Sid Forgot to Shovel the Metrodome Roof

The 10 acre, snow crusted Metrodome recently collapsed. Over 73 million have visited this sports temple since it opened in 1982. This was something of a revelation for me, as I had no idea Minneapolis was anywhere near that large. I've done some research and discovered a broad-stroke timeline that covers the major events in the Metrodome's storied history.

1982-They build the thing.
2010-It gets squashed like a big, fat bug, finally realizing Robert Cerny's vison.

I'd like to provide some advice for the 73 million people of Minneapolis, and it is this: Don't let these rich weasels push you around when it comes time to build another...dome. I'm from Boston, and lived here all my life. Here in Massachusetts, we love politics and sports. Some years ago, the owners of the Boston Red Sox bullied the Commonwealth into giving them some sweet cash to renovate our beloved Fenway Park. We told them to cram it.

They said some pretty upsetting things in response. A plan was kicked around to put a new baseball park/stadium in New Hampshire. New Hampshire! We knew that wasn't going to happen, what with New Hampshire being a shit-hole and everything. Then they threatened to move to Connecticut. We didn't balk. The general feel around here was, "Yeah, right."

And it payed off. Fenway Park is now a renovated ball park, with seats jammed into any place a seat could be, like on top of the left field wall ("The Green Monster"), put in all sorts of new luxury and media boxes, and generally spruced the place up.

Robert Kraft of the New England Patriots made the same threat. We scoffed. They threatened to move to Malta, and we didn't budge. No tax money for a corporate endeavor was given, but they built a great new stadium anyway. The roads around the stadium were improved with state moula, sure, but that's it.

Our hockey team, The Bruins, got a new Boston Garden, but not because of the Bruins. Because it's hockey, and hockey is ridiculous. It was more for the Celtics, and Elton John, or whomever else plays there.

Never let the capitalists boobs push you around, Minneapolitans! Oh, you'll need a new dome all right, what with the destruction of the old one. But when they start threatening to move to South Dakota or Haiti if the government doesn't cough up some tax breaks, or float some bonds, look 'em in the eye and say, "Go ahead, make my day, punks."

A Little About Pipes

My last pipe was a hoot. Wherever it is, it's a briar Brebbia Sabbiata Billiard with an acrylic bit. Lost the damn thing after the bit broke. Someone probably found it, regarded it with disdain, and tossed it. Seagulls could be smoking it at the dump. There is a very small chance that some fellow pipe smoker found it and bought a new bit, and is enjoying it. Probably an old fuck, or some stoner who thinks it's a marijuana pipe.

If he or she could pry the broken portion of the acrylic bit out of the stem, find the metal "filter," and return it to glory, then, well, onward and upward.

There is an Indian fellow down at the tobacco store nearby. It's a thriving operation, although most of the people in there are playing the lottery and buying scratch tickets, the rubes. Then again, I'm smoking a pipe, so how can I look down at them. Again, I'm smoking a pipe, for Heaven's sake. The man at the tobacco store answered my question, "Do you have a cheap, used pipe?" by producing a massive bowl of dusty...bowls. The cheapest one was out of my league, and the worn-out used bits gave me the heebies. The last Sherlock to smoke that thing is probably flying the marble kite precisely because he smoked a pipe. Despite looking death in the face, I sought a cheaper pipe at the last place one would expect to find one, Walgreen's.

The woman in front of me at the check out line argued for 10 minutes about a coupon. No shit. The cliched scene wore on me. Every damn time I'm at Walgreen's some old bitty is furious about a coupon misunderstanding. Every single time. "I am a leaf upon the wind," I thought. "Serenity now," I thought. "I am as light as a slice of bread," I thought. It wasn't helping.

After the massive convention convened, I flipped a Kit Kat Dark on the counter (wonderful candy bar, that) and asked for the Dr. Grabow "Grand Duke" straight stem briar pipe with lacquered bowl, up next to a enormous bag of tobacco. It's impossible to relate just how out-of-place both items seem in that environment. Next time you're at a Walgreen's give it a gander. It's very odd. And I've tried the insanely cheap pipe tobacco before and it's like smoking a bowl of wet leaves, with an aftertaste of ass. It's not good.

