"Quentin Conversations," A Play

You know that I am a blogger, but did you know that I am also a playwright?  Ah, yes, the secret is now out.  True, I have only written one play, a four act work still in progress because it has no grand finale.  It's also true that my play is what you might call "off Broadway."  In fact it has never been produced, not even locally at Illusion Theater, Mixed Blood or Theater Latte Da.  But still, it is a play, titled Quentin Conversations.

There are two protagonists for whom I have quite randomly chosen the names Johnny Rock and Momma Cuandito.  As this is a work of fiction, you should not interpret the characters to be portrayals of any real life persons.  This includes the character Anne In Act 2.

You will notice that I have employed a stage curtain rising and falling at the beginning and end of each scene.  This is for dramatic purposes only.  I shall leave it to the producer to determine if and when the curtain will come into play.

Some day in the not-too-distant future, when Quentin Conversations becomes the next Lion King, Jersey Boys or Hamilton, you can tell your friends you saw it all here first.

Without further ado, here is Quentin Conversations.

*****

QUENTIN CONVERSATIONS

***

Act 1, Scene 1

The setting:  The dining room of the Quentin Estates, 7:20 p.m. on a mild October Thursday night.  As the curtain rises, Momma Cuan and Johnny Rock have just finished a fine dinner of leftover soup.  They are enjoying a bottle of 19 Crimes, an Australian red.

MC: So, what are you doing tomorrow?

JR: I'm not sure.  I have a whole bunch of things on my list, but none of them is fun.  I don't have anything fun on my calendar.

MC: Well you know, you can't just have fun all the time!  Sometimes you have to do some work.

JR: What do you mean?  I spent 45 minutes washing the dishes this afternoon!

MC, rolling her eyes:  Pfft!

JR:  I guess you're not too impressed with that.  Do you want to switch jobs tomorrow?  I will make dinner and you can wash the dishes.

MC, rolling her eyes again:  Sure.

JR:  Okay.  Do you want frozen sausage pizza or frozen pepperoni pizza?

MC: [silence]

JR: [laughs hysterically at his own joke]

The curtain comes down.

**

Act 1, Scene 2 

The setting:  As the curtain rises it is mid-afternoon on a pleasant February Wednesday.  Johnny Rock is in the dining room of the Quentin Estates, eating the last bite of the lunch to which he has contributed.  He brought home a delicious Jimmy John's sammich -- his usual, # 5 with pep -- which he and Momma Cuan have split halvzie walvzies.  Momma Cuan has served a sumptuous tomato basil soup to complement the sammich.  She has now moved from the dining room to the kitchen, looking for morsels to give their granddaughter, Moosica Dulcinea, who was entrusted to their care by her father, Boogaire. 

JR, trying to mimic the upper crust of Downton Abbey, even though he has never watched that show: Now that I am finished with the second of my two favorite parts of the day, my thoughts are turning to the third.  What have you instructed the QE staff to serve for this evening's repast?

MC: Moraccan pie.

JR: Did you say "rockin' pie"?  What if I would prefer rollin' pie?

MC, after a pregnant pause:  I said MORACCAN pie!

JR:  Oh, I see.  What makes it MORACCAN pie?

MC:  The ingredients.

JR:  Hmm.  I would have never guessed! [Laughs hysterically at his own joke.]

The curtain comes down. 

***

Act 2

The story has now moved to the Dreams Resort near Tulum, which is on the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico.  As the curtain rises, Johnny Rock and Momma Cuandito are in a group of six adults sitting around a table outside the Sugar Reef Bar, enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail at twilight.  One of their party is Anne, a seventy-one year old divorcee who, possibly feeling the effects of several adult beverages consumed throughout the day, is regaling her friends with tales of her recent experiences on the dating scene.

Anne:  I'm not interested in some old guy that I will have to take care of and prepare meals for all the time.  

Johnny Rock: Well, I don't know if that's a good way to look at things.  After all, Momma Cuan takes care of me.

Momma Cuan, without missing a beat:  Yeah, but Anne has a choice!

[The entire group laughs hysterically at Momma Cuan's joke; or was it?]

The curtain falls.

***

Act 3, Scene 1

Our story returns to The Quentin Estates.  It is a chilly Monday May night.  Momma Cuandito has been watching David Letterman's third-to-last show on television.  When the last commercial break comes on, she calls Johnny Rock into the family room so he can watch Dave's music guest, Eddie Vedder, former front man of Pearl Jam.

Two notes into the song, The Rocker recognizes that the tune Vedder will be performing is "Better Man," the only Pearl Jam song on "Pud's Plethora Of Platinum," the greatest compilation of music that ever graced a playlist.

