La Current

Beloved Bulletin Boards: Hampden Park Co-op

2009-10-01T00:08:00.001-05:00

Cadillac vs. Cornbread--just one of the cool things I wouldn't have known about if I hadn't looked at a bulletin board. "Cadillac" Kolstad is a rockabilly piano player, and "Cornbread" Harris is a veteran keyboard player of rock, country, blues, and jazz. They "duel" every Sunday at the Palmer on the West Bank. "[F]ascinating...must-see," according to City Pages. You really have to see the picture in full size (by clicking on it) in order to appreciate its cleverness.

The Hampden Park Co-op on Raymond in Saint Paul has several bulletin boards inside (where I learned about Cadillac vs. Cornbread recently) and another one just outside the door. This inviting notice was tacked up outside. It's for a "Taize" candlelight prayer service offered once a month at St. Matthew's Episcopal.

I'd never heard of Taize before, so naturally I had to find out more! Taize is a multicultural, ecumenical community of Christian brothers founded in France in 1940. They practice and teach a meditative style of prayer that involves chant and singing, phrases and songs repeated to help worshippers "enter into the contemplation of the presence of God." Sounds wonderful! Who knew? See what a bulletin board can do?

Beloved Bulletin Boards: Wet Paint and The Tea Garden

2009-09-24T17:48:00.009-05:00

Saint Paul's favorite art store doesn't have a bulletin board per se, but a portion of its front windows are given over to announcements of local events and services. If you've never been to Wet Paint on Grand, you should go!

About a block east of Wet Paint is The Tea Garden, where the window seat has been dedicated to pamphlets, flyers, free weeklies and such.

Secret Lives: The Disemboweled Couch

2009-09-19T00:02:00.001-05:00

Please don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me with pursed lips, wrinkled nose, with that combination of pity and disgust.

From the middle of the alley I look normal, like any other couch. People walking or driving by see only my backside, which is still intact. I didn’t ask you to come over here and peer over to see the disarray where my cushions used to be. If you had kept walking down the alley you wouldn’t have seen where my upholstery has been ripped, my batting tossed here and there, my gray innards revealed.

Just like you, I have a story, a past. I didn’t ask to be torn apart and left propped up against this garage for people to sneer at.

A nice couple bought me years ago, in the '90s, from Becker Furniture. They were newly married and just moving in to this house here in the Standish-Ericsson neighborhood of South Minneapolis. Shelley had straight blonde hair and was in her last year of nursing school. Matt was medium-tall with brown hair and was a meter reader for NSP.

You might think my large flower upholstery is unattractive, but taste is subjective. I was chosen to match the living room’s tan carpeting, and because Shelley and Matt figured that dirt and stains would not show up on my pattern. They were right. I served them well.

Shelley and Matt put me against the living room wall, facing the TV on the opposite wall. They put a coffee table in front of me and matching end tables beside me. Shelley graduated from nursing school and went to work in the emergency room of a hospital. Matt kept working for the power company. They were both on their feet a lot so when they got home, both Matt and Shelley liked to flop down, lie across me and put their feet up, watching TV for hours. It was a good thing they worked different shifts so they didn’t have to compete for couch time.

After a couple of years they had a baby girl, Samantha or “Sami.” Sami didn’t have to go to day care since Shelley could watch her while Matt went to work, and vice versa. Shelley would sit on me and hold the baby in her lap to feed her. When Shelley was out, Matt did the same using a bottle. The first time Sami stood up, it was my armrest that she held to steady herself.

It wasn’t until about six years had passed that Matt and Shelley had their second child. It wasn’t for lack of trying, believe me! There’s a lot more I could say about that, but I won’t. A couch knows but doesn’t tell.

So Alexandra (“Ali”) came along and now there were two girls giggling, running in the house, jumping on me, and being generally adorable. By now Shelley had some day shifts so there was more time with the whole family together. Matt had thickened around the waist a bit and there was a little bald circle at the top of his head. He still favored a plain black teeshirt and jeans for relaxing around the house.

Matt and Shelley had a strict rule against eating on the couch. The girls always had to go to the table to eat, even a little snack. When Sami got old enough to watch her little sister, she ignored that rule almost right away. Once Matt and Shelley were out the door, the girls would bring their sandwiches or pizza or crackers right over to me and sit down to watch their favorite TV shows. They would do their best to hide any evidence of me, picking up crumbs as soon as they were done, but there’s always a stray bit of food or two that makes its way between the cushions. I remember once when Matt and Shelley’s car came in the driveway about an hour earlier the girls expected. The girls screamed, jumped up, grabbed their napkins and pop cans and ran to the kitchen to throw them away. Sami came back and tried to kick the breadcrumbs under me before her parents walked in. Both girls sat back down and tried to look casual. They pulled it off.

