.

I appreciate your prayers and thoughts in this difficult time.

**sneeze**

You don’t have any Kleenex on you, do you?

When "For Sale" Signs Depress You

The New York Times recently published a feature article about the consumer debt crisis' origins, outcomes, and long-term consequences. This hits right at home for millions of Americans and my guess is plenty of Minnesotans (including myself: Minnesota Private Colleges are affordable to a point, as in, sophomore year). The sprawling new developments in Maple Grove, Brooklyn Park, Arden Hills, etc. are strange reminders of excessive consumerism leading to our current bear market. I think it’s the harbinger of a cultural demise.

Recently, I drove to the residence of my good friend's parents in Maple Grove. He was in town staying there while he took a break from his Chicago graduate school life. On the phone, prior to my arrival, he gave me the address and directions. He lived in 89th Place off 89th Street. And be sure not to make a left, because then you're on 89th Lane. I shuddered, knowing I was driving into one of these black holes of American society. Up until that day, I always knew I had a low tolerance being outside the 694/494 ring. A threshold broken when I realized that I was still driving after twenty minutes in the car.

I had never quite assembled this distinctly American trend in my head until that moment. Scores of my friends lived in these residences. Each time I would go to their home to crash for a weekend, whether it be Sartell or North Branch or even Mankato, I was stunned at the vast space these homes contained. Vaulted ceilings seemed to be the most distinguishing architectural feature. American home builders clearly engineered these structures with cheap energy in mind. Hardwood floors, high-end carpeting, solid oak banisters all added to the aesthetic of an affluent middle class.

And now, people can't jettison these homes from their life fast enough. Whole neighborhoods lay vacant. Banks owning these structures after sucking down massive mortgage backed securities are far from their actual location. Letting them rot in their place, it's likely the most poignant metaphor for American culture at large. Tracts of beautiful new homes, sitting vacant, not a car in the street to answer the blitzkrieg of "For Sale" signs out front.

Gas has steadied over the last few months at four dollars a gallon, despite the recent historic drop of 12% last week in the price for a barrel of crude on the NYMEX, and it's now taking its toll on my social life. That same friend I came to visit, asked me out for a beer. He didn’t want to drive to Minneapolis from Maple Grove. I didn’t want to drive to Maple Grove because it’s expensive for gas and the edge of America’s cultural disintegration. So we didn’t meet. We’ll soon see each other again, likely in Chicago. But what if you live in Maple Grove and work in Minneapolis?

As I drive into these new housing developments, I can’t stop the feeling of emptiness that comes over me. It’s as if no one in these neighborhoods speaks to one another. All the homes look the same save a different bay window here, a different trim color there. It’s as if the Soviets inspired American homebuilders. There’s nothing organic about these homes and neighborhoods. They’re all a developer’s artificial dream believing that if you build it, friendly neighbors will come and all will be perfect. Human societies are simply not cultivated the same way corn is. Sure, you can add all the necessary elements, but the soul of the street will always be absent. That takes time. That’s why I live in Minneapolis.

Live richly, interpersonally.

That sinking feeling...

Once again the Star-Tribune has published a feature piece assessing the value of higher education in this country (http://www.startribune.com/business/25130964.html). On a local level, the story plucks quotes from recent graduate of state institutions such as Carleton College, Gustavus Adolphus College, and the University of Minnesota. Their angle in the story is roughly paraphrased as kids going into volunteering service because they would like to postpone real world problems, search for graduate school, or are otherwise unmarketable in this environment with a liberal arts degree.

That upsets me. On more than one level. Firstly, I simply cannot fathom why volunteer service around the country or the world should be characterized as escapism. Military service is mandatory in many countries; in Germany you are allowed to select a civil service option if you do not desire serving in the armed forces. And it is surely not considered escapism. In fact, after discussions with several German students while I traveled, I found that it is a very popular option. So let’s proceed without the “escapism” factor. We’ll return though.

Secondly, it’s time to search for graduate school. That’s not very arguable because it makes sense.