JR: After this song, I'll tell you a quick story about it.

MC: [silence]

Vedder sings the song, and Letterman hugs and thanks him as the closing credits roll.

MC: Good night, I'm going to bed.

JR softly to himself, as MC climbs the stairs: That's okay.  My story wasn't that interesting anyway. 

The curtain comes down.

**

Act 3, Scene 2

As the curtain rises it is a balmy Monday night in the middle of November, certainly an anomaly on the frozen tundra.  Seated in the dining room, the happy couple has just finished another five-star meal prepared by Momma Cuandito at the QE, and now savor solitude and togetherness before she intends to excuse herself to watch The Voice.  Johnny Rock resists the urge to make fun of that show, where contestants you'll never hear from again sing an over-the-top, anguished, truncated version of a song which the original artist did ten times better. 

The couple is twelve days away from hosting Thanksgiving for the umpteenth year in a row, but Momma Cuan is already thinking about getting the house prepared.  As she downs her last sip of Kim Crawford at the table which is adorned with a gray metallic pumpkin centerpiece, her attention is drawn to the wine rack in the corner of the room.  The Rocker has been using the wine rack for the last several weeks to shelve his assortment of four prescription drugs which allow him to keep breathing in his old age. 

MC: Are those your pills sitting there on the wine rack?

JR, looking surprised:  Why yes, I believe they are.

MC: Perhaps you could find another place for them. 

JR:  Well, you took away my shelf space in the master bedroom when you had it refurbished.

MC: [Stone cold silence, accompanied by a glare.]

JR:  I see there's room on the doily surrounding the tin pumpkin.  Would you object if I placed the bottles there?

MC: [Abruptly departs for the family room to watch The Voice.]

JR: [Laughs hysterically at his own joke.]

The curtain comes down.

***

Act 4

As the curtain rises it is Sunday afternoon in early June.  The sun has been out all day, perfect for a long walk down Lyndale Avenue, which is closed to motor vehicles for Open Streets Minneapolis.  The happy couple, married almost forty-one years, is cruising through the city in the lap of luxury, Johnny Rock's 2005 Toyota Corolla which he bought used eleven years ago.  The Rocker is in a great mood.  Open Streets is one of his favorite celebrations, and Momma Cuan has just spotted a convenient on-street parking space.  Life is grand.

JR, driving the car while approaching the parking spot which is a half-block away:  I saw something interesting today on The Font Of All Knowledge, ND Nation, about Phil Mickelson.

MC, reaching for her bag next to her feet: Oh?

JR, now advancing the car to within 30 yards of the targeted spot:  Phil is one of the most accomplished golfers on the PGA tour.  The US Open, which will be two weeks from now in Wisconsin, is the only one of the four major tournaments he has never won.  He has taken second place in the Open six times!

MC, looking in her bag to make sure her reading glasses are in there: [silence]

JR, now pulling even with the car he's going to park behind:  According to ND Nation, Phil is going to skip the Open because the high school his daughter attends in California has scheduled graduation on the Open's starting day.  He's going to attend her graduation.

MC, putting her right hand on the passenger side door handle:  [silence]

JR, starting to back the car into the space:  Some guys on the ND board feel the school should have made sure there would be no conflict between the graduation ceremony and the Open.  It's likely that Phil and his wife are huge contributors to the school.

MC, starting to unfasten her seat belt:  [silence]

JR, pulling forward in the space so that he's equi-distant between the car in front and the car behind:  Other guys on the board are convinced that the school should not show special consideration for any one particular parent.  After all, lots of parents have important jobs and may be inconvenienced by whatever date the school chooses for graduation.

MC, opening the door and placing her right foot on the curb:  [silence]

JR, moving the gear shift to "Park," then turning off the A/C and the radio:  Some guys pointed out that several schools always have their graduation on the same day every year, like the third Thursday in June.  It's a tradition.

MC, swinging around, placing her left foot on the curb and getting out of the car: [silence]

JR turns off the ignition.

MC, while closing the door:  Sounds like a waste of time to me.

JR, now alone in the car:  Oh... I see. 

The curtain falls.

THE END

Baseball Musings On Fathers' Day

This past weekend, Fathers' Day and baseball were intertwined.  Momma Cuan's Fathers' Day present was taking me to the Saturday Twins game which the home town heroes lost by a mere six runs, 9-3 to the Cleveland Indians.  It was the first game of a day/night double header.  The Twins improved in the nightcap, which we did not attend, losing by only four runs, 6-2, but thereby relinquishing first place in the AL Central to their visitors.  We watched most of that second game on TV in the comfort of the Quentin Estates where the beer is free compared to the ten bucks charged at Target Field.

