At the Fin de Siecle, Looking for a Real Breakfast, Part 1

It was Kyle's idea. Over late night inebriation back in the hazy mid-1990s, Kyle suggested that we had been going about things in entirely the wrong way. The proper way to get over a hangover, he contended, was at a diner: two hamburgers and coffee. A simple formula, or so it seemed. I was willing to take him at his word, but Kyle, with the important seriousness of someone who had thought carefully about these matters, insisted that the hypothesis be examined scientifically. To really discover the veracity of Kyle's claim, we would need to test it. The following morning, we would need to rise dutifully early, and make our way to a real dive diner, and presented with meat and caffeine, the truth would be revealed. The trick, however, (as an aside, Kyle begins to speak very loudly when something of high emotional content was to be said, and here the volume was rising rapidly - this was important!) was to find a real diner. A genuine greasy spoon. No half measures would be tolerated. Perkins? Dennys? No, these will only exacerbate the drunkard's condition. It would have to be a dive. Kyle's proposal was that we tour, over as many days and weeks necessary, all the dive diners in striking distance until hitting upon perfection. An excellent plan, without any doubt; I agreed immediately.

Finding a diner seems simple enough. They're easily identified. Certainly its even true that most diners want to be identified, but we weren't after just a diner - we were after a dive, and here we involve ourselves with complicated and mysterious criteria. Put simply, we were after an authentic experience, and we knew (or at least we thought at the time) that this could never be had at a chain. For, even though we could procure hamburgers and coffee at the place with the arches and the clown, this would never, never do. So, we were presented with questions: what does it mean for a meal, a restaurant, a dining experience, a hangover cure, to be authentic?

First, the existence of an authenticity implies its opposite: inauthenticity. The fake, the unreal, the phony, the imitative. The fact that Kyle sought an authentic diner suggested that he had already experienced the inauthentic, or something something of that name, and found it wanting. So, our experience of the world was this: The everyday is a mock-up. Its not real. We eat breakfast in a pretender, and it does not satiate us. But if a person is clever, if she keeps her eyes open and her wits about her, she just might discover a little secret: the real thing is still out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered. A dark continent of eggs and coffee, beyond the suburban dead zone, waiting, waiting, waiting... or at least, that's what we expected.

Looking back, its easy to see that we had oversimplified matters. Kyle set out a small set of criteria that we would need to adhere to: (1) We would need to endure a night of drinking before taking in the diner cure, the specifics of which would be at our discretion. (2) We would need to depart for the diner early in the morning, not at a pre-determined time, but with an unstated awareness of what constituted failure to adhere to the spirit of the rule. This would necessitate a certain quantity of endurance on our parts, such that we would require ourselves to be still suffering the effects of the previous night's consumption. (3) We would order two hamburgers apiece, accompanied by coffee. Altering this order would skew the results, and thus render the findings unreliable. A potential sticking point was finding a place that would serve burgers in the A.M., or at least early enough that we wouldn't be violating the intent of criterion (2).

The importance of the hamburgers was that Kyle had determined this to be the ideal prescription for a hangover. I can't recall if he had tried this before or if he had invented the remedy. There exists this popular strategy for countering a hangover by which one ingests, essentially, grease. You see this wisdom at play in those remedies involving the eating of intimidating soups like menudo. Its something akin to hair of the dog, and it doesn't seem to make any sense, except out of a kind of stubborn refusal to be ill. At the time, I did not anticipate this being an effective antidote to the drinker's ailments. Nevertheless, it seemed like a perfectly agreeable way to spend a Saturday morning.
Mostly though, I enjoyed, if even in a trivial way, the romantic notion that we would find some thing real, something tangible, something we could rely on, which had gone unnoticed by the rest of the naive world.

First Stop: The Wagon Wheel Cafe

At the time we were living in Mankato, Minnesota, the kind of mid-sized, middlebrow, Midwestern locale that would seem ideal for our pursuit. We were enjoying that post-college directionless haze of happy-go-lucky job dissatisfaction without any real commitments. Looking back, I remember it now as an extended summer: lazy days drifted by without anything terribly important going on: getting up late, trolling coffee shops and Chinese restaurants, playing chess and backgammon, cooking, drinking, and watching movies late into the night at the house of another friend, Shelley. She was the one person in the social circle with her life organized enough to actually own a house, and it became the defacto nerve center for hatching all the summer's grandiose plans.

