The curse and blessing of originating in beautiful northern Minnesota is that there is no easy way to get there. Yesterday, a long gray van called Executive Express hauled me and several other squashed human cargo from the Minneapolis airport to various stops northward. Five and a half hours and two vehicle switches later, I was finally home in the woods. As long as I was wedged in that seat in the waning light, I took some field recordings of our driver, Larry. He is a classic Minnesota Old Guy, accent and all.
What happened to the Greyhound stop in Alexandria, you may wonder? Listen on:
Finally, we loaded the final human into the van and headed out of "the metro," as Larry refers to it. It's already five o'clock, we've been in the van for an hour, and the combo of rush hour and holiday traffic is a sea of still headlights stretching before us. But, as Larry and the front-seat passenger somberly discuss here, Some People Have It A Lot Worse.
All I'm going to say about the movie Fargo is that watching it at Oberlin when it came out was really, really weird, and it made me feel a little defensive. Marge Gunderson is every hockey mom I know, and I love her. But the rest of them, too much. I didn't watch it again for ten years. I'm going to finish this thought later. The sauna has wiped me out.
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