When I went to bed Saturday night I knew the next day was Fathers' Day.  So did everybody else who paid attention to TV and newspaper advertisements throughout the week, not to mention that the big event is always slotted for the third Sunday of June.  I did not fall asleep right away.  My thoughts drifted to the double diamond disaster we'd witnessed that day.  Not only were the Twins swept in the double header, but the Tribe had pummeled them in the series opener Friday night, 8-1.  I ended up dreaming about baseball and, surprisingly (since it had not yet arrived), Fathers' Day.  The dream was actually pleasant, but it came to an abrupt halt when my cell phone vibrated on the nightstand next to the bed, awakening me at 8:10.

I had a text message!  That's a pretty exciting and almost rare occurrence for me, as I typically receive only one or two texts every three or four days.  Because of the subject matter of my dream, my waking thoughts were of Fathers' Day.  I figured the text message was a Fathers' Day greeting, the only question being which of my three kids was the sender.  I wiped the sleep out of my eyes -- thank you, Neil Diamond, for the phrase -- picked up the phone and saw a one word message from Michael: "Terrible."

Wow, that's a fine "How do you do?"  What a thing to write to your father, especially on Fathers' Day.  I always considered myself a decent dad, maybe even a notch above.  (I was going to write "notch or two above" but do not want to get carried away.)  I entered my phone's passcode and opened up the thread.  Aha!  Michael's message did not pertain to Fathers' Day or to me at all.  Rather, he was responding to a message (which read, "Bummer") from friend Andrew Martinson which Andrew had sent late Saturday night following the Twins' disappointing loss.  The correspondence was part of a baseball-themed text thread carried on periodically among Michael, Andrew, Uncle Luker and me.  The thread once included Gina as well, but she admonished us in April not to bother her with our baseball messages unless and until the Twins made it to the World Series.  I wonder if she realizes the Twins have not made it that far in over a quarter-century. My guess is that she does.

I didn't really need an excuse to do so, but I took that early (for me) Sunday morning experience to be a sign that I should write another post about baseball.  I started making mental notes on Fathers' Day, and now I'm ready to write.  What follows are some random observations about my favorite sport.

* Joe Maddon, the manager of the defending World Champion Chicago Cubs, is credited by most baseball observers to be the person who popularized utilizing exaggerated shifts by his players in the field.  Maddon employed defensive shifts regularly during his nine year term as manager of the Tampa Bay Rays.  For example, facing a right handed pull hitter, Maddon might order his second baseman to position himself to the left of second base.  Now almost all of the thirty Major League Baseball teams follow suit.  Some even adjust to a different shift when the batter faces a two strike count, in other words right in the middle of the at-bat.  Spray charts created by a team's scouting staff illustrate where opponents' hitters are inclined to hit the ball.  Managers like Maddon rely on the charts to position the fielders.

Here is the head scratcher.  I have seen many games in which the pitcher seems totally oblivious to where his fielders, especially his infielders, are positioned.  For example, if the infield is shifted so that only the first baseman is between the first and second base bags, the pitcher should pitch inside (i.e., inner half of the plate) to a right handed batter, and outside to a lefty.  His team wants the batter to hit the ball into the shift.   By doing otherwise,the pitcher is making it too easy for the batter to shoot a ground ball to the outfield.  In short, the pitcher and his fielders need to be on the same page.  My inclination is to place a big chunk of the blame on the catcher when this doesn't happen.

* The Twins' starting rotation has two pitchers who are mostly reliable, Ervin Santana and Jose Berrios.  In a typical week, someone else starts three out of every five games.  What has been happening lately is that these other three starting pitchers get shelled early in the game, so the bullpen is called upon to pitch the last six or more innings.  When this happens for several games a week, there are not enough fresh arms in the pen.  Due to physical limitations, a man can only pitch a finite number of innings a week  The upshot is that either the Twins call up a kid from one of their minor league affiliates, or they resort to using their backup catcher, Chris Gimenez, as a relief pitcher.  The two main problems with calling up a pitcher from the minors are (i) the kid is not ready to face MLB hitters (if he were he would probably not be a minor leaguer), and (ii) the team has to demote someone off their twenty-five man major league roster to make room for the newcomer.  The problem with using Gimenez to pitch is obvious: He's not a pitcher, he's a catcher.  Still, as of this writing Gimenez has pitched in six games this season.  The Twins were hopelessly behind in all of them.

Here is an angle regarding Gimenez that is sometimes overlooked.  When manager Paul Molitor brings in Gimenez,  it does not necessarily mean the Twins have depleted their entire bullpen staff.  On the contrary, there may be two or three relief pitchers who could come in to pitch in that game, but Molly is keeping them fresh so that they are available for the next game.  Bottom line:  Gimenez' appearance doesn't always signal that the Twins are out of pitchers.

