The Big Trip: The Minneapolis Drag Show

As I look at the map and retrace my path, I’m rather mystified by the route I took. Some of it makes sense; some of it worked out so well that you know there was some divine synchronicity involved; some of it doesn’t make any sense at all.

Like today’s trip from the Mirror Lake to the Twin Cities. If I were going to stick to the interstates, why wouldn’t I take the one that headed directly there? Why would I head west toward Albert Lea, then due north, if I wasn’t going to take any scenic detours?

In western Wisconsin were some really interesting shale formations. My notes talk about rock towers jutting up out of nowhere, formations that were once little islands, apparently, and mentions Castle Rock by name, though I can’t find any record of such a place online. I drove by a Castle Rock Lake; maybe I saw a sign for it and confused it with the landscape I was seeing. Having my eyes deceive me would become a theme for this leg of the journey.

When I crossed the Mississippi into Minnesota, I was struck by the beautiful scenery: the hills are high and the roads are winding, and I wish I could stop and take pictures, but I’m on the interstate and going 70, so I just tried to drink it in as much as I could.

Then I saw my first

Wall Drug sign, just east of Albert Lea and 500 miles from Wall, South Dakota. My friend Kraig Klaudt, whose brother Kent was putting me up for the night in Minneapolis, told me that as soon as you leave the Twin Cities heading west, all you see are signs for Wall Drug. I thought it was exciting at the time. As you’ll see, my excitement was way out of line.

The rest stop in Straight River was an exercise in irony. Despite the name, or perhaps because of it, the restroom walls were covered with extraordinarily aggressive sexual cruising graffiti: “I will be here at such-and-such a time, at such-and-such a date,” or “You’ll see me driving the truck, I will hit my brakes three times, respond by flashing your lights,” or “Walk in the park at this time of night, I’m usually there,” that sort of thing. There was also a bit of obligatory “die fags” graffiti and “AIDS is God’s retribution on fagdom,” as well as the odd “TRS Worldwide Anarchy” scratched deeply into the paint on the wall, but most of it was just creepy messages from incredibly horny travelers.

In Owatonna was a big sign on a large, low building, as if it were advertising the name of the company. The sign had one word on it: “Truth.”

A few miles later I found a dead red squirrel on the highway, lying on its back with its lovely beige underbelly all exposed. It was so beautiful and so vulnerable, it wasn’t simply dead; it looked as if it were offering itself as a sacrifice somehow. It looked so strange and lifelike that I got out of the car to examine it and make sure it wasn’t just hurt. No such luck. I’ve seen taxidermy animals that weren’t this stiff.

Minneapolis at last.

I meet Kent, and he was handsome and funny and smart and welcoming. He shows me around town for a bit, going to his favorite bookstore, running an errand or two, giving me a feel for the funky neighborhood where he lives. And that evening, God bless him, he takes me to the Gay 90s.

The Gay 90s has been described as the Mall of America of gay bars. It has a show lounge, a dance bar, a leather bar, drag queens, male strippers, and much more. And this straight guy takes me there because he thought I’d enjoy the place. It was cavernous, and frankly, a bit of a dump. The crowd looked as if it was permanently stuck in a time warp, though Kent assured me that was just the difference between D.C. and Minneapolis.

The drag queens at the Saturday night show were appropriately kitschy and fun—it all very Paris is Burning—though I’m certain the emcee, who called herself Ella Fitzgerald, was three sheets to the wind. She was, however, an amazing female impersonator, and a great deal of fun. But the gay men in the audience all seemed to represent the extremes of the stereotype: either they were the wispiest of twinks or the butchest of leathermen (and even with them, whenever they’d open their mouths, ten yards of chiffon would come tumbling out). Kent and I spent more time talking about Prince, whom he’d see from time to time around town, with no entourage and no fans taking much notice. He’s just a regular guy.

You’d think I had gone out and gotten drunk or something, because my memory of my visit with Kent is pretty hazy. Mostly I remember inflating the air mattress for his floor, going to sleep, and heading to St. Paul early the next morning to go to church.

Yes, church.

Tomorrow’s episode: The Day My Life Changed.

The Big Trip: Mirror Lake

Day 4 began with me leaving Lake Forest and heading up to Wisconsin. Wisconsin, as close as it was, might as well have been another world; everything in our world centered on Chicago, not points north. I’d avoid the interstates and stick to the smaller, more scenic roads. This one took me to the deliciously tacky Wisconsin Dells, where I hoped to spend the afternoon being silly, then head off to find a campground.