What Sami and Ali didn’t know was that their parents were doing the same thing. After both girls were upstairs in bed, Matt might pull a beer out of the fridge and open a can of salted peanuts, then make himself right at home on me. Shelley would open a wine cooler and join him. She didn’t care for peanuts, but she did like those goldfish crackers. They tried to be quiet because they didn’t feel like explaining themselves to the kids, but once in awhile they’d play around, throwing goldfish and peanuts at each other’s mouths, and trying not to laugh too loudly.

After awhile I noticed that Matt and Shelley were fighting more often, sometimes not speaking for a few days. I got a lot more use in this period because one or the other of them would sleep on me all night instead of going to bed. Eventually, Matt packed up a trunk, a suitcase, and three garbage bags full of stuff. He took one of my end tables, an armchair, and a few other things, and he was gone. He hardly stepped into the house after that, but he did come to the door to pick up the girls.

Shelley cried and cried. On her days off she would just schlep around the house in yesterday’s blue scrubs, and not even shower or get dressed. I remember the night a girlfriend of hers came over to keep her company. They ordered an extra large pizza to split and watched a movie--Dirty Dancing. When they were done with the pizza they shared a pint of ice cream, eating right out of the carton. Then Shelley foraged through the kitchen cupboards and came back with a bag of China Boy chow mein noodles. The two of them dug into that like they were starving. They chomped away at whole mouthfuls of the stuff. It was something.

That’s about the time that Sami turned 14. Shelley started taking a real suspicious tone with Sami, asking lots of questions about her new friends, nagging her about homework, and wanting to know where she was all the time. Sami was spending a lot more time in her room.

The more Sami spent time in her room, the more Shelley nagged, and they had yelling fights. I overheard Shelley say on the phone that she thought Sami was doing drugs, and the school counselor thought Sami was doing drugs. When Sami got home that afternoon, Shelley demanded to know where the stuff was. Sami said she didn’t have any stuff. Shelley kept demanding, and Sami kept denying. Finally Shelley marched upstairs to Sami’s room, her ponytail bouncing from side to side. I could only hear what was happening, but I gather Shelley started going through the room, pulling out all the drawers, just throwing everything around. Both Shelley and Sami were screaming and crying and screaming some more.

After awhile, Shelley marched back down to the living room. Now she had Matt’s old pocketknife in her hand. She kept saying things like, “If it’s not up there, where is it? WHERE IS IT?”

“Is it in the couch? Tell me!” Shelley had the knife open and held it up in front of her. She looked at her daughter with steely eyes.

Sami cried, “No! No, there’s nothing!”

Just then Shelley took the knife and sliced completely across my right cushion, then the middle one, then the left one. She pulled each cushion apart. Then she sliced all along the back of my seat, all along, and tugged at the fabric. She set down the knife and started trying to pull me apart with her bare hands. She got deep into me, deeper than those hand vacuums are able to go. She found Cheetohs, goldfish, M&Ms, Cheerios, breadcrumbs, and popcorn, not to mention the nonfood items like pennies, a safety pin or two, buttons and a long lost key. She didn’t find any contraband. I could have told her there were no drugs on me, but of course I wasn’t asked.

Finally Shelley gave up. She ordered Sami to her room. She sat down on the carpet and took some deep breaths. She took Ali to McDonald’s for dinner that night. They brought back a burger, Coke and fries for Sami.

The next day when Matt came to pick up the girls, Shelley stepped outside to talk to him on the front step. A few minutes later they both came in and together they carried me out here, to the alley, and set me down next to the garage. Now I’m just waiting, for what I don’t know.

I didn’t ask to be torn apart and left here like this, so don’t look at me with disgust. But don’t give me your pity, either. I’ve been a good couch, I’ve had a good life. To everything there is a season.

Alley Find: The real voyage...

2009-09-16T23:40:00.002-05:00

The alley, like so many alleys in the Standish neighborhood, was a lonely corridor of white garages. I was surprised and pleased to come upon this colorful break in the bleakness. I hadn't read this quote before. It's a nice little gift to whomever passes by.

Misc: The Yard Concert

2009-09-13T23:59:00.001-05:00

This chalk board had been put to good use advertising a backyard concert in the Tangletown neighborhood of Saint Paul, just west of Macalester College. Also in the front yard was an adult-sized skateboard, a baby- or doll-sized plastic car, 2 scooters laying askew near the porch, and chalk scribblings on the sidewalk. Must have been a busy day with all that playing--not to mention The Sevis & Erin Concert.

