#dinkytown is fucked now

[oetscop]

change, please don't change

stay, stay the same

[witchking-jr]

hey beloved gremlins of the web site.

I’m pondering escape and freedom from the psychological torture of fundamentalism this fine evening, and if you too escaped that maze, tell me about it.

Among people who grew up in fundamentalist religious environments and ended up leaving, you hear a lot, and rightfully so, about the trauma and grief and lost experiences of growing up that way.

I could tell you all those tales, but not now.

What about the feeling of the crack in the rigid little box, the realization the horizon is not a boundary but a portal, the sudden expansion of the self, your past self, that had the courage and boldness to say fuck it and walk out?

I had a few such moments, but the most vivid was a day in October of 2009. I had ridden my old mountain bike to a Campus Outreach event near the U of M campus. Campus Outreach was the college ministry of Bethlehem Baptist Church in Minneapolis, the deeply dysfunctional, patriarchal, and white supremacist church I grew up in.

We played Ultimate Frisbee, a game I hated. As I had for almost my entire time in church culture, I stayed on the sidelines, body buzzing with restless energy, which I now recognize as intuition, telling me to leave, that that place held nothing for me.

I finally, fully, listened. I made some excuse, got on my bike, and rode away. It was raining. And do you know what it fucking felt like?

It felt like that part in Pilgrim’s Progress, when Pilgrim loses his big bag of sins. I felt like I’d lost 70lb of dead weight, physically. I felt the restlessness subside, replaced by euphoria. No one could make me go back, and no one had any real leverage, except fear, and that was feeling like a rotten thread instead of the thick rope it used to be.

I rode back to the West Bank through Dinkytown in a haze of happiness. I was free. I’d freed myself. I hung around church with my family for awhile, out of guilt and habit, but that was the beginning of the end, and the birth of every other beginning: being bisexual, being nonbinary, being non-monogamous, leaving Christianity fully, changing almost every single political view I held, allowing myself to be the artist who had been pounding on the walls since I could hold a crayon. Changing myself and being changed so radically that it still makes my head spin, well over a decade later.

Fundie Christians love the narrative that someone who left Christianity was tempted, corrupted, deceived. In reality I’d realized I could fit thru the bars of the cage, the prison guard was a dead scarecrow husk, and the big scary gate was barred with a toothpick.

And since that day, I can tell you from the deepest part of my soul: every part of my life got better. Every single thing.

So tell me, where were you when you realized you were free?

[sandwichbully]

