Place #12: Art-A-Whirl PART 1

This is it. This is the last place.

I feel overwhelming pressure to bring out the fireworks for this one, to woo you with all that I have left in what little there is to me to begin with. This may be the last of the Twelve, but it’s not quite the end. I have one more post to write after this one. It will be then, Reader, that I’ll bring out the fireworks, the sparklers, the pops and bangs of a hopefully grand exit.

Right now: Art-A-Whirl.

I began my morning with obligation. I had decided to go to the Walker Art Center as my final place. My chief objective was to rant and rave about modern art and quite snootily turn my nose up at it and let the world know my opinions on the idea of a red square in the middle of a canvas being conceived as actual art. Oh it’s art all right. It’s called con art. Bullshit. But alas! My opinions were to be tucked away for another time.
The morning was not kind to me. I decided to hit a few garage sales before getting ready for the Walker Art Center. I left the house in minimal make-up, running pants, cheap dorky shoes, and a goofy T-shirt I only wear around the house. Clouds were predicting my fate, but I ignored them. I shouldn’t have. Rain came down like the wrath of god, and after successfully getting only half-drenched at the first garage sale I went to, purchasing a fine deal on a tool box and tools, my luck faltered from not-too-bad to get-me-the-hell-out-of-here.

The rain was torrent. I tried another garage sale as the pellets of water shot down from above as if heaven and its angels were armed with machine guns. I ran into the garage only to see a man looking at me with pity as he says, “Sorry, we just packed everything up for Good Will…” All the cars in the driveway were very deceiving, I think to myself. The open garage door was quite deceiving too. Take your stupid signs down, then, man. Damnit. I had parked a few spots down the road. I turned, I sighed, and ran pell mell back through the bullets of rain and into the car. Completely soaked I sat in the car for a few minutes thinking how the weather was all together a horrible omen. I did not feel like going to Walker at all. This was supposed to be it. This was the end of the month of May and I had to finish my blog places rain or shine, hail or tornado, and I was pissed about it.

I had other things on my mind too. This didn’t help my mood. I was obsessing, as usual, about things that in the long grand scheme of things don’t matter at all in the end. I have a frequent, nasty habit of over-analyzing the minutest of problems, driving myself mad through the muck of it. I had recently ran myself through a very long stretch of muck, and here I was wet, cold, disappointed, unmotivated, and feeling exponentially sorry for myself. As I blasted the heat in the car, my hair went up into an almost instant fro.

I had left the house in the hopes of finding furniture for my future apartment. I had left the house in hopes of being productive. I spent $50 to fill a gas tank that wasn’t even mine, all to drive around in a perpetual downpour through a town forty minutes away from home, find nothing but a toolbox and the conclusion to my mood which was borderline clinical depression. Every once and awhile I go through a painful period of self -loathing and hopelessness. I get discouraged easily – not an easy thing to admit, let me tell you. I’m tempted to hit that delete key right now… But no. This blog is about personal growth. You can’t grow if you don’t start confessing to the things that are ugly about who you are. You can’t change them unless you confront them.

So. This was one of my down moments. I was feeling like I was never going to be able to move on and get out of my parents’ basement. In consequence I was feeling like I was never going to be able to date properly, to live my own life properly, to be myself entirely in an environment of independence. I was regretting the wasted money on gas. I was regretting coming out at all. I should’ve just showered, put on the good make-up, put on a descent set of clothes instead of the frump garb I was donning, and gone to Walker.

I headed home. I was driving my mother’s CRV (for I had set out with hopes of finding furniture, remember) and I had the radio on. I never listen to the radio, really. But as I was zoning in and out of grief and despair over the fate of my patheticness and whether or not I was ever going to be cured of it, something the DJ said on the radio snapped me out of it. She was saying something about Art-A-Whirl being today… I had completely forgotten about this grand event, brought to my attention no less than from the man I’ve been dating. He mentioned it on our first date, at Merlin’s. I had completely forgotten about it. Fate! When it’s convenient, I believe in it. This was one of those moments when I believed.