Thirdly, and likely the most contentious point to me, liberal arts degrees have become “unmarketable” or in other terms, worthless in the job market. It’s a frustrating reality to deal with when you internalize the utter truth in this statement. It makes you feel worthless.

I have fought it for years though. Mainly because I refuse to believe that after spending considerable amounts of time studying language, art, literature, etc. all things constituting culture, the world only cares about your ability to add and subtract. Alas, this country is seemingly slipping down the slope of stupidity.

After graduating with my English major, I went to work at an insurance broker and quickly found myself saddled next to recent graduates in economics, business management, marketing, etc. Anxiety abounded. Had I made some terrible mistake? It was becoming clear that the internship I had completed at the firm a couple years before was clearly my only entrée to a full time position.

One of the benefits of working in insurance, ironically, is that you meet people from a variety of backgrounds if they are above the age of forty. Otherwise, most are the same cut-and-cured business Greek-life loving twenty-somethings. So I solicited the sage wisdom of a salesman who once ran the Minneapolis branch of a major broker.

He reported that he hired only liberal arts majors. He did this because they were, on par, more cultured, carried a conversation better, and generally brought up points of topical interest because they read current discourse. Secondly, he said that the academic business education received in undergraduate programs was so out of touch with current trends the “reprogramming” costs of a recent business degree hire far outweighed the “from-scratch” education of the liberal arts degree counterparts.

Tucking this nodule comfort in my hat, I began soliciting advice on this matter from other successful professionals I knew. A former mergers and acquisitions attorney said undergraduate education is for your personal interests and should be a time of interpersonal exploration and growth. Graduate school is where education meets practicality. Another shot of comfort as I was considering business school.

The most comforting yet disheartening blow arrived when I contacted an industry colleague in the business school I now attend. His email was compassionate but jaded: this is no longer a meritocracy, or even a system based on your knowledge. This is entirely a narcissistic self-driven networking-based economy where people get jobs on a good looking smile, a few jokes, and the promise of another business card for your rolodex. Best advice? Be nice to everyone and keep meeting new people. Have drinks, socialize, and above all else, don’t talk about actual work.

That’s where undergraduate business school has become very popular. First, parents of good intentions tell their new undergraduate to study something of pragmatic application. The student diligently learns some skill such as marketing and in the process meets several students also working in marketing. Then, a network is built and sustaining for the student.

This network easily proliferates into business relationships. These relationships are then traded as commodity on a social network.

So what’s the redemption in a liberal arts degree? Perhaps it’s the fact that I can write this entry in my web log and articulate a series of thoughts without the profligate use of “you know”, “like”, “um”, “kind of”, “in all actuality’, etc.

Perhaps it’s in my ability to reference some of the chapters in American history that would have illustrated why Iraq was not the brightest idea. Or why spending huge amounts of government capital while slashing taxes simultaneously is perhaps a bad decision.

But as in life, things are cyclical. I guess we’ll have to wait for the next article to come out impugning the virtue of a liberal arts education to carry this discussion forward.

New York, Boston, Chicago… and La Crosse

A little over a month ago I planned my summer vacation with several goals in mind. Collected, I was going attempt to visit a good friend, two cousins, and my newborn nephew all in different cities. It was logistically possible but costs were going to be out of control. Then I remembered Amtrak, America’s last surviving long-distance rail transportation provider.

I flew to New York to see my good friend Knudey (see link to right). We absorbed very good gin mixed with the finest tonic and cucumbers while grilling in his postage-stamp backyard in Brooklyn. We then stumbled to a free concert in Prospect Park featuring the Cold War Kids (and six dollar beers).

The next day we attacked the city, wandering lower Manhattan (Ground Zero is worth a look, but needless to say is simply an enormous construction site at this point). Returning to Brooklyn in the same day, we toured the Brooklyn Brewery and for twenty bucks, sampled over six varieties of brew.

The following day, we rested our legs a bit and after a breakfast in Tribeca where we spotted Harvey Keitel across the room, made our way to Central Park where we played catch for three minutes before getting dumped on by walls of rain.

As I entered Penn Station to pick up my train to Boston, I looked back on New York wondering how such a place could exist. With such overwhelming humanity thrown scattershot across streets and avenues, I was happy to change my scenery. And as the train pulled away, I felt the need to return.

