Six Minutes And Back

It was 5 years ago, the last time I stepped foot into a downtown St. Paul hospital. I was there to see my grandmother after they had placed several stints in her heart. Trooper she was, her cadence and wit remained just as sharp after she went under the knife than before. Although Carol’s socialite skills always impressed, it was her unflappable confidence to take stake in her loved ones that awe struck me most throughout her time on earth. Sprawled out on a table after heart surgery, she still was able to reprimand me for being at odds with my mother and not having a place of my own yet. One can care, but to express that feeling under duress falls into the realms of unconditional.

I remember sitting in the waiting room, watching Good Morning America, half asleep. The other half of me couldn’t shake the idea that this might be it- this could be the end of the road for Carol and a long life of family, Irish Catholicism and compassion. In that moment, I wanted to curse the wallpaper for being such a drab color, blame the rug for not holding a more hypnotic pattern to trap my attention- everything in the room spoke to me… and all it would whisper was “Deal with this”.

In a hospital, there is no room for escapism. Only reminders of why you’re here, how you handle grief, and our undeniable mortality. Waiting to see Carol, I flash grinned at a passing thought of hospitals reminding us we’re human.

Now, entering the atrium, Carol is almost a year passed away- there is never a day that goes by that I don’t think about her- and I am entering, yet again, a hospital in downtown St. Paul. Under quite the contrary of circumstances, a new life in our family has blossomed. To what degree of joy and happiness the new life has brought us all, the moment is also accompanied by a complication and reminder that we are fragile as ever.

Barring details to my reasons for visiting- Entering prenatal care is something I never imagined I’d have to do in my lifetime.

Curvy stars, of different colors and sizes, speckle the path to the next door after I receive my badge to pass thru the first entrance. Something of a yellow brick road, the walls and windows of the hospital entertain the eye as anything & everything in a children’s museum. Unlike the whispers of the waiting room five years ago, this building is cordially smiling and attempting to empathize with its visitors.

Passing the first colorful hallway, entering the 2^nd entrance, the room goes cold and pastel. Chairs line the walls. A woman at a desk asks me a few questions, checks my badge, asks me a few more questions… and then gives me an elevator look. The security in any prenatal care is triplicated beyond any standard hospital, due to the potential circumstance of infants being stolen. I can’t imagine the pathology that runs behind such an act, but apparently it’s a thing. The woman at the desk gives me the go ahead and points me toward a hallway vividly opposite the last I passed thru.

Double doors open and spill me into a world humbling my senses to taking a deep breath just to make it to my new family member’s room. Doors ajar or partially creaked open reveal glass cases containing newborns. Machines, producing high-pitched beeps and low-toned pumps of air, breathe in and out of the cases. I struggle to keep it all in.

Turning a corner, I panic that the room number, the woman at the desk gave me, isn’t here. I’m lost. I stumble by a family, crowded around a room, in thick focus. I could spin a thousand stories from the picture of them. My imagination unravels.

Finally, arriving at my new family member’s room, there he is: A beautiful child and miracle in his own right. It is at this moment, in this place, betwixt the joy of life and woe of potential untimely tragedy that Carol finds my heart to remind me a family does not decrease in size, but grows in compassion.

Cedar, welcome to the family.

May this world offer you every opportunity and joy it has to give.

The Zimmerman Debt

A coffee shop will be whatever you want it to be as long as you’ve paid for something.

He sits with a blue-collar bronzing tan along his arms next to a Mountain Dew and round of chewing tobacco atop the table in front of him. He stares at the table with seemingly nothing going on for the Sabbath, but to partake in being out of the sun for a few hours.

At the cash register, a man chats with the barista about the Zimmerman trial while shuffling about. The chatting man looks stifled and eagerly discontent.

A new customer enters the shop. The barista must bid the chatting man adieu. Turning his prattle toward the sitting bronzed man, “Yeah man, I’m from Florida where that boy got shot” says the chatting man.

“Ya don’t say” replies the sitting man, somewhat endeared he’s made a new friend aside from his Mountain Dew.

“Yeah man, my mom was in a Wal-Mart out there when the verdict went down and people started flippin’ out. They had to take all of the Caucasian customers and line them up in the back storage so they wouldn’t get hurt” continues the chatting man. “Everybody wants to jump to a conclusion y’know.” He looks over to me.

