Fargo-Moorhead 1988

I wish I could say we were the kind of creatively misguided geniuses that solved our ‘who sits in the front seat’ dilemma with a spirited game of Rock Paper Shotgun. I wish I could claim that we used our combined brainpower to make music and art and poetry that could have changed the world. I wish I could say that we were the best of friends, banded together in the worst of towns. We were all those things, though, we just didn’t realize it. Mostly we just sat around and drank.

The nights were ours. Many were spent at my house, listening to The Clash and working our way, quickly, desperately, through a case of warm Schaeffer beer. Others were made for roaming around Fargo – aimlessly walking, pointlessly talking. There were warm summer evenings spent outside, dodging mosquitoes on the merry-go-round. There were cold winter nights, bundled up in each other for warmth.

Matt and I knew all the downtown alleys. He was going to open a speakeasy and I was going to be his doyenne. Small, dark, close, a cabaret, a salon, a coffee shop, a bar, an opium den. A library, a flophouse, record store, an oasis. A blue light bulb was going to be our beacon.

Thad and I were going to set up a home together. He’d quit drinking and I’d quit smoking and all of our furniture would be black and we’d dance in our living room at midnight. Everything was an occasion to be dressed and distressed for, no occasion to formal and green eyeshadow was our trademark. We’d create our wardrobes from vintage treasures and live every injuriously decorated moment to the fullest.

Mike and I would road-trip. His little white Honda would take us anywhere; he’d drive and man the clutch while I’d shift. I’d navigate and steal the Pringles, and he’d keep a steady stream of Violent Femmes and The Cult blasting into the night. We’d park on moonlight country roads and talk for hours, just watching the stars sweep by.

Tim and I knew everything about indie college pop. His band would play songs about me and my friends would dance, unknowingly. We’d bicker incessantly, for the benefit of whomever was in earshot, but when alone we’d whisper because our words didn’t need to carry far. The words were for each other, partly, but mostly just for ourselves; saying them out loud took the sting off their insincerity.

We were hungry, as teenagers tend to be. Not just for excitement or stimulation, or even kicks. We were pretty easy to please – just give us some food, some beer, and something to do. Those of us who worked in food service brought home what we could, and others of us stole. Sometimes we’d grocery shop through our parents’ cupboards and once, we dumpster dove at McDonald’s. There is no honor among the ravenous, and no shame among friends.

We read poetry by Henry Rollins because he was hard and Bukowski because he was drunk and Tom Waits because he was Tom. We listened to Pailhead and Scraping Foetus and Tin Machine and even Mussolini Headkick and everything we could get our hands on. Knowledge was limited and resources were shared and there was power in having and giving and listening.

Bands rarely came through Fargo, so we ordered VHS tapes out of the back of Maximum Rock ‘n Roll. Kids from all over – Kindred, Glyndon, West Fargo, Felton – would come over to watch Punk and Disorderly or a copy-of-a-copy Minor Threat bootleg. Likewise, we made our own hair dye (with various levels of success) by boiling crepe paper, and we dreamed of shops that sold Bogey’s clothing. Roadtrips to Minneapolis often brought back purloined Manic Panic and fluorescent tights from Tatters.

We danced by bonfires and crashed through the woods. We skateboarded through parking ramps and climbed atop apartment buildings. We rearranged letters on reader boards to tell our own stories.
I keep saying “we” as though this was a gang, a clique, or even a club. Far from it; there was just me. There were a few core people who were always there, the true friends of the thick-and-thin variety, and there was a rotating cast of hangers-on and hanger-outers. There was never a pretense of being together forever and always, but there seemed to be strands of invisible thread that banded us. Within that, though, I was still alone.

I burned most of the people close to me. Not intentionally, but all the same, Justin, Eric, Bill, Paul, they all bear the marks. Justin got his at the Silver Spike motel, we’d been drinking Diet Coke and champagne and watching “Kiss of the Spider Woman” and I was pointing at the ceiling and so was he and my cigarette hit his hand and lingered. Bill’s was similar, drunk, talking, gesturing, falling over. Burn. Eric fared little better; a careless flick of the ember missed its mark. I don’t remember Paul’s at all, but I’ve been told it happened the night he taught me how to jump off buildings, there’s a way to do it if you wanna end it all, and a way to do it if you want to walk away.

