Lewis Black in Concert

As an aficionado of the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, I’ve seen Lewis Black’s material a few times. I’ve also seen clips of him on Comedy Central, and I’ve enjoyed it, so when I heard he was going to be performing at the University of Northern Iowa , I jumped at the chance to go. Granted, I heard he was going to be at the University of Northern Iowa roughly one day before he performed, so it’s not like there was a lot of thought involved. The most consideration I gave to the event was a.) how much are the tickets, b.) can I get a good seat, and c.) seriously, the tickets are that much? Good thing I’m only buying one…

One of the nice bits about being single is that you can get good seats a lot more easily than if you’re going as a group. Even going as a pair is almost a guarantee of getting nosebleed seats when you purchase tickets over an hour after the tickets go on sale these days, but going stag (or doe, as it were) you can slide in pretty much anywhere. Like, say, the last seat in a row fairly close to the stage, which was the seat I bought.

Cedar Falls, UNI’s home, is a decent little city, located about an hour and a half away from Cresco. It’s the small neighboring city of Waterloo, Iowa. It’s hard to say where Waterloo ends and Cedar Falls begins, much like how various suburbs and their core cities grow together. Cedar Falls, though, is much nicer than Waterloo. Highway 63 is a pretty straight trip down to Waterloo, and the first indication you have that the city might not be the nicest is the Motel 6 on the outskirts. The exterior looks nice, but the room rate is constantly blank, with two cut-out spaces showing fluorescent lights where the dollar amount would be. I have driven by that motel for two years now, and at no point has the ownership seen fit to rectify this.

The problem is that “falling into disrepair” seems to be the de facto state of affairs for the town. As you drive down Highway 63, you see several homes that could really use some repair, whether it’s just a layer of paint, a new pane of glass for their bay window or taking a lawn mower to their small patch of grass. The businesses aren’t much better. There are a few decent chain stores on the northern outskirts, but driving through the downtown district you get the sense that most people have closed up shop and are trying their hand somewhere else. Those that are left are either those who are too poor to move or those who really love their city.

It makes me sad to see this, because Waterloo really does have a lot to recommend to it. It’s located on two sides of the Cedar River, a river that seems to be responsible for more than its fair share of names in northern Iowa—Cedar Falls, Cedar Rapids (which was recently the subject of an Ed Helms comedy film), the Cedar Valley, Cedar Bluff, Cedar City, Cedar Bend County Park, Cedar plains, Cedar mountain, Cedar canyon, Cedar cottages and Sam Seder.  

The city has plenty of nice waterfront, and it also has some areas of the city that actually look livable, although they’re on the southern outskirts of town. If you use a little imagination, you can see what the city might have once been like.

When you drive along the main road that connects Waterloo to Cedar Falls, you’re driving along a ten-mile patch of strip malls. As you drive, you’ll be aware that suddenly the discount car stereo places, mechanics’ garages and cheap pizza shacks have been replaced with mid-to-high middle class restaurants, sports bars, shopping centers and cheaper pizza shacks. That’s how you know you’re in Cedar Falls.

Before going to the University of Northern Iowa, I stopped by The Core, a comic book store that is apparently one of the best in the state. One would think that’s a big claim to make, and one would be right. Then you walk in and see the life-size statue of Darth Maul staring you in the face, and you start to believe. The Core does an excellent job of carrying not only comic books, but also comic-book related material, including statues, toys and memorabilia. It has a huge wall dedicated to independent comic books and graphic novels, a branch that is often neglected by other comic book stores, and their store is the only one I’ve noticed that carries collected volumes of webcomics on a regular basis. They’ve also got an extensive collection of all-ages (aka “kiddie”) comics, not to mention carrying several sci-fi, fantasy and comic book magazines. Plus, the staff is friendly. What more could you want in a comic book store? Half the fun of going there is moseying along the shelves, seeing what new titles might attract your attention.