*  I have a suggestion for the next time you attend a baseball game: Get there a half hour early and walk over to the seats that are along the left field line, about forty feet from the foul pole.  Then take a good look at the expanse of the outfield from that vantage point.  You may be astonished how much real estate just three outfielders have to cover.  The perspective I am suggesting gives you a much better feel for the immensity of the outfield than does looking at the outfield from behind home plate or from any other infield seat (or on TV).

* Right now Jose Berrios is the best pitcher in the Twins franchise, and he just turned a mere twenty-three years old.  I noticed that when he heads back to the dugout following the third out of what he thinks will be his final inning of work for that game, he points toward the home plate umpire and gives him kind of a smiling nod, as if to say, "Good job."  I have seen catchers do this once in a while at the end of ball games, but I can't recall a pitcher doing so.  It is a class act.  I wish I had suggested that bit of sportsmanship to the pitchers I coached back in the day.

In the second-to-last game Berrios pitched (June 15 against the Mariners), he gestured as I described above toward home plate umpire Shane Livensparger at the end of the seventh inning.  Jose thought he was done for the night.  Molitor thought otherwise, since the youngster's pitch count at that point was under ninety, so the manager sent him back out to pitch the eighth.  Berrios got three outs easily, and once again as he walked off the field he acknowledged the ump.  Twins closer Brian Kinsler mopped up in the ninth.

* Another observation, this time a negative one.  When I attend a game I like to see how the fielders get into the "ready position" as the pitcher is about to deliver the ball.  Some guys walk up to the spot they want to be in, some have their glove upturned but very close to the ground, others choose to keep their glove more thigh high, etc.  What they do not do is stand still with their arms at their sides or with their hands resting on their knees.  I am sorry to report that is exactly what Twins' left fielder Eddie Rosario was doing each time I paid attention to him last Saturday.  That is inexcusable.  You have to think that with umpteen coaches in the dugout, one of them must notice that too. 

*  When I was a kid most of my favorite players were on my three favorite teams, the Milwaukee Braves (Eddie Mathews, Hank Aaron and Bobby Thomson), the Chicago Cubs (Ernie Banks, Ron Santo and Billy Williams) and the Chicago White Sox (Luis Aparicio, Nellie Fox and Minnie Minoso).  I also had my favorites who played for other teams such as Ted Kluszewski of the Reds, the Yankees' Gil McDougald, Rocky Colavito of the Indians and Roberto Clemente of the Pirates, to name a few.

Today I seem to base my faves more on what I perceive from their interviews than what their stats show.  For example, who gives a more entertaining interview than Eduardo Escobar, the Twins' unsung hero? On the Twins' post-game show I would much rather hear what Esco has to say than listen to the droning Tim Laudner or the man who must hold the record for putting the most clauses in a single sentence, Roy Smalley.  Kennys Vargas and Miguel Sano are also a lot of fun, trying hard to converse in their second language.  The aforementioned Chris Gimenez seems like a very normal human being, the kind you wouldn't mind having a beer with.

As for non-Twins, two interview standouts are Curtis Granderson of the Mets and Eric Hosmer of the Royals.  Reasons: talented but humble, conversational, happy, and appreciative of their roles, viz., getting paid handsomely to play baseball.

My latest favorite non-Twins player is actually one whom I've never heard interviewed: the Rays' starting right fielder, Steven Souza.  Here is what brought my attention to him.  I attended the Twins-Rays game on May 26.  The Rays were winning 4-0 going into the bottom of the seventh inning.  Joe Mauer led off the inning with a single to center, but Miguel Sano and Max Kepler followed with a strike out and a popup, respectively.  Rays pitcher Chris Archer threw a wild pitch advancing Mauer to second during Kepler's AB.  The next batter was big Kennys Vargas.  Archer threw yet another wild pitch putting Mauer on third.  The crowd of almost 21,000, after waiting over two hours, now had something to get excited about.

On a 2-0 pitch, Vargas hit a soft liner to shallow right-center field.  Right fielder Souza, who is built like a linebacker -- he turned down a football scholarship to Washington State -- lumbered diagonally to his right and dove for the sinking ball.  It was a noble effort, but the humor of the scene trumped the nobility.  Why?  Because the ball landed at least twenty-five feet from Souza's outstretched mitt!  It was the most futile attempted dive I have ever witnessed.  Center fielder Kevin Kiermaier, who probably could not believe what had just transpired, picked up the ball and threw it in to hold Vargas to a single.  Jorge Polanco then flew out to left to strand Vargas and end the inning.  Archer and reliever Alex Colome stuck out four Twins in the final two innings, and the Rays won the game 5-2.