It was during a late night at Shelley's house that Kyle unveiled the hangover diner equation, and of course we all agreed to go. There would be four of us: Kyle, Shelley, Eve (my wife), and myself. I can't recall whether Shelley and Eve were particularly interested in scientific merits of our line of inquiry, but being of agreeable disposition, they assented to come too. Kyle's first criterion necessitated that we imbibe the night before our experiment, and Kyle, at least, dutifully did so. I, on the other hand, have never been much of a drinker. I sipped a couple of home-brewed beers, but not an amount adequate to produce a state of altered mood or next-morning rumbling. Eve and Shelley likewise. So only Kyle, with his gin and tonic, drank adequately to grant the hypothesis the justice it deserved. So, before we'd even really begun I had already failed to set up the proper conditions to discover, according to Kyle's criterion, the ideal diner.

The Wagon Wheel Cafe in downtown Mankato has all the trappings of a proper diner. It's found in a small brick storefront which its occupied for many years. We arrived late in the morning, squinting in the sun of a beautiful Saturday. We had the place to ourselves, so we chose the best booth in the establishment, located in the storefront window, but still with a view of the cook working a fourtop behind the counter. We relaxed into our seats, gazing out the window at the casual activity of downtown Mankato. It was empty, except for the cook and ourselves, so we had that peculiar feeling of owning a place. It should be said here that we had already violated the rules we had set forth. We got up too late. For whatever reason, the inertia of the hangover (in Kyle's case) , or just the inertia of Saturday (for Eve, Shelley and myself), compelled us to stay snug in our beds a little longer than we intended. This meant that even for Kyle, by the time we lit on the booths at the Wagon Wheel, the hangover had basically evaporated through a combination of sleep and sunshine. However, we did arrive just just before 10 bells, which made for a little comedy.

Our cook was a short and slim mustachioed gentleman, probably in his early fifties (was this Mr. Wagon Wheel?) attentively involved with some business behind the counter. He kept his back to us, and didn't glance up when we entered, but continued with his task for several minutes. We were very comfortable in our booth, and so didn't see any need to rush things along. But eventually I began to wonder if wasn't aware that we had come in. How long would we sit there? It seemed he was transfixed on some organizational plan concerning the coffee cups, stacked upside down in regular rows on a cafeteria style tray. Just as I began to feel that we ought to attract his attention, maybe with some loud coughing or a dropped spoon, Mr. Wagon Wheel abruptly turned, walked out from behind the counter, and proceeded the length of the restaurant to stand in front of our table. He didn't speak. He stood in front of us, with arms folded, in a manner that would almost be confrontational if it wasn't at the same time disinterested. We were not offered menus. Shelley broke the ice: pancakes and coffee. Eve: two eggs over easy, bacon, toast, coffee. Kyle and I: hamburgers and coffee. At this, Del spoke: "lunch begins at ten".

A glance at the clock on the wall behind the four-top revealed that it was five minutes before ten. After some awkward verbal fumbling (in which our host remained completely silent), Kyle and I agreed that we were capable of waiting another five minutes until the appointed hour. Del selected coffee cups from his carefully arranged pyramid, and stoically returned behind the counter to start eggs, bacon and pancakes. It should be said, he didn't start the hamburgers until the proper five minutes had elapsed.

Now, in my mind, things were going very well indeed. Mr. Wagon provided just the kind of unhelpful, surly,

Questions for a Found Object

What is this thing?
Who left it here?
Is it heavy? Is it attached to anything?
Whose is it? Is anyone looking? Where does it plug in? Can you pick it up? Where do the batteries go? How much does it cost?

Look at it now! Did it move?

What is it doing here? Does it belong to anyone? Can I carry it home? Maybe I can put it in a grocery sack… Did it come out of the river? Does it smell? Is it hollow? Is something inside it? Is it made of glass? Will it break? Can I pound on it with my fist? My shoe? Analog or digital? Was it made in China? What does it do? Does it light up? Will it clean my room? Does it reduce odors? Is it drying? Is it melting? Does it point to magnetic north? Can I show it to my mother? Is it alive?

Does it know we’re here? What is it thinking about? Is it thinking about me? Does it know I’m thinking about it? Will it make me smarter? What does it do? How did it get here? Who’s in charge?

Does it float? Have I got the scale all wrong? It looks like an iceberg. Will it ambulate? Is it fogged up, or is that just the way it looks? Is it warm? Warmer than my hand? Can I hold it? Will it like me?

Can it be my friend? Can I take it home? Will it fit in the cupboard? If I put it under my pillow, will anyone know its there? I want to hug it. Will it nuzzle me? Can I leave it in the yard? Will it get larger if left in the rain? Will the cat want to play with it? Is it sticky? Can I cast it adrift? I’m itchy. Is it making me itch? Is it better with chocolate syrup? Can I wrap it in a tortilla?

Don’t tell anyone its here. Let’s leave it on the railroad tracks. Will it shatter, or flatten out like a penny? Is it moldy? Maybe it’s rotten. Where did it come from? Was it stolen? Was it bought out of the back of a truck? Did it come free with a purchase of equal or greater value? Is it making me dizzy? Is it wet? Should I wash my hands?

