(And Sometimes Saint Paul)
Using my very limited skills and resources, I have slapped together a montage of photos from my recently completed Lonely Planet Tuscany research trip. As a general nod to posterity (and those considering my internship offer), I’ve chosen to irresponsibly romanticize the trip by leaving out pictures of me limping, being lost, rained on and falling asleep at dinner between the primo and secondo. Enjoy.
[If your blog reader does not display the video, please click here]
I resisted Happy Hour at McCormick & Schmick’s long and hard. I stood firm even after Alexis dutifully informed me that they had a ridiculously cheap appetizer menu, including a hamburger and fries platter for an implausible $1.95. Why did I do this? Because sometimes I’m a surly closed-minded, reverse-elitist, curmudgeon, that’s why. I’d developed an unfounded image in my head that M&S was a snooty chain, with desperate mahogany and faux English pub style pomp that appealed to rotund, self-important, business douchebags talking at great length about cigars, gambling, the titties on their waitress and the bear guns they’re gonna bring on their fly fishing trips to Montana. Sticking to my surly, closed-minded, reverse-elitist, curmudgeon guns, even in the face of reliable supporting evidence, I would not relent.
Finally, for want of a Happy Hour joint that was connected to the Skyway and could seat us in less than 40 minutes, unlike the now dismissed Vincent, my companion and I reluctantly walked into the 800 Nicollet Mall location of McCormick & Schmick’s and the second I laid eyes on my burger, I knew I’d be coming back soon. Indeed, I’ve been there about once a week ever since.
I resolved to sample as much on the HH menu as possible, even the appetizers priced at a ruinous $4.95, but by my third visit I realized that about 80% of the menu was in constant flux. Trying to taste everything was gonna be like trying to finish a bottle of beer at a Mexican wedding – you can get close, but then you look away for a split second and someone swoops in and replaces it with a full bottle.
There’s been some definite highs and lows on the menu. The Cajun Burger with fries ($1.95!) - more of a full meal than an appetizer and the plate that kicked off my torrid love affair with M&S - is surprisingly thick and tasty, especially considering what you’d be served for the same price at McDonald’s. I also loved the Mahi Mahi Cakes with Thai peanut sauce ($1.95!!), which, though quite small, unloads a wonderfully sharp, seasoned flavor that you wouldn’t want to eat too much of anyway. The subtler Salmon Cakes with apples and fried leeks (Yes! $1.95!!!) don’t make the saliva glands work as hard, but eaten first, you’ll never notice. The Smoked Salmon Crostinis with dill cream cheese ($3.95) and the Salmon Skewers with peanut sauce and stir fried vegetables ($4.95) are more memorable, as was the Seafood Newburg ($4.95), a lovely pile of shrimp and bay scallops over rice with a lobster cream sauce.
Unfortunately, there’s some doosies on the menu too. Avoid the Bay Shrimp Cocktail, with a paradoxically uninspired, drowned, messy appearance that got even worse inside the mouth. Same goes for the House Made Potato Chips with bacon and blue cheese sauce that looked and tasted like something kids would make for themselves after getting home from latchkey.
The Fish and Chips ($4.95) seemed rather plain compared to most of the rest of the menu and the Blackened Chicken Quesadilla ($3.95) was certainly tasty, but not overly striking. Meanwhile, the Chipotle Pork Tostadas ($1.95!!!!) defied all expectations from price and appearance, wowing and satisfying so thoroughly that we ordered a second plate 15 minutes later.
If your Happy Hour goals start and end at drink specials, then you should keep on walking down to Brothers or something similar. Presumably to compensate for the practically free, extraordinary food specials, the happy hour prices on beer and wine by the glass barely inspire a lip twitch, much less joy. Get too reckless with the drink orders and you might as well have ordered a meal off the standard menu in the adjacent restaurant.
And yes, McCormick and Schmick’s draws a certain number of the clientele depicted above – guys that behave in a manner and volume suggesting that they own the joint and won’t move their fat asses out of the way even after you say ‘excuse me’ three times - but there’s an equal number of people who in all probability hate these characters as much as I do and are simply there for the amazing food deals and a careful glass or two of wine, before retiring back to their condos to lock the doors, pull down the shades and get a serious drink on.