For a moment I expect he expects me to chime in on his rant. Perhaps because he and the sitting man are white, and I am not.

The sitting man leans back from his table, “Yeahhhh… it’s a crazy world we live in” he says.

“Ain’t it the truth” the chatting man replies, and then opens the door to exit the coffee shop.

Unlike him, I don’t need a publicized act of sociologically charged injustice spattered across the headlines of every social media to know America can be whatever you want it to be for the right price. Unfortunately, for the less privileged, that price is our lives.

The Epic Run of the Engine From '97 (2/2)

Feb. 2012

If I can convince myself I only feel like I have to use the bathroom, but actually do not, I can buy time to get this car to my house before I have to actually leave it running in the middle of the street while I dash to a gas station. You idiot- go to the gas station, fill the gas tank while it's running and use the bathroom there. Genius- I make a dash for the nearest gas station, Honda & I barrel down Nicollet sweating, eyeing down the streets watching out for police. Whether or not the car is legal at this moment isn't important, what's palpable is the feeling of it being street illegal. I called that f---ing department of public safety at least a dozen times to make sure they cleared that ticket about that thing with that thing. F it all, Honda's destiny either lay with the law in a greasy scrap heap of broken dreams, or in the hands of the one man that's never cared more for a machine than it... me.

Screeeeeeeeech! Swinging a hard loop into an ambiguous gas station at the end of Nicollet just before 46th, I kept the engine on and filled the tank like a potential gas & go. Christ, either I look sketchy or I just feel sketchy. I needed to turn my brain off, and go into what Niger Williams has coined as "Beast Mode". Nothing matters, nothing is real, no one is watching except for you. Go Toussaint... go.

Ten bucks should be enough. Screeeeeeech! I peeled out of the Nicollet Ave. station still feeling the weight of a ticking death clock growing heavier in my chest, I whipped the ride to my house, escaped the car at stuntman speed, sprinted toward the door, made sure to leave all my valuables at my house and not in the car. If this thing were to get pulled over and the plates actually weren't legal, then everything would hang in jeopardy. I can't have that. Can't risk the backpack, the mini HD, the camera, the theatre notes for GTC that remain eternally in the back seat. Everything must go.

Screeeeeeeech! We're back on the streets, running through residential areas at break neck speed (40mph) and soon coming to a halt. To continue, I had to make a right on Cedar Ave. Honda wasn't in shape to make turns as sharp as a right. Maybe a left, but not a right. You had to caress the acceleration, not push it. She bubbled once or twice giving way to a potential stall out in the middle of the f----ing street, but saved by a steady soft foot on the gas. Once the car got straight, we were kosher.

Cedar leapt onto 62, which connected to an obscure main highway, which connected to a dirt road. I wouldn't settle for being pulled over on 62. It'd just be too much, the traffic is always racing the road, rush hour is a pestilence to the soul when caught in the gridlock of it on 62, and the police surveying the area would be merciless. They would make example of me, entertainment of me, and soon the end of me... ever driving on the road again, let alone Honda. Multiple scenarios swept my imagination: Honda giving out while passing someone decreasing speed to create a dozen-car pile up of a murderous collision, a cop signaling us to pull over while I give the finger and mouth "go f--- your mother" which soon turns to an all out manhunt, or the simple occasion of stalling out and having to buy out a $150 taxi ride back to Minneapolis abandoning Honda for good... forever.

NASCAR racer Brad Keselowski put it best, "It's not about the fastest car in the race, it's about the man who refuses to lose". I've refused so long with this car that one could call it a delusional state of cemented denial. Had I put too much at stake for a simple car? Have I been so blind that nothing could be salvaged for the life of this machine in the end? Would I condemn myself to the ranks of Fuck-Up For Life sheerly over the pride of having Honda?... the answer is an undoubted, ambitious, fearless 7 mile stare into your soul YES.

Man handling Cedar onto 62 and then onto the obscure stretch of highway that would prove the nail in the coffin, I passed a police car and nearly sh*t my pants after realizing I had done so. My anxiety with the fuzz lay upon a news report I'd once watched about a device atop police cars that automatically read a bar code on every license plate they come into a 20 to 30 foot radius of. It just wreaks of Terminator in my opinion- the sizing up of every moving machine on the streets you come into contact with.