I made the long way home. I hopped onto my laptop and searched for Art-A-Whirl information. Held throughout the art district of Minneapolis, Art-A-Whirl is a sort of festival of independent art shows held in studios throughout the district. They’re held in random buildings like churches, apartments, et cetera. Jotting down the info I needed in my trusty little notebook, I tried to psych myself up to go. I didn’t want to. I was torn. I felt rushed. The weather was no help. But I really wanted to make myself do it. I knew it was the perfect way to end my blog, but I was wishing that I had been in a brighter, more positive version of myself rather than the slug version that was possessing my spirit. So I left the house, still in my awful frump garb and ungodly frizzy hair with the intention that I would pop down there, take a bunch of pictures, visit a handful of exhibits and call it a day. Get it over with and just go. So that’s what I did.

The sun decided to make an appearance on my way down. It decided to make a very hot appearance. I drove down the streets of northeast Minneapolis watching all the people walk the sidewalks to the exhibits and I felt an extreme sense of regret: I should’ve changed my clothes. I should’ve done my hair. I should’ve freshened up my make-up. I felt like I was thirteen again. This is not a pleasant feeling to experience when your actual age is those numbers switched around: 31. I confronted a lot of old demons as I was trying to be brave and find a parking place. Being in public was the very last thing I wanted at this moment. But there comes a time when you really have to pep talk yourself out of adolescent insecurities and realize that how you’re dressed and how your hair looks is one of the least important things in the world. Grow up. Grow up, Jess.

I found a parking place down a cobblestone road and over some train tracks. Free parking. This definitely works for me.

I took some interesting pictures of the tunnel. Train tracks, for some reason, are extremely reliable subject matter. You can’t take a picture of something that leads endlessly into a horizon without it having some sort of profound effect on your senses.

I found my way to the Waterbury building exhibits.

There was live music, tents with food and beer, and an assortment of people from all ages, all styles, and all walks of life. Hipsters and republicans alike.

I always marvel at how art connects people. We truly do share the same skins and bones. Our costumes vary, as well as our souls, but we all want and need the same wants and needs. Little did I know exactly what my wants and needs were, but by the end of this adventure? I did. It became apparent that change in my life was definitely necessary. I just had to figure out how to be brave enough to embrace it. And do it.

Place #11: Albert Lea

I packed the vegetable plants into the backseat of my car and headed home. I was planning on tilling the garden and putting in the goods that Sunday afternoon, but on the drive home I got a call from one of my New York friends (who still lives there), one of the Fab Four that makes up me, my best friend, and the two girls we met in kindergarten twenty five years ago. I hadn’t seen her (or the other two) since my best friend had her baby daughter two years ago. Two years is a very long time for any of us four to go without seeing each other. We’re nothing short of sisters if not closer.

She asked me what I was doing today, which I thought was odd. “Just putting in my garden,” I say, wondering why she didn’t want to talk about why she had been trying desperately to get a hold of me for the past twenty four hours. I had read all of her texts, got her voicemails, heard her voice on the machine at home, but hadn’t had a chance to call her back quite yet. I was assuming she either had something extremely juicy to tell me, or something extremely heavy. So when she asked such a casual, small-talk sort of question like, “What are you doing today?” I was slightly confused. She proceeded to say, “So…would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I was speechless. Did I hear that right? I have really bad hearing you know… “What?” is what I said. She laughed and repeated herself. I’m pretty sure I said “What?” at least three times before she explained how it was possible for her to meet me for dinner.
As it turned out, she was in Iowa visiting her brother and after seeing a road sign for Minneapolis she realized that she was only four hours away from me. I can’t remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure I squealed most of my words thereafter.

We decided to meet in Albert Lea, a two hour drive for both of us. I’ve heard of Albert Lea. It’s in the southern part of Minnesota which was the only reason I decided to use it as a blog spot. I needed a southern place to tag on to my twelve seeing on how most of my places have been city joints. There’s a reason most of my places have been city joints, though, and Albert Lea is proof that there really is nothing left to Minnesota’s redeeming qualities other than the city.

The drive down was un-expectedly exhilarating in its own way. It was a gorgeous, blue-sky, sunny sort of day where the light is so Kodak clear that you literally feel like you’re floating through a photograph, where the white of the clouds is luminous white, and the blue of the sky is lurid and crisp. As I passed the infinite stretches of fields and flatlands, I suddenly remembered that I had been down this way before.
This was not the first time I’ve driven through southern Minnesota. The last time I was here, on this highway, I was twenty one years old and heading for Florida to start a new life away from the place I hated so much. An overwhelming urge to relive the excitement of running away overcame me. I wanted to hit the road again. I wanted to drive across the country, again, not knowing how my recklessness was going to play out, and being positively thrilled about it. I wanted to re-live that adventure, re-taste the world for the first time, to experience being naïve and ignorant and sheltered all over again simply to regain the high of exploring a new life.