Afterwards, I ate at a restaurant that had the popular “throw Americana on the wall” décor, then drove the short distance to the University of Northern Iowa. If I had to describe the campus in a word, it would be cul-de-sac. I was curious about what the campus looked like, so I turned down a side street named “College Road” and drove for about a quarter of a mile before I came to a cul-de-sac with a monument to the college in the middle. I dutifully made my way around it and then turned down a side street where I glimpsed some old college-looking buildings. This time I went less than 200 feet before driving around another cul-de-sac. So chastened, I drove out and back down the road, which forked right and deposited me just inside the gates of the University of Northern Iowa. So much for exploring the campus. I parked my car and made my way to the Gallagher-Bluedorn Performing Arts Center.

The show was good—funny, insightful, and at times shocking.  If you know in advance that Lewis Black is coming to a town near you and you can also be in front of your computer the second tickets go on sale, I highly recommend you see him. Afterwards, he came out and signed autographs for the people who lined up, and there were rather a lot of them. I was impressed. He is technically a big shot in the world of comedy, and yet he stayed around for an hour or so afterwards to autograph things and pose for pictures with the fans.

While this was going on, towards the back of the line a college student had set down his backpack and taken out some plastic rings, which he started juggling. I have seen this happen before, but usually outdoors and in the day time. I suspected that whoever this juggler was, he was looking for a few bucks to help people pass the time while they waited in line, only he didn’t seem that good. He would juggle six plastic rings for a few minutes, then drop one and catch the rest. He would do some more juggling of the plastic rings, then catch most of them on his neck and drop one or two. It was amusing but not really something people would pay money to see. Then I noticed he didn’t have a hat at his feet, nor anything else that people might want to toss dollars and change into. Curious, I struck up a conversation with the college student, who happens to not be a college student but a professional juggler. His name was Doug, and since juggling season was at a low point, he was visiting his girlfriend, who was studying elementary education and sitting reading a textbook a couple feet away. He had won a world-class juggling competition, and spent the time on campus to come to the performing arts center and practice because the roof in the place was so large.  I watched Doug practice for a few more minutes, this time realizing he was practicing, and enjoyed the performance, even as I realized that judging talent can be very situational. If I’d seen Doug at a Renaissance Faire, I would have thought he’s someone who’s decent in the world of juggling, or at least is good enough to earn money for practicing a hobby. If I’d seen him on TV I would think, well there’s a talented sort.

Finally, I drove home. Highway 63 has an odd quirk where some sections have the speed limit set at 65 miles per hour. Then, for no reason, the speed limit gets dropped back to 55. I can almost understand the reason for it, but if there are rules they’re applied seemingly at a whim. So I went from 55 to 65, back to 55 then to 65, feeling somewhat like a test driver in an extremely boring Chevrolet commercial. Along the way I saw several red lights, shining across the darkened plains of Iowa. There were several of them, and I realized I was looking at a wind farm at night. The effect was beautiful in an odd way, and I thought I might be staring at the future of energy production—black plains, punctuated every so often by clusters of red lights shining through the night. It was a good way to end the day.

The Wrestling Hall of Fame

Frick I’m tired. This doesn’t really have much to do with the region itself, but it does directly impact how much I want to write today. If you’ve ever tried to write while tired, then you’re aware it’s a mental battle between your willpower and your brain saying “sleepsleepsleepsleepsleep!” 

Instead of harping on that, though, I’ll write up this brief little entry about the Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame. Out here in the Midwest, one of THE sports to follow is wrestling. Not pro wrestling, although that would arguably make a more entertaining hall of fame, but traditional wrestling. In my entry on the Cresco Fitness Center I made mention of this, but junior high and high school students will be hitting the gym after it gets out, drinking protein shakes and carrying magazines featuring men and occasionally women who have zero body fat and enough muscles that you have to wonder what the people on those muscle magazine covers do when they’re not oiled up and posing. I have trouble seeing them in an office environment, and there just aren’t enough gyms in the U.S. for these people to run all of them. Somewhere out there is a computer programmer or accountant who you would not want to push around is all I’m saying.

Back to my point that wresting in Iowa is huge. Perhaps part of it can be attributed to frustrated farmboys whose constant chores and physical regimens make them want to see just how strong they are, and it’s either sanctioned wrestling tournaments or bar fights. But if you drive through Iowa, you can take the wrestling challenge—put your radio on scan, then wait until the evening. The odds of you hearing a broadcasted wrestling match are better than average. So it makes sense that Iowa would have a wrestling hall of fame.

