Land O Lakes: Eight Things I've Learned About Minnesota

Minnesota has proclaimed itself "The Land of 10,000 Lakes". I've been here for approximately 26 hours and have personally only counted one...and that was primarily because, from the air, it strikingly resembled the Notre Dame angry leprechaun logo. So I can neither confirm, deny or accurately quantify this claim, but hey, let's give them the benefit of the doubt. But remember Minnesota, self applying a nickname is pretty darn cheesy. Just ask Wisconsin.

Eight things I've learned about Minnesota:

1. It's Minneapolis...not Mini-Apolis. It wasn't until the third time I asked if Proper-Apolis was where all these supposed lakes were that the cab driver told me. (annoying)

2. Contrary to popular belief the people are actually very friendly. But know very little about actual lake quantities. (annoying)

3. You are NOT greeted at the airport gate with a lei made of hockey pucks. (annoying)

4. It's situated right in the heart of what is known as The Bible Belt.
* If the bible you read involves eating fried cheese curds until your belt explodes like a pressurized space capsule hatch

5. There's a guy that works in the Minnesota Vikings Team Store at the beautiful new USBank Stadium that can tell you the city each popular American soft drink was born in. Seriously. He sprung this skill on me as soon as the store's entrance door closed behind me.

Purple Man: "Where are you from?"

Me: "Charlotte, North Carolina."

Purple Man: "Pepsi!"

Me: "I beg your pardon?"

Purple Man: "That's where Pepsi was born...blah, blah North Carolina." (he said a city but I was too busy trying to get away to listen)

Me: "Awesome. Well, you have a goo..."

Purple Man: "I know where all soft drinks were born. Go ahead ask me anything. NO, not about lake quantities, about soft drink birthplaces."

Me: "Dammit. Uh, ok...Coke..."

Purple Man: "Atlanta, Georgia...any idiot knows that."

Me: "There's no call to get nast..."

Purple Man: "Just shut up and bring your A-game."

Both of us now annoyed, this battle of wits went on for a good two or three minutes. It was like talking to a purple-emblazoned Rain Man: "Yeah, Coca-Cola was definitely born in Atlanta, definitely Atlanta." I tried to stump this little corn-syrup-encrusted wizard but couldn't get anything by him.

6. The urinals at the Mini-Apolis Airport have courtesy nooks to put your treasured belongings on. I arranged mine very Funk Schway...even stooping down to eye level with my spectacles on to make minute but crucial adjustments. Then I took a whiz and left

7. They like their scrambled eggs dry. Like, not just without extra moisture...we're talking sands of the fucking Mojave Desert dry. Clark Griswold's Christmas turkey (whose voice sounds like a young Chris Rock) was like, "Damn, these are some dry-ass mo-fukkin eggs."

8. They grow grass on the roofs of buildings. Someone said it had something to do with Global Warming. Now when I was a kid, my older brother, who shall remain nameless, was quite the green thumb. He grew some dope on the roof ofour house for the first seven or eight years of my childhood. My guess is the only global warming he had in mind was putting on side four of Physical Graffiti and globally warming his brain into a kick-ass mellow.

Dang. I should have asked that guy about Mello Yello...I bet that would have stumped his ass.

Next time Charlie Babbitt, next time.

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Minneapolis: You Betcha! I Have to Fly There and You're Coming With

It's been a long while since I blogged...time to fix that. Let's see what Minneapolis has in store for us, shall we?

Flying is always blog worthy...and I firmly believe that every stand-up comic is required by Comedic Law to have at least part of every routine devoted to the wonderful adventure of air travel. There was an actual time when air travel was an adventure. People were genuinely excited. It was an event in itself.

Cut to wide-eyed child with a wispy British accent, glowing cheeks, joyful tears of wonder, hope and possibility in her doe eyes: "Dear father, do you mean to tell me that you, mother and I will be getting in a machine that will lift us right off the ground and into the sky? That we'll soar in the wind like birds...above candyfloss clouds, as this fantastical contraption whisks us at terrific speeds to rainbow-laden wonderlands we would have likely never seen without it? Such a marvel truly exists in more than dreams, father? Holy Father fucking Christmas."

Now it's viewed with utter dread and loathing, finding itself slightly ahead of the DMV on the Just Fucking Shoot Me list of things to do. Seriously...and if there's a restless baby on the plane? Mother of god.

Actually no real complaints about this flight so far. It has been uneventful with no babies, no delays, no horrible odors, etc. But I wish this little British girl beside me would shut up and stop calling me "father".