Back to Souza.  His outfield teammate Kiermaier was obviously doling out some trash talk right after the ignominious dive ("The Dive").  Souza had to mask his laughter by bringing his glove up to his face.  Then the Twins video board replayed the Vargas hit and The Dive three or four times.  I'm sure the Twins fans in the right field bleachers -- at least those who were paying attention -- threw catcalls his way.  Of course when he returned to the dugout after the half-inning, Souza had to put up with his teammates' ribbing. 

Wouldn't you know, Souza, hitting in the five hole, was the third batter up in the top of the eighth.  Right before he came to the plate, the Twins brought in relief pitcher Matt Belisle to replace Craig Breslow.  That delay gave the video operator another, even longer opportunity to show The Dive repeatedly on the jumbotron.  As Souza was stepping into the batters' box the video operator came in for a close-up of Souza having a friendly conversation with Twins catcher Jason Castro.  Both then and earlier when he was in the field taking verbal abuse from the fans, Souza was smiling.  This is a guy who has accomplished the art of taking things in stride.  Exhibit A is what happened to Belisle's fourth pitch, a 2-1 fastball.  Souza lined it over the left field wall for his eighth home run of the year.

Movie Review: "My Cousin Rachel"

"My Cousin Rachel": B+.  In the course of the hundred-plus minutes of the mystery, My Cousin Rachel, we viewers are almost certain we've got it all figured out at least four or five times.  But as new facts and clues emerge, we lose confidence in our predictions.  Black veils; strange-tasting Italian tea; overdrawn bank accounts; cryptic letters, signed but unsent, tucked in the pages of an old book; a sleazy lawyer from a foreign country; solo horseback rides to unknown destinations.  There are strange goings on in the English country estate left to twenty-four year old Philip Ashley (Sam Claflin) following the unexpected death of his cousin Ambrose, who had adopted the orphaned Philip years ago.

The estate is located along the far southwestern English coast of Cornwall, but shortly before the story opens, Ambrose has left for Florence, Italy hoping the warmer climate would aid his fragile health.  Letters written by Ambrose to Philip at first seem normal.  Things in Italy are going more than fine.  In fact, he has married a cousin, Rachel (Rachel Weisz), whom he met there.  A few months go by and Ambrose's letters take on a darker tone.  He suspects there is a link between his deteriorating health and his new wife.  He writes that Rachel is extravagant and has a curious relationship with a Florence lawyer named Rainaldi (Pierfrancesco Favino).  He begs Philip to rescue him from Florence.

Philip arrives in Florence too late.  Ambrose has died and the whereabouts of his widow, Rachel, are unknown.  Philip returns to the Cornwall estate and consults his uncle-godfather, Nick Kendall (Iain Glen), who, in the absence of Ambrose, is guardian of the estate.  Kendall has learned that Ambrose has left his fortune, including the country estate, to Philip, who will legally be entitled to take control when he turns twenty-five.  Soon thereafter Philip receives word that Rachel is on her way to Cornwall.

A good portion of the first third of the movie is spent speculating what Rachel will be like.  All Philip knows about her is what he's ascertained from his deceased cousin's abstruse letters.  Accordingly, he is suspicious and skeptical about her intentions.   Before she arrives Philip even humorously disparages Rachel in conversations with the manor's aged servant, Seecombe (underrated Tim Barlow, who masters the art of low key, stoic comedy.) Yet, Philip invites her to stay at his estate; she is, after all, his cousin too.

During the middle third of the film his relationship with Rachel takes the same trajectory as Ambrose's.  Even when things appear to be going well, there is something about the mannerisms and persona of the Italian lady that we sense as being off kilter.  There is no question Rachel is enigmatic, but is she evil?

Director Roger Michell cleverly sets up scenes where we wonder if Philip is in over his head.  He does and fails to do certain things which cause us to ask if the young man is naive, careless, foolish, or all three.  Philip has at his disposal not only the shrewd counsel of his godfather-uncle, Kendall, but also of the family attorney, the cautious and measured Mr. Couch (Simon Russell Beale).  But Philip shrugs off their advice, choosing instead to follow his heart.  More than once he throws documents into a fire thus destroying what we anticipate might have served him well as evidence, should the need arise.  Maybe a major contributing factor to our propensity to question Philip's maturity is that in real life actor Claflin is seventeen years Ms. Weisz' junior.

Cinematographer Mike Eley and editor Kristina Hetherington certainly deserve a tip of the cap.  Interspersed throughout the film, but never to the point of dwelling too long, are many beautifully shot scenes, including arial views, of Cornwall's scenic coast, pastures of bluebells, green rolling meadows and idyllic forests.  Another plus is that, unlike other films set in England, the dialogue is largely coherent to my Midwestern sense of hearing.  That is not to say that, if watching the film at home, I would not opt for subtitles.