Pappy’s, 11 August 2018

CHEESESTEAK!!    That’s right, bitches and bastards, I found a fucking cheesesteak that wasn’t in goddamned Dinkytown. Instead, it’s in Hawthorne, which is where the white people are afraid to go.    Seriously, read anything about Minneapolis and you’ll find most of the very “polite” “well meaning” criticisms made by white folks in this town are aimed at North Minneapolis where, huh, what a strange correlation, there’s a lot of black people. So it goes then, that when the lady who made that parody map of Minneapolis a few years ago and labeled (all of) North Minneapolis (the black part) the “Compton of the North” - and let’s face it, all midwesterners know about Compton is what NWA told them in the nineties and that it’s “black” - she tried to say some shit like she never intended for it to be racist when bitch that’s all it’s about is race! You can’t walk that back and you’re why nobody trusts white people! We had a good thing going in Minnefuckingapolis and you showed up and, yup, racist shit! Do you know how many people of color I had to apologize to on behalf of all pale folks because of your idiot ass!?    Can I please stop using italics now?    Anyway, race shit: Yeah, I walked in to Pappy’s and I was, aside from the Russian guy behind the counter the only white guy in there. It was like a sitcom scene where somebody walks in the room and the jukebox scratches the record. Like that. There were six people in there and they all looked at me, the lone honky, must be lost, probably in here to ask for directions to Lake Harriet or some white shit. Wait a minute. Is he -? Is - ? Oh, shit, whitey’s ordering a sandwich! For here! What the fuck is the world coming to?    RACIST! (And I’m not even sure in which direction.)    Anyway, I’d been wanting to try Pappy’s ever since Open Streets North Minneapolis - read: The Only Time Open Streets Went To North Minneapolis But None Of Their Corporate Sponsors Did And It Was The Best Open Streets Ever With Live Music And Grills And Smokers Doing Up Chickens And Half-Hogs And A Bunch Of Bootleg T-Shirts Of Hendrix, Marley, And Biggie. Alas, I didn’t make it then but today? Today I biked thirty seven miles - tell my doctor that - and I needed to stop at around mile thirty anyway for a little break and I figured, “Fuck it, let’s go to Pappy’s,” except I forgot its name was Pappy’s so it was more like, “Fuck it, let’s go to that cheesesteak joint.” They have catfish and gyros and Italian beefs and hotdogs but I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted a cheesesteak.    Kid takes my order and tells me it’ll be ten minutes. Usually I would balk (no I wouldn’t) but I needed a rest. (Hell, I still need a rest.) So I sit at my table and drink my orange Gatorade and I notice my ticket says my cashier’s name is Debra.    Hold on, we’re going to get racist again!    ...    And misogynist!    I think to myself, “Debra? A man named... Is that a... black... thing?”    I know I know I know, identity politicians, we live in a post-irony world where you’re going to petition for me to lose my job for that line. Check your Twitter accounts for how many mayonnaise jokes you’ve made about white people this month. We’re on the same goddamned side, OK? Chill out.    Anyway, I’m sitting there, listening to numbers get called out and I wait for mine, eighty eight - ironic that the honky gets eighty eight - and then everybody leaves and then Debra comes out to wipe down some tables and then he looks at me and says, “Oh, your sandwich is ready.”    I get up and go to the pick-up window and the Russian guy says, “Ticket.”    I left it on the table, I didn’t know that was the process here. I grab my ticket and the Russian guy hands me my sandwich and says something to me in Russian and I go back to my table, open the container, and -    AAAHHH, shit! White cheese. (That part’s not racist.) Is this going to be Sysco provolone? Am I going to be disappointed with my whole life right now? Jesus Fuck Me Christ. OK, let’s bite into this and just hate everything and go home and cancel date night because I’m busy putting my head in the fucking oven.    No.    No.    This is white American (not racist) cheese! This is that salty tangy ooey gooey cheese. And it’s enveloping peppers and onions that are sautéed to al dente perfection and the meat is seasoned perfectly and cooked just up to well and it’s all saddled in a fluffy white bun with a forgiving and flaky crust and holy shit, this... this might be better than Frank from Philly.    That’s right. I’m saying it. I’m making a declarative statement like a fucking man. Kafe Nasty, take this down: Pappy’s is better than Frank from Philly. The bread isn’t right but does it have to be that one brand of bread? You don’t get a cheese option like Whiz but isn’t melted American - white or yellow - a superior option in terms of consistency since it doesn’t just slide out all over the place? They know that cheesesteaks are supposed to be meat and cheese and onions and peppers so you don’t have to ask, they just put it on there. That’s what they do.    So, if your lily white ass can just be cool about this shit and not Columbus all over it, I encourage you to go give Pappy’s your money. You won’t be disappointed. Tell Debra I say “What’s up?”

[jessicafoor-blog1]

Day 19

Saturday is always quite the day.  I had a meeting at 9 AM which sucked so much, thank god they moved it from Rapson to a coffee shop in Dinkytown.  I stayed up until 2 AM watching movies so then it was fucking hard to wake up in the morning.  Anyways, I went to Purple Onion and got an iced coffee because I was sleepy as fuck and knew I needed to get things done.  My meeting was so productive, we figured out our entire make-a-thon ideation and created the entire thing except I had to make a to do list because now I have more things to do, ugh I am so behind and stressed but it is ok.  After my meeting me and my boyfriend went to Tonys diner because we were too lazy to make breakfast and just wanted something fast.  I payed so it was around 15 dollars which I consider pretty inexpensive for breakfast.

