Spring Picture

One more picture of Spring.

In other news, I have a poem up on Northography; you should scroll up to see the stimulus, then read the poem, or do it the other way around. Up to you.

A heartfelt thanks to Britt for bringing Northography back after an extended hiatus. Many happy poems, Britt.

Hotdish Revolution Recap

The Holland Neighborhood association holds a potluck every year, calling it the Hotdish Revolution. It's a fundraiser for the neighborhood, and a good cheesy excuse for a get-together. So we decided to throw together a Halupsi and a Jello, and headed over.

Girlfriend pulled out her brain-shaped jello mold and mixed up a zombie-brain jello on Oreo cookie dirt, with gummi worms and a secret bloody side jello. It was lovely, and creepy, and, we hoped, delicious. 

Graphic Novel Review: Far Arden

Far Arden,
by Kevin Cannon

There’s a different Arctic Canada in the pages of Far Arden than the one you might imagine. It’s a place of intrigue and piracy, where old salts drink in places called the Somber Moose and swap tales of the mythical tropical paradise hidden somewhere in the ice and glaciers, an island known as Far Arden. Army Shanks, cryptic loner and sometime great adventurer, is one of these men, and the hero of Minneapolis native Kevin Cannon’s graphic novel.

Dead before 30: Jean-Michel Basquiat, painter

When he was sixteen, Jean-Marie Basquiat and a friend began painting cryptic phrases around the Manhattan art district and signing them with the tag SAMO. They weren't much, just a few words and the tag - kind of like tweets in that they were short, amusing, and put on display for the world from relative anonymity. Somehow, these little nuggets teased the art world's gatekeepers into such a state of curiosity that when Basquiat outed himself and killed off SAMO, his own art career took off like a meteor. This was in the early eighties, when a booming economy and Reagan-era policies gave young noveau-riche tons of spare cash to throw at art. They found a target in Basquiat. Yhis young, wild child of a Haitian immigrant had just the right whiff of the other to seem dangerous. Soon Basquiat had enough pocket money and fame to hang at galleries and glam bars, doing heroin and dating starlets like the then unknown Madonna. He befriended and was fostered by the artists Andy Warhol and Kieth Haring. His work sold for millions, the world was his; then he died of a heroin overdose in August, 1988, age 27. 

San Francisco Pictures

Here's a link to a Picasa album with pictures from the trip. With a bonus preview:

Enjoy!

At the (Men's) Roller Derby

A couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to take in the Championship bout of the inaugural season of the Twin City Terrors, the new local Men's Roller Derby league. I know a few days ago the ladies of Minnesota Roller Girls had their championship, but I was recovering from San Francisco trip and was unable to attend. I understand it was quite the match.

Feet in San Francisco

I'm joined by special guest feet for this picture. Thanks, Akasha!

We're back, safe and sound, but once again Frontier airlines has let us down. The first leg of our flight was delayed long enough that we couldn't make the connecting flight to Minneapolis, so we were forced to spend the night in Denver. And by Denver, I mean some face- and soul-less corporate park in the Denver vicinity. And, by spend the night, I mean kill six hours, from ten p.m. till 4:00 am, which is more of an extended layover, about half of which was shuttle rides over dark freeways. By the time we got home we were travel zombies lurching from room to room seeking food and rest. Still, a lovely trip.

San Fran finale...

We had a great final day, wandering around the Presidio, gazing at Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge and the misty hills of Marin county. Then we visited the cartoon museum, which had a nice exhibit on the Samurai's impact on graphic novels, and original artwork from eighty years of Batman, including Frank Miller and a Japanese Manga adaptation of Batman from the sixties. They also had originals of Krazy Kat and dozens of other cool things. So I got my geek on, a bit, so to speak.
This morning's airline check-in was another mis-adventure - I may have to write a strongly worded email to Frontier Airlines, suggesting that their clerks should put more priority on getting people their boarding passes than on handing out candy to ten-year olds. Grr.
See you in Minneapolis!
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Kuleto's cioppino

Kuleto's, on Powell Street, doesn't have Cioppino on the menu, but there it was, a huge bowl of it, and another in front of Akasha. Two steaming bowls of seafood sampler in a tomato base. Crabs, mussels, clams, fish. The local speciality. Why was it here, where they don't serve it? Good story.


We'd met up here the day before with my Cousin Terri, who works in the neighborhood. I hadn't seen Terri since 1976, when I was eight and the family was out on vacation. So I looked her up, and we talked for a while in Kuletos, and as it does, the conversation turned to what we were doing here in San Fran. I said we were looking for Cioppino, and hadn't found it yet. She said go up to North Beach, or Fisherman's Wharf, maybe, but wasn't sure. So we asked the waiter. He said Fisherman's Wharf, but he was hesitant. He was a food person, and he hated to send us up there for food. We don't have it ourselves, he said - it's tourist food.