The First 12 Memories That Make Me Smile

by G. Sax

One: Listening to my Sony Walkman cassette player while I delivered newspapers, particularly one sunny day on the front stairs of 1054 Norton Street while flipping to Side 2 of the Talking Heads’ Little Creatures.

Two: Crossing University Avenue at Victoria in St. Paul at the age of 6 when I missed my school bus home from Maxfield Elementary but missed it with some other kids who were older than me. Mind you, Maxfield was K–3. Whoever these mystery kids were, they were just babies themselves. But I still remember how exhilarating it was to cross that busy street without an adult present.

Three: Ditching Murray Jr. High on a snowy winter day with Cameron Blackmore. I rarely ditched school, but that day sticks out as a singularly great event of junior high. It was probably one of the only times I did anything alone with Cam. We went to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul Campus Student Union and ate vending machine food. We walked all the way to Bandana Square, which was still a viable mall at the time. Then we went back to his house near Como Lake. I eventually made it the extra couple of miles home, all on foot. Cam’s dead now and has been since high school. But I have that day as the one memory of me and him when it was just me and him.

Four: Feeling the wind in the air as I digested burritos in Novato, California, on a semi-busy street while realizing that I was in love. I wasn’t supposed to be in love, but I couldn’t help it. The food was so good, and the company was so exactly what I wanted my company to be for the rest of my life. I can only hope that every day is exactly like that day, and, guess what? It usually is. My happiness continues to be a curse to my better writing instincts, but it is the antidote to my being. And I can’t write at all if I can’t be.

Five: Singing “It’s just another one of those boring days…Dragon Snake, Dragon Snake.” This lyric will make sense to only one person in my life. He is Jon Lewis, and I spent the most formative moments of my youth with this cat. And then 30 years later, I took his wife to the Minnesota State Fair and we judged horse-and-carriage shows rather well for a couple of admission fee cheats.

Six: Reviling Mr. Muller, my uncle-bad-touch 6th-grade teacher who took me and Anthony Dent and Cory Cox and Roger Lynch to the Science Museum of Minnesota’s omni theatre to see “Genesis” on a school night. We ate dinner at his house, and the entire proceedings felt semi-formal. The other three boys were black and I was still white, and I got the distinct feeling that this weird man took pity on us as “underclass” although I already knew that I possessed superior intellect, that Anthony and Roger had superior talent, and Cory had superior cuteness. We would all be fine in life. At least until death. I don’t know what Cory and Anthony are up to these days, but Roger is gone as of 2003. I just found this out a few months back, and it really fucking bummed me out. Roger was my yang for a few years in elementary school, and I will always miss him, even if we hadn’t spoken in 20+ years and will never speak again.

Seven: Watching “The Benny Hill Show” with my great-grandfather. Watching “The Love Boat” with my great-grandfather. Watching “Fantasy Island” with my great-grandfather. Listening to an Angels-Twins exhibition game on the radio with my great-grandfather. Playing frisbee on the side of the house on Charles Avenue with my great-grandfather. Putting random bits of metal in the vise in the workshop of the basement of my great-grandfather. Playing Rummy 500 in the kitchen of my great-grandfather. Being mesmerized by the compass bobbling around on the dash of the vehicle of my great-grandfather. Quietly watching the thermostat from the hide-a-bed in the living room that would inevitably be changed in the middle of the night to a different temperature by my great-grandfather.

Eight: Enjoying rainy, dreary days in Milwaukee. Bike rides and car drives with Hunter S. Sax to parks on the East Side, playgrounds on Lake Michigan, cheap food places on North Street and Oakland Avenue, zoos in Racine, and wherever else our adventures would take me and my 3-year-old son.

Nine: Working “The Night Shift” at the snow fort on Mackubin Street, which I romanticized as far more than the snow-plowed pile across from a second-tier frozen lake and third-tier apartment complex. Oh, the way the light hit the shining snow at 9:30 p.m. on those rare, quiet nights as I sat sentry prior to the inevitable vandalism.

Ten: Getting ready before my TRUE night shift at Clean Power, a janitorial service company in Madison, Wisconsin. I generally worked three jobs at a time throughout my college experience (in bare feet, uphill both ways!), and for a time I would pump myself up for the night job with one of two polar opposites: Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence” or Public Enemy’s “Brothers Gonna Work It Out.” Either way, I’d pump that shit loud and sing it louder, and then I’d vacuum and trash like a fucking demon.

Eleven: Smoking cigarettes on the windowsill of my apartment-with-a-view in Montreal, Quebec. I don’t smoke as a rule, but as an American living in Canada, I smoked my share of Du Mauriers while watching the twinkling lights of my new downtown. Then I’d go read The Trilogy ’til I fell asleep.