Due to the fact that I went out to breakfast I felt like I shouldn’t eat the remainder of the day and I was doing homework with Kadin anyways.  I was really motivated for a long time until I ran out of steam around 3 PM.  I ended up getting 3 hours of market research done for my toy product design class and I cleaned and I realized everything that I need to do for Design U and for class.  I finished my furniture design homework which felt good because it was so easy, all I had to do was write a haiku, and take a picture of my swiffer...real challenging stuff here.  I am kind of stressed but since it is the weekend I am thriving and I had a party at night so I didn’t do much at all.  I hung out with Kadin until 4 PM which was a long time to be together but it was great.  I needed to eat some dinner so I ended up eating some chicken tenders for dinner which was fancy as hell and I sadly exhausted my supply after that so now I am sad.  

I also bought my splurchase which was a crisp tube of mango chapstick that reminds me of the beach and I love it.  Apparently the most popular one.

I went to a party for Design U at the apartments across the street and expected to have not that much fun, but I had so much fun!  I drank 5 glasses of wine and had a cookie and mac and cheese and so many chips.  I also drank a glass of water to keep the drunkness down.  My boyfriend bought me wine so now I am drinking this crisp white franzia and it is great.  I played what do you meme which was an awesome game and so much fun to see my people and my friends.  I left around 11 which was amazing and I didn’t pass out! Yay!!

[qu-at]

My encounters with Minnesota police officers.

Minneapolis, specifically a Middle Eastern restaurant called Wally’s in Dinkytown, that's where this happened. Now I’m 19, I’m a server in this restaurant, and I’m familiar with this group of police officers that comes in to buy their lunches. They’re never really kind when they order, and I’ve never really had good feelings about them when they’re in the building. 

So about 4 weeks ago, 3 of them came in and ordered some sandwiches to go then sat down and waited. As they were waiting, one of the officers got an alert and immediately rushed to the counter and demanded he got his gyro in that “police voice” cause he NEEDED to go. After I told him it would be about another minute, he started getting really riled up and ticked off, asking me if I could hurry up. So I told him I would go and check (even though I knew it would be another minute) and I decided to just stay in the back till the sandwich was done cause I was not about to approach him empty handed. When the cooks finished up I brought the sandwich out and gave it to him and he left in a flurry. 

OKAY MR. POLICE OFFICER, I understand you need to go, and I understand that you think your protecting the city, but if it’s really that urgent you could just leave your fucking gyro, cause if someone is really in danger, that might trump your sandwich. Also, there is a time to use that “police voice” and a time not to use that voice, and there is a time to be calm and a time to get intense. As a police officer, you should know that using your “police voice” and getting intense while speaking to a server to hurry up with your food is not going to help the situation, and is only going to make matters worse. 

Then today, one of the police officers just cut in line and the lady behind him was so sweet about it and was like, “Oh yea that’s okay” and I was like ??? Then he ordered and acted as if nothing was wrong? Okay, I shit you not, the entire time I’ve worked there, nobody has ever cut in line intentionally like he did, and he WASN’T EVEN IN A RUSH! He stayed and ate in the restaurant for another half an hour or more!

Pardon my French, but fuck you police fucking officer, you can’t do that. 

[blubszog]