Will it fit through the door? Will my co-workers be bothered? Can I wear it on my back? Does it roll, or slide? Is it self-adhesive? Does it take quarters? How do you turn it off? Is it getting hotter? Am I getting hotter? You don’t suppose it’s dangerous? Will it attract flies?

Will it make me attractive? Will other people want it? Will it increase in value? Does it improve my odds? Does it improve my outlook? Is it looking out for me? Will I need to comb it? Is it impressive? Where would I sell it? Can I slice it in two? Are there any others? Does it have intrinsic worth? Is it lucky? Will it deter ne’er-do-wells? Does it have structural integrity?

Will it stop the headaches? Can I keep it next to me? Is it broken? Is it art? Is it obsolete? Should I write home about it? Can we Google it? Is it meant to be experienced? Am I experiencing it? Is it experiencing me? What do you do with it? Can I put it in brine?

Let’s draw a mustache on it!

Are there instructions? Is it missing parts? Who can we ask? Will it fit in the palm of my hand? If I take it on the bus, will anyone notice? Will it fit in my pocket? Can I write a check? Should I apply it to my head? Should I apply to my life? Will it keep the swelling down? Can it be reheated? If I put it behind the tire, will it stop the car from rolling downhill?

Is it making a noise? Is it humming? To itself? Can I put it in the window, to keep the pane from falling? Is it sending signals I can’t detect? Who else knows its here? Should I report it? If I toss it off the bridge, will it try to fly? Can I lease it to my friends? I can sell it to you if you’re interested…

If I don’t like it, can I slip it under the table to the dog? Will it make me famous? Was it seen on tv? Will it make my teeth whiter? Will it make me whiter? Will it influence people? Can I fit it under my arm? Is it water resistant? Is it encoded? Will it grow? Will it accept my love?

So, can I just take it, then? Is it French? Is there a label? Is it lost? Am I lost? Is it binary? Is it inscribed with language? Is it infused with meaning? Is it pedagogical? Is it a sign? Is it waffled? Can I stick a fork in it? Does it have bones? An exoskeleton?

Is it a diversion? Is it a red herring?
Is it dreaming? Of me? What is it made of? How does it make me feel?

Is this some kind of joke?

What is it all about? What does it amount to?

Where does it lead? Is it all coming to a head?

Is this all there is?

Under My Closet, A Pointiallist Masterpiece

I've discovered the genius of a lost Master, under my closet floor. On ripping out dog-haired old carpet from my oddly built-in closet, I discovered the modernist masterwork pictured at right. Judging by the picture alone, you might be persuaded that this is merely some poorly selected linoleum tile, but I assure you, it isn't. The pattern you see here appears, bafflingly, to have been painted by hand on plywood flooring. Why would someone do this? And notice that it's fairly geometrically precise. Someone spent one hell of a lot of time doing this. The work of a misunderstood genius? I was reminded of those chambers of "psychotechnic" torture utilized by anarchists during the Spanish Civil War (see http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2003/jan/27/spain.arts ). Certainly, being trapped in this closet would leave one disoriented, and ready to confess. This potential use of the room is underscored by the presence of a now obsolete lock on the closet door. But mostly I'm stunned that someone has done this intricate piece of work by hand, especially given its location on the floor of a closet. At one time, closets were rooms intended to house shrines for private worship, but what kind of ritual would entail such an artistic effort, I can only guess. Perhaps the artist himself was trapped in closet, and worked diligently to keep the madness at bay. At any rate, the madness has now been let loose, and I'll spend my nights sleeping next to it. Let the nightmares begin!

Still Alive

A quick note to say that I still exist. I've been negligent of the blog because I've just moved into Minnesota's smallest house, and its requiring no small amount of dismantling, mantling, re-mantling. I hope to be posting more soon. A couple things to look forward to (or, at least, I'll be looking forward to them):
1) I won the bet, and perhaps I'll even be staging Zukofsky in the subterranean black box
2) A pointialist masterpiece underneath my closet
3) Gallery of floor-mounted heat registers as a timeline of bad taste
4) A new wager

Lounging in the Wreck of the New Order

Who's up for some lounging!? Well, you won't be doing any here, nor using the ladies' room. The lounge is locked, and appears to be in an advanced state of dereliction. A recent trip to Minnesota's North Shore brought me through the town of Cloquet, home of the Frank Lloyd Wright Gas Station. This was built in 1956, and supposedly still functions as a service station, though I wondered if it has been abandoned. The observation deck/lounge, pictured at the left, was inaccessible, and littered with gloves, tools, and gas station detritus. Needless to say, I was pretty disappointed. I can't think of a better place to lounge than on a small town street corner in the Upper Midwest.