Twelve: Driving on I-95 in Baltimore while listening to a lyric in Q-Tip’s “Vivrant Thing” that mentions I-95. Feeling like I had it all. Feeling like I was starting a brand new day. Hearing Sting’s “Brand New Day” while driving the same stretch of I-95 and thinking Sting and I could be pals in optimism. Thinking I could write an award-winning screenplay at the Royal Farms on Key Hwy long before some chick did it in a Target in Crystal, MN.

I got memories, yo. They’re all up in here (pointing at left temple). And if I did my job, you love the way I wrote about them, even if you don’t know them. But maybe they pinch something similar in you and you stop and think and remember a piece of your life the way it should be remembered—not in crisis but in private, otherworldly elation.

Precious Light

by G. Sax

CarlyGirl went to bed the other night in a panic. “Where is my head lamp?!” Then a glance at the side table. “Oh, there it is.” Lights out. Another restful sleep.

4th of July, 2007

by G. Sax

I’ve been fortunate enough to spend the Independence Day holiday in many great cities in the U.S. An evening on The Mall in Washington, DC. Wrigley Field and a dozen fireworks displays from a vantage point on high in Chicago. A little patch of green in Surprise, Arizona. A farm in Estelline, South Dakota. Friends in town for a holiday visit in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Baseball games in Sacramento and San Francisco, California. Even dirty little Vallejo evokes a charming memory of a shabby parade.

There have also been several in Minnesota, including about a half dozen at Langford Park in St. Paul’s St. Anthony Park neighborhood. That’s where I went last year for a dash of nostalgia. But I didn’t really feel like I reached back far enough.

For the first 5–8 years of my knowing life, I spent the 4th on Norton Street, at Marydale Park, and in the surrounding neighborhoods of St. Paul’s North End. That’s all the bigger my world was.

I remember holding ladyfingers as they popped, running from the unpredictability of jumping jacks and bottle rockets, sticking firecrackers in dog poop. I remember the big fireworks displays they used to do off of Mackubin Street by Loeb Lake. I remember when my mom’s boyfriend threw an M-80 in the dirty little pond just to the south of the lake and how exciting that watery explosion was. I remember drinking too much New Coke. I remember throwing a firecracker under a moving cop car. I remember when my full bag of fireworks went up in a fireball from an errant ash. I remember it all fondly.

Today, CarlyGirl and I ate a simple meal at a Minnetonka Perkin’s, took a few funny pictures at Midway Stadium, looked at some homes for sale, and then went to Norton Street and Marydale Park. We walked the length of Norton, lingering at 1165. We walked all the way around Loeb, watching a pops band while eating snowcones. We watched a volleyball tournament that seemed to pit Hmong vs. Rice Streeters on two different courts. We finished our day by 4 p.m., but I caught up on 30 years.

Places and Spaces

“The illest regiment is what I represent.” – Q-Tip

by G. Sax

I do shit, yo. Sometimes I wonder if I’m forcing myself to fill gaps, like I can’t be still or something. But I read books. I can sit still for hours on end. I don’t get wigged out on road trips. I can concentrate on something long enough.

No, I’m not gapping. I’m just interested in living. Out loud. Which can be a struggle when I’m the last one in a 50-mile radius awake every night. People like it quiet when it’s dark outside.

So I wear headphones.

I’m still working on that whole getting up on time b.s. How do the rest of you do it? Maybe the same way you finance new VWs, maintain cabins in the northwoods, build homes from scratch, buy 35-foot fishing boats, take cruises in the Caribbean, and so on.

I’m not complaining. For real. I have done and still do plenty of good shit in my life. CarlyGirl is always writing and imaging about the shit that I do. You should check it out, because it’s far more visual than what I provide here.

I keep this site and column up and running as a place to dialogue openly about whatever I want to write. It also serves as a place for good friends to crack jokes and flex their own creative suite 3 (that play on words was brought to you by Adobe). It’s also become a repository for the best capsule movie reviews I’ve ever seen on the Web. I wasn’t really expecting that.

But that’s what I still love and live about Whale Time. A high school folly turned into a worthwhile life philosophy. You think I wasn’t watching those whales floating around in NorCal? Mother and child were straight floating through my old stomping grounds in Vallejo. West Sac, Rio Vista, Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. I watched the drama unfold.

Whales be free. Whale be me.

Ha! That was gay.

“Buckin’ hard like the Coast Guard, who’s soft?” – Q-Tip

What exactly is it that I do if I’m not buying fancy houses, cars, boats, TVs, decks, dishes, placemats, napkins?

What have I been up to in a more general sense? Why don’t I write more funny little sentences about fantastic pizza places that nobody would hear about if I didn’t write about them? Where’s the self-deprecating humor and sliced-open heart that feels the BIG feel with every paragraph wrapped?