McCormick & Schmick’s Seafood Restaurant
800 Nicollet Mall
Minneapolis
Happy Hour:
Every day 4-6:30pm
Mon-Thurs 9-10pm
Fri & Sat 10-11pm
612.338.3300
It’s MONDO Jugglefest time again! Can you believe it’s been 20 years already? Remember the first MONDO? The catchphrase “The biggest juggling festival in the upper Midwest between Groundhog’s Day and Valentine’s Day” lured a whopping 80 people on short notice for the one-day event. Buddha, 1990 was a great year. I could finally juggle five clubs, I thought I’d be listening to The Art of Noise until my death and I had that bitchin’ ponytail. Good times.
Well, apart from my hair style, MONDO has aged gracefully. About 600 people showed up to the three day event last year and the Saturday night public show, the MONDO Spectacular, routinely sells out. As always, the festival is being held at Concordia College’s monstrous Gangelhoff Center, just off Hamlin Avenue in St Paul. This massive field house, with the bouncy rubber floor that weaponizes virtually every dropped club, is where all the workshops, demonstrations, prop vending and games will occur. There are few things in life that can stun the brainstem like walking into a room where several hundred people are deftly throwing and catching (and dropping and bending overing and picking upping) thousands of objects simultaneously. When you factor in the army of unicyclists wizzing around and the yoyoing and poi spinning you’d be crazy to miss out on this singular event. That’s right, crazy! You don’t want to be crazy, do you? Crazy is so 2000-2008.
If you don’t juggle (or unicycle or yo-yo), this is the place to learn. Formal and informal coaching persists throughout the festival. I can teach anyone between the ages of six and 75 to juggle in less than 30 minutes. That’s right, in thirty minutes you can be just a little bit more like me and who doesn’t want that?
And ladies, juggling is perennially a lonely guy affair. Typically, the guy to girl ratio at a juggling festival is like 25 to one. If you’ve ever wanted to be in a safe, fun environment, where you can develop your dexterity and have your pick of literally hundreds of guys vying for your attention, this is the place.
For the most part juggling is wholesome, safe and non-hurty. That said, here’s a little sample of the edgier stuff, where smashed fingers and body blows are verily guaranteed, both for the jugglers and the people standing within 20 feet of the jugglers. [Those using blog readers will have to watch the video here.]
The deets:
20th Annual MONDO Jugglefest
Gym passes, good for all three days, are $7 at the door. All attendees will be required to sign a waiver before admittance to the festival.
Tickets for the Spectacular (7pm, Saturday February 21st) are $12 for adults, $10 for children under 12.
Festival Hours:
Friday Feb. 20th: 5:00pm - Midnight
Saturday Feb 21st: 9:00am to 2:00am
(Note: the Gym will be closed during the Spectacular show, roughly from 5pm until the end of the show around 10pm)
Sunday Feb 22nd: 10:00am to 5:00pm
I’ve already written at length about why the Skyway is one of downtown Minneapolis’ greatest assets and I wrote that before I even lived in a Skyway connected building. I have since spent half a winter in a euphoric, Skyway-enhanced Shangri La and the reverence I once had for the Skyway lifestyle has now fiftipled (a word meaning ‘an increase by a factor of 50′ that I made up just now).
Remember that stretch of shitty-ass weather we endured a few weeks ago? You wanna know how many times I went outside during that period? Zero. At one point, I went five full days without putting on a jacket. I can’t remember the last time I was so happy (in January).
In any case, I think I’ve already made my Skyway Love feelings pretty clear, so what I’d like to do now is post a short primer for people who are entering the Skyway for the first time or have just been too dimwitted to figure out the obvious after years of walking through Buddha’s gift to inclement weather avoidance. An etiquette primer, if you will. Just a bit of me giving back to the community like I have selflessly done so many times in the past. And away we go…
•   Never, ever stand in the middle of the Skyway for any reason. If downtown is a human body, then the Skyway system is its arteries. Now what happens when an artery gets blocked? Say, by some doofus standing in the middle of a junction, trying to figure out how to get to Macy’s? Well, ideally, I sweep the doofus’ legs with my Target bag and kick-roll them into a corner where they can reflect on their doofus ways. So let’s review: If you have to stop walking, move to the side. Need to answer your cell phone? Move to the side. Wanna say something really important to a passing colleague? Move to the side! Just reunited with your twin after being separated at birth 40 years ago? MOVE TO THE BLOODY SIDE!!!