A ballet ensued. I pointed, the clerk looked at my finger and tried to find what I was asking for, and I spoke as plainly as I could, without my usual mumbling. "The pipe right there, the one in the plastic bubble, yes, right there...no, yes, right there, yup, that's the one." The clerk was affable to begin with, but once he had the pipe in his hot little hand and rang it up, he screwed his face into a knot and thought very, very hard. "Man, the last person I saw with a pipe was...my grandfather, or Sherlock Holmes." He said it with a smile. I decided to be friendly in turn. After all, I was trying to buy a pipe at a Walgreen's. No chance of blending in.

"Yes, there aren't many of us left," I said a bit too loudly, "under 100, that is." The brief conversation ended with a single word, carefully chosen after much thought.

"Wow." he said.

In my 1993 Mercury Tracer outside, I shredded the package and examined the gift I gave to myself. The first thing that occurred to me was, "I'm such an asshole." I'm not sure why, but there you go. It looked so very new. The "instructions" informed me as to how one "breaks-in" a new pipe. My fat little fingers packed the bowl with Super Value "Butter Rum" and I smoked the fucking thing.

The first thing I noticed is that I got dizzy, and the draw was like...sucking a canary through a Bic pen. That's exactly what it was like. Exactly. I popped the bit off and inspected the guts of the pipe. A filter the size of a tampon was crammed into the stem, and it was already black. I sighed, pulled the filter out, and reassembled the Grand Duke. It drew wonderfully now. If I didn't want cancer causing smoke to fill my lungs, I wouldn't be smoking, now would I?

The bowl has been lovingly carbonized over the past week. The taste is getting better. At first it was like smoking a straw, then like smoking a straw with hair in it, now it smokes like a pipe. Yum!

Now, a little about pipe tobacco.

The Befouled Room

The living room is exquisite and clean, with a white carpet, couch and love seat. A fireplace blazes behind thick glass, burning gas and controlled by a dimmer switch nearby. The "logs" never burn, they are made of a ceramic fiber. There is a very large, thin, high-definition television set, placed into an enormous entertainment center. A stack of coasters is at my feet, on the coffee table. They are all there, in a little nest made precisely for that purpose. My coffee is steaming nearby, without a coaster under it. A copy of "PC Magazine" sits in the center of the table.

From where I sit, on the love seat, I can see into the kitchen easily, and beyond that into the dining room and foyer. The affect on me is easy to guess at, given my tiny flat. It all looks big, and expensive. There are no dust bunnies or cat toys on the floor, and for that reason I'm compelled to say that the house is a bit like a museum, it's that spotless to my eye.

To my left, the never-ending fire bakes the ceramic and glass and the heat provided is not inconsiderable. I move to my right. I'm a little hot. There is nothing on the television, and I can hear a clock ticking and the occasional gust outside. It's dark out, and not much brighter in here. Besides the fireplace, four dim light bulbs glow faintly in the kitchen. My thumbs set to fiddling.

Not a damn thing is happening, and that's what I think to myself, "Not a damn thing is happening." Time goes by, but like a dream. Thoughtlessly, except for the aforementioned consideration of the lack of activity. It feels like several hours go by, but something tells me that it has only been minutes. The clock is audibly marking time, but it travels in and out of my attention.

An end table to my right, made of reclaimed barn wood, is empty except for a lamp, a pipe, and a pipe ashtray. A lighter and pouch of "butter rum" pipe tobacco are in my pocket. I'm not sure how, but I know that they are there, just waiting for me to violate the air with plumes of smoke.

The air has waited long enough, and that's what I think to myself, "The air has waited long enough." The pipe is stuffed and in my hand directly after this thought, and I'm puffing and puffing away. The lighter goes back into my pocket, and I set upon keeping the thing alive. It's alive! It breathes smoke up and out of view, and can soon be seen invading the air under the lights in the kitchen. Like a drop of ink in a large fish tank, the cloud moves to every corner. I'm pleased to have something to do, and I'm relaxed. The copy of "PC Magazine" finds a way into my hand, and I'm flipping through articles that do not interest me in the least.