The sun was getting low. One of the headlights was out- if there wasn't enough reason to already pull over the moving mechanical deathtrap, I couldn't have this thing on the road at night. Pulling up to a gravel road, the highway trek was finished... and then it stalled. Taking the short baby right turn onto the gravel, I had gotten pretentious with accomplishing the breadth of the highway trip and smashed the turn too hard. The engine bubbled, then died. "Dammit! F---ing Sh-t!", cursing the roof of Honda did no good. I revved it slowly back to life and took to the curvacious country road somewhat resembling Mario World. It was only a few miles to the Empire of Engines.

Hugging soft twists, curves and dips in the road, Honda and I proceeded down a hill that ascended back uphill. Thinking nothing of it, I caressed the pedal going into the uphill- "p-p-p-p-p-p-put put put phhhhhhhhuuuuuuuu". She stopped again. "Puh-puh-puhhhhh...", and wasn't starting again. So we're here. Where the story starts. At the bowl of a gravel road, between previous descent and forthcoming ascension... One could see it as a rock bottom of sorts. Honda and I traveled downhill, and now do not have the engine to make it uphill. We're fucked.

At best, I could have Schrein concoct some sort of makeshift tow truck from his garage of wonders, but I doubt the kid's even home. Matter fact, I'm damn sure he's not home, as he texted me that exact information earlier today.

The sun almost gone, I stepped out of the car. "Madness", I whispered to myself. Just wrapping up employment at the school for my final one-on-one paraprofessional job, this would be the end of mobility for me for some time. I'd accept it, just not now. I'll accept it... just not like this. I lean against the passenger window of Honda, stare at that big beautiful ball of insatiable fire in the sky. Christ, whatever that thing is made of is as stubborn as hell... and perhaps me. A few important moments of reflection pass, I re-enter the car to what feels a reconciliation. Slightly, gently, slowly I rev the engine in parallel with the pressing of the pedal. They cooperate for a slim opportunity pushing successfully uphill.

A few miles later we arrive to the Engine Empire. Schrein's father exited the house as if he'd seen me coming 5 miles down the road, felt me on the farm's presence, or just heard the shitty rattle of the engine pull into their gravel driveway.

"Alright, what's the case here?" Schrein's father said as I exited the car. A glint of sarcasm, humor, and experience all traced thinly beneath his statement, I smiled at the mere sight of the man. Father of Schrein has a pace and patience to every movement and word his body exerts that can put you at an ease in any given circumstance. The level of calm in this man could crush your sense of urgency upon arrival. "Well, we're gonna put a new engine in it." The only rationale answer I could give. "Schrein know you're bringin' it?" He checks. "Oh yeah, Schrein knows. It'll be an overhaul situation", I return and smile. "Alright, well good luck with'er", he says.

I hop my ride back to Minneapolis from Carver County, carless, Honda hanging in the balance. The one sure thing is that the engine from '97 is no more. I don't know if there's a soul to the car, but a piece of it will definitely be replaced with another's. If any resolve in it's afterlife, it should know it's final run was nothing short of epic.

Leonard the 2nd Grade Unbeknownst Rockstar

After handling a January long stint as a one-on-one paraprofessional at the Hathaway Elementary, my tenure was up. The timing couldn’t’ve been any better as I’d just landed a role in a movie and was to start shooting in a few weeks after the para job finished. The kickstarter project went off without a hitch and I would need every moment outside of the movie to be writing as well. Now, months later, it’s a little bitter sweet looking back at Hathaway Elementary, so when I received a text from O’Mally the gym teacher to take over for him for a day, I silently said “F--K YEAH” in my head which translated to “Sure, what time should I be there” via text.

Honestly, I hadn’t been up before 9am for a few weeks and was groggy showing to the gym teacher’s office. Mandy the assistant gym teacher, eternally wrapped in warm-ups and running shoes (if I saw her on the street in anything other than a track suit, I wouldn’t recognize her), sat in the windowless office. She laid down the schedule for me as she would be taking O’Mally’s position, and I hers. It was simple, a “free choice day” if you will.