When In Fog City

I'm now in Burlingame, CA: suburb of San Francisco: the end of the continent. In this Bay Area, it is a grey area blanketed in morning fog. But still the trees are singing, and bells are ringing in a new age, toothauzindsevantean. We are closing in on the conclusion to yet another decade, and still I haven't forgotten my somebodyness. Oh how I yearn to be holy, and yet in my yearning I'll never be holy. So now I'm out of guacamole for my chips, I must make more guacamole. Well, never have I made guacamole, and yet I have made ravioli before, which I enjoy less than guacamole, alas. Yes tuonnysevvinteene, nonetheless we've all got enough shit to examine, both out there and within ourselves. With the rivers drying, trees dying, the oceans rising. Mother Nature deluges us now with a climatic morass comparable to human female pre-menstrual events. By the way, there's a brand new phone that's just hit the market. With it is storage memory enough for 9,000,000 photos and every last mobile application in existence. Never again need you to go out and do anything or speak to anyone, ever, finally! It also has two arms and legs allowing it to move about independently; you can even program its voice to sound like your mother's. Furthermore, it'll pluck out your own pubic hairs on command! Go now on to Snapchat and shoot a live video of your own reaction concerning the emergence of this new, exciting, neat little device. Then, watch others as they pour out their hearts in dramatic testimonials, vote for your favorite one. Hopefully, you'll get fucked in your precious little face with some appreciation! I digress. So San Francisco. Me and some family waltzed around (sometimes practically hiking perpendicular to the ground up and down The City's many undulating hills) getting a good up close and personal look at the idiosyncrasies found in any city. Particularly fascinating concerning San Fran are its building which seem to grow from out of one another in horizontal bunches, blanketing the hills and valleys of a lush, mountainous peninsula on America's West coast. We departed on foot from our hotel in historic, iconic Chinatown, to the Ferry Building for lunch, then to an underground Muni station on the corner of Market and Drumm streets; the underground Muni, being San Fran's subway system. We got off in The Castro, a prominent SF neighborhood known for housing mostly The City's gay contingency. There are prideful, rainbow colored crosswalks and rainbow flags adorning the windows of homes and businesses alike. One such business, a public house called 440 Castro, sports a front door poster. What's on said poster but an image of a faceless, nude male body, nude save for a pair of boxer-briefs donning the imprint of a well-endowed member. It's clarion call reads something like: "Rock Hard: Battle of the Bulges: Every first Monday at 9 p.m.: Hosted by Shando Darby." Be there. Then there is historic Castro Theatre, which displays posters you're more comfortable showing your grandmother, of 'The Sound Of Music' sing-a-long, (oh joy) as well as a showing of '2001: A Space Odyssey.' We proceeded to walk past several well-decorated cafés, salons, and hole-in-the-wall food joints. There's plenty of those kinds of places throughout town, but the difference in this particular neighborhood is they are well-decorated. Now at this point, my aunt expressed her wanting to walk around Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, and, in her words, "Go see some couterculture." We received directions from a volunteer who noticed our unawareness of how to get to our desired location. He was a buddha of a man, indeed a very, very round man with the plan. No distinguishable chin nor head had he, but rather one contiguous neck with a face on it. He had insisted we take the bus, however, we with our unsure, odd midwestern demeanor implied shyly our wishes to walk, when really we were probably afraid of interacting with the whole bus-riding garble in an unfamiliar land with unfamiliar folk. Finally, after not really ignoring him, yet not quite interacting with and heeding him either, he waved us off and gave up. I overheard him say rather cynically half to himself, "I'll just mind my own business" and