Silence and pleasing isolation. Puff, puff and puff.

Suddenly, the room bursts to life. The television is on, and someone is reporting something urgently. Could be the Super Bowl, or 9/11. It's supposed to be important and that is being related well, but I'm not picking up specifics. The room is bright now. The rug seems whiter, as do the couches. But now there are people walking around on that white rug and sitting and conversing on that white couch. Color is everywhere. A young lady just beyond the coffee table is wearing a dress that comes down almost to her knees. It's a "little black dress." She is holding a glass of red wine and laughing her ass off as she speaks to a handsome man, middle aged, who is wearing an awful "Cosby" sweater. He is holding a rust-colored drink that is certainly harder stuff than wine.

But that's not all, people are everywhere, and some are looking at me. I don't see the clothes they are wearing anymore, or the drinks (if any) in their hands. People are talking and some are looking at me, as if we are in the middle of a conversation and it is my time to speak. The kitchen and dining room and foyer are all out of view now. At some point, I realize music is playing loudly, and the television has been muted.

I can't quite place it. Wait...it's Cee lo Green's Fuck You.

Now, a little about pipes.

Madame von Meck and Tchaikovsky

Nadezhda von Meck and Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky never spoke to each other, even as they lived as neighbors in Brajlovo, Russia. It is said that they did meet on two separate occasions, by accident, but didn't converse. The relationship between Madame von Meck and Tchaikovsky started in 1877, flourished, and then ended in 1890. By 1894, Meck and Tchaikovsky were both gone. Meck had died of tuberculosis in January of 1894, less than two months after Tchaikovsky had died from cholera, although that remains a controversial conclusion to this day. Many speculate that Tchaikovsky had committed suicide, urged to do so by friends who were concerned about rumors of his homosexuality. These "friends" were classmates from his days at the St. Petersburg School of Jurisprudence. Tchaikovsky had once studied to be an attorney.

The relationship between Meck and Tchaikovsky began formally, with Meck writing to the composer as an appreciator of his work. This quickly developed into an affectionate friendship, and Meck (a woman of great wealth in this period) became a patroness of Tchaikovsky. She considered him a, "great friend, " and they corresponded often.

There are currently 1203 known letters in existence; 768 written by the composer and 435 by Meck. I've read all the letters, and in my opinion, these two people loved each other. She comforted the composer during his many periods of melancholy, and Tchaikovsky responded with love and affection. In 1878, Tchaikovsky wrote his 4th Symphony ( a piece that left a considerable impression on me) and dedicated it to his, "best friend," to Madame von Meck.

If you're interested, there are many books about this relationship. I'm posting video of the first movement his 4th symphony. Enjoy.

Imagine a Bag of Corn Chips

I was trying to write something funny tonight. Something about socks and printer ink. At some point, though, melancholy set in. Maybe it's "Sunset Boulevard" on TCM, or John Lennon's, "Imagine." Earlier tonight I had a seizure that set the room rolling back and forth, cold sweats, and blinking lights. Like Times Square breaking to pieces during an earthquake. But the bulbs never broke. They settled into the rubble burning bright.

It's passing now, so I'm going to take a couple of pain pills, snack on corn chips, and watch "Sid and Nancy" with Nancy.

They didn't have to shoot John Lennon, did they? No, they didn't. Chapman didn't. The world is jam-packed with awfulness, perpetrated by people who didn't have a reason. Not one that satisfies anyone but them. Earlier today, a news report informed me of Chapman's living situation for the last 30 years. Attica. Somehow it doesn't satisfy, does it? He could be the King of Siam for all I care, it still wouldn't bring Mr. John Lennon back.

I'm of a mind to post a video of what I consider to be the greatest song of the 20th century (and the the first 10 years of the 21st). Cheers.