Ever recall the days in elementary dubbed “Options”, “Field Trip”, or the basic “Free Choice Day”. They were the purest form of “Hey, cut loose, take it easy, breathe deep homie. We’re gonna put this school-thing on hold and do the damn thing for a lil’ bit.” As a kid, you always felt some right to your freedoms during gym class, and when they were cuffed away with forced games of floor hockey or jump rope circuit you began to understand when an actual free day of gym was. I choked on many a hoola hoop, Frisbee, badminton, and other odd-shaped objects I may never physically care for, catch or toss throughout my adult life. Somehow in the end, we always encounter a reunion a badminton or two.

Today’s free choice was different. Not so much the “let the dragon out the cage” mentality, but more a “earn it, and ye shall be set free”. The “earn” part involved running laps around the baseball field. O’Mally had set it as ritual to run before anything get started in gym class. Although some kids walked at a snails pace around the entire field, the rule was still set that you will be moving your body before any reward or free time is given.

Daunting, fenced, yet somewhat attainable in one view to the human eye which could per chance deem it small, the baseball field lie a full 400m around. Pending where some classes were at with behavior or past indictments, determined how many laps they were to kick out before free time took place. Still groggy and wound up from the weekends past tour, I hadn’t ran or worked out in 4 days. This felt like a millennia to me. An overdramatic state of “Christ, if I don’t work out, I think I’m going to drown myself in food for the rest of the week and never retain the inkling to sprint or lift a push-up again”. Something had to be done, something quick. I could stand and watch these kids run laps for the rest of the day… or put my money where my mouth is and run with them.

First up were the 4^th graders. I lined up along side the group prepped to run 3 laps. Mandy announced the schedule for the day, peppering reprimands to children speaking out of turn, and then turned us loose.

Just before the run began, it coursed through me like a drug. The feeling- the feeling just before every swim meet, track meet, football game, gymnastic feat- the feeling just before it all went down; vulnerability in its purest, at its best, clutching the moment in its teeth-

“SWIFF!” scrapes my dusty old New Balances against the ground to take off at Mandy’s command.  Several kids beat me out at the first 20m, they fade. Three kids remain with me at 40m, they fade. Then there was one, a shorter kid with a parachuting oversized black t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts speeding against the pavement twisting round the baseball field. He begins to fade and I remember what I actually came out here for. “Keep your arms in, don’t lean forward so much” I coach him now running at his pace. It’s the moment you realize “Holy shit, I sprinted out the box like a f’ng mad man and now I’m paying for it dearly”. I would supply the angel on his shoulder to navigate through the cramping pain and lactic acid building up. We streamline the rest of the lap, maintain a safe pace for the second lap, speed up during the 3^rd and start kicking out at the last 200m. “Toes, toes, toes- lean a little bit forward- arms in” I bellow at the last stretch.

He finishes, breathing deep as his 9 year old lungs can capacitate. Usually this kid has nothing to run faster against and/or rival his speed amongst his peers. I’d take the rest of the day to challenge each class- better yet, every fastest kid in their class to running a well-paced stride and finishing as strong as they possibly could. After that, reverting to getting the walking kids to jog, as a warm down for myself and some kind of participation for them.

My remedy for the walking kids, after pacing the fastest kids in the class, was to promote “Hey, let’s do a little fox trot!” jogging along side them. The popular response usually went “I don’t DO running!”, to which I’d say “Hey, ain’t nobody runnin’ over here. We’re just fox trottin’. Trottin’ the fox! Foxin’ the trot- check it out”. Jogging at such a slow pace, everyone was enamored to at least try it for half a lap or two.

The day began to wrap up. I’d treated myself to a delightful meal of orange chicken  and rice prepared by the cafeteria, posted a blog for Big Villain, and was pondering laying off running with the 2^nd graders for the final half of the day. At this point, I’d already run well over 8 miles and didn’t need to go any further to workout for the day. Enter Leonard…

A tall-ish skinny kid draped in sweat pants and t-shirt. Something about his shoulders lead you to believe that he was going to grow a tall body, however his legs seemed to be already ahead of his torso. Something was different about this kid, something I couldn’t quite label… but was curious enough to find out. I was usually able to pick out each kid in every class that would keep up with me for the first lap, which I would then coach to the end of the run. Leonard was unseeming, awkward in his stance, a genetic misfit of sorts. Ears protruding, shoe size ahead of his class,  arms swinging uncontrollably about- I’d almost swore Leonard grew taller within the first minutes of meeting him.