•   Ladies, it’s your prerogative if you decide to leave the house in ridiculous shoes that have heels that force you to walk in tiny, six inch strides, but if you’re going to move that slow on purpose, you need to stay to the right. And walk in single file - no more of this three and four abreast BS - so people who have lives and/or are carrying 30 lbs in booze and groceries can get by your merry band of the deliberately handicapped.
•   Just because you don’t have nerve endings in your shoulder bag does not excuse you from banging it into me.
•   Crazy people, ya’ll have to stop talking to me.
•   Drunk people, the Skyway isn’t your private lounge. If you’re too wasted to keep moving, and it’s too cold outside for you, go hang out at the library like everyone else.
•   Simultaneously eating and walking through the Skyway makes you walk too slow and will potentially muss up someone else’s clothes when you lose control of the 24 ounce beverage you have cradled in your elbow. So, from this point forward, simultaneous eating and walking in the Skyway is banned. Because I said so, that’s why.
•   Just because you’re cops does not give you guys license to swagger reaaaalllly slow, shoulder to shoulder. Have you ever tried looking behind you while you do that? All those people piled up back there? They’re not there because they’re admiring the tight, sinewy, spring-loaded cop asses that got you sent to Skyway Patrol in the first place. Pick up the pace or yield to passing traffic.
•   If you’re going through a manual door and there’s someone one beat behind you, hold the door for them. If you let the door slam shut on that person, there’s an even chance that the person will catch up to you at the next door and then won’t it be awkward when they accidentally roundhouse kick you in the throat?
Thank you for reading and strictly adhering to these simple rules. Anyone else wanting to add sage words of Skyway behavioral wisdom, please leave a comment. But mostly, just stay out of my way.
Let’s tackle this in reverse order. There’s a good reason that, like many other locals, I love Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl (DMG), seen at right disguised as a poorly disguised food critic. The fact that she’s palpably awesome notwithstanding, genuinely talented food writers are disturbingly uncommon. DMG is to food writing as Lebron James is to basketball. She can single-handedly turn a mediocre team into championship contenders by merely walking into the locker room.
Like travel writing, the food writing industry is overrun with hacks, fakes, shysters, dipshits and the clinically insane. Lazy metaphors, heartbreaking clichés, serial mediocrity and editorially sanctioned overuse of the word ’swathed’ plague food writing. So that DMG has not only cultivated the skill to consistently produce expert and refreshing text, but has also orchestrated the editorial freedom to write the way she does is a vanishingly rare and precious thing in her industry. As such, I’ve often doted on her words as if they were written by Buddha himself and was secretly heartbroken when she married William Jefferson Grumdahl, Esquire, local cowbell player, chalk artist, heir to the great Grumdahl Thumb Tack empire in Farmington and well-fed, lucky bastard.
Then came the July 2008 issue of Minnesota Monthly and the “Definitive, Ultimate, Be-All, End-All, List of the Greatest Burgers in Minnesota.” I was out of the country at the time and due to even more travel and dangerous amounts of time spent alone and feverishly writing in my condo since then, I only just got my hands on this copy last week.
To be perfectly frank, I was initially disappointed and suspicious of the list when I saw that the Jucy Lucys at Matt’s Bar had been rated Number One. I’m going to edge out onto an unpopular limb here and voice my opinion that the burgers served at Matt’s are the most over-hyped, underwhelming, physically dangerous and all around nasty non-fast food burgers I’ve ever had. I’ve eaten them twice. The first time I scalded myself so bad that I couldn’t taste the burger, or anything else for the next 48 hours. The second time I became physically ill later that day. I’m not saying that the burger caused the physical illness, I’m just saying that the two events happened in such quick succession that I now have association trauma with regard to Matt’s burgers.