Boston was smaller. Boston was cleaner. My cousin lives ten stops from downtown Boston. I woke up, ate a small breakfast, walked out the door and didn’t look back for another six or seven hours. The city is likely the most walk-able city I’ve visited. I took the freedom trail (demarcated by a red line on the sidewalk) to Paul Revere’s house, the original Boston City Hall, and Sam Adams’ grave.

Looking at the city through the windows at the top of the Prudential Tower was an eleven dollar treat, but laid the city out very well visually. I walked up and down Newbury Street twice soaking up all the retail shops and really the culture that was pouring out of midday Boston on a Monday.

Ending the day with some authentic Boston Sushi and a glass of Harpoon (local lager) rounded out my time in Beantown nicely.

Chicago looked spectacular from the plane. I’ve been there many times before, but this time excited me because my new nephew would be waiting for me in Hyde Park. The blue line from O’Hare left something to be desired as after fifty minutes of grinding and squealing I got to the Metra tracks for yet another train south to Hyde Park.

And there he was, Edison Christopher Hedberg. A seventeen pound ten-week old (I know, he’s enormous!). After Edison feel asleep, Eric and I were invited to listen to some proto-rock at a dingy bar in an industrial park aptly titled “The Hideout”.

With two-dollar PBRs and Old Style cans littering the ground around our feet, we listened to some of the classics as the three-man ensemble including a string bass showed us where Rock comes from. The best part was when the enchilada man came around. A lonely entrepreneur, he produced plastic bags each containing six enchiladas and hot sauce from two coolers he carried around. We consumed the authentic Mexican treats in short order.

After waking up, I decided Hyde Park was getting too cramped. I called a good friend of mine from college who lives in Chicago and we met up for breakfast three blocks off the Fullerton stop in an old carriage house. We decided to get our baseball gloves and regroup for a game of catch in Lincoln Park.

At the park, I needed something to eat. The local grocery store recommended a deli across the street. It was a good recommendation as the eight-dollar sixteen inch sandwich I ate was not a bit shy of perfect.

After an invigorating game of catch in the sun, my buddy and I strolled downtown and had a drink at the top of the John Hancock tower. Looking over an expansive skyline against the lake, I just couldn’t help but think: I feel at home here. I’d just seen three major American cities, and the one closest to my heart was the one geographically closest to Minneapolis.

The train ride to La Crosse to attend my cousin’s ridiculously large Fourth of July party was a long one. The announcements kept reassuring a grumpy, but relatively small, group of passengers that we’d arrive by seven fifteen.

I greeted my cousin at the station at eight and promptly drove to my aunt’s house for some pizza. Stepping off the train was a strange experience when I realized how clean it smelled. No exhaust, human waste, beer, nothing but prairie grass.

The next day started with the sun. Then the boat, the lake, and more sun. Then fireworks, a fire, and restful sleep. A perfect Fourth. My cousin’s husband let me use his motorcycle the next day and I rode it a hundred and fifty or two hundred miles up and down the Mississippi through Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota.

Arriving home was bittersweet as I stepped off yet another delayed train in St. Paul. I was happy to be back, but all those things loomed like work, life, etc. I managed to complete all four goals though and with a day to spare to catch up. All travel was under five hundred bucks. I lucked out this time.

How do I top this trip!?

A Sliver of Light

In May of this year, the Center for American Progress and Campus Progress released a report titled “The Progressive Generation: How Young Adults Think About the Economy.” As the aptly titled piece reads, it becomes abundantly clear that young adults today, or at least those surveyed, are proponents of a larger government; one that furnishes more services than our current government (brought about by the typical American mantra of privatize privatize privatize).

That in and of itself was interesting, but I continued reading, hoping to be astonished again. And I was: “What’s more, Millennials are a large, politically active generation that cares deeply about economic issues. Studies have found that they are, for example, more likely to express interest in politics and elections, care a good deal who wins, try to influence others’ votes, and attend political meetings.” I stopped reading thinking the authors were just flat out lying at this point.