Finally, kudos to Rachel Weisz.  Her multi-faceted character is sophisticated, dignified and gentle, while at other times indignant, forceful and wily.  Most importantly, at all times she is mysterious, a necessary ingredient for the success of this movie.       

Kicking Off Summer On The Open Streets

New York City has its mean streets, made famous by director Martin Scorsese's 1973 Mafia film, Mean Streets. In contrast, Minneapolis, once called the Miniapple, has its open streets, or technically Open Streets.  Open Streets Minneapolis is my favorite annual event of the summer.  The celebration is spread out over three months among seven neighborhoods in the city, where motorized vehicles are barred from certain avenues to enable walkers, bicyclists, skate boarders and roller bladers to explore the vicinity safely at their leisure.  It's also a dog lover's paradise. In previous years I've been to OSM in Nordeast and East Franklin Avenue, both enjoyable open air venues.  I've yet to try OSM Downtown, East Lake Street, Nicollet or West Broadway.

For my money, the best OSM event takes place on Lyndale Avenue.  This past Sunday was the third or fourth time Momma Cuan and I have participated in the Lyndale festivities.  The road is closed to traffic from 24th Street south to 54th Street.  We chose to stay within a seven block perimeter, which afforded the best and most concentrated sampling of people watching, eating, drinking and listening to live music.

Rather than give an accounting in the traditional "chapters" style, my post is separated by bars.  After all, how smart would it be to walk miles down a city street on a hot summer day without having the anticipated periodic reward in the form of an ice cold beer to quench your thirst? 

The First Bar:  Muddy Waters.  I am excited to find a place to park our chariot on 25th Street, only two blocks from Lyndale.  Momma Cuan and I mosey up Lyndale to Open Streets' northern boundary, 24th Street.  It is hard to resist entering Minneapolis' best pizza parlor, Leaning Tower, which sits at that intersection, but we would feel too guilt-ridden devouring a meal before barely starting our planned afternoon of walking.

From there we do an about face, heading south toward the heart of the Lyn-Lake neighborhood.  We quickly discover that, although permission to walk down the middle of the otherwise busy street is central to the Open Streets theme, the sidewalks provide much more welcomed shade.  Another central theme is great people watching and camaraderie.  All nationalities, races, languages, religions and hair colors are combining here for early summer fun.  You don't see many Nike swooshes, Adidas triangles or Under Armor linked U and A logos.  In fact, corporate symbols of any kind are unofficially verboten.  Instead, you're more likely to find T-shirts with names of metal bands (Slayer, AC/DC), sports teams (Maple Leafs, Lakers), tourist attractions (Grand Canyon, Daytona) or political statements ("Proud to be a despicable," "I think, therefore I R").  If you don't have a tattoo or a piercing, well, you'll just have to try a little harder to blend in anyway.

It doesn't take long to run into a familiar face, Justin Anderson.  He has mapped out his walking itinerary to catch all the best bands at the festival, even persuading one of them to push back their gig's start time fifteen minutes to fit into his schedule.  He's waiting to hear one of his favorites, the Blood Shots, who are setting up near the Greenway overpass.  Momma Cuan and I walk a little further and hear a jiving group of percussionists keeping the beat to a recorded Latin up-tempo tune.  They invite passersby to grab an instrument and join in.  Momma Cuan urges me to pick up a drum stick and a homemade, hand-held double cowbell.  I figure I'll never see these people again, so why not?  Of course she takes a picture of me playing and immediately plasters it on Facebook.

Between the Greenway bridge and Lake Street there must be a dozen watering holes to pick from.  That is a major reason we've chosen this stretch of Lyndale.  Having walked eight or nine blocks since we left our car, we are ready for a beer.  Most other OSM participants are thinking alike, so we can't be too choosy.  We duck into the closest one, Lago Tacos.  We've been there several times before for happy hour, particularly enjoying their patio.  But on this day the place is packed, causing us to keep on strolling down Lyndale.  We stop to watch a terrific sextet called Jack Brass Band, sounding as good as anything we heard on our last trip to New Orleans.  The front man, a pleasant fellow, is a burly trombone player who is accompanied by a skinny trumpeter, plus a sax, a tuba, a snare and a bass drum.  The Dukes Of Dixieland would be proud.  After several ragtime chestnuts, their final song is a sing-along, When The Saints Go Marching In.  There is not one person in the circle of spectators who isn't smiling.