More than anything I was struck both times as to how unattractive and ho-hum they were after all the psychotic, reverent, babbling build-up I’d endured. As such, I’m convinced that the whole Matt’s Jucy Lucy phenomenon is due to the blind, mindless acquiescence of countless rubes and the practical joke stylings of a few knowing conspirators, including it pains me to point out, our own DMG.
That said, I read the remainder of the article anyway and was more than a little taken with a few of the runners-up. In particular, the Signature Cheeseburger with Truffle Fries served at the Capital Grille. Despite Minnesota Monthly’s apparently serious “Burger Inherent Awesomeness Quotientâ„¢” (a messy equation that includes non-taste factors, like ambiance and ‘ultra-Minnesotanness’ of the venue) burying this bit of burger perfection in the #7 position, DMG called it ’stupendous’ and ‘thunderously beefy’. I can’t help it - I get excited when any foodstuff is affixed with a Force of Nature superlative.
Gaining momentum, DMG launched into one of her signature, exuberant cascades of delirious metaphors (”lush as a berry,” “profound as an exceptional Barolo”). I’m thinking, no way is it that good. And being the consummate writer that she is, DMG followed immediately with “Could it seriously be that good? Yes.” Oooeeeoooeee!
As always, I was easily won over by DMG’s playful and eerily intuitive copy and duly trekked through the Skyway two days later to the Capital Grille’s dinning room for lunch. Sadly, the witness that accompanied me doesn’t eat beef or truffle products, so the pressure was on for me, the travel writer whose primary expertise is in the culinary wasteland of Romania, to make a credible and thoughtful judgment. I came to the following conclusion: stupendous and thunderously beefy (travel and food writing is also overrun with plagiarizers).
Seriously, this cheeseburger was precisely what I imagine my first burger, after months in a non-burger-appreciative-part-of-the-world, should look like. Thick, juicy and ready for major magazine photography. Moreover, by merely looking at this burger, even a Food Dummy like myself can tell that there are no unnatural, mystery, non-food-foodstuffs in there. And get a load of DMG’s description: “The grass-fed beef is from Thousand Hills Cattle Company in southern Minnesota, ground-up with a certain amount of bacon from Fischer Farms in Waseca. The meat is mixed with Walla Walla or Vidalia onions, grilled, and served on a housemade brioche bun”. Even without the words “Dear Penthouse Forum”, that’s about all I need read to kick off a spontaneous, redistribution of blood.
But that’s not all. In between bites of this handheld, edible piece of foreplay, you supplement the already depraved release of endorphins with “French fries, graced with truffle-oil and gran padano cheese.” That I had no idea what gran padano cheese was before that moment didn’t lessen the impact of those words and the final product was no less stimulating.
Cumulatively, I’ve lived and traveled in Italy for nearly a year. I’m ashamed to admit during that time I became a little spoiled over the availability and affordability of things like shallots and truffle products. Having been back in Minnesota for well over a year now, and bringing in the kind of subsistence income that travel writers earn (if they’re lucky), I now regret not eating an entire bowl of shallots, fresh vegetables, mozzarella and prosciutto swathed in truffle oil every single, privileged, Buddha-blessed damn day I was there. Now the mere whiff of truffles causes a dopamine spike that stuns my brainstem. You can literally hear the ‘beeeeuuuoooo’ as all my brain functions cease like a failed power coupling on the Starship Enterprise.
My natural impulse was to take the wax paper that held my truffle fries and rub it all over my face and hair and then not bathe for a week so as to enjoy the maximum effect of the fumes, but my level-headed companion pointed out that people around us might construe this behavior as “screwball”. My counter-offer of simply secreting the paper in my pants pocket was frowned upon as well. This is why I usually eat alone.
Needless to say, it was the best burger-based meal I’ve had in years and probably in the top three of all time. In fact I went back for seconds not even 48 hours later. It’s only been 24 hours since then and I’m already shopping for medication that will stem the tide of these cravings. As long as the pills cost less than $14 a serving (before tax and tip), I come out ahead.
