August 3, 2026 · 6:52 am

The Curse of the Semi-Demi Creative

I’m extraordinarily jealous of “creatives” in the world. I don’t mean people who can creatively make shit up – see Republican politicians for reference. I’m talking about creatives who have enough creative juice to squeeze out a living by coming up with stuff that’s interesting and so engaging that other people are willing to pay for it at enough scale that these fine folks can do this for a living rather than learning behaviors in the corporate world that makes them, what’s the term the shrinks use? Fawning. Radical compliance. Aggressively conforming. Ya 30 years at Target will do that to a guy.

Ok let’s bring this boat in to the dock.

I write. That’s one creative outlet.

I take photos. That’s another.

I write and take photos — Creative Outlet III, if we’re keeping score.

Guitar? Nah, I play other peoples creative stuff. I may improvise once in a while that’s either because I have to fill in a part that’s either too hard to play, or, and I should be honest here, it would take more work to learn to play something than I’m willing to give it. I could finger pick Vincent Black Lightning by Richard Thompson if I wanted to. Given enough time, a few gummies and big tube of arthritis cream for my achy breaky hands. I digress…

Or I’ll improvise because I just got distracted and my ADD kicked in, bringing me to one of those personal ethereal moments where I get overwhelmed with a feeling that world is boring. Rather I’m boring and everything is a waste of time.

So I fart around and one thing leads to another and play something neat or come up with a line or a reasoning that’s exquisitely profound and people go “oooh say that again?”

The chances of me being able to remember and repeat my most profound ideas is close to zero. Even when said utterance happened immediately prior to my realization that that, was good.

Take this blog for example. There are days when I write in manic-like torrents beaucse the sprit moves me… ok maybe not torrents, but clearly in very strong trickles sometimes. And long periods of zilch – nada. Poof. Can’t get motivated to write. And it’s not like my days are packed with distractions.

More profound laziness takes over while a cascade of shiny objects leads to another stalling tactic, followed by a depression episode and boom. January became July.

Looking back on Summer 2026- can’t believe I completely wasted it. I even have a lake house that I visited twice or so. Unreal.

What if I gave myself deadlines and todos to accomplish?

Well that would allow me to stress about this shit. Stress having been a very effective motivator over the years. Expensive, but effective.

Recently I was given a small 30 page zine (I think that’s the word the kids use now-a-days) from a local creative whom I have enormous respect for. This dude knows everyone, does it all. Writes, hosts NPR shows, plays bass around town for big time acts, has a creative company that does entertainment in bars and online. And finds the time write as series of literary magazines.

Whilst I sit and think about great ideas and then stew about it. But unlike a crock pot where slow heat creates delicious delights, I stew my ingredients into a slurry of overcooked crap that lacks form or substance.

Maybe that’s my next photo project – Boring.

BTW motivation for that- a friend submitted an iPhone shot of light on the parking ramp at MSP, something he took on a whim, and submitted it to the State Fair and his photo was selected for the “big wall.” That’s a big deal for us hobbyists.

Have to think about that.

Hey, thanks for reading. Really.

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June 19, 2026 · 9:55 pm

MY SAN FRANCISCO

Hey Y’all. Been a while. Sorry. Was motivated today. Enjoy

This morning “Volunteers” by Jefferson Airplane came on. I don’t think I’d heard that song in decades. And just like that, I wasn’t in Minnesota anymore.

I went digging — Moby Grape, the Flamin’ Groovies, Garcia’s “Mission in the Rain.” I’d wager Apple Music hadn’t played any of them in years. And then it came flooding back. All of it.

Since at my age I’m not entirely sure how long I’ll remember to change my shoes, much less recall the details of my youth by the Bay, I thought I’d document it. A tour guide for a place and time I can never go back to… but the memory of which never ceases to make me smile.

Growing up, San Francisco wasn’t a city — it was a destination. We’d cross the Bay Bridge, peel off to the right, head across Market toward the Financial District, and then up to Union Square — our family’s home base in the city. We always stayed at the Handlery. Before the shows we’d hit David’s or Solomon’s Delis, both right across from the theaters — the Curran, the Geary. Massive lox and bagel sandwiches. My dad’s pastrami was the size of a small building. Lefty O’Doul’s was nearby, named after the great San Francisco baseball legend. The Mark Hopkins was up on Nob Hill, and when I got older we’d go to Top of the Mark for what my parents diplomatically called a “soothing adult beverage.” The Fairmont loomed right next door, grand as an ocean liner that had decided to stop moving.

One of my proudest achievements in this life — and I mean that — was driving a stick shift up Mason and California. Stopping at Powell and California felt like balancing on a 45-degree angle with a cable car breathing down your neck and pedestrians daring you from the front. I mastered the four-point stop: one hand on the wheel, one on the emergency brake, a foot on the brake, a foot on the clutch. Jeff Gordon didn’t have anything on me…

Maiden Lane was my mom’s territory — quiet boutiques, elegant little shops. Walk up Grant and you’d hit the original safari-themed Banana Republic, back when it had dioramas and travel-journal catalogs and felt like an outpost for genuine adventurers, not a mall anchor. Keep going and you’d hit the Chinatown gate. Grant was the tourist side — rubber snakes, back scratchers, bee-and-honey soaps wrapped in patterned paper, sandalwood and ginger scents everywhere. Fun, but not the real thing. Stockton Street was the real Chinatown. The Empress of China was the fancy place, but the best food was always up on Stockton.

But the real texture of the neighborhood was in the shops — bakeries and food stores running up and down both streets, one after another. Smoked ducks hanging in the windows. Massive tanks of live fish. The occasional live chicken or two that made you wonder about the supply chain. And almond cookies, fresh from the bakery, crisp and sweet and gone before you hit the next block…

Chinatown was never static. It was a neighborhood always in motion, one wave of immigrants living, thriving, and eventually moving out to the Avenues to make room for the next. First the Cantonese from southern China, who built the place from the ground up. Then Mandarin speakers arriving from Taiwan — and you knew exactly where their loyalties lay. Taiwanese flags everywhere, defiantly, proudly. This was Nationalist China and don’t you forget it. Then ethnic Chinese from Vietnam, carrying their own history inside the history. The neighborhood absorbed all of it and kept going. It always did…

Cross Columbus and you’re in North Beach, which was never really a beach — just the city’s great Italian neighborhood slowly becoming something more. Walk up to Washington Square and you’d find Saints Peter and Paul Church anchoring the north end, where DiMaggio and Monroe posed for wedding photos after City Hall. The Washington Square Bar & Grill — the Washbag to anyone who mattered — was right there too. Every writer, musician, and politician in San Francisco eventually passed through that door. It was that kind of place…

Bookstores everywhere. City Lights of course, still feels like a manifesto just walking through the door. North Beach was where San Francisco’s literary soul lived.

