This is just wrong. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. As I was walking past the Norwest Center today, I noticed this sign on the ground. There was a matching rectangular wound over the door. These signs are being taken down to reflect the new ownership, the merger, the absorption of a fine old local tradition by an outsider. Today the Norwest Center became the Wells Fargo Tower. At least they want us to think that’s the name. Makes you realize why old Wilbur engraved his handle on the side of his beloved obelisk; doesn’t matter who owns that building, it’s clear what the name is, was, and forever shall be. Likewise for Norwest - for some people, it’ll always be the Norwest Tower. Even that name is a compromise, an 80s bit of compression that squoze the Norwestern National Bank into two bland syllables. But that name still meant something to the locals - it was like looking at your car after it had been dumped in the compactor, and recognizing a piece of the hood ornament. Wells Fargo? No. Wrong.
Monday I take all my money out.
Ordinary Thursday. Grim start, though - as if the birds weren’t enough, city workers showed up at 7:30 AM and began to work on the street, spraying black tar everywhere. At the same time the garbage trucks came along, AND the lawn mower service showed up for a neighbor. I awoke to this racket, and thought: well, maybe I should just get up, then. But I screwed in my earplugs and drifted back to sleep. Eventually everything fell silent again, save for the berry-blasted drunken birds, who were screeching in full voice all morning. Maybe they all have rectal pinching mites. I certainly hope so.
Speaking of which -
Well, I don’t have anything to segue to; what a pity.
On the way to work today I finally took a picture of a ghost sign I’ve seen for years - Knutson’s Department Store off Franklin. It’s now the Electric Fetus, a venerable head shop and record store. This was the store that had every obscure record you wanted - the latest Can? Over here in the Meandering Jazz-Influenced Reefer-Fiend Prog-Rock German section. The Fetus was a going concern in the 70s, and thrives today; for all I know, it lasted longer than Knutson’s. It’s a sad street, though - the Interstate carved a valley through the neighborhood, and the building - which once no doubt faced a commercial structure of equal size - now stares over the highway at the rest of the neighborhood six blocks away. A nearby commercial / office structure from the early 20s sits abandoned to the north, and there’s just something sad about it all. The neighborhood has been in the crapper for so long that most of the old buildings are still around; it’s coming back, thanks to immigrants, but even that is a mixed blessing - it’s little Vietnam and petite Mogadishu, and the cornices and details of these modest old shops are covered with foreign languages and icons of other cultures.
In the timeless words of Chow Yun-Fat, I feel sorry with my rice.
Then there’s the burbs. Went to dinner tonight at the Macaroni Grill, a restaurant that has earned my fiery and eternal hatred after just two visits. The food is spectacularly ordinary, just a step above Olive Garden. (And how would I know? Admission: the Olive Garden has a dish I must have once a month. Simple enough: just capellini, a pound or two of finely diced firm sweet tomatoes, olive oil and basil, with grilled chicken. I just love it.) The staff is either young and dumb, or older and pretentious. They have inexplicable rules: no reservations, but you can call ahead to put your name on the list. And you can call 30 days in advance. So, it’s like a reservation. . . without any guarantees. When we got there tonight we were informed that whoever took a call-ahead for the patio was DEEPLY in ERROR, since they didn’t take call-aheads for the patio. And why might that be? The young girl-twig at the maitre d’ stand gave me a cow-glare of incomprehension. Why? Why? What is this word why you keep saying? Those are the rules.
Then everyone got carded for liquor, which would normally be a lark, but since the bartender explained the policy with brusque contempt (the policy being, essentially, Because We Say So) it stuck another thumb in everyone’s eyes. I would forgive them this - or anything - if the food was spectacular. Ain’t. But the scene was interesting. The restaurant is located in a new development in Edina, part of the sprawling Centennial Lakes project. It’s been built in several phases on several huge parcels of land, and each part looks different. Most of the architecture is bland; some is kitschy new-urbanist drivel, with quaint light fixtures, gabled roofs in the condos, etc. The centerpiece, however, is a manmade lake that stretches for a couple of blocks, and it’s something to see. It’s not visible from the street. The view from the traffic arteries is just a quintet of bland quasi-classical boxes, arranged at angles that just scream out SCREW THE GRID. It irritated me every time I drove past, and still does - the set-back buildings give the street nothing but parking lots, and all the urban energy that accumulates from the streets dissipates and vaporizes by the time it reaches the front door of the buildings. Would it kill them to put the buildings against the street, put the lots in the back?
What they did, however, wasn't bad. At least it’s a lovely place to eat a meal. Some hobbyists were racing radio-controlled boats in the lagoon; ducks ploshed in the estuary, rabbits bounced around the shrubs. Peaceful, placid, serene. Ersatz, yes, but as ersatz goes, it's the real thing.
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