Mandy reprimanded the out-of-turn talkers, laid down the day’s law, and “GO!” she shouted to send us off on a 3 lap tour de Hathaway Baseball Field. I put out my usual feel for the class and paced behind two or three kids to see where they were at. Leonard streamlined along side me, letting up none at all.

At 20m, several kids remained with our stride; at 50m, two kids stayed in stride; at 200m, Leonard paced along side me as if he were about to give a clinic. My mind went docile for a moment, reset, and came to. It hit me that I’d been running all day, eaten orange chicken way faster than I should have, and had also been skimping out on water for the day. “Sweet Christ of Kenosha” I thought to myself. I’m fading.

Leonard’s pace was anatomically sound as a Kenyan veteran marathoner. Arms swinging tightly square to his shoulders, knees driving up like Ray Rice plowing through a defensive line, and a slight lean forward. Most 5^th graders couldn’t hold a candle to this kid, and now here I am drudging through a thick lunch and lack of water trying to keep up with him. We race paced for the first lap. I let up none on the kid and he stuck with it the whole time.

Coasting into the 2^nd lap I could sense Leonard beginning to fade. He hit his wall just as every other fastest kid in their class had, it’s just his was at the 400m mark… not the 50m mark. Still with impeccable stride, lapping the rest of the class, I coached him through the 2^nd lap and told him we’d be lifting the pace a little bit at the 800m mark and then kicking at the 1000m mark (which on the U of MN track team I ran for Freshmen year, the coaches referred to it as the “Run to Jesus” portion of the workout).

Hitting the 800m, Leonard’s form began to wobble. “Arms in buddy, arms in. Put that elbow in.” I hollered from ahead of him. We were moving faster than any pace I’d been on throughout the day. The rest of the class was really balling up in front of us. Crowding the track path, I shouted ahead that we were coming through. Walking 40m ahead of us: Girls with gellies, clogs, rain boots; boys with high tops, oversized Jordan’s, dress shoes. Approaching the unsuspecting glob of children, something happened that hadn’t happened throughout the entire day… and enthusiasm like no other shot into the crowd as they all began running with us.

Like lions amongst a pack of antelope, or that one scene from Jurassic Park where the paleontologist and the kids run for cover as a flock of sprinting dinosaurs heads their direction just before they duck underneath a giant tree trunk. Leonard and I float like fish through a river apparatus of rocks and debris. Where I thought he or I would totally plow into a classmate taking them to the ground in horrendous fashion (imagine a purse thief cutting through a State Fair-thick crowd and colliding with an elderly using a walker, yeah kinda like that), nothing of the sort happened. At the 1000m mark, the bleachers, I drop the hammer for Leonard to kick. I swear the earth had spun an inch more than usual once his feet began plying the ground on the last stretch. Perfect form, knees piercing the atmosphere driving toward the yellow finish line, he left nothing on the track.

Breathing heavily between words, Leonard admitted “It’s easier to run it with shorts”. Forgetting he was dawning baggy sweatpants, I laughed “You’re absolutely correct, it’s easier to run with shorts than sweatpants”.

Free time commenced to a vicious game of kickball and side play of double dutch. I stretched until I felt like I could handle the next class. “That kid is damn fast”, I said to Mandy. “Yeah, O’Mally said he was one of the top 3 runners last year… when he was in 1^st grade”.  Great Mother to rights of Miranda this kid is going to put a dent in the school record and the egos of some poor high-schoolers when they find that 8^th grade Leonard is faster than the entire 800m relay team.

Mandy and I administer the game to a civil boil, let the rest of the classes go about as the sun slowly set on another day of school.

Panic At The Clevelander

The view from the rooftop of the Clevelander set like a swank 80’s movie scene. Clientele mixed from dark skinned French bombshells to Caucasian broughams, you didn’t have to fit it- Miami did it for you. Blake, my host for the stay in South Beach, was nowhere to be found. I either had the choice of finding him and sticking tightly to him, or making the breathtaking base jump into a social oblivion of Spring Breakers from around the globe.

Retreating back to a sofa Blake and I were just at, with hopes I’d run into him, a group of guys & gals had already occupied it. Sitting at the edge of the couch, I made a small gesture I was just going to sit and text for a moment. A tall European woman from the group gestured back that it was ok. Turning before I could receive the "ok" from the European woman I flipped open my phone. Yes, I have a flip phone and love it. It draws more attention than polka dots on plaid and doesn't occupy every second of my livelihood with email alerts. Thought to say something to the group for entertainment, but couldn’t tell if they spoke English or not- my thoughts tunneled to my phone. When in doubt, text. I shot a sentence to Blake just to get a feel for where he was... if even near South Beach. This could be awhile.