And then there was the Condor Club. Carol Doda. As a fourteen year old boy, those red light bulbs outlining her silhouette on the marquee — nipples and all — were the most magnificent thing I had ever seen in my young life. Channel 36 even used her silhouette as their station ID. Only in San Francisco…

Her act was something else entirely — she’d descend from the ceiling on a white grand piano, hydraulics lowering her onto the stage. Years later, after hours one night in 1983, the club’s bouncer Jimmy “the Beard” Ferrozzo and his girlfriend decided the piano would make a romantic venue for a private performance of their own. In the heat of the moment someone hit the switch. The piano rose to the ceiling and crushed Jimmy the Beard to death. His girlfriend survived only because she was thinner. The janitor found them both when the club opened at 7am. Only in San Francisco…

San Francisco has always had a tawdry streak going back to the Barbary Coast days, and it never much apologized for it. But what happens in San Francisco doesn’t stay in San Francisco — its influence goes global. Even the darker corners of American culture got transformed here. Jim and Artie Mitchell — a couple of Okie kids from Concord who learned filmmaking at SF State — opened the O’Farrell Theatre out in the Tenderloin on July 4th, 1969, and proceeded to drag an entire industry into the mainstream. They took a fresh-faced Ivory Soap girl named Marilyn Chambers and made her a cultural icon in Behind the Green Door. Hunter S. Thompson called the O’Farrell “the Carnegie Hall of public sex in America” and basically lived there when he was on the West Coast. The Mitchell Brothers were outlaw brilliant — fast living, bright burning, and like Thompson, they didn’t exactly fade quietly. Jim shot Artie in 1991, cocaine and chaos having finally taken their toll. Convicted of manslaughter. The era ended the way it probably had to…

The Mitchell Brothers… wow. OK, I digress. Back to North Beach…

Fisherman’s Wharf in the late 60s and early 70s was still a working wharf — don’t let anyone tell you different. The smell of boiling Dungeness crab hit you a block before you arrived. Crab cocktails were a buck or two, served in those little paper cups with the tiny forks. And Ripley’s Believe It or Not was there. As a kid the building itself was a little disappointing — but you could buy these paperbacks collecting the original Ripley cartoons, and those were worth every penny. What I remember most was a giant faucet floating in midair, water pouring out of it into a barrel below with nothing holding it up. No pipes, no supports, nothing. I stood there for a long time trying to figure that one out…

The original Cost Plus — before it became a chain selling wine and crackers in strip malls — was a maze of connected warehouses with holes knocked through the walls. White porcelain, jade, tapestries, rugs that smelled like camel piss when wet. And coffee — whole bins of it, origin stuff I’d never heard of. Kenya AA, Sumatra, Guatemala Antigua. My first espresso drinks. The whole glorious mess smelled like the world…

Pier 39 didn’t exist yet. This was before the sea lions, before the souvenir shops, before the tourists had fully taken over. Just the boats, the crab pots, the fishermen, and the smell of the Bay…

The Marina was the city’s front lawn. Young, beautiful, athletic — the neighborhood that jogged before jogging was a thing. The bay views from the Green were as good as it got. Fourth of July meant staking out a spot two days early, blankets and lawn chairs marking territory like it was Normandy. The Marina Safeway was basically a singles bar disguised as a grocery store — everyone knew it, nobody admitted it. And garbage night was its own parade, twenty-somethings cruising the curbs for rich people’s castoffs…

Before Candlestick, the 49ers played at Kezar Stadium, tucked into the eastern edge of Golden Gate Park. This was 1970, maybe earlier. Parking was a nightmare — you’d end up in the Panhandle or, God forbid, the Haight. My dad had opinions about that too. But Kezar had a gritty charm that Candlestick never quite matched. The Giants even played there briefly. It felt like football was supposed to feel — close, loud, and slightly dangerous…

But Kezar was just the entry point. Golden Gate Park itself was its own universe — and the thing that still stops me is that every inch of it was made by human hands. Sand dunes. The whole thing was nothing but sand dunes before they went to work on it. Like Central Park, conjured from nothing into something that feels like it was always there.

Miles of gorgeous grass, eucalyptus trees, and a few bison wandering around because why not. The Japanese Tea Garden was mandatory — tea and fortune cookies in one of the most serene spots in any city, anywhere. And the Academy of Sciences… that place made me who I am. A giant alligator display you peered down into from above. Dinosaurs. Taxidermy that made the natural world feel enormous and close at the same time. A planetarium that tilted your whole understanding of where you were standing. And the aquarium — that’s probably where I first fell in love with fish. It was a magical place for a young nerd, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment…

The Haight… you didn’t wander in there casually in 1970. My dad had opinions about hippies, and parking near Kezar meant you were going to hear about them on the walk back to the car. But even as a kid you could feel it — something had happened here, and the ghost of it was still warm. The Grateful Dead lived on Ashbury. Jefferson Airplane had that mansion up on Fulton. Janis was gone by then, but her presence was still around every corner. The Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic was already a neighborhood institution — Dr. David Smith opened it in 1967 because someone had to, because the kids flooding into the Summer of Love needed a doctor who wasn’t going to judge them or turn them in. He just… showed up and helped.

That same instinct would define the city again fifteen years later. Being gay in America then meant hiding. Coming out carried risks that are hard to imagine today. San Francisco was one of the few places you could actually live openly. And then AIDS came for exactly that community. The Free Clinic was among the first to see it — Kaposi’s sarcoma, young men wasting away, no name for it yet, no treatment, no answers. I lost friends. You’d find out someone was gay and that they had died in the same sentence. San Francisco was grieving while the rest of the country looked away. The city that showed up for the runaways in ’67 showed up again. It’s just what San Francisco does…

When I lived in the city in the mid-80s I was on Octavia, and I’d walk to Polk Street and catch the 19. Polk Gulch was the original gay neighborhood — the White Swallow bar was right across from the bus stop. I watched that neighborhood every day from the bus. By then the Castro had taken over as the center of gravity, but Polk still had its scene. The Castro Theatre anchored the neighborhood, and the brunch spots had waiters who looked like the electrician from the Village People — cutoffs, tank tops, mustaches, mirrored sunglasses.

The place to be was the Patio Cafe on Castro Street. From the outside it looked like nothing — standard storefront, easy to walk past. But you’d push through the door and suddenly you were in this massive, lush, sun-soaked greenhouse atrium. Plants everywhere, light pouring in, the whole neighborhood seemingly packed into every table. Eggs Benedict, bottomless mimosas poured with a generosity that bordered on civic duty, and waiters who made the whole thing feel like theater. It was legendary and it knew it…

Halloween in the Castro wasn’t just a holiday. It was the event on the gay calendar. Costumes, drag queens, leather guys, and what felt like thousands of Ethel Mermans belting their way down Market Street. It was joy, defiance, theater, and community all rolled into one night a year.

In 1990 this preacher from Texas — Larry Lea— decided he was going to purge the Castro of sin. He brought a busload of followers to San Francisco on Halloween night, of all nights. I heard about it and told my wife “I’m going to the City tonight.” She just said “Don’t get arrested.”

They had a revival at the Civic Center. Larry did his fire and brimstone thing and then the whole group came pouring out, ready to march into the Castro and bring Jesus to Sodom and Gomorrah.

They were met by San Francisco royalty.

The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence — gay men in full nun habits, whiteface makeup, glitter, lashes for days. And with them, Dykes on Bikes, who have led every Pride parade in the Castro for as long as anyone can remember. Larry and his flock didn’t stand a chance. The Sisters confronted them with camp and holiness and satire. The Dykes on Bikes revved their engines. And then — I swear to God — guys on stilts wearing assless chaps pressed their bare cheeks against the high bus windows. A little pressed ham for the faithful.

Larry and his crew turned right around, got back on those buses, and headed straight down Market toward the Bay Bridge and whatever rock they’d crawled out from under.

Larry, by the way, later ran off with his church secretary after 27 years of marriage. Because of course he did…

San Francisco wasn’t having it. Not that night. Not ever…

I lived at 19th and Geary for a while. The Alexandria Theatre was right there, and while I never set foot inside the place, it made parking on weekends an absolute blood sport. But the street itself was its own world — great Chinese food, Russian bakeries where the bread was serious business, a kosher market near the ocean that felt like it had been there since the beginning of time.