I don’t know how to document our lives now; most of us have disappeared. I don’t think any of us are doctors, but some are probably lawyers. Some of us wear our Failed Academic flags high, while others suffer through various jobs that are comfortably beneath us. Some are musicians, one is a plumber. There are families and psychiatric hospitals and funerals and form-letters on the holidays. There are teething rings and high-school football Friday nights and if we’re lucky, the occasional phone call.

We’re far away now, and I don’t know if we’ll ever be close again; the days of all for one and one for all are definitely over. What I do know, though, is that I will always have those years. I keep them close.

Things We Like: These Boots (Monkey Goggles)

I’ve owned a bass guitar for many years and I only know how to play three songs; I can play “Gigantic” by the Pixies, I can play “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed, and I can play Lee Hazlewood’s “These Boots are Made for Walkin'” —  the Nancy Sinatra version. “Boots” was the first song I learned, and I spent hours upon hours practicing the opening sliding run. I rocked it.

“Boots” is a brush-off number of the nastiest kind. Sinatra calls out the anonymous guy in no uncertain terms and reads off all of his misdeeds as though she was reading a grocery list. (Hazlewood reportedly told her to sing as if she were a 16-year-old girl dressing down a 40-year-old man.) She’s taking her boots, and is not just walking away with them but is promising also to stomp on him a bit before she goes. For 1966, those were some pretty strong and sexy words, and a crack team of session musicians — including the great drummer Hal Blaine and bassists Carol Kaye and Chuck Berghofer — give them extra menace.

There are probably at least one hundred versions of that song out there. (The definition of travesty: Wikipedia has 489 words on Nancy Sinatra’s version, while Jessica Simpson’s hackneyed cover somehow warrants 845 words.) I know for a fact that I have at least two dozen covers of "Boots" stomping around in my iTunes library right now, attempted by everyone from Geri Halliwell to Government Issue, from the Barcode Brothers to Barry Adamson. And you know something? I don't just play the Sinatra version; I can play along with them all.

Cooking with Betty Crocker is Child’s Play! (Monkey Goggles)

You know, it started out simply enough. On a trip to Vashon Island, I picked up a copy of Betty Crocker’s Cookbook for Boys and Girls, circa 1957. I have a vintage cookbook addiction and simply can’t resist any pre-1965 tome, especially one so jam-packed with line drawings not only of kids cooking “Whiz Nut Bread,” but also chickens drinking chocolate sodas and cookies getting all cozy with a long, tall glass of milk.

Upon first reading, the items in the book seem pretty simple and geared towards the 10- to 15-year old set. Putting peach halves on a bowl of Wheaties and wrapping hot dogs in pre-fab biscuit dough doesn’t seem too require too much thought or attention. I figured I could make any of these blindfolded. When it came to actually making the recipes, though, everything fell apart. Fast.

I started with Branded Pancakes. Pancakes are easy, I thought; writing letters is easy, I thought; I can do this, I thought. Boy, was I wrong. The recipe started out simply enough, “make pancakes as directed on Bisquick package…” Done. I even added some lemon extract and poppy seeds. “Let batter trickle from teaspoon onto hot griddle to form an initial. Initials must be made backwards to be right when pancakes are served…”




Turns out that a batter-dipped spoon is not one of the easier writing utensils to wield. And writing backwards on paper is one thing, but on a hot griddle is another. It’s no wonder there are no photos of the pancakes in the cookbook. After a few tries, I was able to make a few passable pancakes, but I doubt I’ll ever host a brunch wherein I regale my guests with a buffet table-sized display of Oscar Wilde quotes a la flapjack.

Fueled by my partial success, I pulled out another book from the archives, The Better Homes and Gardens Junior Cookbook for the Hostess of Tomorrow (1955) and decided to sate my sweet tooth with a batch of Animal Cookies.

Again, the recipe seemed simple enough – attach animal crackers to vanilla wafers with frosting. The photo in the book showed the animal crackers standing upright, so that was my goal. I pulled the box of wafers out of the pantry, found some frosting and animal crackers, and got to work. The first hurdle was deciding which animals to use. This was of vital importance – they couldn’t be too top-heavy and had to have a solid base. The second hurdle was actually getting them to stand up. I don’t know about the frosting of the ’50s, but the (store-bought) frosting of today is neither thick nor goopy enough to hold the animals upright. I ended up propping each cookie against a shot glass while the frosting set, which took about 3 hours — or it would have, if not for Neko The Cat.