I often speak in rather jaded terms about my generation’s apathetic reaction to national and global events like Iraq: “Well I’m screaming mad about it, but I’m not going to fly down to DC to partake in a protest, no sir, that would make me look like one of those crazy people who protest.” And that’s the crux of it: we’re a generation paralyzed by our fear of looking a little odd or different. Or even exhibiting some intense emotion. God forbid you’re labeled a drama queen because you’re passionate about something.

And then there was Barack.

Here’s my theory, and perhaps it doesn’t hold as much water as I would like it to, but nonetheless, it’s the best explanation I can conjure: Obama is smart—and different. It’s change, yes, but more importantly, the Millennials have grown up in an environment where old white men have continued to fail on a national level.

Frankly, color has everything to do with this situation. Obama’s history, fact or fiction, has a sort of romantic connotation of struggle, disenfranchisement, and survival. In other words, he’s paid dues beyond any of the Millennial white kids still pissed off that mom wouldn’t support purchasing Pogs because she thought they were just a “fad.”

He’s real, tangible, and because he speaking to an audience largely composed of college graduates, he uses collegial language and it works. Part of Hillary’s failure to capture the nomination was from here haranguing about the same issues, tones, etc. in very conventional election rhetoric. Obama spoke differently. With greater eloquence.

More importantly, Obama captured the essence of Millennial energy, isolating the apathetic attitude toward white-haired politicians and augmenting the burning desire for something new and different. Millennials have suddenly begun caring about the direction and future of the country. And even if Obama is as empty as the rest of the candidates running the field, so be it, he did something they couldn’t and now I’m not so lonely talking politics.

MPLS should not even build one train to throw LRT under.

I am asking you to forget that the Hiawatha exceeded ridership expectations by 65% in its inaugural year. I am asking U of M officials to put aside the objections raised in a 22 page memo to federal funders. Finally, I am asking Gov. Pawlenty to continue to veto state spending for Light Rail Transit, but for the right reason.

The Reason: Minneapolitans have cars.

The current edition of the Southwest Journal featured a cover story on the 100th anniversary of the Como-Harriet Street Car. This train has operated on its current, expansive 1-mile track since 1971. It’s ridership: a pitiful 30,000 per season (it cannot even run in the winter months.) These numbers and conditions are hardly indicative of a formula for a transportation revolution.

The reason Minneapolis’ streetcar system was derailed in the first place was because of the increase in the popularity of automobiles, and rightly so. Look at the numbers.

In 2006, the MN Dept. of Public Safety reported over 1000 alcohol related crashes in Hennipen County alone. I will say it again: 1000.

Assuming drunk drivers only drive under the influence once, and only wreck their own car, this statistic means that 1000 cars (minimum) were in operation on the roads of Minneapolis in 2006. How many light rail lines were in operation? The answer is one.

The numbers do not lie: 1000:1. Which number is bigger? That’s right. Cars win.

Not only are they more prevalent, cars are more functional. They allow you to depart at what ever time you wish, and they don’t force you to ride with foul smelling foreigners as if you were in Europe.

Proponents of LRT will, of course, disagree with my assessment. While others may call these pro-tram dissenters public advocates or visionaries, I call them unemployed. To their wild protestations I can only reply: “ride the bus.”

Page Changes

Hello everyone. I have made some upgrades to the site recently. I have added the Star-Tribune's RSS feed so the primary news source in Minneapolis has a chance to compete with my blog. I also widened the layout for easier reading.

If this is not met with you approval, please, use the new "Call Me" button that I have installed. Yes, The Critical Minneapolitan now has a voicemail box. Don't leave anything too profane or I'll be forced to post it. Thanks again for reading.

Mechanics of a Caucus

On February 5, 2008 I went to my precinct caucus. It was my third caucus. And it certainly won't be my last. I thought some may find it helpful if this process was explained in reference to a primary. A few of my friends have inquired as to why I exhibit this Hannah-Montana-crazed-nine-year-old-girl-style excitement about these political functions every other year.