On weekends I’d grab my giant surf rod and head out to Lands End. You’d walk past the ruins of the Sutro Baths — this enormous Victorian-era public bathhouse that had burned and collapsed into the cliffs. What was left were the old pool basins, filled with dark water of indeterminate depth, absolutely certain to be harboring some demonic water spirit waiting to grab you by the ankle with a tentacle. Cross the causeway to Seal Rocks and the whole Pacific opened up in front of you — waves hammering the rocks, sea spray in your face, sea lions hauled out and bellowing at nothing in particular, and absolutely nothing between you and Honshu. On a good tide you had a shot at stripers or salmon. At high tide it was genuinely suicidal — slippery rock, cold water, nobody coming to help you. If you hooked something you had to navigate back across that causeway and land it on the beach. I never once thought this was a bad idea…

Lands End. It really was the perfect name…

Saturdays were reserved for Clement Street. Chinatown West, the locals called it — real Chinese food, none of the tourist veneer of Grant Avenue. The dim sum palaces were massive, ornate rooms packed with Chinese families doing what Chinese families do on a Saturday morning — enjoying each other, loud and unhurried, over endless rounds of dumplings and tea. You’d point to what you wanted from the carts and at the end they’d tally up your stack of plates. After dim sum, you walked it off browsing Green Apple Books — room after room of organized treasure, the kind of bookstore that made you miss it before you’d even left. And the restaurants went well beyond Chinese — that’s where I had my first Rijsttafel, the Dutch-Indonesian feast of a dozen small dishes that arrived in waves and made you rethink everything you thought you knew about spice. And Indonesian spiced french fries that had absolutely no business being that good…

Out in the Outer Richmond, Clement gets quieter — mostly residential, the energy bleeding south a block to Geary. But tucked in there was one gem that still brings a smile. Fairy Lake Blue Discus Palace at 1609 Clement, run by Herman Chan and his family since 1967. Walking in felt like stepping through a portal — old metal-frame, slate-bottom tanks lining every wall, the smell of fish food and aged water and something you couldn’t quite name. Herman was a true master. His hand-bred Discus — turquoise, reds, wild crosses — were unlike anything you’d find anywhere else. His jet-black Angelfish were a genetic masterpiece, deep matte black without a single iridescent scale, the result of generations of meticulous selection. On any given day you could walk out with a portion of freshly hatched baby brine shrimp. There was a resident shop cat. The whole place felt like it existed outside of time, which I suppose after fifty years it did.

For a guy in his mid-twenties who was already half in love with fish, it was church. Herman Chan spent his whole life perfecting that craft. Places like that don’t get replaced. They just disappear, and leave a specific kind of hole…

From the Richmond you could head south, cross Golden Gate Park, and find yourself in an entirely different city. The Sunset — the first suburb that wasn’t actually a suburb, still firmly within the city limits but feeling like it belonged to a quieter, slower San Francisco. Fog, stucco houses with curved corners, pastel paint, and hedges trimmed to match the architecture. Quiet, residential, its own ecosystem entirely. Stern Grove concerts on summer afternoons — free music in a natural amphitheater carved into the eucalyptus, one of the great hidden pleasures of city life. Lake Merced for trout fishing with marshmallows and Pautzke Balls O’ Fire salmon eggs — I can still smell the oil on my hands. They held their own until PowerBait came along and changed everything. San Francisco State was out there too, still carrying the energy of the strikes and student movements that had shaken it a decade before.

The Sunset didn’t shout. It just was. Fog rolling in off the Pacific every afternoon like clockwork, burning off by noon if you were lucky. A neighborhood that felt like it belonged to the people who actually lived there, which in San Francisco was rarer than it sounds…

And through all of it, the whole mad beautiful city of it, I read Herb Caen religiously. Every morning in the Chronicle, three dots and a digression, the city talking to itself through one man’s typewriter. The original blogger before anyone knew what that was… a daily love letter to San Francisco filed without fail for sixty years.

Two hundred thousand words into my own rambling career as a writer — old and in the way, as Garcia would say — I still see Herb everywhere in what I do. The sidebars. The anecdotes. The way a thought trails off before it finds another one to chase. And of course the three dots… always the three dots… a hat tip to a Sacramento kid who adopted the City and made it sing…

I was just a Sacramento kid who loved it from across the Bay. Apparently I still do…

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April 28, 2026 · 8:53 pm

Prepping for the CPO

I’ve been preparing a proposal for the Chief Procurement Officer—aka Mrs. S.—for the purchase of my 2026 fishing licenses. Every year, I buy a Minnesota version, a Wisconsin version, and this year, an Iowa version. The Wisconsin and Iowa licenses are out-of-state, so they’re significantly more expensive than the Minnesota version. Also—and I forgot about this—looking at my Minnesota license from last year, it’s a three-year license. Coolio. One less discussion about putting joint family resources towards “single-use case” recreation. Single-use case, meaning I am the one who uses it.

Honestly, it’s a lot of fuss for a $100 expense, but we are living in an age where my 10-year-old car doubles in value every time I fill it.

The fact is, every couple I know has an above-board supply chain. Pre-approved expenses for things like food, non-alcoholic beverages, things Mrs. S. wants, and vacuum bags. Meanwhile, for me, there’s a dark supply chain. It’s how I source the little niceties like camera lenses, unneeded technology, fly rods, fine scotch, cigars, and special gummies. For my trouble, I have to mule that shit in like I’m in a high-security prison. Add ice cream drumsticks to that list, too.

One of the aggravating things about being married to a frugal, skinny, in-shape broad who has her shit all kinda together (“broad” is her term, not mine) is that she literally needs nothing, she wants nothing, and for dessert is perfectly happy to split a single grape with me.

Uggg. I feel like a fat glutton with expensive taste and too many hobbies.

My old excuse, “At least I don’t golf,” doesn’t carry the weight it once did. So I gotta create new ways to distract—as in “Married Man” creative. I use little phrases like, “That old thing? That’s not new,” or, “We had that bottle from before,” or, “It was at the lake.”

Speaking of which, the last time she opened the cabinet above the fridge at the lake—the one that last time she looked, had three bottles in it. One bottle of cheap blended scotch, one bottle of mediocre gin, and one bottle of vodka that landed somewhere in quality between Tito’s and “comes in a plastic bottle”—her response… let’s just say there was an F-bomb and a “what the,” but not in that order.

“Where the hell are all the paper plates and cups that were in there? There’s no room anymore! There’s gotta be a dozen bottles in here!”

“People like choices,” I offered. She didn’t even blink. “It’s a cabin, not Downton Abbey. Give them the cabin pour or tell them to drink water.”

Then she opened the fridge. Then she shut the fridge.

“OMG! Why does that look like the walk-in cooler at a liquor store? There’s literally no room for veggies in the crisper drawers.”

“I don’t like vegetables.”

I could see her wondering about decisions she made 40 years ago.

But, in fairness, for that one, it wasn’t me. I could joyfully say to her, “Ask your son.”

One of my sons had been using the lake place over the summer and had his hockey team from Maryland and his guys from California up to stay there.

“That’s on them. I don’t even drink beer. Much.”

It’s true; one of the nasty side effects of being old, fat, and in the way is that half a beer and I’m full. She acquiesced on that one point. And to be honest, I was happy the place was still standing. The fact that this team even made the trip was because they’d been suspended from their summer league for—sit down, because this surprised me—fighting.

The dude is 35 and maybe 120 lbs. soaking wet. I never knew he was a skinny “Tiger” Williams.

“Fighting?”

“Yeah, Dad, you gotta let ‘em know you won’t take their crap.”

“And you got suspended for one fight?”

“Three. Three and you’re out for the season.”

“Three?? You got in three fights?”

“I was also third man in, so um… they frown on that in bar leagues.”