It’s sad, getting older. Even as an adult you still pass through phases and decades that bring you through a shedding of your skin, a loss of innocence, a newly replaced free-spirit with an older, cautious one. Ten years ago I could get into a car with nothing but a few hundred dollars and hit the road safely relying on nothing but a gamble that I would find a job quick enough to sustain me upon destination. I remember I had nothing but ten bucks in my pocket by the time I had reached Florida. I was fortunate that I found two jobs immediately. That sort of fortune doesn’t play out anymore. My second trip to Florida proved that plenty. That sort of recklessness (naiveté) only favors the young it seems.
As I drove I felt a sense of melancholy for the loss of that spirit, or at least the fading of it. I still now and again dive foolishly into things that usually fail in the end, but I certainly don’t do it with the confidence and gusto that I used to have. I’m far more cautious, insecure, anxious and practical than I used to be.

However…

When I was on that highway…

When I was heading for that horizon that never got closer…

When I was passing the fields glowing emerald in the sun, and the old farm houses that were unfamiliar, and the road signs that marked my path…

Oh, Reader! I felt like I had found a bit of my old self again, a bit that I actually wanted back. It was the beginning of something. I didn’t feel cautious, or insecure, or anxious, or practical anymore. I felt like I was twenty one, and even though I rationed that I could never be again, it didn’t stop me from believing that simply because I’m older now my adventures don’t have to come to an end. No. They need to begin. Something new has to happen in my life now.

My friend (and her brother) and I met at The Green Mill restaurant. After having to hand back a medium well done steak that was pinker than my rare one, and after realizing that I was charged four dollars for the extra cherry tomatoes I requested for my salad, I slipped the little china bowl that the tomatoes came in right into my purse. Forgive me, Reader. I seek satisfaction in the simplest (albeit illegal) forms of justice. The grown-up thing to do, I guess, would’ve been to gripe about the price of the tomatoes. But taking the bowl was somehow more exhilarating and satisfying.

After driving around the deserted Sunday streets of town, taking photos of buildings that have been standing for clearly more than a hundred years, we found a park to take some pictures in. We stood by a giant oak tree and quite traditionally snapped some memories into permanent existence. It was a lovely, lovely day.

We said our goodbyes with the promise that we would see each other again in July when I would be coming to visit New York. I left knowing that I’d never have the slightest interest in returning to Albert Lea ever again, but was overcome by the unexpected revitalizing the road trip had done for my spirit. Albert Lea means nothing to keeping me in Minnesota. But the reliving of the memory of ten years ago brought something back to life in me. I don’t want to leave Minnesota, no. But this small sprout of inspiration has swelled a once shriveled desire for change and growth. I’ve been dormant these past four years. It is time to move forward again.

Place #10: Brit's Pub, Minneapolis

I was slightly lost... as usual, of course (in more ways than one).

I pulled into the parking garage closest to Nicollet Mall and crossed my fingers. I was slightly panicked (sort of, in a way…) about which direction to take once I got out of my car and started walking. As I exited the garage and stood on the corner of 2nd (and was it, 11th?), I sought out a ridiculously desperate option. I don’t know what came over me, really. It’s an unexplainable phenomenon the way a woman processes a semi-crisis through some sort of uncontrollable primitive reflex that results in nothing more than a moment lost to the dignity of believing oneself to be beyond such impulses. But there I was, submitting to that reflex, that inadvertent vie for attention, or affection, or protection from a person you’re attracted to. I took out my phone and called my date, and playing nothing short of a damsel in distress I left a voicemail in a voice that was a slightly higher octave than normal, using words like, “I’m lost! Help me!” Oh, Jessica. Tisk, tisk. Immediately after I hung up, I took a look around and saw Nicollet Mall straight ahead of me. Good grief. Seriously, Woman? Own up to your independence just a tad, will you? I literally rolled my eyes at myself and started walking toward the green street sign that practically shouted “Nicollet Mall, you idiot!” Brit’s was right around the bend.

