THE WYMAN WEEKLY

Underemployed. Unattached. Unimpressed.

Issue 42 March 6, 1997

 

 

 

This issue is dedicated to an English teacher I had my senior year of high school. I recently realized that she has been the forgotten influence on my writing. In one of my writing classes, we were discussing how high school encourages you to think analytically, not creatively. Sentences are to be written properly and with proper grammar. And you were almost always encouraged or demanded to write about serious subjects. The aforementioned teacher never let me write about music or anything that I experienced day-to-day, I ended up writing about stuff so boring that I don’t remember most of the subjects. I remember wanting to write my final paper on the history of rock ‘n’ roll, and had to write it instead on the farm crisis. And this was before Farm Aid - so it was, in the words of the Stooges, “No Fun.” So I’ve realized the last fourteen years of my writing have been in willful and deliberate defiance of ol’ Ms. Snooty.

 

FIRST AVENUE

 

In the middle of a nasty head cold, I toughed it out and went to the Matthew Sweet show at First Avenue last weekend. Matthew put on a solid, fun, and loud - but clear - show. Buy one of his albums if you want to hear brilliant songwriting and Hendrixesque tunes. (You thought I was going to say “Beatlesesque” didn’t you? Go ahead and ostracize me - but M. Sweet has been influenced as much by Jimi as by the Fab Four. Or maybe just dismiss the fact that a tune such as “Girlfriend” not only has riffs running against the rhythm - a Hendrix move - but that when I asked my buddy Tim if he thought the guitar in it sounded like Jimi, he said “the whole band sounds like the Experience” and he’d know because he used Electric Ladyland to exorcise an office once.)

 

I entered the club and headed to the change machine, looking for a dollar’s worth of quarters. The machine kept rejecting my dollar. This tall (to paraphrase Liz Phair: she was standing six foot one...) brunette young cutie approached me and asked “do you need a good dollar?” My thoughts to this question, in this order: 1) if I talk to you, is your boyfriend going to beat me up? 2) you look too young to be in here, but if you’re twenty-one, that means I’m ten years older than you ... I’m ten years older than a lot of people in this place...man, am I old... 3) when your boyfriend beats me up, will he use that pool cue in his hand or will he use his fists? I think he should use his fists, because he’s taller than me and so are you -  so why are you talking to an old, short guy?

 

Anyway, I mumbled something stupid, my dollar worked, her boyfriend got her attention (just gimme three steps), and I headed upstairs to get myself a Leiny.

 

FIRST AVENUE (SLIGHT RETURN)

 

If you’re going to order a beer at First Avenue, try ordering one from the bartender who works up at the main bar in the balcony. He’s always on the far right side of the bar, you’ll spot him by his white shirt and mustache. This guy rules! His eyes roam the bar, seeing who needs a drink, no time for small talk, once he serves you up and acknowledges your tip, he’s looking for someone else to pour for. And above all, he’s fast.

 

Another thing you should know about ordering beer at First Avenue: when you’re down on the main floor, there’s no need to leave your spot and fight the crowd to get out to a bar to order another one. The club has these guys and gals who carry cases of longnecks around on the floor, and you can order one up from them. But last weekend, I ordered up a long neck and didn’t bother to see what I ordered. The guy carrying the case was tall and I couldn’t see what brand of bottles he was carrying above his head. I assumed it would be a Rolling Rock or a Grain Belt Premium (that’s what they usually serve on the floor) and it turned out to be a MILLER LITE! The worst beer ever made, period. The beer so bad that way back in ‘88 I drank three of them on a Sunday afternoon and couldn’t taste anything until Tuesday. So I stood there with a Miller Lite in my hand and debated not drinking it. Just setting it aside and waiting for the Rolling Rock guy to come around. But, you remember, I had a cold and couldn’t taste much. So I sipped on the devil’s own brew and didn’t gag. Thank goodness the Lite was in a bottle, so I didn’t get that pure taste of tin that you get with a can of Lite. So I drank the Lite, being sure to peel the label off of it as soon as possible. And, as always, when the last swallow was done, I looked at the Lite and said “never again.”

 

I’m trying real hard to think of any thin guys I know who faithfully drink light beer.

 

HE SHOOTS...

 

A few issues back I mentioned that I have scored a remote desk and a project without a set deadline. What I forgot to mention was the third part of the sweet trifecta: my desk doesn’t have a phone. The office has direct lines, which means people do quite a bit of interoffice communicating via their phones. But if someone in finance wants to talk to Temp Boy, they have to get up and walk all the way across the third floor to find me. Apparently, that is too much (probably ‘cause if they do stop by I’m gone in the kitchen grabbing some coffee and a peek at the sports page anyway) so folks only stop by to say hi. And because I have a smile for everyone I meet, shooting the shit with Wyman isn’t just for the finance folks anymore.

 

HE SCORES!

 

Wednesday afternoon was like a three-hour power play. (Deleted) (woo woo! my secret crush in the office - she looks like Stephanie Seymour and talks like Dana Scully) stopped by to discuss how your use of highlighters can reveal your true personality, then (deleted) dropped in to talk college hockey. (Deleted) came by to look at my way-cool screensavers, then the VP of Margaritaville stopped in to let me know that one of the other VP’s has cable TV in his office and that I should let him know next time I want to watch some high school hockey tournament action.

 

I’VE GOT ALL 21 CANS

 

A while back, a group of people walked by my desk. They were reminiscing about the old days and a gal in her early forties said “and Grain Belt was The Brew That Grew With The Great Northwest.” Everyone oohed and ahhed that she knew this. Of course, all of you out there know that Schmidt was The Brew That Grew, while Grain Belt was distinguished by being “from perfect brewing water.”

 

NOBODY PARTS TWO RIVERS MET (stole that from Liz Phair)

 

I think it should be noted that on the Honeydogs’ last album, Adam Levy sings the words “Grand Forks.” When you combine this with the fact that the cover photo from Martin Zellar’s first album was shot at the Westward Ho, you begin to wonder if good ol’ GF isn’t some sort of Mecca for our Minneapolis rockers.