I had to sit down after that one. Bar leagues? I believe they frown on that in the NHL. And to think he was a goalie in his school career. I wonder how many Mt. Zion parents can brag that their former Bar Mitzvah kid is now spending his free time diving into scrums in a freaking bar hockey league.

I didn’t know whether to be appalled or proud. Or both. I guess when your favorite hockey podcast is Spittin’ Chiclets, it all tracks.

I digress…

So, I also explained to the CPO, with a straight face, that the reason two cupboards are out of space—stuffed with scotch, bourbon, gin, vodka, and one bottle of spiced rum I can’t explain—is because when my pals come up, they tend to bring bottles. And one friend, who gets a bottle of shitty bourbon every year from one of his business partners sporting a label with his last name on it, dumped three years’ worth of unopened rotgut on me, and I hadn’t gotten around to pouring it down the drain.

That was mostly true. Or based in truth. And one more shady, obscuring layer in my personal supply chain of deceit.

Head shakes. The post-teen, mature woman’s eye roll. And a mumble.

Though that wasn’t it. She went up to get a towel, opened the linen closet, and… more language.

“You have more booze up here? Dude, do you have a problem?”

“That’s two bottles: a 20-year-old Macallan and an 18-year-old Glenfiddich. That’s my private stash for when I actually want a nice scotch. I don’t want my swill-driving pals doing shots of $200 whiskey.”

She thought about it. “At least you’re borderline responsible.”

“Thank you.”

“Now pour me a couple fingers of that Macallan and let’s see how the weekend goes.”

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April 10, 2026 · 8:58 pm

Dude, Where’s My Butt

I was watching something or another on TV, and the question came up to a bunch of septuagenarians, “What’s the hardest thing about getting old?”

Not an uncommon question for those of us of a certain age.

Not an uncommon topic of daily rumination for those of us of a certain age.

Why, just this morning I woke up, we have a major low-pressure system coming in this am, and every bloody-assed joint in my body was screaming at me. From my smallest finger knuckle to my knees to the lower spine, where my bones were scarred by my infection a few years ago. Ugh. Had a hard time opening the Tylenol bottle.. the one with the old fart giant lid with gear teeth – designed for aged claws like mine.

I digress.

So all this kvetching about aging sounds like an Old and in the Way topic.

Buckle up, m’peeps.

First of all. I want acknowledgment that unloading about the trials and tribulations of the aging process, from my perspective, is a multivolume work, with loads of indexing, subtitles, back links, and so forth.

BUT, and this is a big but

On the “good” side of the old man’s ledger is this: Wisdom. As a matter of fact I’ve said a million times, as much as it would be neat to go back in time and bring my the freshness of youth, if I couldn’t keep all the accumulated knowledge I have at 62, ya, uh, not interested. Let’s be young, not young and stupid, because I did that, and in hindsight, it was not a great look.

I see my kids now, and while they’re certainly smarter than I was at their age, they’re also learning stuff are second nature to old farts. “Put some Seafoam in that lawnmower in the fall. A few less pulls on the starter in the spring,” sort of stuff.
Let’m figure it out.

Ok, I gotta whittle my life of age-related grievances to one thing.

What is the one most annoying thing about getting old-

Intrusive medical exams? Meh,

My hair migrating from my head to my ass? Ugly, but no. And also those 8’ hairs that start coming outta my ears.. also annoying but pluck-able.

Muscles and joints that bark for no reason, eh..

Getting the “vapors” from my old favorite foods? Ehh, maybe
I exist, therefore I annoy? That’s real for my family, but nope.

Pulling up my pants.

There it is.

Pulling up my damn pants every time I move because..

So here’s what happens to old men. Our asses relocate. You know, as a younger man, I never gave my ass two turds, it did what it was supposed to- keep me from falling to the toilet water and providing some “meat” to hold up my drawers.

But when we dude age that ass meat- It migrates. It goes from buttocks to fronttocks…

The belly expands, and the source of that expansion, a mix of the byproducts of fermented barley and wheat and.. ass meat. My ass. My butt moves west to the belly and now, it’s a straight shot from the occipital protuberance to the malleolus. Basically, a laser pointer aimed down from the base of the skull would hit nothing until it reached my ankle.

There’s nothing there. My formerly youthful curvy behind has become flatter than a pancake. Its disgusting. All that fabric hangs there like an ill-fitting shroud. I have a droopy crotchsicle now.

Sadly, I now understand why my late father pulled his pants all the way over his belly to his damned armpits. Personally, not a great look. That’s why Sansabelts were invented. So a fellow could pull that waistband over Mount Suribachi. And like that hillock on Iwo Jima made famous by the photo of the marines raising the Stars and Stripes, when a guy successfully gets all that manmade stretch fiber over a hill like mine, worth a celebration and flag plant.

Mrs. S HATES the wanna-be-rapper look of droopy drawers and exposed tighty-whiteys. And no, switching to more stylish “angel cupping your junk in its hands” fancy chones doesn’t make it better. If I earned a buck every time she said “pull up your pants,” I’d be on to a serious revenue stream in the 10’s of dollars a day. Add in when Mrs. S. Jr., the daughter, chimed in with the same, double that.

You think I’m kidding? King of the Hill did a whole episode on this terrible topic. “Hank’s Back Story” (S5 E19). Hank has a backache on his mower and is diagnosed with DGS or “Diminished Gluteal Syndrome.” Mike Judge and Greg Daniels made that shit up, but I’m here to testify it’s a real thing.

So what’s a guy to do?

Well, you could cinch up the belt to the point like a corset and experience al later same issues women did when they were shooting for an eight-inch waist. Or, you could get… suspenders.

The neat yellow ones that have the yardstick marks on them.

Or I could just get the umbrella hat and wear black socks with sandals and just never have sex again. ‘Cause there’s a pretty strong negative corollary between ‘She finds me desirable” and any one of these fashion accessories.

Honestly, I have a standing order with the family that if I ever do wear the umbrella hat or the neck fan out in public, the time has come to smother me in my sleep.

Mrs. S. agrees with that assessment. She even has the lavender oil for the pillow (to calm you) and has practiced with my son Eric to help sit on the pillow “‘cause you might be a fighter.”

Ya getting old isn’t for the weak-minded.

To my male children- enjoy your asses while you have them. Your genetics aren’t great here, and one day, you too may be dealing with DGS.

The good news one day, the serenity that only comes with not giving a shit anymore means being comfy in your own skin will be much easier. Even when that skin is paired with plaid shorts, black socks, an umbrella hat, and a set of bright yellow, yard-rule-printed suspenders. Who needs sex when you’re that comfortable in your life?

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March 5, 2026 · 4:42 pm

The Paradox of the Private Blogger

I love personality tests. I really do. Odd for a confirmed stoic like me.

But, if Marcus Aurelius and Seneca can engage in self-reflection, SO CAN I.

Myers-Briggs…

Is it legit, or is it Jungian fortune-telling? Don’t know, don’t care. It is uncannily accurate.

So here goes my Myers-Briggs profile, which I recently retook, mostly out of curiosity because in my mid 60’s (Rounding up), I stopped doing shit for self-improvement a while ago.

The big unveil: Sank is:

I N F J

INFJ — The Advocate

The rarest personality type — about 1-2% of the population. Introverted, intuitive, driven by values, and quietly strategic. They’re the people who seem to know what you’re thinking before you say it, because they’re constantly reading beneath the surface of things.

The central paradox: deeply private, but endlessly fascinated by other people. They care intensely — they just need to do it on their own terms, from a bit of a distance.