he returned to sitting on sidewalk bench with his cane and conversing intimately with friend, whom also attempted in vain to assist us. With this, we continued on foot, onward along Castro Street to Haight Street. That's Haight, spelled h.a.i.g.h.t., not h.a.t.e., the neighborhood name, Haight-Ashbury does not tell you to hate Ashbury, nor is it a hotbed for hate crime, actually it's the intersection of two streets marking the epicenter. Now Haight-Ashbury is the hippie capital of the world, or so it was in the 1960's. To get an idea for the place, it's like Dinkytown without the spoiled college students, turn up the general funk of the place to 9,000, three times the size, and add some washed up hippies, bums, and other folk, all of whom are right on the sidewalk; either drunk, stoned, getting drunk, or getting stoned, or of those activities, some permutation. Even now as I describe it, I can almost smell the marijuana wafting from every alleyway. However, don't get the wrong idea, it's a charming place, enough. After all, my aunt, a biology professor at a small college in rural Wisconsin, was willing to walk with her two daughters and two nephews there. We proceeded on into a small clothing shop right off of Haight Street. I didn't rummage through the store's wares myself, but instead made friendly with the young woman working behind the counter. She greeted us as we came in, "hope you're staying warm out there," I found humor in this, as it was a 50 degree evening. I told her we were from MN and WI so the weather was devoid of any hardship. Also I told her we were over to see my uncle in Mendocino County, (which is a couple of hours north in wine and olive country) at this she exclaimed, "I'm from Mendocino, that's so great!" etc. I was sampling the smells of their essential oil collection, when I came across blessed, holy sandalwood. I reveled in its blessing aroma then commented to the gal working there that you couldn't go wrong with it. She agreed, and we ended up saying "great" or some such word in unison. Of course, I was obligated, "Jinks! I like Pepsi." Said she, "I'll have a soda ready for you next time you come by." I chuckled then said "I'll come back, but, well, who knows when that'll be." She was warming up to me, I would have wished to stay a while and talk to her, the least I could've done was take down her contact and then I would've had an ally to turn to in San Francisco. However, none of that occurred, as I was flummoxed by the sudden departure of my kin. I left her forever with a, "oh, looks like my folks are jetting, peace" she just looked somewhat longingly back at me, not saying anything. How I berated and hated myself the remainder of the night and the proceeding day for not even at least inquiring as to her name! Perhaps she could've showed me goings on, new people, new experiences, in a new fascinating town, San Francisco: the end of the continent! Not to mention, she was pretty, too. But still, we must let all this to pass, allow the feelings of desire run their course and ourselves remain in present, for doors to new blessings are always opening and closing, no matter what you do. Despite that, the rest of that night was good, and rest of the trip too was good. We went north into still more lush and mountainous wine country to my uncle's and his newly husband's ranch. What did I learn that day? San Francisco is grooving at the end of the continent. Her buildings, in contiguous horizontal stacks of a Victorian menagerie, a testament to her aesthetic, cultural grandeur. If indeed you find yourself standing on Ferry Plaza, take your look around the around the Bay: away South towards Palo Alto, then to the East, the Oakland skyline, then continuing with your eye northward still to see Sausalito and Marin county beyond, and finally the wide endless ocean; guarded by the Golden Gate. One hell of a bridge, with great, hulking, scarlet, ladder-like doorways, welcoming and fare-thee-well-ing sailors, locals, and travelers alike. Sometimes, you just about can't differentiate whether you're in California, U.S.A. or some dream. Or so it would seem to one such as me, after living in frightfully freezing, flat Minneapolis; which has its own charm, but that is another story.