All that singing and cow bell playing, not to mention the walking and the heat, now has me really parched.  Muddy Waters is close at hand.  We are pleasantly surprised to find two unoccupied stools at the bar.  I never thought this suds emporium would have room!

Muddy Waters, once an obscure coffee house kitty corner from Leaning Tower before relocating within 200 yards of Lake Street, has a reputation for having one of the best beer selections in all of Minneapolis.  It's also known for hiring bartenders who have a thorough knowledge of their inventory, and who are more than willing to offer suggestions and samples.  I almost feel guilty opting for a beer that I've had many times before, Deschuttes Freshed Squeezed IPA, but I am currently more thirsty than adventurous.  Momma Cuan, being the local economy supporter that she is, selects B-Side Pilsner from Indeed Brewing, a Nordeast craft brew purveyor.

One reason we like to sit at the rail is the potential for interesting conversations with the bartenders.  Such is the case today.  One of them overhears Momma Cuan mention to me the name Mike O'Keefe, her former counterpart as Director Of Admissions at De La Salle High School.  The bartender, who later introduces himself as Chloe, says he went to De, class of '09, and remembers O'Keefe well.  The three of us talk about De La Salle and their long time boys' basketball coach, Dave Thorson.  After winning the last six Class 3A state championships at De, Thorson recently took an assistant coaching position at Drake University.  The conversation also mentions some De staff members who are common acquaintances of Momma Cuan and Chloe.  Finally when it's time to tab out, Chloe points at us, makes a clicking sound and says with a smile, "These are on me." 

The Second Bar:  The Country Bar.  All of our activity so far has been on the east side of Lyndale.  But upon exiting Muddy Waters we hear a rocking' band performing on a sidewalk stage across the street at the VFW.  A large crowd has gathered to watch the Black Widows, a girl band.  The tall lead singer is somehow energetically dancing and singing on key without breaking a sweat -- very athletic.  The lead guitarist and keyboard player might be sisters, slightly built with straight blonde hair, bright red lipstick and proficient on their instruments.  The keyboardist reminds me of the French models in the famous 1985 Robert Palmer music video of Addicted To Love, her face expressionless while her hips sway rhythmically to the beat.  A physically strong drummer and a functional bass player comprise a nice rhythm section.  In front of the raised stage is a group of six women, all wearing Black Widows T-shirts, who are doing a kind of improvised snake dance.  Like the musicians, most of the troupe is wearing ripped black nylons.  They obviously are Vikings fans, the tipoff being the purple streaks running through their hair.  All that is missing is a pole dancer.  These chicks would be a hit in Pigalle.  Great entertainment from a band that I would like to see again.

It is now time to check out what is happening south of Lyndale.  Like the 2900 block of Lyndale we've just left, there are plenty of options to grab a cold one in this 3000 block as well.  I suggest we check out The Country Bar, which neither of us has been in since the remodeling undertaken a year ago by its new owner.  Momma Cuan likes my idea; I come up with a good one about once every other month.

In our view, The Country Bar is known for three things.  First, as astonishing as it seems given that it used to be the quintessential dive bar, their chicken wings in the old days were fantastic; large, meaty, hot, not too greasy, with a tasty dry rub and in a generous serving.  Second, who can forget the night our daughter Jill performed a Motown song during karaoke, standing on a table and pouring her heart out to the inebriated masses below?  "We love you, Minneapolis!"  Third, perhaps the greatest Trip Advisor review I've ever read pertained to The Country Bar.  The reviewer was recalling his first experience there as he sat at the bar waiting for his take-out order of wings to emerge from the kitchen.  A crusty, grizzled regular, smelling of stale beer, sidled up to him and asked, "What do you think was the Beatles' greatest album?"  Then, a half-second later added, "You'd better say Abbey Road or I'll [*]ing kill ya."

We score two seats, the best in the house, at the open window overlooking Lyndale.  Our server, Samantha, seems genuinely happy to see us.  Do we remind her of her parents or -- perish the thought -- her grandparents?  A better guess was that she's a pleasant young lady, a "people person" who enjoys her job.  Momma Cuan and I both order Bent Paddle Pils, one of my top three non-hoppy beers made in the Gopher State (Duluth).  But we are here not only to sip some suds.  We also want to check out the chicken wings so we can compare the new Country Bar's rendition to the wings that put the old bar on the map.  The verdict: These new ones are not bad at all, although not memorable.