The downside of the wiring is that they absorb other people’s emotional states almost involuntarily. It’s not empathy as a choice. It’s more like a signal they can’t turn off. Which means they guard their energy carefully, and they’re slow to let people in.

And when someone burns that trust badly enough? The Door Slam. Final, clean, no drama. It startles people who’ve never seen it before. To the INFJ, it’s just basic maintenance.

Yes, yes, and yes

Wait, you ask, can a guy who writes a deeply personal blog, pens poems, shares feelings, really be all that private?

I’m going to say yes. He can. And now sit back and read my argument. Or how I came to understand the paradox between sharing and sharing.

Case study- the Synagogue has an annual men’s retreat. I went once. It’s all about Mussar. I’ve never gone again. Why? Mussar.

Mussar is a Jewish ethical and spiritual practice rooted in 19th century Eastern European tradition, focused on character refinement — examining your personal traits, your flaws, your relationship to others, and to God. In practice, it tends to involve group reflection, journaling, and sitting in structured discomfort while you work on becoming a better human being.

SO- I’ll write here all day, but avoid a group chat?
There’s a difference between chosen, controlled vulnerability and being processed by a group. When I write the blog or the poetry, I control the frame. I decide what gets said, how it gets said, and when. You get to read it, on my terms. That’s not privacy exactly, it’s sovereignty. A retreat where some dude I barely know is going to reflect on my flaws while I’m trapped in a circle with a box of tissues? Hard pass. Hand me the lighter and charcoal starter shampoo- 3rd degree burn haircut coming right up. I haven’t shed a tear in 30 years. No reason to break that streak now.

But looking into others’ souls… I’m weirdly good at that. And I seem to be uncannily accurate about it. SO accurate I’ve compared myself to Next Generation Empath Deanna Troi a number of times.

That would actually be a good gig for me- empath.

Sadly, not a title I find in job listings.

Before we go into the “Cool story Bro” level of writing allow me to introduce the point.

The famous INFJ Door Slam

I was today years old when I learned this was a thing. Apparently, we enlightened ones have a personality trait that psychologists have called out. It works like this. I care about you. I advocate for you. I try to be there for you…

But you do something, or enough things, offensive to me- mind your fingers. I’m slamming the door.

SLAM.

We are done. The door closed, locked, and I walk away. No anger, no drama, just poof. We done.

I found this really fascinating when I read about it, mostly because it described something I’ve been doing my entire life without having a name for it. I have slammed a shitton of doors in my day. And I’ve never once apologized for it. I see it as basic emotional hygiene — protection from unnecessary drama, from people who drain more than they give, from relationships that have gone clinically dead but nobody wants to admit it. Don’t even give it a second thought.

It goes deeper than that.

I sincerely don’t understand the cultural pressure to maintain dead relationships. I really really don’t. Move on. I’m not interested in performing a connection that doesn’t exist. And I’ll say the quiet part loud: I don’t think every human I’ve met has value — at least not to me. Not everyone is worth the energy, not every relationship is worth saving. And the older I get, the faster that door closes.

Mom

Let’s get personal- my mother is 92 years old. She is in assisted living in Sacramento. We last talked when she was 65. I couldn’t visit if I wanted, I don’t know where she is, I don’t even think I know anyone who could tell me.. if I wanted to know. But the truth is, I haven’t worried about it since I slammed that door.

My wife is uncomfortable with this. I understand why — it looks strange from the outside, maybe even cruel. She doesn’t want to fix it, for the record, because my mother was a genuine pain in the ass, and my wife bore the brunt of that firsthand. But the arrangement is socially awkward. I have been shunned and ostracized by most of my family over it, and I’ve heard every version of the argument: you’ll regret this, you’ll miss her, you need closure, she’s your mother.

My take- Hard pass. Not worth the time or emotional investment.

Now I’m getting messages. You don’t have much time. Call her. Reach out. You don’t want her to die before you get a chance. YOU WILL REGRET IT.

I’ve thought about this. Here’s where I land: she died thirty years ago when she attacked my wife for the umpteenth time. The woman who’s 92 is a stranger now. I mourned what I needed to mourn a long time ago. There is no unfinished business. The door is closed. The room is empty.

The Therapist

I have a cousin who’s a therapist. Had. Past tense now.

She could never make peace with my capacity to simply turn things off. It bothered her professionally and personally. We had a real go-round once — she went deep on love. Gary, you need to lean into love. Let it soothe you. It will soften your heart. Love is how we stay connected. Love this. Feel love that.. love is what binds…

I sat with that for a moment and thought: That is just not my operating system.

She pushed. But you need to learn it, it’s humanity, there’s a force that unites the universe and connects us all.

Holy shit.. When the conversation goes deep into love, the connective tissue of the universe, the force that binds us all, the thing that will soften my heart if I just lean in, My mind goes to Charlie Brown’s teacher: Wa wa wa wa wa. It all sounds like beautiful, elaborate nonsense dressed up in manufactured “feels.” I don’t doubt that people believe it. I just think they’re wrong, and honestly, I don’t care.

Here’s my honest position, the one that apparently ended our relationship: I don’t believe in love. And, I told her so. Or more precisely, I think love, as most people practice it, is a spectacular waste of energy that causes otherwise intelligent people to make profoundly stupid choices. It’s the engine behind most of the bad decisions I’ve watched people make in my lifetime.

That was the last straw for cousin Misha. Door. Slam.

The Universe Sent Me A Lesson

A few years back, a neighbor of ours at the lake passed away. I found out the way I find out about most things up there — standing in a driveway, beer in hand, catching up with the neighbors.

Jeff passed a few weeks ago.

That was news to most of us.

I watched the group process it. Nobody cried. No one sniffed. It was like someone said “By the way, property taxes are going up $10.00 this year.” Well, that might be generous, the crowd out there has grabbed torches and pitchforks for less than $10.0, but I digress.

The whole experience was really fascinating. Nobody went quiet with grief. No clothes were rent, no sack clothes donned. As a matter of fact, the collective response from the King of the Hill gang was one big “Huh.”

Big chill shit right there. For me, anyway. Not a single “oh no..” And full disclosure, the guy was an asshole. Crotchety, MAGA-type, coarse-grit sandpaper was his operating style.

That hit me harder than I expected. Not because of his death specifically — but because of what it meant. That, I realized, is a eulogy nobody wants. Even a stoic like me. Not the one spoken at the service. The one in the driveway. The real one.

Don’t be the Huh guy.

I’ve slammed a lot of doors. I’ve walked away from people and never looked back. But I am intentional about the room I’m in, the people I’m actually present for, and the energy I bring when I’m there. That’s not coldness. That’s curation.

The door slam isn’t about indifference. It’s about knowing which rooms are worth being in.

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February 23, 2026 · 4:45 pm

Coffee and Stout- Part II

Wow, who woulda thunk that a post about coffee would get the most engagement I’ve had in a while. Go figga.

So I’m going to respond.

Coffee Snobbery

If you really want to make the best tasting coffee, bar none (note that I’m not going to say IMHO, ‘cause I’m 100% right about this), you need to get an Aeropress. Check them out here:
AeroPress

I have three of them. The basic, the large one, and the portable that take with me when I travel to try to avoid the hotel/Starbucks coffee. One small annoyance, it makes a pretty small cuppa. I like a big ‘ole mug.

Now, what you put in the AeroPress, debated that last time. But if you do like your dark roast, there is one holdout that I like- Peet’s Major Dickason’s Blend. It’s a deep, dark roast created in 1969 by the original owner, Alfred Peet, at his Berkeley, CA store. It is their best selling version of all time. Rightfully so.

I also like Komodo Dragon Blend at Starbucks. A nice Indonesian dark roast. I do tend to like Indonesian coffees. Sumatra etc. Vietnamese- not so much.