Choosing Cresco as the location, though, is a mystery. I have yet to read of any compelling reason why the Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame would be in Cresco, rather than in, say, Des Moines where that sort of monument to state pride would be more at home. I suppose it could have been decided by a lottery.

The Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame is located in the Cresco Welcome Center, a pleasant little gray brick building that is adorned with a dark polished stone bench out front, a gravel garden with concrete walkways and a short squat appearance. It’s very Midwest—nice but not ostentatious. Inside, you’ll find the Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame is very short and to the point. It doesn’t contain memorabilia or recounts of famous matches, but instead focuses on the inductees. Each inductee gets a photo taken, along with a brief biography that includes exactly what they did to deserve a spot in the hall of fame. 

When you walk through it, you realize a couple of things. The first is that you generally become a member of the Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame at a young age. All of the plaques have a picture of a man who is at least middle-aged, smiling congenially for the camera. Next to his picture is a photo of the same man in high school or college, dressed in full wrestling gear, in a standard wrestling ready position. Granted, I know as much about amateur wrestling as I do about nuclear fusion, but from the stance of the legs and the “ready to grapple” position of the arms, even a monkey could tell what it is. All these young men have a serious look on their faces, one that says, “I know you are the photographer, but if I wanted to I could detach your arms without much trouble.” It’s the look plenty of young men spend hours trying to cultivate. After about age 21, though, the chance to do something that earns you a spot in the Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame decreases dramatically. Amateur wrestling, like most sports, is a game in which only the young can succeed. There are no Brett Farves here. When you leave college, you also leave amateur wrestling. 

Secondly, the people that are in the Iowa Wrestling Hall of Fame have got to be doing it for the love of the sport. As I walked the hallway of the hall of fame, I realized that getting to this level is beyond getting a medal. The dedication showed here comes from beyond winning medals, from beyond getting the high school glory and the attention. At that point, it’s less about winning and more about a drive to perfect oneself in a chosen art.

The Little Gym That Is

This weekend has been kind of rainy, compounded by fog that makes the entire town seem like an English town, transported smack in Iowa. I had been considering driving to Rochester or Waterloo, but instead I did the adult thing, stayed home and did taxes. It’s not exactly glamorous, or even interesting unless you are the person directly related to the taxes, in which case it’s the equivalent of a nail-biting thriller, a Shakespearean tragedy and a come-from-behind sports movie all in one. 

Once my taxes were finished I decided to laze around and surf the web for a few hours, then thought better of it and went to the gym instead. It always takes some dragging to get to the gym, but because that gym is the Cresco Fitness Center I can’t say I mind too much. It’s similar to the La Rana Bistro in that you just wouldn’t expect something this nice to be in a town this small. I’ve used the fitness center of the Mayo Clinic courtesy of my brother, which is extremely nice. By “extremely nice” I mean it is a multi-level facility that occupies an entire block, with individual television for the elliptical machines and treadmills, an indoor mezzanine that is an irregularly shaped walking/running track, wide-screen TVs blasting the news at a reasonable pace, along with locker rooms that would not look out of place at an upscale country club, a swimming pool, and God only knows what else because I have not had the time to explore it all. 

Then there’s the Cresco Fitness Center, which does not benefit from either the size of the town, the money of said town’s residents or the will of a multi-millionaire to make sure there is a state-of-the-art fitness center. Given those handicaps, it stacks up extremely well against the Mayo Clinic Fitness Center. 

One of the first things you’ll notice is the Cresco Fitness Center has a pool, a half-Olympic sized swimming pool. One side has a shallowly-sloping ramp that extends to a depth of four feet at the last third. That last third leads to the other side, which leads to a depth of eight feet. A concrete divider separates the two, so the pool has a U-shape when viewed from above. It’s pretty clever. A hot tub is also in the pool room, which is a nice way to relax after swimming a few laps. 

Then there’s the weight room. It occupies half of a gymnasium, the other half hosts a basketball court, which is entirely netted in so treadmill runners don’t have to encounter basketballs suddenly impeding their progress, a la Mario in Donkey Kong. Surrounding the weight-lifting area and the basketball court is an indoor track. It’s a nice added touch, and the only thing I can’t understand about it is why they have people run one way on even days and another way on odd days. I can understand the concept, but I think I would start to feel a little dizzy if I ran one way and then the other. Not to mention the associations it would make in your mind. Would you try to go counterclockwise around the office if it was an even-numbered day? Do leap years blow people’s minds? 