Who knew she had a sweet tooth? There went that batch.
So, four hours and two batches (and a cocktail or two) later, I had made one perfect cookie. And I ate it and it was delicious. The others, while perfectly fine in flavor, looked like Dr. Moreauvian freakbeasts. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.



There was one final recipe to try in this cookbook trifecta, Candle Salad; back to Betty Crocker for this one. According to the book, “it’s better than a real candle because you can eat it.”



Oh yes, you can eat it.

Wreath Havoc (Monkey Goggles)

Around a week before Halloween, when the Christmas decorations began to show up in stores, I saw some really cool feathered wreaths and thought they would be a great addition to my “I-kinda-hate-Christmas-but-kinda-love-silver-glittery-things” decor. The price tags on the wreaths were kinda high, though — between $60 and $90. Yipes.

So I got to thinking: Why couldn’t I just get a Styrofoam ring and some feather boas from the Sassy Gay Party Store and make my own wreaths? A little hot glue and some straight pins and voila! Easy-peasy, and cheap!

But why stop there? There are all kinds of wreaths that can be made from common household objects and a few craft-store supplies.

If you want to point out the rampant commercialism of the season with a wreath that looks like it’s made from $50 bills, you can totally do that! You may want to do your own research on this, but I’m pretty sure it’s okay to photocopy money as long as you make it significantly larger or smaller than its original size, printed on one side only. And whatever you do, do not try to pass it off as currency. So with that in mind, why not run off a couple sheets of Franklins, affix them to a mesh wreath form, hot glue on some additional bling (use red rhinestones if you wanna have some traditional holiday cheer all up in there), and there you go! Just don’t spend it all in one place.

Or, if you are wanting a truly White Christmas, you can take a white Styrofoam wreath form and wrap it in strands of pearls — real or fake, your choice — and be done. A light dusting of pearlescent glitter would make it even more fabulous. Or better – mirror balls! Peel the mirrors off the mirror balls and glue them to a wreath. Use silver and white glitter to fill in any gaps. Glitter fixes everything, you see.

Thinking about feeding the birds? Edible wreaths are pretty easy to make from popcorn (wrap strung popcorn around a twig wreath form) or peanut butter and seeds (and a circle of corrugated cardboard as the base). With a little gelatin and a bundt pan, you can make the birdseed wreath to end all birdseed wreaths.

Oh, and you know those hubcaps that just seem to appear on the side of the road? Find one, hose it off, and attach some pine tree air fresheners. Then go play Santa and hang it on the wall of your local gas station bathroom for a wonderful, seasonal treat that will most certainly be appreciated by all.
Antlers? Old plates? Strings of buttons? A tire and some spraypaint? You can make a wreath from pretty much anything.

Things We Like: Pushbutton Coffee (Monkey Goggles)

You know what’s awesome? I’ll tell you what’s awesome – that delicious sludge that comes from 7-11’s push-button coffee machines! Sweet, delicious sludge… Don’t let the name fool ya, it’s not actually coffee by any means; not even close. But it’s warm and it’s rich and it’s usually less than one-third the price of a triple-grande soy hazelnut mocha, extra hot, no whip.

I first fell in love with push-button coffee in my hometown’s city bus terminal; I’d kill the time between transfers with a piping hot cup of machine-made coffee. Back then, the choices were a bit more pedestrian – you could get your coffee instant, with crème, with sugar, or both. And it tasted pretty much the same now matter what.

In the past 10 years, the flavors of 7-11’s coffees have gotten all kinds of intricate – coffee and cream has turned into a latte, which has in turn become a Cherries Jubilee Cup-o-Chino. Heck, I’d not be surprised to walk in to a 7-11 someday and see Black Truffle Kiwi MochaMatchaChino in the flavor rotation. Time and technology may have moved on and my tastes may have become more refined, but I still crave a cup of English Toffee- or White Chocolate Caramel-flavored diabetes from time to time.

Long Live the Spirograph (Monkey Goggles)

During a recent impromptu game night, I pulled the long-neglected Spirograph out of the hall closet, and I can honestly say that the classic drawing toy was the hit of the evening. A room full of cynical, beer-swilling adults was held rapt; we had hours of mathematically-perfect circular fun. Plus, everyone left with a handful of art. Win!