Also, if you make it to my favorite roaster in the Twin Cities- JS Bean Factory, 1518 Randolf Ave, St Paul, try their Malabar monsoon washed beans and their various French roasts. You can also get “Steve’s Smokey Double Dark” if you want to push the old guy dark roast profile to the limit. Mmmm.

Check them out here: JS Bean Factory

As a matter of fact, as a special incentive to my adoring readers, I’m happy to meet you there for a cuppa on me, just say the word.

Beer Talk- Stout Version

I live the stout life every time I exhale all my lung capacity to try get my jeans buttoned. Stouts are great. So are porters.

And yes, Mr. Ralf- the ABV for imperial stouts is high. The reason, from my understanding, is a family issue. Specifically, the Russian family of Catherine the Great. They loved stouts. But to survive the long trip to Russia and the Baltics, as well as the cold winters, British brewers raised the beer’s ABV as a preservative. It used to be called Russian Imperial Stout until someone decided “Russian” didn’t enhance the brand. This was before the most recent Russian issue.

My personal favorite is from North Coast Brewing in Fort Bragg, California. Old Rasputin Imperial Stout. It’s thick and meaty, and has a strong malty profile. Also, as the best tag line, “Never say die.” If you know about Rasputin, the crazy monk from the last Czar’s court, he was assassinated on December 29 and 30th, 1916. On those days, he was:

  • Poisoned with cyanide-laced tea and cakes
  • Shot in the chest. He went down, then regained consciousness and attacked his assailant
  • Stabbed
  • Shot two more times in an attempt to flee
  • Rolled in a carpet and drowned in the Malaya Nevka River.

Tough SOB and totally bonkers level weird SOB. And probably a sex addict and wanna-be cult leader.

North Coast is great. They also have a Brother Thelonious Belgian Style Abby Ale that’s really good.

They also do a limited-run barrel-aged Old Rasputin that I haven’t found locally but would like to try sometime.

Closer to home, Surly does some nice dark beers, but there are too many for me to keep track of, so I don’t get there much. Can’t go wrong with Darkness. An Imperial Stout.

Dangerous Man has a Chocolate Milk Stout that’s a big winner pour, pour moi. (See what I did there) Delish

Cygnus X-1 at St Paul Brewing is another favorite. And you can’t beat the location- the ruins of the old Hamm Brewery near the Dayton’s Bluff neighborhood. Their unique, arrested-decay patio is a top spot for summertime sipping in St. Paul.

And finally, not local, but close- Central Waters in Amherst WI has a Mudpuppy Porter that I really like.

In Conclusion

The last person ever named Gary in the United States was probably born in 1970. The name is officially extinct, and those of us who carry it are all approaching the terminus in the game of life. And naturally, the things we old farts like are dying with us. But, if you wanna get your old guy on and experience real flavor… much like experiencing a real stereo with real speakers and meaningful sound, it’s not too late. And ya, I suppose that all this shit will come back in vogue at some point. I expect to be well into my last dirt nap before that happens.

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February 20, 2026 · 10:18 pm

Dude, Where’s My Coffee

Retail is a cruel mistress. Trends shift, people change, and generations advance. I’m of an age where I can’t meet the expectations of my elders, and at the same time, am constantly disappointed by the kids coming after me.

As Joe Pesci so famously said, “Yoots Now-a-days.”

I always thought coffee was a constant. I’m a certified snobby old coffee drinker. And, I’ve been close to business in one way or another for more than 40 years. My first job out of college was at Cost Plus Imports in San Francisco. They were one of the first “gourmet” coffee sellers where you could get a number of varietal beans- some single origin, some blends, and lots of different roasts. My personal favorite back in the day- French Roast. Or, even Italian roast. I still crave those dark, rich, oily beans that stuck to the side of the mason jar where I kept them. And I remember having to run my finger around the inside of the grinder bin to get the grounds that had caked it after the blade was done. Hmmm…. Smokey, rich, burnt goodness.

Well, like all good things, the kids ruined it.

Fuckers

This third wave coffee thing- brought to you by the new generation of coffee roasters and drinkers… Look’n at you Stumptown, and Dogwood and Spyhouse over there on Snelling.

And now… Dunn Brothers has joined the trend. I recently bought a pound of “dark” roast coffee at my local Dunn Brothers. When I got home and poured it into my mason jar… brown. Like brown roasted, or what I would have called “medium” back in the day.

Don’t get me wrong here, there is a place for medium roast. I like me a cuppa Tanzanian Peaberry that’s roasted to a nice even brown hue. But when I want a cup of dark coffee… Nope. Not happening. I started to see this shift when Starbucks started selling “light” roast. At first, I thought it was a joke. Who the hell would drink light roast coffee? It ain’t done, folks.”

I guess I shudda been asking who the hell cares about old people, ‘cause I realize that answer is “other old people.” Exclusively.

These yoots, including my own spawn, are drinking this light brown dirt water with floral and citrus notes and telling me it’s good. Same group who imposed the tyranny of hoppy IPAs and, clutching my pearls here, the dreaded sour beer. What a crazy arc I’ve been able to watch in the high-powered world of legalized stimulants. My first exposure to “real” coffee was from my grandmother, she made REAL coffee. Turkish coffee, she’d bring from Canada when she came to visit. Spoon stood straight up in that cup. AND after you drank it, you could look at the grounds and tell you when you’d get married, when you’d achieve total consciousness, and what the stock market would do the following day. Good times.

In the 70s, my folks drank instant coffee. Everyone did. I don’t think we had a coffee maker until I was in college. Mom and Dad would put a teaspoon of instant Yuban or Sanka in a cup with a couple saccharine pills and put the tea kettle on high. They were real people. They had to drink that shit, with its overpowering flavor, because it had to cut through the aftertaste of the unfiltered camels they were sucking down while they drank their coffee. Matter of fact, I think my folks first went soft when they started smoking filtered Dorals. Net thing you know, coffee maker and Folgers out of a can.

When I started working at Cost Plus and got to know real coffee. Kenya AA, Guatemala Antigua, Ethiopian Harrar, and Indonesian and Celebes coffees. Mandheling and Sulawesi. The gold standard was Kona or Jamaican Blue Mountain. In the 80s, that stuff was $40 a pound. We didn’t need marketers to tell us these were “limited releases.” Those coffees were grown in very narrow strips of land at precise altitudes, on arable land that was also used for Blue Ribbon Weed. Heady time back then.

I remember thinking “people really like these fancy coffees and the European style of making coffee drinks like Cafe Au Lait (didn’t see lattes back then) or cappuccinos. I thought a coffeehouse would be a cool chain of stores. But my Dad, retail maven that he was, told me no one would pay $3.00 for a cup of coffee. And as proof, just look at the card out there with the green topless chick on the side, they’re not making any money, if they were, they’d have a store.

Funny thing, the $40 a pound for Kona, definitely something only for very special occasions.

Unless… unless put those grounds in a small plastic cup and make people buy a priority machine and call it single serve. Damn marketers. At 85 cents a cup.. you’re right at $40.00. Or if your Mrs S and like the machine with the different colored foil pods… She’s looking at close to $100.00 a pound. I’d point this out, but I’ve been married long enough to know that is one tasty factoid would not lead to anywhere I want to go.

Good news, old farts- we still have Peets Major Dickenson’s Blend and JS Coffee Beanery in St Paul, who are supporting our burnt coffee fetishes.

But reality is, the market has changed. Lighter roasts, brighter flavor profiles… and crotchety, disgruntled old fat men who entertain themselves, and hopefully others, complaining about changes they can’t control. Welcome to the “dirt water” era.