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing better than getting lost in a tropical climate filled with travelers from around the world, liquor flowing like KRS-ONE, and a dance floor the size of a gymnasium- it just never struck me that I'd be fending by myself throughout the duration of this trip. Meh, at worst I get chops for creating my own scenario- might as well start with Euro woman right behind me. 

I make a quick turn towards her to make sure I wasn't intruding on their sofa space, she again gave me the ok. "Excuse me, I'm curious, where are you all from?"- Horrible opener, please don't ever use this. It gets you nowhere unless you actually have something to follow it with. I was feeling venturous at the moment with really not a thing to lose but time until my flight departed at 6am in several hours, so what of it. "We're from Boston." answered the European woman... not so European. And all of a sudden it clicked. From the looks of her crew I had made a total sweeping judgement. Euro woman was sitting with 4 other people; an asian guy with quaffed hair and shades on looking like he was coasting off kind bud, 2 asian women dressed in threads that could qualify for a charity gala or vip section at a rock concert, and then the last woman who kinda gave it away- racially ambiguous and smiley sitting in the corner with no intention to speak much but just to simply wave and smile. 

"So you go to Harvard" I said. Euro woman went dumbstruck looking back to her friends. Shit, perhaps I had totally pigeon-holed this people, weirded them out and now they were going to seek retribution by- pause, the worst isn't close to the worst I can imagine. There is no such thing as failure in socializing, only learning moments. "Did you see us earlier, or over hear us talking?" she responded. "After you said Boston, it struck me that you all went to Harvard- or at least that's how you know each other"I said.

Still perplexed, "Ok , how did you know that?". I edged my position on the couch from back-turned to slightly turned toward the group to respond. It was too easy, so easy that explaining it to them would prove more a task than guessing their college. "Well, look at you all- this might sound crass, but there really aren't too many interracial circles of friends in Miami. Colombians hangout with Colombians, the French hangout with the French, etc. Whereas with your group, you look like you're only brought together by either a company or a college. You could be a group of friends from high school, but what're the chances you've stuck together 'til 21 and willing to meet each other in Miami for spring break?" Ahem, I've already said too much- but for good reason. The way Euro woman turned towards me was almost as if she'd never been contended in years, dawned the title like Jon Bones Jones, and wasn't willing to let this one slip by her. She looked as if she had to prove me wrong. 

"Ok... ok... But there're almost a dozen colleges we could've been from in Boston-" she retorted. I cut her off "Yeeeeaah, but where else are ya comin' from? BC? Nope. None of you have Boston accents- at least from what I've heard- and BC is mostly comprised of locals to the east coast. Also, their is an eire of confidence with your group. Less than half of you are drinking, you're not looking to jeopardize your future any worse than it looks at the moment, annnnd- well, that's it." I staved away from telling them that they're the only group of people at the Clevelander that look like they wouldn't ditch each other. Miami is comprised of individuals constantly breaking and reforming about- perfect for meeting people, exchanging numbers, and escaping your culture for a moment. These kids looked like the New X-Men, wouldn't break away from the circle even in the face of certain death or chaotic evil.

Euro woman and I went on to guess each others names, spar with wit, and converse for the next half hour- too long, keep in mind, this is at the biggest nightclub on South Beach with clientele zooming in & out like central station. An hour at the Clevelander passes by like a montage from Rocky. Blake and I have been known to step into the club and walk out by the time the sun is coming up. Caution: enter the Clevelander on a Friday, dance with a beautiful woman and chat afterwards, next thing you know it's Thursday, you've missed your flight and lost your job. By the end of the conversation I though I had already missed my flight, we bid adieu and marched separate ways into the night. Blake and I would meet up later, I'd introduce ourselves to a group of Indian women from Tennessee who thought me to be Indian as well- just didn't have the heart to break it to them later on that I wasn't. Simple omission.

Back to LeBlanc's pad, phone now full of foreign area codes and texts that would vie for Texts-From-Last-Night's top ten, there was a mere 1 hour of rest to be had before I had to get on the road and catch my 6am flight back to Minneapolis.