And Dara, I realize that you probably have 57 devout friends that accompany you on your various restaurant visits, and I further admit to knowing precious little about food in general, but I think after reading the above you’ll agree that I have a singular physical response to food that transcends so-called ‘expertise’ and therefore makes me eminently qualified as an illiterate food taster guy that you need at your table for observation purposes alone. Call me.
Also, do you have a sister?
The Capital Grille
801 Hennepin Ave
612-692-900
I’ve started mentally composing three different posts for this blog in the past few days (I’m pretty much constantly editing in my head by the way, no matter what else is going on around me, a sick compulsion that I blame for my insomnia, absentmindedness and at least one failed relationship), but have abandoned each post as they all deteriorated into frothing rants against a certain senatorial campaign and their lying and cheating and thieving and baffling desire to actually make the world a worse place while they chase personal gains and burden the rest of us with their pathetic Napoleon Complexes, all of which they’ll most certainly regret on their deathbeds and are probably causing various antecedents to spin in their graves as we speak, but I digress…
Instead, I’d like to publicly thank Maryn M., Lori B., Bryan M., and Skullateral Damage, who answered my pleas for donations of various items for my impending visit to Burma. Anyone that’s had the staggering free time to read even part of one of my Burma travelogues mentioned below will know that traveling there is at once a fascinating and moving experience. I’m very excited to go back and be a little better prepared this time.
With that, I’m afraid I’ll be mostly off the grid, at least on this blog, through the end of the holidays. I may be posting a bit over at KillingBatteries.com while I’m on the road, but it’ll be trivial at best. Between pacifying various vacation-related indulgences and the little (Thailand) to no (Burma) internet access I’m expecting to encounter, there’s really not going to be much opportunity for filing substantial reports from the road.
Please check back here after the holidays when I hope to return to my whimsical-as-usual posting schedule. Thanks for reading.
As some of you may know, I am leaving on November 17th for a five week trip to Thailand and Burma, A.K.A. Myanmar. I’m doing Thailand for the beach, warmth, food, $10 massages and to do the exploring I didn’t do the last time I was there. I’m doing Burma, because, well, there’s really no other place like it on Earth.
Burma has a very long, complicated, heart-breaking history, to put it lightly. The past 15 months have been particularly harsh, with the anti-government demonstrations of 2007 and the cyclone in May of this year. The last time I was in Burma (2005), due to tight work schedules, I only had a mere 10 days to frantically race through four of the country’s primary destinations. I wrote an exhaustive, and, if I may say so, awesome travelogue about the trip for anyone who has about two hours to spare (Introduction, Yangon, Inle Lake, Mandalay, Bagan, and Yangon with an interview with a local). I also took some of the best pictures of all my travels.
Like most people, my trip to Burma had a very profound effect on me on many levels. The people and the country are really amazing, as is the unthinkably oppressive government and poverty. While on my last trip, I was beseeched daily, mostly by children, for things like pens/pencils, shampoo, and American coins. Adults often wanted to trade with me, asking for small flashlights, fold-up knives, wrist watches and clothes. An associate of mine from Bangkok, who goes to Burma frequently, reports that cheap earrings, hair ribbons and bracelets are much appreciated too.
I intend to go to Burma this time prepared for these appeals. I’d like to bring a small stockpile of everything mentioned above. I’m writing this post because I need a little help, particularly with the clothes, flashlights and watches. I’m asking for donations of these items, new or used. Since I’m traveling feather-light as always, I don’t have a whole lot of space in my bags, so I don’t need much, but if you can spare just a few items, it would be deeply appreciated. Unfortunately, since I am not a non-profit entity (quite the opposite in fact, in case you need a freelance writer – like right now), so you can’t write this off, but I promise to return with tales of how your donations were used and pictures whenever possible.
As for clothing, I want to bring mostly t-shirts, but a few caps and pants (khakis and jeans) would be nice too. T-shirts and caps emblazoned with US city/state names and sports teams are greatly coveted. Please keep in mind that, compared to us Americans, the Burmese are mostly on the smallish side (the fish market ladies pictured above notwithstanding), so I can only accept small and medium sized items.
Again, I’m leaving November 17th, so if you’d like to offer anything, please contact me by leaving a comment here or at the email address provided here. Thank you in advance for your help.