I did find the building to be quite intriguing, even if in need of some attention. The formal parallel with California Googie was really striking, though the materials were very different. The gas station was apparently derived from the Broadacre City Standardized Overhead Service Station project, from 1932, which I found suprising (though I should say that the Cloquet station doesn't feature the overhead gasoline delivery from the earlier proposal). Did Wright exert some influence on later Googie offerings, or perhaps the other way around? If anyone has bothered to research this question, I'd be interested in finding the answer, even though its a bit of a chicken/egg distinction. Whether or not any connection was explicit between Googie and Wright, something was certainly in the air.

Wright held the gas station to be a crucially important institution, specifically for its role in contributing to his Broadacre City ideal. He envisioned America becoming decentralized, cities disappearing into the prairie. The gas station, a seemingly insignificant vernacular structure, almost an accidental structure, would become an instrument whereby Americans can get back to an Arcadian ideal (or, put more properly, the Broadacre City was an Arcadia for the Modern Age - automobiles and atomic energy delivering us more intimately to Nature). With the advent of the service station, Wright declared, "The Old Order is Breaking Up".

Wright was correct, to some extent. Gas stations really did contribute significantly to the physical restructuring of the nation. And its delightful to think that by breaking up the old order we can get more directly to some lounging. Now, however, faced with rising gas prices and strip mall fatigue, Wright's ideal seems antiquated. Nevertheless, here in Cloquet, one can almost see what Wright was after. The gas station's observation deck, if one could get in, would display what once would have been a pretty nice vista, even if now the scene is muddied by encroaching urbanization.





As an aside, note the picture at left - the original gas station didn't really proclaim Wright's name. It advertised Phillip's 66.

Betting on Poetry

Louis Zukofsky's "A" is a set of 24 poems written over a fifty year peroid, totaling about 800 pages. The picture here shows just two of the multiple volumes. When I encountered a reference to "A" in the newspaper a few months ago, it caught my interest. It seemed like an intriguing read. When I mentioned this to Eve, however, she cast some immediate doubt on my ability to get through all of it. Not to be undone, we decided to make a little wager. If I manage to get through the whole thing, she'll bake me a cake! And I get six months! Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. Not only do I get to read an intriguing work of literature, I get a delicious treat for my efforts.

Well, it's been about five and a half months now, and I still have a volume and a half to go. Frankly, its been a long hard slog. Not that "A" isn't worth reading. Actually, I'm enjoying it immensely. But, well, its quite a bit to get through, and its written in something fairly akin to a stream of consciousness style. So, not only isn't there any plot, but its often hard to say what its really about at all. I'm not sure that it would be correct to say its "about" anything. But I'll say more on that in a later post, when I give this thing a proper review.

It occurs to me, in looking at the book jacket, that perhaps no one has actually read "A". Usually, when one looks at a book jacket, some synopsis of the book will be offered, along with a blurb about the author. None of the volumes I checked out of the library had jackets that actually referred to the contents at all. For instance, the second volume, which contains poems 13-21, refers to the work as "determinedly modernist", "Byzantine", and "ambituous". But nothing is said about what the poems actually refer to, what they're "about", or even what one might encounter in reading them. Anyone given a passing glance might have come up with "Byzantine", but did anyone actually read it? Am I attempting what's never been done!? I'm a trailblazer! A pioneer of poetics! The back of the cover doesn't even mention the book, but instead includes some advertisements for other offerings by Paris Review.

Even if I am the first person to do this, I'm certainly not in the clear yet. The poem I'm about to start is actually a play, though written in the same style. If I tell Eve, I'm pretty sure she'll make me do different voices for each part. Surely no one has ever staged a production of this work, which makes me a little sad. But am I obligated to do so? And the entire last volume is written as text accompanied by a musical score. What am I supposed to do with this? I can't play piano. Eve will want me to sing it, I'm sure. And if I don't, I'll feel I've failed somehow, not to mention that I'll owe her a cake.

Update! Tikis on the Move!

There's been a development in the Tiki War. I wandered past this familiar fellow a couple days ago - but now he's living somewhere else! Now he dwells on Harriet, just south of Lake. How did he get here? Was he offered to the residents as a gift (just as he was offered to me), or was he just deposited here in the dead of night? He's now partially fenced in by some tiki torches. Are they intended to keep him safe from passers-by, or to prevent him from wandering away? Its not clear.

He's definitely in good company. His current digs are a house I already held in high regard: The Lair of the Blood Gnomes. Its hard to see from this photo, but the door to this house is framed by some really excellent garden gnomes. They're gigantic, and one of them appears to have blood dribbling down his chin. Now that these gruesome statues have joined forces, the neighborhood may never be safe again.