Beloved Bulletin Boards: A Fine Grind and Izzy's Ice Cream

2009-09-11T16:20:00.001-05:00

Just around the corner from Trotters (still in Merriam Park, of course) is A Fine Grind coffee house. This close to a college campus we find the expected postings for "part time cash" and "roommates needed." I enjoyed this colorful poster for Holy Mackerel Studios, a tattoo parlor.

Also on Marshall near Cleveland is the popular Izzy's Ice Cream. This large BB wall has a fine messy mix of items related to Izzy's and its customers, local cultural events, business cards and more.

Alley Find: Save the Animals

2009-09-09T20:47:00.001-05:00

Sometimes the most surprising things may be found in the quiet alleys of our neighborhoods. Walking in Merriam Park over Labor Day weekend, I happened upon a garage door decorated with hand-made signs.

The topmost sign invites us to “Be Like Superman and save the animals,” and says “People can do magic by saving the animals.” Who knew? Notice that the message is emphasized with cutout pictures of critters and a blonde fashion doll.

Another sign reveals the ambition of a younger sibling to try to do and say whatever the older one does. “Be like suitrman…” “Be like a prisis” (princess?) “and save the anamls.”

Not to be left out, an even younger child must have grabbed the red crayon and just scribbled.

Beloved Bulletin Boards: Trotters Cafe, Saint Paul

2009-09-06T17:22:00.003-05:00

This is a song of appreciation for the humble public bulletin board—that quaint relic of pre-internet times when people used paper, pen and copy machine to communicate with strangers.

I fell in love with the bulletin board back in the 20^th century. These fountains of information dotted the landscape of my college, the colleges nearby, and the businesses nearby. Young, wide-eyed and eager to be involved in something, I always stopped to look at the announcements of movies on campus, guest speakers, divestment discussions, World Hunger Day, all of it. Someone had taped, stapled or tacked each of these flyers in the hopes that others would come along and care. I wanted to know whatever these unknown other people thought I should know. There was so much going on around, it seemed; I tried to soak it all in. If I wasn’t out there doing stuff, at least I’d know about it. Maybe I’d find that one thing that would be the right thing for me.

The great Hungry Mind bookstore at Grand and Macalester was a short walk from my home in those days. The high wall on the left side of the Mind’s entryway had been given over to the community, and was always papered with notices of movie screenings, band appearances, poetry readings, political events. I made a point of at least scanning them all. And it wasn’t a complete waste of time! The Hungry Mind wall is where, as an 18-year-old, I learned the word “camerata” (on a poster for a chamber music group). When I was looking for a place to rent a few years later, the wall came through.

These days every little group can have a website and every start-up band can promote itself on a Facebook page or Twitter. There’s email for spreading the word and Craig’s List for the selling of furniture and the subletting of apartments. Isn’t it amazing that these community bulletin boards still exist? I don’t know how much impact they really have, but there they are still.

Yes, the public bulletin board lives and it’s one of my favorites things to find around town. A public bulletin board on the wall of a coffee shop, hardware store or dry cleaner is a welcome sight. Each haphazardly attached poster and flyer has been put there in a spirit of optimism, with faith that unknown others will see, read and maybe even care. I like to look for differences in content from board to board, and think about what they say about the neighborhood or the clientele. I love the messiness, the cockeyed angles of the postings. Somehow they combine to make a friendly whole.

I prefer a café or store that make space for a bulletin board. It’s a kind of a test. It’s a sign of a business that’s down-to-earth, individual, and of the neighborhood—or at least a business that wants to be seen as down-to-earth, individual, and of the neighborhood (like Whole Foods). Sometimes, but not always, the locally-owned business has a bulletin board while the chain store does not.

Here begins a campaign to celebrate the bulletin boards, hail them, promote them, find the beauty in them. Trotters at Marshall and Cleveland in Saint Paul is an appropriate first choice for this series as it is such a great example of the casual neighborhood place of business. Hardwood floors, local artists’ work on the walls, screen door open on comfortable days. It’s no surprise that they have a small bulletin board near the door. Unfortunately it is at child height and easily missed by many adults. But the material did not disappoint on a recent visit: There were notices for a documentary series celebrating local food; bike routes; grassroots campaign jobs with Amnesty International; The Buddha Prince, a walking play about the Dali Lama at Powderhorn Park, and more. Ya gotta love it!