Don’t get me started on the demise of Imperial Stout and Milk Porters. Why are we so afraid of flavor?

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January 30, 2026 · 5:50 pm

From Ground Zero

Heavy hearted greetings from what feels like the center of the world. Everyone is waiting and watching to see how things unfold here in Minnesota. From LA to New York City, to London, Berlin, Kyiv, Johannesburg and Seoul, people are watching. Even in Moscow, Tehran, Beijing and Pyongyang, they’re watching too.

And it’s not the first time.

It was in this same neighborhood, at 38th and Chicago, that Minneapolis stood at the center of the world five years ago when George Floyd was murdered. Three sites now – 38th and Chicago, 33rd and Portland, 26th and Nicollet – a diagonal scar carved into our collective consciousness, a line of misery stretching across south Minneapolis.

Living here is exhausting.

Last night we went to our favorite Thai restaurant in St. Paul. The sign said open, but the place was empty and the door was locked. The owners were inside. They let us in.

The door stays locked now. Customers only. ICE not welcome without a judicial warrant.

I heard children’s voices from the kitchen – never heard that before. “Not safe to leave them at home,” the owner told me.

Since Operation Metro Surge began, eight children – some as young as two – have been taken from Minnesota and sent to the South Texas Family Residential Center in Dilley, Texas.

The facility is managed by CoreCivic, a for-profit private contractor. Reading the accounts of life at Dilley from congressional visitors, family and inmate accounts, the picture is bleak.
Families are housed in eight-person units in neighborhoods with names from a suburban subdivision. The facility calls them “cottages.” A modern Theresienstadt. The real word is cells.

If there are fewer than eight people, families are forced to share with strangers.

On intake, all possessions are removed. Clothing, toys, backpacks, books. Families are stripped and given one set of sweats each – wash them in the sink. Adults are strip-searched. Children receive private “medical exams” without parents present, a violation of ICE’s own rules.

The lights stay on 24/7. According to the United Nations Committee Against Torture, forced sleep deprivation is psychological torture that brings on cognitive loss, memory collapse, and hallucinations.

Kids lose their teddy bears, their blankets. They play with rocks. Depression. Untreated illnesses. Self-harm.

The food is substandard. The water is putrid. Inmates are addressed by bunk numbers – standard dehumanization. Families are denied adequate medical care and given insufficient food and water, forcing them to use the commissary. The government gets billed for services. Inmates get shortchanged.

If this sounds familiar, look up Manzanar, Tule Lake, Poston—concentration camps where Japanese Americans were imprisoned by their own government. Those camps were unquestionably concentration camps, but they were still far more benign than Dilley. We never learn. History repeats, only this time we’ve taken the shame of Manzanar and made it worse—handing it to a private corporation with a financial incentive to fill it, even with children.

This is where the children from Minnesota are. This is what the restaurant owners know could happen when they leave their kids at home. This is the threat that keeps the door locked at Mango Thai.

Living here right now is tough. Really tough. ICE is still in the streets. Snatcher teams still operate in North Minneapolis and along Lake and Chicago. The President changes his mind on de-escalation versus more agents twice an hour.

But there are signals of hope. Neighbors helping neighbors. Food donations off the charts. People delivering to those afraid to leave their houses. Doctors making house calls. Minnesota has become a non-violent example of passive resistance. And there are signs it’s working.

There’s also every expectation we have violence yet to face and suppression yet to be unleashed. But slowly, in small steps, we’re making progress against this regime.

Minnesota has been here before. From labor unrest in the 1930s to today, there’s a steel thread running through the Twin Cities. We live the values inherited from the Scandinavians, Germans, and Native Americans who built this society – communal values, collective wellbeing. That heritage makes me proud to live here.

But this atmosphere is exhausting and frightening. Finding joy in the middle of this ugliness is a daily struggle.

So when people ask me “How are you doing?”

My answer today: “We are here.”

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January 23, 2026 · 12:20 pm

Finding Stasis in Chaos

Events in Minnesota continue to spiral. Confrontations between federal law enforcement and state and local officials continue to escalate. We everyday folk find ourselves caught in the crossfire. I feel like we’re all struggling to find the safe harbor between diametrically opposed forces that are hellbent on imposing their will on the other, regardless of the moral or ethical cost.

It’s a shitty situation to say the least.

Today, Friday, January 23 will be an interesting one in Minnesota, one that we may look back on one day as a nexus moment for how the country moves forward under Trump. Then again, it’s -40 with the windchill so it also might be a rebellion of social media; BlueSky and TruthSocial, and maybe the former Twitter for whoever is left in that hellscape.

A friend of mine recently posted an article from Substack on her social feed that, I believe, was the first written piece to capture the tragedy that’s happening in the middle. The article was written by Van Jones.

For those of you not familiar with Jones, he is a CNN political commentator, lawyer, and social justice advocate who gained prominence for his work on criminal justice reform and environmental issues. He’s well known for his ability to bridge political divides and for founding several social enterprises, including the Dream Corps, which works on criminal justice reform, green jobs, and tech inclusion. The article points out that the battle in Minnesota, and by extrapolation, the rest of the country, dare I say planet, isn’t about ICE or immigration or civil rights. It’s about colliding world views that have reached an impasse. You can read it here:

America Isn’t Divided on Ice

I think Jones does a good job pointing out the blind spots on each side of the rhetorical divide.

But, as my dad used to say, “Talk is cheap and people are cheaper.” I agree with Jones’s assessment that we’re all navigating blind spots, and I find myself questioning where the right center point is. And worse, will we, as Americans, ever get back to that center? Sadly, our politicians have learned that bloody red meat sells. It energizes their base and it gets them elected. And I point the finger at both sides.

One of the flashpoint events this week in Minnesota was the protest that disrupted a church service in St. Paul last Sunday, and the administration’s arrests and attempted arrests after the fact. On the surface, and as a leftie, my first reaction was to lean into the free speech narrative. I considered the idea that any church that allows a person who delivers sermons on spiritual growth and ministers to people in their time of need, while at the same time manages the operations of ICE in the Twin Cities… Well, that church should be protested.

On reflection, however, I was a bit disgusted with myself in that I’ve allowed myself to get caught up in the rhetoric and in my anger, I lost sight of the mission.

And, by condoning this action, I would also have to condone the action of any radical pro-choice activist group barging into the Cathedral of St. Paul on Selby and Summit during a mass and screaming at parishioners. For me, that’s a hard no, a massive line crossed and the protesters should be arrested. I also reminded myself just how upset I’d be if a group of activists with keffiyehs, wrapped in Palestinian flags, barged into my synagogue on a Saturday morning screaming “River to the Sea.” I would want these people arrested and tried for their actions, just as I’ve come to believe that the protestors on Sunday morning also need to be arrested and tried for their actions.

I was on a social media thread recently where ICE operations in the Twin Cities was discussed. On this particular thread tempers were running hot, and the language was getting personal and most unkind. I asked people to step back and think about the situation in our town from the other side. I’m not asking people to agree with the sentiments, position, or actions, of others. No, I just want them to consider the situation from the perspective of the “other side, just as Jones does in his article. These agents joined a federal law enforcement organization. They were made offers that, honestly, they couldn’t refuse. Great pay, a big signing bonus, and for many, an opportunity to do something about what they believe to be a very real threat to their way of life. The belief that massive illegal immigration and the specter of dangerous people on our streets is a cause worth fighting. And, they’re not wrong about the sentiment. These are real fears and they are real issues. I don’t agree, and we can debate about the scope and impact, but there are bad people here, there are people dying from drug overdoses that were the result of bad actors in our community.