Regardless, it’s a nice place to spend time, and there are a few other rooms as well, most of which I don’t get the opportunity to use. The upper level has a basketball court that can double as a volleyball court, and it leads to two rooms—the aerobics room, which has several aerobic DVDs and exercise equipment, and the martial arts room/wrestling room. Both of these rooms are accessed by small little doors with a tiny little square window in each one. You  could be forgiven for thinking you were about to enter a repurposed broom closet, instead of entering into a spacious room that could hold several people without feeling crowded. For those of you that are science fiction fans, it is akin to walking into the TARDIS on the show Doctor Who.

The lower level has the more interesting features, in my opinion. This is where the sports practice areas are—batting cages, golf swing room and an archery target. The fact that a fitness center in a small town offers so much is insane, and makes you wonder exactly how it exists. 

There are reasons, of course. I think the Cresco Fitness Center is so successful is that it has a ton of community usage. On any given day when you go in you will see children and senior citizens alike checking in. The parking lot is always full. Sure, you can get the occasional weekend where you get to park in a choice space, but most of the time you’ll be walking quite a way. It hosts several basketball tournaments, along with aerobics and yoga classes, not to mention water aerobics Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I’ve known churches whose members attend less regularly than the members of the Cresco Fitness Center. This can be explained partially because in Cresco, there just isn’t that much to do. The farms have already braced themselves for the winter and it’s something for people to do once they get out of work. It’s also something for kids to do once they get out of school. Not to mention that Cresco has an active wrestling team, which means you will see tons of high school kids looking to hone their bodies to the nth degree, along with Cresco high school graduates who have gotten into the habit of honing their bodies to the nth degree and are unwilling to give up the practice. Which brings up an interesting fact about Cresco—it may be the only town in the United States that does not suffer from a youth obesity problem. Between the farms, the fitness center and high school sports, I can count the number of obese children I’ve seen on the fingers of an inept Yakuza member. Want some more proof the Cresco Fitness Center is firmly established in the community? They recently had a fundraiser to update some of the more ancient machinery and give the place an overall facelift. They needed $20,000 dollars to do so—and they got it. In a recession. Where most people are worried about losing their jobs and pinching pennies. So I feel pretty confident when I say people in Cresco consider the Cresco Fitness Center a vital part of their community.

Fine Restaurants, Deer Crossing and Proprietors Maybe Named “Tom”

In the northeastern section of Iowa, the snow is finally starting to melt. Some people have lost money betting against such an eventuality, but there you have it. Winter seems like such a permanent thing when it’s here, despite the fact that spring always arrives, along with people turning up their air conditioners and complaining about how hot it is, and isn’t the weather ever going to cool off? So it goes.

Nevertheless, after working out at the gym I thought I would head to nearby Decorah and sample one of their restaurants. I think I’ve hit all the good restaurants on the main street, and now I wanted to see what some of the side street restaurants had to offer.

The one I chose was the La Rana bistro, a corner restaurant that is an amazing cross between a mom-and-pop restaurant and a fine dining establishment. It’s a mom-and-pop restaurant because it’s small. Quite small. The main dining area takes up one side of the restaurant, and consists of one long lacquered wood bench with several small tables. There are two more tables for two at each of the windows, and two more high tables in the center that seat two. You know the ones I’m talking about—the ones where you feel you might need a stepladder to climb up onto them. If you bring a short date to the restaurant, you’ll probably have to lift her up. I’m 6’2” and my feet dangle off the floor while I’m sitting in these chairs.

There is also an L-shaped bar that seats about eight, which is where I sat. A kindly looking bartender in a shirt I don’t want to call pink but am having a hard time coming up with another name for, faded red maybe, brought me a glass of water and a dinner menu. On the menu were such items as grass-fed local steak, roast duck and a hamburger, which seemed out of place among all the more sophisticated menu items. In its defense, it was also made from a local grass-fed cow and served on a ciabatta bun, but still I thought it was putting on airs. After looking through the menu, I settled on the special—local chicken, rotini, broccoli, mushrooms and asiago cheese in a brandy cream sauce. As an appetizer I was served three slices of freshly-baked bread on a rectangular white dish, with a small shallow bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. The bread was fresh, tender and good, and I enjoyed the entrée very much when it came out. 