Secret Lives: The Old TV

2009-09-05T21:57:00.012-05:00

You look at me and think, “How ugly and useless.” Well, it wasn’t always so.

I was made in Greenville, Tennessee in 1980, a 22-inch Magnavox color model to beat the band. Solid-state with a faux-wood casing. I was boxed up and trucked to a store near South Saint Paul, Minnesota. Before long a man and a tall boy pulled my box off the stack, put me in a cart, carried me out to a car and took me away.

They took me to the house where they lived with a woman and a girl. The family freed me from the confines of the cardboard box and plugged me in. They watched me, alone or together, for the next few years.

Each of the four liked different shows. The man watched football on autumn weekends and Monday nights, but not much else. The boy liked a show called ChiPs and anything else with motorcycles. The woman watched a show called Lou Grant, and otherwise would listen to whatever was on while she read the mail, magazines or newspapers. The girl, who was younger than the boy, liked Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley.

I was well taken care of in those years. The woman kept an embroidered cloth on top of my casing to protect it. She did her best to prevent the others from leaving their glasses and cans there. About once a week someone would wipe my glass front with a damp cloth.

Five years later, after the tall boy had moved out, a newer, bigger TV was brought into the house. I got moved from the family room to the girl’s bedroom. By this time, the girl was as tall as the man. She was watching Moonlighting, Dynasty and Dallas. My topside became a shelf for her purse, half-eaten bags of chips, or whatever else she happened to set down there, but it wasn’t a bad life.

Another five years passed by, and now the girl had moved out, too. I left the house for the first time in 10 years when the man and the tall boy carried me out to the boy’s car one day. The boy drove me to an apartment that he shared with two other guys near Portland and Snelling in Saint Paul.

In this period I was used for watching a lot of football and basketball, as well as In the Heat of the Night and Cheers. It was smaller than my old home had been, and noisy, at least when those boys watched sports. This is when I started to get round water stains on the top of my casing. Sometimes a glass, can or coffee mug would be left there for days.

Time passed and the tall boy moved out one day. The surprising thing was he left me behind. Life didn’t change all that much right away though. Someone else took his place, and the guys watched Monday Night Football, ER, Law and Order and other shows. Sometimes the apartment would get crowded with people, all talking loudly and drinking out of plastic cups. I got spilled on more than once, and singed by the occasional cigarette ash that fell on me.

One day without warning I was carried out to the lawn by two of the guys. Some other stuff from the apartment was out there, too, like the linoleum-top table and chairs, the stuffed chair, and the boom box. People hovered over us and pointed at us. A stranger asked if he could plug me in, and one of the guys brought over an extension cord with power in it. I lit up, maybe not in an instant like I used to, but pretty darn quick if I say so myself. The stranger said, “Yep, it works,” and gave some small green papers to the guy. The stranger grunted as he picked me up, and grunted some more when he set me down in the trunk of his car.

This was the beginning of the final stage of my life. I lived in a duplex on Grand with the new young man, a young woman, and two small, grabby, drooly children. I was on a lot during the day. The woman had me tuned to The View, All My Children and General Hospital, not that she sat still and watched every second. She moved around a lot--feeding the kids, changing diapers, telling the older one to stop banging my face with his sippy cup, and so on. At night I might be tuned to Everybody Loves Raymond, JAG or NYPD Blue.

My usefulness came to a sudden, violent end when the young man and his brother were throwing a baseball around the living room one day. The woman wasn’t home at the time. They threw harder and harder, laughing at and taunting each other. It made me pretty nervous, and sure enough, all of a sudden the ball smashed through my glass screen, revealing my secrets and ruining my working parts. Both men swore very loudly at that point, and the kids, who must have been awakened by the crash, started crying.

Well, when the woman came home, there was more swearing. Within a day or two I was taken out to the alley behind the duplex, I suppose to make room for a newer, intact TV set—a set with fancy bells and whistles that back in my day TVs made do without. When the man dropped me to the ground, my glass screen separated further from the rest of me. I was done. Useless. Abandoned.

I sat there for a long time, getting rained on, snowed on, having dogs raise their legs to me. Somebody pulled out my wires and drove away with them. I saw other things—chairs, lamps--come and go as they were set out in the alley and quickly adopted by new owners. But not me. I do remember having my picture taken by a lady strolling through the alley, and that's the sad-looking picture you see here. Finally, on a sunny spring day the man and the woman threw me into a pickup truck and took me to the Ford Plant parking lot where I met lots of other lonely, abandoned TV sets. From there we were taken to our final resting place.