On the way there, I passed André’s Steak House (“Never a Bum Steer!”); a place that sold minnows, and nothing but minnows; L’il Richard’s Bar (“Polka Fest This Saturday!”); End of the Line Caboose Motel; Popeye’s Cocktails and Casual Dining (“Homemade Apple Pie, World’s Best”); and a decidedly surreal sign on the side of a country road that read, “Airplane Crossing Ahead, Watch Out for Low Flying Planes”—with no airfield anywhere in evidence. I wondered if I had started hallucinating.

Then there was the string of little country houses along the side of the road that had little shops and delis in them. One had a giant soft-serve ice cream cone on top of the house that had been tied down by guy wires and was so utterly eroded of paint that one could barely tell that it was indeed an ice cream cone. But they did have deli inside. The place was called the Let’s Eat-Mor.

The village

of Cambridge, Wisconsin, population 844, was iconically pretty. Quaint shops, family restaurants, quiet little houses with quiet little lawns, and in the middle of the town, The Village Sweat Shop. Note that it was a sweat shop, not a sweet shop. Just down the road, in the middle of a cornfield, was the Thompson Correctional Center; perhaps newly released ex-cons found work at the Sweat Shop. And further on a bit was Steve’s Taxidermy, with a sign that listed all the different animals they work on, and a stuffed and mounted bear, its arms outstretched, affixed to what looked like either a scarecrow’s pole-and-crossbar or a crucifix; both associations were disturbing in different ways.

Then there were the mom-and-pop pubs: Katie and Porky’s Liberty Corner Tavern, and Hamm’s—Archie and Em’s. (I couldn’t tell if Hamm is their last name, or if they sold Hamm’s Beer.) Archie and Em’s place was a barn-like structure that had all these birds sitting stone still on the slant of the roof, rather than on the peak or on the power line next to it, as birds usually would. I wasn’t even sure at first that they were indeed birds because it seemed so odd and they weren’t moving, until two of them fluttered to the ground like leaves; the rest remained frozen.

Sauk City. I exclaimed into my tape recorder, “Horrible little cramped town! Oh, it so ugly! Oh, what a hideous little place!” The only redeeming feature was Husband’s Dog House, which had all these iron sculptures in the yard. One was a sculpture of a heart that looked like it had become a Dr. Seuss caricature with a long neck and a curlicue tail and a funny little head.

At last I come to

Baraboo, home of

Circus World and Ringlingville. The plethora of circus memorabilia befitting its rich circus history is interesting, though the museum is in the worst part of the decaying old town. On the grounds of Circus World are all these trolleys and circus carts. A sign read, “Camel Barn: This brick structure complex housed the Ringling Brothers’ Circus lead stock of camels, zebras, and llamas. The brothers were famous for their large teams of harnessed camels pulling the circus wagons in street parades.” (On the tape, I somehow substituted the word “cannibals” for “camels.”)

I expected more from Wisconsin Dells, frankly. It’s a tourist Mecca—ugly, tacky, and expensive—but when I arrived there it was off-season, so the place was deserted. I went to two “attractions,” if you can call them that: Tommy Bartlett’s Robot World (Bartlett is the late billionaire who essentially built the Dells) and The Wonder Spot, where the laws of gravity have apparently gone haywire. Both were a waste of time and money, without even the cheesy fun that I hoped I’d find.

So I went camping.

For the record, I believe a deer led me to Mirror Lake. There were several whitetails standing at different intersections, pointing me first up one road, then down the next. First one, then a second. Then a third came bounding toward me, and stopped next to a sign that read Mirror Lake State Park.

When I drove into the campground area, a fourth deer suddenly bounded into the dirt road in front of me, walked into one particular campground, waited for me to catch up and park, then disappeared into the trees.

I put up my tent ten feet from my car, inflated my air mattress, and cooked a dinner of steak and asparagus. Lovely to be camping, even if it’s not really in the wilds. I had a battery-operated TV and radio, but couldn’t get any reception (in a month of camping, I believe I was able to get reception only once or twice; being cut off from my usual distractions was a very good thing). It was chilly, and comfortable, and I was very happy and content. I was in bed by 9:30.

In the morning, as I left the park, three more whitetail deer stood grazing just beyond the park boundary, on the shoulder of the road. I was convinced they were saying goodbye to me.

Tomorrow’s episode: The Minneapolis Drag Show.

Interlude

All sorrow comes from fear. From nothing else. When you know this, You become free of it, And desire melts away. You become happy And still.

Ashtavakra Gita 11:5 From The Heart of Awareness: A Translation of the Ashtavakra Gita, by Thomas Byrom