I remember playing with a Spirograph as a child and being endlessly entertained while simultaneously frustrated by it. I’d get a great pattern going and then disaster would strike — the inevitable crink of a cog skipping a groove, and the disappointing straight line ruining my complex (and colorful) series of arcs and curves. Disaster! Fiasco! Giving it another go would result in my pen running out of ink. Being an impatient kid, a third attempt was pretty much off the boards.
However, despite the crinks and the painful memories of failure and frustration, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Spirograph. The set that I have now is an older edition — it doesn’t have the crazy boomerang shapes that the new models have, and it’s got that great old game smell. It even comes standard with a dozen sharp pins and a handful of the small cogs which are quite the choking hazard.
The Spirograph the very epitome of a classic toy — one that draws on those reserves of imagination and creativity that recent advances in electronic entertainment have all but depleted. Using a Spirograph is a lot like reading through those “Chose Your Own Adventure” books of the 1980s: You kinda know where you’re going, and you kinda know how you’ll get there, but the journey is where the fun is.

You could get easily a new Spirograph set — the toy is still in production and easily found on Amazon — but I prefer Kenner’s 1967 pressing of the toy, which has more pieces, is more sturdily-made, and is just plain better-looking than its modern counterpart. The first step to finding a 1967 Spirograph is hitting up eBay; courting thrift stores is a fool’s errand. Only the truly lucky could hope to find a complete set, and yes, you will miss those missing cogs. However, with a little bit of good eBay mojo, you should be able to find a gently-used set for around ten bucks.  Once you’ve found the game of your dreams, get all set up at a sturdy table. On game night we camped out on the floor, which was fun and all, and how we used to do it as kids — but then there was a point when we all cried “oh, my aching back!” in perfect unison. Don’t get sidelined by bad posture.

There is one more thing that’s absolutely vital to Spirographery success — ditch the pens that come with the set. These innocuous-lookin ballpoint pens are actually portals into a World of Hurt, and you must rid yourself of them as quickly as possible. I’ve found that fine-point markers (we used Sharpies and Spectracolors) work a million-billion times better. The movement was much smoother and more precise, and once we figured out a good speed there was virtually no skipping. Plus, the array of available colors is downright amazing.

And from there … just loosen up and go! Chill, have a beer. Draw some circles. It’s fun!

Judging A Book By Its Cover

The bookstore:
My bookstore guy is pretty well trained; he calls me whenever vintage cookbooks come in, and he always sets aside any old Scribner paperbacks so I can take first crack at 'em. He knows I’m a sucker for a well-designed 1960's hipster cover. He’s also kind of like a nerdy cross between Elvis Costello and Jason Statham. Plus he has woodgrained glasses. And when he's working, there's always a constant stream of Joy Division and Dream Syndicate playing. But I digress...

Yesterday, I was milling around, mostly not finding Brandreth’s Oscar Wilde and a Game Called Murder, but also checking out some old Hemmingway that I haven’t read yet, and generally just wasting time because I couldn’t think of anything else to do on my lunchbreak. I was just hemming and hawing my way through the used literature section when Bookstore Guy came out from behind his perch and asked, kinda shyly, if he could recommend something.
It was cute.
I said “sure.”

He pulled out a copy of The Geography of Bliss. He said I looked like I needed it.

It’s bright blue.



This morning:
I’m on the bus, nicely nestled in the wayback, and nobody was looking, so I pull out the bright blue Bliss book as surreptitiously as possible and start reading. Almost instantly the other readerheads' swiveled around, they were onto me... “That’s one really bright book.” “Wait! Bliss? Is that a self-help book!” “Are there at least dragons in it? Or mutants?” “Will this help you survive a giant squid attack?”

So now, I’m already very conscious of reading a book about happy places. The unasked question, am I in danger of finding mine? It’s hard to say, but with a literal busload of early-morning commuter cynics Heisenberging over me, I’m overly aware of my reaction.

My initial rejoinder is to affect disinterest. I tend to claim pure unaffectedness whenever a reaction is expected of me; it’s part defense mechanism, part unwillingness to let people predict my response, part secret inside joke that's funny only to me. So there is that.

Reading this book has already become much more of a test of will than it really should be.

All that aside, the 35 pages I’ve read already are pretty darn good. But before the day is through, I will be investing in a Max Californian book cover. Who wants to join me at the porn store?