Last Thursday I joined about 4,000 people at the Minneapolis Convention Center to see the “Five Days to Change Rally” with Bill Clinton, featuring Al Franken and Amy Klobuchar.
Now I’m passionate about this election. So passionate that it’s been keeping me up at night, cursing loud enough for my neighbors to hear, while listening to an all-star cast of professional weasels and failed lobotomy patients exalting the likes of John “McRage” McCain, Sarah Palin, Norm Coleman and Michelle Bachman. Under normal circumstances, if it would guarantee an election sweep for Elwyn Tinklenberg, Keith Ellison, Al Franken and Barack Obama, I’d give my life savings. I’d cut off a minor appendage. I’d stop drinking Strongbow. That’s how much I care about this election. But, quite frankly, by the end of the rally on Thursday, I’d have given the same things just for a chair, 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen, and my mommy.
What a marathon, ill-conceived, demoralizing clusterf*ck that rally was. Counting standing in line, most people had been there for well over four hours by the time we limped out of there.
What took so long? Well, it turned out to be a little more than three exciting speakers. Most of that time was taken up by listening to the exact same speech paraphrased eight times, imploring, badgering and brainwashing us to spend the final five days before the election door knocking and calling people to get them to vote. It was, to put it kindly, f*cking absurd.
First we were talked at four times, starting with two teenagers, then a parade of officials including Mayor R.T Rybak and Congressman Keith Ellison. Then there was a 15 minute break. People in the crowd were already getting antsy. Looking at their watches, shifting their weight to relive the discomfort of standing on concrete. Some sat on the floor.
Then it was time for the main event. Whoops not yet. Actually, we heard the same volunteer sermon four more times, including from former VP Walter Mondale and, finally, Amy Klobuchar.
When Amy left the stage, there was a hopeful hush. Was it time for the Al and Bill Show? No, it was not. Instead, they played a babbling, 20-some minute video-taped speech by Al Gore, given almost a month ago when he swung through town.
Then there was a 20 minute break. Who the hell were all these breaks for? The audience was suffering from fatigue, boredom and in my case debilitating lower back pain. We didn’t need breaks, we needed dinner. Indeed, people were throwing in the towel and leaving. Many others were sitting or full-on sprawled out on the floor. This picture, taken during the second break, fails to capture the sea of people that had collapsed to the floor, because when I took it, I was too weak to stand myself. When volunteers and organizers mingled through the crowd trying to get people fired up chanting and clapping, most of us only had the strength to look up and scowl. They were losing the crowd, a crowd of rabid supporters, very fast.
Finally, Al and Bill came out together and, between the two of them, managed to breathe a little life back into the audience. They gave great speeches, but the momentum was hopelessly gone. The two were still on the stage waving their goodbyes as people lamely hobbled for the exits, elbowing past and avoiding eye contact with organizers with clipboards wanting to sign up volunteers.
My back was sore for two days. I might have volunteered if I hadn’t already felt that I’d done all I could physically do for the campaign by simply standing there until the bitter end.
So, since I did not door knock or call anyone, I’m posting this reminder for everyone to get out and vote tomorrow. We can’t get this ass-stomping done without everyone’s vote.
Also, I’m posting this to remind future rally organizers that their audience is not a bunch of indestructible robots. Next time, cut the goddamn running time in half, if you want anyone to leave the joint with anything on their minds other than food and convalescence.
I don’t think I’m overstating the situation when I say that this is going to change all of our lives for the better for the rest of eternity, unless you’re one of those dirty, sniveling Socialists. Huh? Is that what you are? A Socialist? You make me sick. Now get out of my face and go enjoy your universal free healthcare. However, those of you in the banking industry are obviously welcome to hang around, drive our banks into ruin and wait for your bailout and reward – but everyone else has to go back to Canada where you belong.
Actually, this really is huge news for the car-free lifestyle people – or those that would rather eat raw bird ca-ca rather than drive long distance through Wisconsin.
Meagabus, which has been a growing ground transport option in the northeast US since 2006, has finally started service to Minneapolis. So far, they only go direct from Minneapolis to Chicago, Madison and Milwaukee, but if you’ve got the ass-fortitude, there’s connections onward to Detroit, Indianapolis, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Memphis, St Louis and more.