[sandwichbully]

Frank from Philly, 28 August 2016

Hey. You want a cheesesteak review? Here.

So, today I was going to go to this art-fair / hotdog thing and buy a couple dogs. Why not? Neighborhood function, cheap, blah blah blah. But I biked up to the event, held in an apartment building basement, and took one look at the folks there - young, very young, looked like MCAD students that had healthy sex lives, dressed like they could talk to you for hours about Die Antwoord and Wolfgang Odd Future Kill Them All. So I said nuts to that and figured I would go to the Wienery, get a couple of Cleveland dogs and that’d be that. Except the Wienery closes at three on Sunday. So does Band Box Diner. So I said alright, let’s see what the cheesesteaks are at this Frank from Philly that Keith has never been to but has been raving about. (Still not sure how that works, Keith.)

OK, so here’s the first problem: Frank from Philly is in Dinkytown and you couldn’t pay me to live, work, or play in Dinkytown. The way Olive Garden is authentic Italian made by your great grandmother, Dinkytown is 1970s Times Square, and the way shop owners in Bowling Green’s “Four Corners” district have to hose the vomit off their sidewalks every Saturday and Sunday morning is a task I imagine Dinkytown businesses have to undertake every day from seven in the evening until seven in the morning JUST TO KEEP UP. Dinkytown is populated by college freshman, hungry for constant stimuli, usually meaning whichever curly-q’d-moustache-and-suspenders version of Mumford & Co is being rammed down their millenial earholes this month that’s playing at the Varsity Theater brought to you by Summit Brewing Company and 89.3 The Current, Great Music Lives Here. And for every reward I was granted in the form of an inch of eighteen and nineteen year old ass hanging out of Daisy Dukes, I was severely punished by the sight of two dozen tie-dye-and-high-top goons with burlap sack colored baseball caps and pinch-an-inch-ish chin hairs that were probably named Josh and could sell me a hit of weak acid. I would’ve taken the art school damaged kids in Whittier any day over these freaks, who looked like the kind of kids who’d never fucked WITHOUT the condom and were constantly poised for their next Instagram selfie, this generation’s version of the Clearisil commercial.

As previously mentioned, Frank from Philly is nestled in the middle of this shit, in a building with all the exterior design sensibilities of an LA Fitness and the interior design aesthetics of a repossessed Jimmy John’s.

Basically, I felt like I was walking into a dentist’s office in a city full of people whose women would never, ever fuck me.

I’m in line behind two typical Dinkytown goons I’ll call Thad and Braden (not Todd and Brandon, mind you; fucking suburban parents) and neither Thad or Braden can seem to make up their mind over what they want on their sandwiches, which is OK because the - oh, shit - stereotypical Asian tourist family at the register can’t decide how they’re going to pay. So it’s not like the line is moving.

Me? I know what I want: A cheesesteak. No, don’t fancy it up. I want the basics. I want the foundation. After all, you have to know how something tastes on its own before you decide to start throwing extra shit on it. (Which is why I always got the Italian Philly Cheesesteak from Caffrey’s, a cheesesteak with pepperoni and marinara added, because the regular one tastes like communion wafers on Wonder Bread.) (And no blood of Christ to wash it down.) They had the option for a Cheesesteak Supreme for a dollar extra which added peppers, mushrooms, and jalapeños or, as I like to call them, basics. But OK, basic at Frank from Philly’s is meat, onion, and my choice of cheese, and I went with cheez whiz, like you’re fucking supposed to.

After the Asian family carts their pizzas by the slices off to a table, Thad and Braden place their orders that sound more like fucking pizzas than the cheesesteak menus they were looking at and I’m beginning to think I don’t like them very much because these two Cillian Murphy looking butt-fingers look like the kind clueless dipshits that call Sbarro authentic. I couldn’t make out what they were saying exactly but it may as well have been a pineapple pizza chicken Philly with sauerkraut and generous dollops of mayo and ranch and of course Sri Racha like a couple of basic bitches - I sincerely hoped they twisted their ankles in a sewer grate on their way to whatever concert passes for Michelle Branch any more.

I get up to the register, the cashier asks me to give him a moment. I say sure, I’m in no hurry. That minute grew uncomfortably long, though, and I had to remind myself to just enjoy the air conditioning, for this is summer’s death rattle, and I’m pretty sure it’s six hundred forty degrees CELSIUS (worse than fucking Fahrenheit, I tell you) in the shade of a goddamned refigerator factory outside.

Eventually the guy takes my order. I want a cheesesteak. What kind of cheese would I like? Cheez whiz. They’ll have that right up for me.

Now, the sandwich is made to order so it’s going to take a minute. Or five. Asian family finishes their pizza slices, Dad comes up to grab a few more slices.

Five minutes turns into ten. Guy comes in and orders a pair of slices. And there goes Thad and Braden’s order. A family of real Eden Prairie pricks comes in and stares at the menu. Asian dad tries squeezing by to get to the pop machine. I scooch over and look back at the grill; three more cheesesteaks go on. Eden Prairie family leaves without ordering anything.