I also struck up a conversation with the bartender, who had no other patrons at the bar other than myself. He stood behind rows after rows of fine liquor and whiskey, and occasionally fielded questions from the main waitress of the place about available wines. They had a suggested wine pairing for the special as well, you see. As it turns out, the bartender was also the owner of the restaurant, a carpenter who built the restaurant when Decorah was in need of some new eateries. I’ve heard the same story a few times, and honestly when I hear it I am not in a restaurant that is even half this nice. Usually, the restaurant offers open-faced turkey sandwiches on white bread with gravy, a few variations on a burger, and some steak or grilled chicken. If you’re lucky, they have a decent salad bar with one special type of potato or pasta salad that is among the head cook’s specialty. It may have even won an award at a fair. I’m not trying to disparage these restaurants, but at the same time the proprietors aren’t trying to do anything more than give their customers something good to eat. The La Rana, on the other hand, was in the business of fine, delicious dining. I will admit I have underestimated people, and I should say this is one of those times. I’m not sure what possesses a carpenter to construct a restaurant such as this. Don’t you usually picture carpenters as very blue-collar people? The kind of guys who, when they knock off early, knock back a few brews and down either a hambuger or a sandwich and fries at an A&W or the local bar? I have yet to meet a carpenter who, when the day is done, says, “You know, I have to admit, tonight I have a craving for local-grown meats, fresh veggies, and some brandy-cream sauce.” Yet here I was, talking with a carpenter who had done just that. I think next I’ll search for a Wall Street banker who goes to Hooters on the weekend. 

I didn’t get the bartender-owner’s name, although I kept thinking his name was Tom. He looked the way a Tom is supposed to look. He was in his sixties, shaved his head and grown a short dull white beard. He wore glasses and had blue eyes. Maybe that’s not a Tom to you, but to me it radiated Tom-ness. If it turns out his name is not Tom, I will be sad. Disappointed, at least. 

Finally, full but not overstuffed, I made my way back to my car and started driving. I drove slowly, because with the snow melting, deer are on the move. IN case no one is aware, deer are some of the deadliest animals, simply for their penchant of walking across roads at night. They also freeze up when caught in the glare of a bright light, ensuring you will hit them if you are not paying attention and traveling at high speeds. Not paying attention and traveling at high speeds is, by the way, the preferred state of many northeast Iowa drivers on Saturday night. According to the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, 1.5 million people a year die because of getting into an accident with deer and elk. They are also one of the top causes of automobile accidents. The Department of Transportation does put up signs that indicate deer crossing and helpfully point out that they may be crossing for the next five miles of road, but I have come to realize that deer are notoriously poor readers. They don’t read these signs and instead walk across the road wherever they damn well please. Instead, the Department of Transportation should put up several deer crossing signs, but not ones that indicate where the deer are probably crossing, just put up one every five miles or so on a highway that goes through the country. “Deer Crossing,” it would say, “Just in case you forgot.” Or it could be added to the speed limit signs. “55 Miles Per Hour, 45 for trucks, and there may be DEER CROSSING!” Fortunately, I made it home without seeing one deer, which was good. I’ve had deer suddenly appear in my field of vision, and it is always a harrowing process. 

Finally, I got back to Cresco. One restaurant down, several more to go.

The Meat of the Matter

One of the first things that strikes me about the town of Cresco is its grocery store, of all things. Particularly the butcher’s section. Even though I grew up in a small town, I’m used to buying my meats the usual way—freshly wrapped in plastic, usually processed a day or two ago. Fresh-cut meat? It’s all done behind the scenes. Maybe you’ll have a deli shave off a half-pound of ham and wrap it in wax paper if you’re lucky.