Shrug. Haven’t felt like it, I guess. No agenda. I kinda feel like writing for laughter more now though. The speechy stuff can get old quick. I’m conscious of that. I do expect to be doing more frequent and more amusingly mundane writings in the near term, but I’ll say no more on that because the more I talk, the more it doesn’t seem to happen.

A year in review: Going to Minnesota Twins games, eating at new restaurants, walking around new lakes, trekking up to Duluth, taking in the summer festivals, going to St. Paul Saints games, playing softball again, doing it up Milwaukee style, the many weekends with the kids, the swimming pool, the backyardigans at my sister’s place, the changing of the seasons, the hunt for the Winter Carnival medallion (close again), Minnesota Wild hockey games, joining the St. Paul Bouncing Team, working magic in the real estate industry without selling real estate, expanding my skill set, and so on. Living. And living within my means, which can still be a struggle, despite the lack of Cali-style price-fixing.

I’ll try some photo stuff for once. These are some of the things I do and the joints I got. Click ‘em to get bigger images.

Did some exploring in western Wisconsin. Caves are cool, even little ones. And Menomonie/Stout ain’t as backwoods as I thought it would be. I’m already looking to set The Boy up with an education there in five years.

Spring Valley, on the other hand, had few tourist options other than the cave. They try, I’ll give them that, but the smoking bar didn’t seem to have that “family restaurant” feel I was looking for and the lone town deli also offered tanning. Thus, the quickover to Menomonie for a bite.

That pizza place that I haven’t been talking about of late… It’s called Ted’s. Get something with sausage. Homemade and delicious. Before I chose a place to unwind for dinner, I asked a local for advice. The first guy I drove up to was super helpful. I wasn’t at all phased by his machete. You think I’m kidding.

A great Saturday. Day Tripper. It took me so long to find out, but I found out.

When I’m not exploring with Carly and the kids, I’m usually with Tom.

Sure, the St. Paul Bouncing Team is just a bunch of goofy dudes that pull on a blanket that cute chicks bounce on, but it’s an eloquent tradition dating back more than 100 years in Minnesota’s capital city and far longer in Alaska. It’s synonymous with the St. Paul Winter Carnival, but the promotional, parading fun lasts throughout the year. The warm-weather events can be every bit as memorable. Like the Roller Girls championship in late April.

After that Bouncing Team event with the Minnesota Roller Girls, we rocked into the night at Decoys, a bar closer to home on Mainstreet, Hopkins. A local band with national acclaim called The Plastic Constellations played a “bar band” gig in their childhood neighborhood for fun. A far cry from First Avenue but somehow more admirable. It was too loud for the career drunks to handle, but it was good fun for me and the mixed urban/suburban/desolation crowd on hand. A fight broke out somewhere near the pool tables at the end of the night. Probably because ears were ringing and somebody overheard something that was never said.

I work with the dude on the left. Don’t let the first photo fool you. He’s always acting all squiggle blur around the office and shit.

Metrodome Highlights

by G. Sax

Twins vs. A’s on Opening Day. Twins vs. Cubs on a rainy Friday night. Twins vs. Indians on a blistering Sunday afternoon. Twins vs. Blue Jays on Garza’s miserable MLB debut. Twins vs. Indians on a surprise Tuesday behind-homeplate ticket package from Carly’s work.

I got Santana for three of those games. C.C. Sabathia, an old Vallejo favorite, was on the field for the Indians during the Sunday game, and so was I.

The kids got to run the bases after that game, and I got to walk around the entire warning track and right down to the diamond. It’s not much of a stadium for ball, but the memories of 1987 and 1991 are very real to me, and it was personally moving to be down where the good things happened.

Hunter S. bounced off the same outfield tarp that T. Hunter bounces off of when stealing home runs. Anais made the same trek around the bags that Morneau has been trekking all year long. Carly foot tapped the same homeplate that Joe Mauer drips sweat from his sideburns onto. And I plopped my bare feet onto the same squishy fake grass and rubber-marbled undercoating that hundreds of major league ballplayers have spit all over.

The weather may not have always been cooperative outside, but, yo, it’s a dome. And the Twinks have been spectacular at the dome this year. All games were wins, and I didn’t miss Pac Bell one bit (okay, maybe a little bit, but I still prefer a hometeam win to a seat with a view).

2 Months in 60 Words

by G. Sax

Arrived in Minnesota in April 2006.

Settle into…

Edina,

Hopkins,

St. Louis Park,

Eden Prairie,

…and western suburban Minneapolis places formerly unknown.

Carly and I acclimate to new jobs and patterns.

I work down the street (ride bike, still no car).

Many friends, family. My kids!

Watch season finales.

Taylor wins! “Lost” finishes strong.

Play softball. Twins! Saints! Duluth!

I’m fat.