 monkey times blog Return of the Monkey King I lived in the U.S. Midwest for 7 years, from 1998-2005, with a break of 6 months in Tucson, AZ, and 9 months in London. The Midwest is the part of the United States that is primarily recognizable from the frequent ground shadows cast by airplanes flying somewhere interesting.
Initially, I had a reasonable excuse for living there. I had family there whom I had never visited — a grandmother, an aunt, and two cousins. Then I made the mistake of getting married to someone who promised that they wanted to leave and — hey ho, hey ho, what do ya know — I ended up stuck there for 7 years. I did enjoy much of my time in Minnesota but, like most of the population I encountered, you can't help bitch about it, not least because half the year is spent inside because it's damn cold outside. In the 9 July 2005, Good to Go entry of the Flying Monkey Airlines blog, as I headed for New York City, I did my fair share of bitching about the state but, when I returned there for a visit in May 2006, I realized that time certainly does hone bitching to an artform. Part of the problem with the place is its history. Minnesota has had its share of cool. Bob Dylan, Prince, Soul Asylum, and Husker Du all originated from there. It was once one of the hopping music scenes in the United States. For the last ten years, um, not so much. When I arrived there in June 1998, friends told me that one of the nicknames of Minneapolis, the first of the Twin Cities I lived in, was "The Mini Apple." Now that I live in the actual Big Apple, I realize that this nickname was as appropriate as describing Jay Leno as "funny" and as incongruous as the mere existance of the oxymoronic phrase "CNN Headline News".
Kari picked me up from the airport, and drove me the 10 minutes to the artists' cooperative I used to live in. Anytime you live in a place for a number of years — apart from anywhere in the U.S. penal system where anal rape is part of the reward for your bad choices — there is a certain welcome familiarity in your return. I was moved to song: I've been walking these streets so long Singing the same old song I know every crack in these dirty sidewalks of Sheppard Road (deepest apologies to Glen Campbell)
Once you go New York, out of your butt comes the cork, as they should say. Honestly, it's hard to rhyme anything with New York, most likely why Frank Sinatra ended up with a song about the city that doesn't dare go there. Life had sucked for several months before this trip — yes, of course the untold story involves a girl — and coming back to a place that was full of friends and familiarity brought to mind the lyrics of "Blankest Year" by Nada Surf. "Oh fuck it, I'm going to have a party." Redefining "low key" Living in the massive lofts of the Tilsner Artists' Cooperative in Lowertown, Saint Paul for four years, it was obvious that my return was going to be an excuse for a party. I had some reservations about this three days before I left New York and phoned Brian, the Tilsner friend I would be staying with, with the request that any gathering would be "low key".
Brian laughed out loud on the phone. Duncan was hosting the party in his loft, Texas Teena had thrown together a print invitation which was being handed out left and right, so I was basically asking the wrong person, waaay too late.
After Kari dropped me off at the Tilsner, Brian and I headed for Kelly's Bar, the Irish local just 183 paces from the Tilsner front door. Yes, we did Kelly's often enough that we counted one night. Duncan counted 196 paces from door to door but, then again, he has shorter legs. The familiarity was similar to a returning home feeling but this time was different. With a year's perspective from living in New York — where there is diversity, life, and activity 24/365 — I began to see the ready-made community of Lowertown for what it was. It was too easy. We lived in $1,000 a month, 2,000 square foot lofts, with friends living next door, and more of them in the next building, with an 800 square foot basement venue with a 14-foot mosaic tiled bar with stage and lighting in our artspace. As musicians, it was too good to be true. But it was Saint Paul, MN. If we'd been in the same setup in New York, that would have been a different story, but this place was six feet under in comparison. Roach Motel
I've been stuck in places before. Ramallah got to be like that. London too. Usually it's an earthquake that shakes me out of the slumber. Divorces are good earthquakes. Home bulldozings are also handy for that. One day I'll get up and move somewhere without an earthquake and call that progress.
His new wife, Sarahjane, was an animal rights activist at one time so I was curious about what would be going on with the food at the reception. I need not have worried. Instead of fauxsage, facon, or shamburger (say them aloud, you will get it), there was enough real meat to have merited a PETA protest. On the plus side, no foie gras was spotted. Even for carnivores, there has to be limits. I took the Tilsner's Texas Teena as my wedding date. We swopped stories about the various requited/unrequited love interests in our respective lives, which is definitely mandatory wedding conversation. Dan and Sarahjane had a photo booth at the reception, which is a highly recommended wedding day prop for entertaining your guests and giving you and them something to remember. It was one of the old school, black and white photo, four-shot booths, which had been tweaked to print out two strips with peel off sticker paper on the back. One went in the wedding book for the bride and groom and one for the guests to take home. As a photographer, it was fun to see guests giggling inside the curtains as the four flashes went off and see the results of their mugging for the camera a minute or so after. Rites of passage events are the best reminder of the life that surrounds us. Return of the Monkey King The party was awesome. Duncan's exposed brick, hardwood floor loft with 18-foot-high ceilings is about 1,300 square feet in total, most of it in one room. Justin from the sixth floor Dj-ed, there was a keg of Blue Moon, and about 50 people came to hang out. It started around 11PM, largely because Duncan wasn't ready...for a change. The late start boded well for the party. The keg, the DJ, and a decent proportion of the guests lasted til 7:30AM. Minnesota may suckle on the Whore of Babylon's bean, but it sure knows how to party. I bailed at 5:30AM.
At some point in the night, while squeezing out the Roo Dog outside, I noticed a gilt gesso picture frame in the "Free Pile", a corner of the common area in the Tilsner where people leave stuff they don't want. Perfect. I don't know if it was the presence of Rurik at the party, whose Halloween parties I used to shoot, but it got me thinking. The next hour was all about shooting photos of the monkey guests in various poses with the frame. A ton of fun.
Like the news, let's end with the cheery three legged waterskiing dog story...
Closing thought: Everyone, at least once in their life, needs to ring up and extend their return flight by another day from the patio of a bar. It really feels great! |
