Crossing The Street

At the intersection of Dupont and Lake, I push the walk button and patiently wait. Others come and we all wait, staring intently at the sign, willing it to change from the bossy red hand to the jaunty white walker indicating we are free to continue to our destination.

Another lady joins us, walks in front of the crowd and pushes the button while stepping on the tip of my exposed big toe with her thick walking shoes. I look down at her and without taking the slightest beat to let any filter be deployed say, “Soooo, I’m a moron who can’t push a button?”

She continued pushing the button as if she was a young child discovering the joys of pushing buttons for the first time with no parent around to scold them. Again and again. Over and over. “If you push it like this the light changes faster,” she proudly shares. My eyes rolled so hard I sprained the left one.

A few seconds later, as if electronically timed, the light changed. She looked up at me beaming with the joy reserved for those who can make the world bend to their wishes via excessive poking. In trying not to roll my eyes again, I sprained the right one.

“OMG! You were right,” I said in that tone I get where you need to know me well to tell if it is sarcasm or not. She skipped into the street, turning slightly suggesting, “Try it some time. It works.” I muttered, “If I do, someone punch me,” and the dude next to me let out a single, loud “HA” as we exchanged a knowing glance indicating walk sign comprehension and idiot detection.

As I continued my walk, I wondered how many more years I have before I am no longer allowed to interact with the public.

Good Morning Minneapolis!

On my way to Pilates in the dark, trying to convince myself I am awake, that my yoga pants are keeping my legs warm and that my hand is healed enough for the reformer straps, I was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to scream. The people waiting for buses at the Hennepin station looked like an artistic installation. Each person/pillar was placed just far enough away from the other to allow another human to weave her way through while still respecting personal boundaries, they stared blankly in different directions, no eye contact was not made or sought. As I made my way through the maze, I just wanted to shout, “Good Morning Minneapolis!!” joyously at the top of my lungs. I chuckled imagining the horrified and stunned looks on their faces as I shook them out of their catatonia. I wanted to shout but I didn’t. It was 6:30am and I am not a nutter.

First Avenue Revisited

Last week I made my triumphant return to my favorite live music venue, First Avenue, for a rockin’ Blitzen Trapper and Drive-By Truckers concert; I am not sure how long it had been since I had graced those black walls with my presence which means it had been way too long. While no one specifically said so, I could feel the staff, even the building itself, welcoming me as I entered.

These guys.
These guys.

 

I spent the very first night I began living in Minneapolis, oh so many years ago, at First Avenue watching The Mighty Lemon Drops. I had just transported my last batch of belongings and a barfing cat from my hometown, took a second to toss on a passably cool t-shirt, added a fresh coating of hair spray and headed downtown.

Walking in the building I felt transported to musical heaven; I stopped for a moment to take it all in but had to get moving quickly as I was blocking the entering crowd. It was not exactly as presented in that Prince movie and Prince was no where to be found but, as I stood on the balcony overlooking the stage and crowd below, I knew I had made the right choice moving to Minneapolis.

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