But in Cresco there’s an actual butcher’s department. Yeah, you can buy plastic-wrapped meat but for the most part if you want hamburger, you ask the butcher for a pound of hamburger. If you want sausage, you get a pound of sausage, fresh-ground. It’s wonderful. I suppose it reminds me of the proverbial “Good ol’ days,” where people supposedly tipped their hat to you and said “guv’nah” as you passed by. Funnily enough, you never seemed to have to do that to anyone else when you passed by them. Maybe it was only the people who had hats who had to tip them and say “guv’nah.” There might be a statute about that sort of thing…

                 

Anyway, back to the butcher’s shop. I think part of the reason I like it is because I feel in control. It’s like buying vegetables at a grocery store, where you can choose the number of groceries you want and check them for freshness before buying them. With some exceptions, like pre-bagged apples and oranges, you get to test out the product before you buy it. It’s the same with meat. Plus, seeing fresh meat laid out has a very different feel than buying a pre-wrapped steak that’s already been cut and weighed. Want a pound of strip steak? You don’t have to take the pound-and-a-half or pound-and-a-quarter or whatever the supermarket has decided is the right cut. You get strip steak that weighs a pound.

                 

Maybe I’m making too much of this, but I don’t think so. It reminds me of delis, and the assurance that you’re getting something fresh. Something that was homemade. Plus, the butchers are pretty nice. They’re so willing to help that they usually ask me what I want as I’m browsing their selection. At some point, someone is going to write a comedy about an earnest salesperson and someone who shops by browsing, and it is going to be a blockbuster. At least a decent off-Broadway play.

                 

The butcher’s shop is something incredible, something that has all but vanished. When I go into a Target or Wal-Mart, there’s a decent selection of meats, but it’s all impersonal, all business-like. If your goal is to sell as much product as possible, that’s fine, but I like talking with the butcher, asking him or her about cuts of meat or if there’s a suitable substitute. Try asking the Wal-Mart employee trying to restock the cereal shelves whether flank steak is acceptable stew meat sometime and see how far you get.

                 

So if you come by Cresco, IA swing by the local grocery store. Trust me, you don’t need me to tell you the name. It’s the only grocery store in town.

First Post

Bill Bryson is a darned fine writer. He’s also the inspiration for this blog, so if you don’t like what you see, blame him. The second inspiration is my history with small towns.

I grew up in a small rural town in Michigan whose population consisted of about 3,000 people. When I was in high school, kids used to talk about “cruising the town,” which took all of two minutes. Three, if they decided to hang out in the parking lot of the local supermarket. Still, I had fun. My dad is an avid outdoorsman, and so I learned all about hunting, fishing, camping, and how to enjoy myself just by going for a walk in the country. Of course, being one of those intellectual geeky types, I’d also go into the local library and check out a book or two. Or see if the local supermarket had any new comic books. And that was pretty much it.

By the time I’d graduated high school I was more than ready to leave. When I went to college I lived in an honest-to-god city, with multi-level buildings and sirens going past my dorm room at midnight and everything a city is supposed to have—including book stores and game stores, which have since become two of my favorite addictions. Not to mention I just like living in a city, having an apartment and being part of what writer Neal Stephenson called the biomass.

Now, however, I’m back in a small town. This is mostly due to my desire to make it as a writer. Unbeknownst to me, you have to either have a job while becoming a writer or starve gracefully until you’ve proven you can write and some company takes you on when you can successfully present the façade of a seasoned professional. I chose the latter route, and after only five or six years of living on ramen was picked up by a company located in northeastern Iowa. Here’s the irony, though—the job is in a small town. I’ve got two cities each an hour away from me and a pretty decent-sized town about a half-hour to the east, but for the most part my work and my free time is spent in a small town. I pretty much resigned myself to the crippling boredom that only a small town can provide unless I traveled extensively on the weekends. Then I read Bill Bryson’s excellent book, “The Lost Continent,” in which he explores several small Midwestern towns. He writes about them with humor, but also with the understanding that small towns are different somehow. The things that affect people here are different than in cities. They’re smaller and more personal. Benefit dinner posters get put up in the windows of the local fast food eateries—the electronic town sign posts church get-togethers and VFW happenings. You get to see some quirks that would make city dwellers cock an eyebrow. Small towns may also contain surprises, things you just wouldn’t expect or people you might not expect. After all, Brad Pitt had to come from somewhere, right?

So that’s the reason for this blog. My intention, barring any unforeseen circumstances, is to write about this area, explain what makes it unique. If nothing else, it beats sitting around all day watching reruns of Mythbusters.