So, there are Democrats and Republicans. You can't be both in this process (few exceptions out there though). Each party needs to elect a candidate. They do this democratically with the use of delegates. Each delegate is supposedly a representation of a caucus (quite simply "group") of people. In Minnesota, precinct caucuses are held (generally encompassing a neighborhood). People volunteer to be delegates. If selected, they move on to the Senate District caucus (generally encompassing a set of neighborhoods). At that level, they will attempt to be elected to the state convention to represent that senate district. Along the way, these delegates pledge their support for candidates. Depending on majority of delegates at the state convention, candidates are endorsed and nominated by the party.

Now, the more distilled version of this process is the primary. Depending on your party, you show up to a polling place and look at a ballot filled with one party's candidates. You vote, drop it in the box, the party counts it and assigns delegates accordingly (or, if a winner-take-all state, all the delegates are placed in favor of the winner). That is the simple process and in Minnesota, it was attempted in the stead of caucuses because it's faster about ten years ago. But it's not cheaper. Taxpayers typically foot the bill for a primary where caucuses are party function and the cost absorbed by the party. Here's where I inject my opinion: I prefer caucuses without question. And so do Minnesotans, which is why we returned to the process.

Some elements of a primary were adopted by the caucus system recently to create a hybrid system. Now, at least in DFL caucuses, you show up, register, fill out a "preference ballot" and can then either leave or stay for the caucus. I stay because that's where the fun starts. Sitting among you neighbors, you begin to meet and learn who they are, all within the scope of issues concerning you and your neighbors. From anti-war resolutions to the stop sign on Zenith, your discussions are often charged with a sense of community and purpose. It's invigorating.

In Minnesota, about half as many Republicans attend their caucus as Democrats. And this year yielded record turnout for both parties. MPR reported that "[Secretary of State Mark] Ritchie says he expects up to 330,000 voters to participate by the time caucuses for the Green and Constitution parties and an online Independence Party caucus wrap up next month." In my precinct (Lowry Hill), almost 700 turned out. The line wrapped down two blocks, the church's lobby double backing before two flights of stairs, into a kiddy play room and back out to the registration tables.

As I was sitting on a trike waiting for the line to budge forward, a warm feeling washed over my heart as my faith in this country, despite the recession, war, scandal, and housing crisis, was awakened.

Bits and Pieces

Last night, I received an expected phone call from my best friend summoning me to his apartment for a screening of his film titled "Bits." The main character suffers from a disapproving father, an adult life captured in his parents' home, and another easily-identifiable quality of a twenty-something: the crippling, inhibiting effects of technology.

In the search to prodcue closer relationships with his peers, "Steve" tinkers and toys with a vast array of electronic devices. His final creation is an over-wired device strapped to a bicycle helmet. Placing it on his head, one of the most captivating scenes takes place where he "interfaces" with his friend's girlfriend. Stretching out his hand to touch her forehead, he is stripped of his control and the film takes an odd turn.

After the screening, an English professor who was asked to furnish feedback began what I thought was a thoughtful but brutal analysis. I didn't help chiming in with supporting arguments, but as the professor noted, it was good enough to be criticized. My good friend, who also happened to be the main character "Steve" seemed to receive the analysis well noting that his fears had finally been realized and that perhaps now his cohorts would change their direction of the story.

Strangely, throughout the night that followed the screening, the conceit of the film followed me, the idea of our relationships suffering from new communication technologies, new technologies that create introspective focus instead of a desire to interact with others (like an iPod for example). How on earth can technology designed to bring us closer drive us so far apart?

I thought very hard about this as we sat at the bar in Northeast Minneapolis listening to country music as hordes of twenty-somethings kept drawing their phones, email devices, etc. from their pockets frantically checking the latest communication. Their focus only broken by an upset significant other shouting "put that away."

And I was then comforted. As I turned around, away from the obsessive text messaging folk, I found more of my peers in front of the band, dancing. Their devices all resting back at their respective place to sit. If only for a moment, they had disconnected and were enjoying the presence of another human being.

Thinking that this was perhaps a hopeful display of relational maturity, I produced my phone from my pocket to answer a call. I stopped.

I'll call 'em back later.