Ten minutes turns to fifteen. Guy with two slices, who was literally the last person to order, right after me, throws his plate away and leaves. Three cheesesteaks leave the grill. Do they have a delivery guy I haven’t seen? I ordered right after Thad and Braden, ten minutes before Mr. Two Slice and there was nobody between me and him aside from Asian dad coming back for seconds, my sandwich was as simple as they get. It stands to reason that I actually had a shot at getting my sandwich before Thad and Braden because of the simplicity. I start looking at Facebook.

Fifteen minutes turns into twenty, I’m actually contemplating asking for my nine dollars back because, at this point, I’ve spent more time waiting on the sandwich than I will eating it and that’s with a string of two - Asian dad and two slice guy - customers behind me who just ordered pizza slices. You know, slices. Of pizza. Already made. Really. How long is the wait on this fucking cheesesteak? And now the cashier asks me, “What kind of cheese did you want? Cheez whiz, right?” Yeah, cheez whiz. “We’ll have that right up for you, OK?” Cool, thanks! “Sorry about the wait.” No problem.

But it is a problem because I’m in Dinkytown. Putting me in Dinkytown is like dropping an unarmed ISIL member in the middle of a Gay Pride Pork Roast: I’m filled with an anxious, nervous hatred stemming from a core of beliefs contrary to my surroundings; I’m lost, adrift in a sea of Connors and Bethanies and music I don’t understand and pussy I’ll never get and I just want to get back to my neighborhood where people work for a living and fuck without condoms and smoke grass when they listen to Sabbath LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE and - “What kind of cheese did he want?” the grill cook asks the cashier even though I’m standing RIGHT THE FUCK HERE. Cashier asks me, “Hey, man, what kind of cheese did you want again? It was cheez whiz, right?” Cheez whiz, yeah. “Cheez whiz,” the cashier tells the grill cook. “Cheez whiz?” the grill cook asks. “Yeah,” the cashier says.

I stare out the window and I wonder if I will ever get home. I am a lost argonaut in the labrynth of the Minotaur and fuck you if you’re about to tell me I’m mixing my mythology there, it’s been a while since I read anything published before the nineteenth century so keep in mind that if you say one fucking thing at this point, I’ll make you kiss my dick and smile, goddamn. “He wanted cheez whiz, right?” the grill cook asks. Before the cashier can ask me again, I turn and say, Cheez whiz, yeah. Grill cook hands me my sandwich and says, “Sorry about the wait, man.” Hey, no problem, thanks.

I find myself a place to sit and try to keep my mind away from the Proactiv Solution commercial that is Dinkytown During Daylight and finally eat my sandwich.

It was big. It was nine dollars big. It was served open-faced and I’d witnessed a family of witless wonders eat their fancy salads disguised as cheesesteaks with forks and knives while I waited for my own. I however found no problem closing my sandwich and eating it like a sandwich. It was good. The meat portion was generous and the onions were soft but with the right amount of snap and sweet the way sautéed onions are supposed to be. I could have used more cheezwhiz, honestly. And the bread was great. Even as the sandwich drained grease out on to the wax paper on my plate, the bread did not get soggy. It was chewy without being rubbery or spongy and it made the perfect vessel for sopping up the grease on the wrapper, which I will probably pay for later.

Was it worth the nine bucks? Yes, absolutely.

Was it worth a half hour bike ride, one way, into the armpit of Tweeville? No. No. No no no. For Christ’s sake, even Lyn-Lake, with its Pabst swilling tattoo-sleeved nineties slacker-chic hipsters posing as cheesecake pinups and quiff-bois from your nose to the horizon has more dignity than fucking Dinkytown.

Was it worth a twenty minute wait on an otherwise dead Sunday afternoon? No but maybe they had deliveries. I really did maintain my cool and thank them and tip them and not bug them and they were really nice even though I have no idea why the grill cook needed two reminders that I’d ordered mine with cheez whiz. Still, though.

Verdict? I’ll go again if they ever open a location in northeast, downtown, midtown, uptown, West Bank or south because fuck me if I ever find myself in Dinkytown again.