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.

Medallion

by G. Sax

The 2009 St. Paul Winter Carnival Medallion Hunt is on, and I haven’t been out in the snow yet. After last year’s headspinner of a set of clues that led me to Phalen no less than three times and a full day of effort at Battle Creek, I’m hanging tight for a bit longer. But I still break down the clues each day, and I’ll be talking about what I’m seeing out in the field once I get there.

I’m also going to spend some time livening up the past. I have a decent collection of pages dedicated to medallion lore as it is, but it can be much, much better. And it will be. So check it out, yo.

Goodbye to “The Morning Show”

by G. Sax

I got up extra early, but it wasn’t early enough. My alarm clock went off to thunderous applause live from the Fitzgerald Theater in downtown St. Paul, Minnesota. Dale Connelly and Jim Ed Poole were doing their last broadcast as MPR/The Current’s “The Morning Show.” I guess the first people in line were there at 2:30 a.m. The place was full when my alarm went off, but I was intent on paying my personal respects nevertheless.

I quickly got myself ready and made the short trek from my front door to a parking spot directly across the street from the Fitz. A few quarters bought me enough time for a good breakfast in the basement of the Central Presbytarian Church across the street. The show was being broadcast throughout the church, and they even had a live video feed playing in the sanctuary.

So after breakfast, I went upstairs instead of over to the unmoving line to get in across the street. I sat in church with a warm cup of coffee and enjoyed the beautiful church architecture and the show with hundreds of others. We applauded and laughed just as though we were there. And when Peter Ostroushko plucked a mandolin and sang “You Are My Sunshine,” there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Listen now (31:30 into the audio in the 8–9 a.m. slot on Thursday, December 11, 2008)

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.

Taste of Minnesota

Photo fun: Gina, G., Cheryl, CarlyGirl do YMCA

by G. Sax

The annual overpriced food and music festival moved to Harriet Island from the Capitol grounds, and a lot of people seem happy with it. I guess it’s okay. I don’t notice much difference in pricing and offering, but it’s not a terrible venue. It brings back memories of the old Riverfest, where I saw Thompson Twins, Sting, and the BoDeans, to name a few. I’ve also seen the Beastie Boys, Parliament, Smashing Pumpkins, and A Tribe Called Quest on Harriet, so that’s a decent musical pedigree.

This year, I accidentally caught the Village People. It made for a great photo op (see above) but nothing more.

I saw The Time for the third time in my life, but there wasn’t much left of the original cast. It lacked the heart of the old shows, but Morris is still Morris, and I still appreciate what he’s done for Minneapolis music.

On the heels of The Time was a good set from Tapes n’ Tapes. I’d never seen them live before, and I enjoyed getting the chance to do so for free. I had pretty good backstage views, too. Whether in front, behind, or somewhere on the other side of the park by the ferris wheel, the sound was great.

Both The Time and Tapes n’ Tapes went national following appearances at the legendary First Avenue in Minneapolis.

I was there.

Best Films of 2006

by James Evans