Cool joint, let me tell you. Outstretched across the sidewalk area was a large outdoor front patio, European flags fluttering high above on poles jutting out from the rooftop. Through the pair of huge, front wooden doors there was a couch area to my right, and the bar to my left. Above a faux fireplace was the Queen, in all of her majestic glory, gazing down upon the patrons from a golden frame high on the wall. In fact, if you gave a good look around she was sort of everywhere (which was slightly unnerving).

More flags hung from the fourteen foot plus high ceiling over the entryway barroom of the pub, and straight ahead was a wide stairwell with an English style banister leading up to the roof. Off to the back left of the place was another room, another bar. My date and I finally met up and headed upstairs to the rooftop.

Reaching the rooftop I was greeted by a bright red British telephone booth to my left (anyone going to the Ministry of Magic?),

and out in front of me was an impressive acre of stonewalled-in lawn for lawn bowling. Ho. Here it was, Reader. This was one of the most important reasons I wanted to come here: lawn bowling.

Lawn bowling, however, was something I had never heard of until I read about it on Brit’s website, and in my ever hopefully charming ignorance and childlike imagination I had deduced “lawn bowling” to be something far more primitive and college-party invented (like beer pong). What I had envisioned in my head was… well, slightly cartoonish and abstract, and extremely ridiculous. I imagined a sort of chaotic ecstasy of strangers bowling with American bowling balls down unmarked lanes toward pins that were ideally (and rather dangerously) set up by hand. I imagined drunk, happy-go-lucky people getting in each other’s way, bonding through intoxication and mishap, through accidents and non-competitive natures. I literally saw piggy-back rides, people rolling bowling balls through the legs of friends lined up in a row, bowling balls cracking into each other as drunken competitors couldn’t keep their lanes straight, all with the grand, unrealistic idea that not one person would be irritated or outraged by the chaos but rather embrace it with this sort of marvelous rapture. Utopia. I was imagining a ludicrous utopia. (I am such a hippie…)

When I first saw the lawn out in front of me, presenting itself as an empty, pristine, almost professional looking stadium, I thought, “Huh. Not at all what I had in my head….” That was clearly an understatement. My date knew a little more about it than I did. He said that lawn bowling (which is an actual British sport) was similar to croquet. Oh. Huh. In comparison to my fantasy, this sounded dry-heavingly boring. Bowling, to me, means throwing a heavy ball and knocking things down. Doing it drunk is even more exhilarating and expelling. But alas! This was not a probability.

Across the lawn mounted on an adjacent building wall was an enormous flat screen.

Apparently they show movies for the rooftop patrons from time to time, a definite reason to return. On the massive walls of the pub itself were larger than life sized score boards and pub advertisement murals. Everything about this place screamed mass enormity and bold scales of size. The rooftop patio was large enough to fit hundreds of people. I was impressed, indeed.

Service for the night, however, was a little subjective. I think we happened to get a waitress who may have been at the end of her shift, or was just not having the right kind of day. For no apparent reason she snatched away our drink menu without asking if we were done with it. After two drinks, this is not okay. Maybe I looked at her wrong…? I have that effect sometimes. My face responds to the stupid things I’m thinking about, and I often give strangers a stink eye without meaning to. Oh that Jessica and her random stink eye…

After shamelessly taking pictures of people in fanny packs, sandals and kaki shorts, slutty short skirts and other interesting apparel, we ended up transporting ourselves inside down to the entryway barroom.

The couch under the largest painting of the Queen was recently vacated, so I made the executive decision to bounce myself on to it. Comfy! There was a great deal of “people watching” from this point of view, including several bachelorette parties that wandered in.

One particular bride carried in a giant blow-up doll in the shape of a cactus with a semi-offensive Mexican man’s face drawn on to it.

I asked her if I could take a picture of her with it, and in her spunk she invited me to sign the cactus. She handed me a Sharpie, and as I was slow to think from my buzz the most clever thing I could think to write on it was, “Me so hot!” right above the genitalia area. Had I been a little more sober I would’ve gone with using a dirty “poke” or “prickly” pun. Darn it all. I finished my stupid little phrase with a scribbly, unreadable “JC”.

We eventually left Brit’s to hit another joint, but I left feeling pretty satisfied with this find. I will definitely be returning to this hotspot.