Now these guys were sent to Minnesota, the nations icebox. I also happen to believe in the rush to fill the ranks of an organization that was expected to grow exponentially, screening and training were accelerated, possibly too much so. Once here these people are put on the street to do enforcement, they’re given directives that a radical fringe is waiting for them, and that the goal of this fringe is to attack them and to impede their ability to do the job they were hired to do. And for those who would argue about “illegal orders” and “conscience” that characterization simply fuels the problem and doesn’t address the issues. Debate these issues after we’re all back to reasonable discord again.

Now they’re facing a mob. Whistles, snowballs and chunks of ice being thrown at them, honking, and streets blocked. In that environment, people become reactive and operate in defense mode. Top it off, when they go to a coffee shop or use a bathroom, they’re accosted and attacked, giving further credence to the idea that they’re facing a radical fringe. And when courts uphold the idea that they have impunity, confirmation achieved.

I would suggest that we stop the discussion for a minute. Many readers are going to suggest that I’m giving a pass to bad behavior and thuggery. To the contrary. What I’m suggesting is if we, my side as well as their, focus entirely on all the ways we see these agents as evil fascist jackbooted stormtroopers, we have no hope of ever deescalating this situation. Deescalation can only happen when both sides are able to seek some common ground, no matter how small that ground is. Unless we recognize the humanity of the people we’re protesting, even if that feeling isn’t reciprocated, we become locked in a cycle of violence that only serves the worst of us, on both sides of this. Riots and street fighting make great social media fodder, but we have to believe that chaos isn’t warranted.

The only thing this chaos does, is provide more impetus for the “raw meat” that the other side, the activists and neighborhood organizers, crave as a tool to motivate and activate their side. Think about it- what does it take for a 60-year-old grandmother to pick up a projectile and launch it at another person? Short answer: ANGER. And not every day anger that most of us feel, this has escalated into rage. Rage that is powered by what they see, and by how their confirmation biases are stoked in their everyday interactions with the communities they associate, the social media they engage with, and the media they consume. And that, my friends, is at the heart of the issue in my opinion.

We simply have to move from tribal alignment and rage to deescalation and non-confrontational engagement. Much like how two warring countries come to détente:

  1. Make initial contact—recognize a common goal, in this case deescalate, even if it’s just a tish
  2. Agree on rules of engagement for both sides. No pepper spray, no throwing rocks and ice.
  3. Build minimal trust by observing the agreed upon rules.
  4. Recognizing common ground — no one wants rapists, drug dealers or any violent criminals in our communities, NO ONE.
  5. Agree to transparency on both sides. Arrests are going to happen, people documenting activity are not radical terrorists.
  6. Acknowledging mistakes — on both sides. Renee Gold was a tragedy, for both sides.
  7. Agreement that every interaction between ICE, the people they’re arresting, and the protestors is a unique incident and needs to be treated as such. Not every ICE agent breaks the law, and not every protestor comes only in peace and love.

I’m dreaming, I get it. But honestly, I get to do that because dreaming is way better than raging, I’ve learned.

I strongly believe there is a path that we can take, as a nation we’ve done it before, and it’s been successful. I’m reminded of an iconic photo from 1968 where a young people putting flowers in the barrels of National Guard soldiers rifles as they stand in a line, facing civilians in combat formation. The ultimate expression of non-violence. I strongly believe that Minnesotans protests will be far more effective and far more devastating to their opponents’ rhetoric if we can find a way to take that approach. Instead of a riot, instead of smashing windows or throwing rocks, imagine a massive crowd of people standing silently, watching. And today, documenting with their phones, the activities. Nothing would end this crisis faster, in my opinion.

My argument is this would deprive the media and the administration of content. Content is precisely what they crave to make their argument. It would break the cycle of violence. And I believe would allow ICE to stand down in a face-saving way, which on my list above would be item #8- implementing face-saving mechanisms.

The problem for the left here is it takes time for this to have impact. The reaction on the other side would be to declare victory and push on. But really, enough content of quiet Minnesotans standing bravely will create a much bigger issue for the administration than the shots of crazed protestors hurling slurs and throwing projectiles.

The Flower Power photograph by Bernie Boston, taken during the March on the Pentagon, October 21, 1967

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January 19, 2026 · 8:15 am

“May you live in interesting times.”

Once again I’m reminded of just how sublime this little curse can be.

It’s exhausting to live under federal occupation. My beloved Twin Cities has spent enough time in the headlines — while the rest of my life would be fine with me. But I have to say, watching how Minnesotans have shown up this weekend, I’m proud of us. For the most part the protests have been peaceful. We are bearing witness, documenting what’s happening, trying to protect neighbors. When there have been clashes, by and large it’s been federal agents provoking it. They’re out there spraying chemicals, surrounding and beating protesters, detaining people in ways that raise real civil liberties concerns. They’re ignoring court orders about free speech, abusing their power, trampling constitutional rights. And, to the credit of people out on the streets with their phones and whistles, Minnesotans are saying “this is not okay.”

Let’s be honest. I’m privileged to live in a suburb. A mostly white, relatively affluent suburb. I haven’t seen many of the SUVs or agents in their tactical gear. And I certainly haven’t been out protesting. I’m way too risk‑averse for that.

My daughter lives just six miles away. Her neighborhood has a high immigrant population. There’s a large Somali and Hispanic community. She’s seen the SUVs and the guys in military hardware cosplaying heroes. My daughter isn’t white, which means she’s a potential — albeit low‑priority — target for profiling. She also wasn’t born in the United States, which elevates her risk. She (all of us, actually) are carrying passports with us at all times. I’ve always wondered when the “show us your papers” era in America would happen. 2026 seems to be that moment.

But at the same time, I can’t help but wonder what’s a proper way to register my outrage with what’s happening in my city, in my country. How do I go out to a meal knowing that behind the counter, in the kitchen, are honest, hardworking people who are at risk of being detained or assaulted because a bunch of imported agents have been trained to view certain communities with suspicion. I wish this was just hyperbole, that I was overreacting, but I’m not. And here we are.

During the Holocaust, the biggest question for sociologists and historians has been how the everyday person saw what was going on and at worst supported and enabled it, or at best enabled it by staying silent.

I’m reminded of a quote by Holocaust survivor and partisan Abba Kovner:

“It was not Hitler or Goebbels who killed us. It was the baker, the shopkeeper, and the neighbor who, when they put on the uniform, forgot who we were.”

Primo Levi, in The Drowned and the Saved, wrote that during these times the “monsters” were few, but the “functionaries,” the ordinary people who enabled by believing, by ignoring the truth, and by not questioning, were the real danger.

I’m glad that Minnesotans, to a larger extent than even I would have thought, have decided not to enable.

Next Friday, January 23, a general strike has been called in Minnesota. The AFL‑CIO has endorsed this action, taking it from a fringe idea to a significant event of resistance. And it’s going to be –20 degrees. For those keeping score, this isn’t new territory for Minneapolis. In 1934, Teamsters shut down the city in one of the most significant labor actions in American history. They fought the National Guard in the streets. Two strikers died on “Bloody Friday.” And they won. That’s the tradition we’re drawing on — ordinary people deciding that some things are worth standing up for, even when it’s dangerous.

This strike might bring another 1,500 troops from Alaska to support the 3,000 ICE and Border Patrol agents already imported to try to control the situation. Many Minnesotans see this as an attempt to suppress dissent and punish Tim Walz for criticizing the President and his administration. I’ll be watching very closely to see how this plays out. And to all of you out‑of‑state readers, thank you for your concerns so far. Stay tuned — we have a long way to go here in the Frozen North.

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