If you ask students and faculty involved in St. Olaf's dance department to talk about what dance means to them and why they dance, none of them will say quite the same thing. The department's central characteristic is that dance means something different to almost everyone.
The atmosphere is tense. Eyes and hands dart about. The enemy is tough to identify. One never knows who will reach for those snakeskin high heels or that macramé purse at the same instant. Such is the adrenaline rush of second-hand shopping.
First Avenue, Minneapolis' prominent music club and the home of hordes of pathological rock, punk, rap, hip-hop, country, blues, techno and ska fans, has been closed for the past month, but will re-open Friday, Nov. 19, under new ownership. Legendary promoter Steve McClellan - who put the venue on the proverbial map of idolatry - and Jack Meyer, former business manager of said club, have taken control of the fledgling landmark.
At the risk of sounding prudish, I have to admit that I really despise Public Displays of Affection (PDA). I hate observing them. I cannot stand it when I am happily floating through my day and then - BAM! I am faced with two people getting down and dirty in the middle of Fireside or some other public place.
Family night was always an interesting affair in the Perelli-Minetti household. Convincing two teenage girls that they should stay in on a weekend night to hang out with their parents was quite the challenge, a challenge which my mother met with one of her deadliest weapons: Scrabble.
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Kurt Cobain. He was a gifted boy. He, along with two of his very special friends, helped popular music out of its longstanding complacency via a band they formed. The name of this band was Nirvana.