I’m finding tickets from Minneapolis to Chicago for as little as $10. No taxes, but there’s a whopping $0.50 reservation fee, so that’s one less pack of gum out of your trip budget.
Now why on earth would you choose to take a bus like a hobo or a Norwegian backpacker rather than a car, train or plane? Well, flying is obviously far more expensive, punishing to the environment and increasingly demoralizing – and that’s assuming your flight leaves on time and they manage to deliver your luggage to your actual destination.
Admittedly the train would be a more comfortable ride, but even that’s going to cost anywhere from two to five times as much as Megabus and the travel time is virtually the same (about 7 and 1/2 hours from Minneapolis to Chicago, which I find rather weird – shouldn’t the train blow past a bus, what with all the stop lights and traffic jams and getting stuck behind people in Wisconsin that drive their cars like they drive their combines?).
Apart from the drastically reduced price, here’s the true deal-maker for me: wi-fi. That’s right haters, Megabus has free wi-fi on all its buses and the new fleet of double-decker buses will also have power points, so you can spend the entire ride working, playing poker, and watching all those YouPorn videos you’ve been putting off.
I have yet to actually ride on a Megabus, but it looks as if I’ll be heading back to St Louis next month, so I’ll duly post a review when that happens. Including the two hour layover in Chicago, it’s almost a 16-hour trip, one way. Not an easy day, certainly. However, let’s look at driving to St Louis in a private car: takes about nine hours (10 hours if you get jacked-up lost outside St Louis like I did), the gas bill for a one-way run is about $75 (whereas roundtrip on Megabus starts at about $43), you arrive brain-dead from constantly scanning the horizon for the fuzz, your ass hurts just about the same and you didn’t get to watch Hulu videos and flirt with Norwegian backpackers the entire time.
Megabus stops both at Parking Ramp C in downtown Minneapolis on 3rd Street and 3rd Ave North (which is totally accessible from my building through the Skyway – no big deal, I’m just saying how rad that’ll be in the winter) and on University Avenue, across from Williams Arena by the U of M. Get there early to get the coveted second-level front seat, so you can enjoy panoramic views of the Wisconsin countryside (or sit about three rows back, if you actually want to see your laptop screen).
There are few things in life that never get old: Strongbow in 17 ounce cans, Tina Fey doing Sarah Palin and watching women in roller skates and fishnet stockings beating the living hell out of each other.
I have very fond memories of my first (and only) Rollergirls bout last March, so I’m genuinely starting to lose my shit in anticipation of the Minnesota Rollergirls return to Roy Wilkins Auditorium this Saturday (October 18th), when the All-Stars take on the Northwest Arkansas Rollergirls. There’ll also be a Pirates versus Zombies themed bout which will feature this year’s badass rookies, several of whom were profiled in last week’s City Pages.
I’ll be there, sitting on rink-side cement, as a personal guest of rookie and City Pages covergirl Skullateral Damage. While keeping one hand over my totally uninsured gonads in case of spectator-cushioned wipeouts, I’ll keep the other poised and ready to take digital video of what I hope will be a statement-making, bench-clearing brawl in the first five minutes that’ll put the fear of God into those heathen Northwest Arkansas Rollergirls.
I’ve also appointed myself to Hooligan Patrol. Since parts of my previous Rollergirl experience were sullied by two members of the Misogynistic, Beer Stank, Little Dick Society of White Bear Lake, I’ve armed myself with an official Minnesota Rollergirl 14″ rubber dildo (available in the gift shop for $17.99), with which I fully intend to menace spectators that get out of hand. Admittedly, a dildo-packing travel writer won’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of many, so in extreme cases I’ll have a flare gun that, when fired, will halt the match and bring every skater in the house over for little amateur chiropractor work using nothing but roller skates and a folding chair.
Now, I’m not a religious man, but…
Dear Buddha,
Please let there be a bench-clearing brawl, please let there be a bench-clearing brawl, please let there be a bench-clearing brawl.
Your humble, usually pacifist minion,
Leif