A microcosm of Open Streets is taking place right before our eyes as we relax with Bent Paddle in hand.  Walkers, joggers, little kids, dogs, cops, hippies, war veterans, hucksters, senior citizens, wheelchair users, bikers, bladers, all parading and meandering within view.  The most intriguing scene is a faux wrestling ring set up in the street a few yards to our right.  People are lined up five-deep on each side of the ring to cheer on their favorite grappler, who in real life is probably an actor from the Fringe Festival.  Just like pro rassling, each bout features a hero and a villain.  Some are dressed with capes, masks or skull caps.  The crowd loudly cheers.  The best contest is saved for last.  The "bad guy" stands about six feet six and is built like Dwayne Johnson.  The fans boo him lustily.  The "good guy" is about as big as a jockey, with not a discernible muscle in his body.  For three minutes the giant tosses the poor underdog around like a stuffed animal, thrusting the poor guy's back into the turnbuckle and slamming him to the bouncy canvas.  The angry witnesses can barely watch.  Then suddenly the tide turns.  The lightweight gets up on a top rope and comes down hard on his opponent.  Next he uses a martial arts move to stun the dazed behemoth who can't get up.  The joyous crowd is stunned.  The referee raises the longshot's arms in the air, the symbol of victory.  Good triumphs over evil! 

The Third Bar: The Bulldog.  Before heading back north in the general direction of our car, we walk south on Lyndale toward 31st Street.  There is a so-called arcade bar, the Up-Down, which I didn't know was there, a few store fronts from The Country Bar.  My guess is that the Up-Down caters to the college crowd; no thanks.  Next to that is another new place, Szechuan Spice, a restaurant which I immediately put on my list of places to check out at some near future date.

Now finally heading back north, we re-cross Lake Street and hear more terrific music coming from the VFW.  The band Casual Confusion has taken over the stage vacated by the Black Widows.  The diverse high-powered quartet is really rockin' the block, attracting several hundred onlookers.  Casual Confusion has two musicians who share lead guitar duties.  They both can shred it.  The electric bass player and drummer are at the top of their games too.  The band delivers the best cover of Prince's When Doves Cry I have ever heard.  In fact, I like it way better than The Purple One's original.

We stay until the end of Casual Confusion's set, then continue up Lyndale.  By now our footsies are starting to yelp.  The line to get ice cream at Milkjam Creamery in the 2700 block is just as long as it was two hours ago, probably at least twenty minutes.  We reluctantly take a pass.

In keeping with our tradition, Momma Cuan and I know very well what our last OSM stop is going to be The Bulldog, located just north of 26th Street.  Our son-in-law, Uncle Luker, used to tend bar here on Sundays which made it a natural final resting place -- in a good way.  I have mostly fond memories of this spot, except for that one afternoon about five years ago when a young bartender tried to talk me out of ordering a Delirium Tremens.  If my mind reading sensibilities were correct that day, I believe he took one look at my gray hair and figured the old codger couldn't handle a beer with an alcohol content of 9%.  I fooled him by drinking three.  Well, okay, that last sentence is an exaggeration, but I did in fact have one.

The Dog still has DT on tap, but I decide to go with Pyres Miraculum, which has become my favorite local (Minnetonka, I believe) brew, regardless of style.  A manager at Golden Valley's New Bohemia steered me on to this delicious liquid which has become so popular the demand by taverns for it has, at this point, exceeded the craft brewery's supply.  Momma Cuan opts for Kwak, a Belgian beer poured into its own unique vessel which in turn is held up by a wooden clamp.  MC insists she likes the beer, but the fact is that her holding the easily identifiable tall Kwak glass in the clamp makes for another Kodak Moment.

While sitting at the rail we have an excellent view of the televised Twins-Angels game from Anaheim.  The first place Twinkles are beating the Haloes.  Many of the Dog's customers are watching.  The bartenders are working hard but taking time to converse with the patrons.  People who, like us, had been participating in Open Streets keep streaming in.  It is a very fun atmosphere.

A forty-something couple arrives and finds a spot to stand next to me at the corner of the rail.  We make small talk for a few seconds while they order two cocktails.  My attention is diverted; the next time I look to my left they have moved.  It isn't until fifteen minutes later that I see two one dollar bills lying on the bar more or less in front of me.  I soon realize that I am not 100% sure whose two bucks those are.  Did I already pay for our round, in which case I left that money for a tip, or was it left by that couple, in which case I have not already paid.  My inability to know is embarrassing.  I am only on my third beer of the day.  Do I blame this lapse on the beer or on my rapt attention to the baseball game and Momma Cuan's conversation?  I sheepishly ask Momma Cuan to solve the mystery.  No luck; she does not know who put that money down.  I don't want to walk out and stiff the bartender, but by the same token I don't want to double pay.  I need to trust that the bartender is honest, so I ask, "Did I already pay you?"  He answers, "Yes." I should have known that Bulldog bartenders are honest. I throw two more smackers down and we are out of there.  Another wonderful Open Streets is in the books.