With an impending visit from Nick D and his dog/alter ego, Charlie, I had to drive back into town to make a garbage drop, plus stock up on food and snacks to sustain us through the weekend. I decided to take this opportunity to explore the town of Spooner.

About a mile east of Economart lies downtown Spooner, a small, two block stretch filled mostly with antique stores and a couple of small bars scattered in for good measure. To a visitor, it feels very much like any other small midwestern downtown area. After walking the streets and peering into the establishments, I wandered behind the bank and stumbled upon the abandoned Spooner Rail Station and Railroad Memories Museum. I crawled in and explored the abandoned and decaying trains, filled with junk, trash, and horribly bad graffiti, at least from a "big city guy's" perspective. Step yo game up.

I found an open dumpster in town to deposit some trash, then stopped at a log cabin looking building to grab a sandwich and an adult beverage. In typical Northern Wisconsin fashion, they of course stocked Grain Belt Premium Beer, which was served to me in an accompanying glass with a fish on it. Perfect. The best beers are fish beers.

Today, I had to do some responsible things including heading to the laundromat "off County Road A, just past 'What The Heck'", according to the directions I was given. There, I spent some time putting finishing touches on a soul and funk mix that I recorded the other day which should make its way onto this website shortly. Its the first DJ specific mix that I've worked on since the Rabid Vinyl Monks album nearly five years ago.

At the laundromat, I met an older lesbian couple, Ingrid and Melanie, who pulled up smelling like a pet shop. Melanie had grown up around these parts and recently lost a finger, requiring surgery after the accident to restore movement in to the rest of her hand. Looking like an older Mr. Rogers, I didn't realize that Ingrid was a woman until I introduced myself to her. Having heard about the big St. Patrick's Day party from Mel and the bartender at the closest bar at the crossroads of County Road A and County Road H, I asked the two of them about the upcoming weekend. While their demeanor was friendly and nice, they were quick to complain about the drunken tourists about to descend on their remote, rural town. I asked if I could take a photograph of the two of them before leaving, and while Ingrid agreed, Melanie quickly declined and returned inside, assumingly bothered by the California license plates that my car was brandishing.

As nearly all of my time so far had been spent trying to restore running water, catching up on client work, and of course enjoying the company of Mel and Hunter, I hadn't had a chance to step back and appreciate the majesty of Wisconsin since my arrival. I spent two hours by myself tonight standing on the lake, drinking beer and listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the needles on the pine trees while watching the sunset. The silence every now and then broken up by the faint sound of a truck whizzing down County Road A or a dog barking somewhere on the other side of the lake. It was absolutely perfect.

I awoke this morning to a stinging sensation behind my eyes. You know, the type of sensation caused by drinking a half a bottle of bourbon by yourself while listening to man in camo overalls tell tall tales of his life growing up in Minnesota. 

I didn't have much time to collect myself before the cabin door flew open once again. It was Hunter. After seeing all of the audio equipment strewn about the room during his visit the previous day, he felt compelled to ask a million questions and take the gear for a spin. Laced between a handful of emphatic "be careful with that!" exclamations, I showed Hunter how to play around with different synthesizer sounds on my keyboard, how to record and play a loop, followed by instructions on how turntables work. He also spent a good deal of his time running around the inside of the cabin in circles, which is apparently a favorite past time of many third graders. After some time, I finally got Hunter to admit that Mel had indeed sent him over for a reason, and that was to invite me to have lunch with them.

Hunter and I soon headed back to their cabin to enjoy some Hamburger Helper and more of each other's company. Once again, I found myself sitting across from Mel at the kitchen table conversing as he finished the bottle of Vodka I had bequeathed to him the previous night in exchange for the meals, company and the delicious Ice House he continued to feed me. After many, many consecutive hours of Hunter begging Mel to teach him how to play cribbage, and due to their upcoming departure, I decided to say goodbye and wish Hunter a happy upcoming birthday, heading back to my cabin for the evening. I promised Mel that I would send him jerky that I plan to make when I return to Chicago in exchange for his friendliness and hospitality. 

During my morning exercises and stretching, I peered out through the cabin window that overlooks the lake to see two hands and a small face pressed directly against the glass. The second we made eye contact, a little guy ran to the side of the cabin and burst through the door, loudly introducing himself as Hunter. He immediately asked if I indeed hunted, undoubtedly due to my fly ass Northwoods fashion stylings, and invited me to join him and Mel at their neighboring cabin for some homemade pickled Northern Pike.

We walked to their cabin and I finally got to meet Mel, whom I had spoken to at length over the phone regarding my water troubles. He was a big man. A retired private investigator from Minnesota who owned a farm about fifty minutes from Webster. Although the relationship between Mel and Hunter immediately felt like that between a father and son, I quickly learned that Mel was actually his uncle and had raised Hunter from a very young age after him and his parents got into a tragic car accident, paralyzing his mother from the neck down and causing his father to move to California. They affectionately referred to each other as "Big" and "Little" so as to distinguish between "Father" and "Son".

The three of us sat around the kitchen table and enjoyed some pickled Northern Pike, or "fish candy" as Hunter liked to call it, that Mel made himself after a recent fishing trip in Northern Minnesota. It was pretty tasty, and although I didn't eat a lot, Hunter finished off the mason jar in a matter of minutes. I sat around the kitchen table all afternoon listening to stories from Mel as he drank Vodka mixed with green stuff and fed me bottles of Ice House. Oh, awright.

Before I realized it, the sun had already set and Mel was asking if I would like to join the two of them for dinner; a wild boar roast that his son-in-law had shot on a ranch down off the Mississippi. I quipped that I had only eaten wild boar once before, in sausage form, at the legendary Hot Doug's Encased Meat Emporium back in Chicago, which had recently closed.

After momentarily retreating back to my cabin to obtain a bottle of whiskey for dinner, I returned to enjoy the succulent wild boar roast. Mel and I continued to sit around the kitchen table watching the Minnesota High School Hockey Championships on TV (a very big todo around these parts), drinking, and talking about jerky. A natural born storyteller, Mel spent the night recounting some of his favorite tales such as the time he chased Buckethead across Minnesota in attempt to serve him papers at a concert, but missed the bus and ended up in the VIP section drinking beer with Ozzy. He was also surprised that I knew very well who the "crazy guitar lunatic that wears a bucket of chicken on his head" was. "I just really love metal", I replied.

While shopping at Blain's Farm & fleet on my way to the cabin, I asked again if I could buy the Wisconsin State flag off the wall, or if they sold them somewhere in the store. "No, sorry" replied the cashier. However, a few seconds later she followed up with "...but there is this place called The Local Store in downtown Eau Claire that sells all kind of weird Eau Claire and Northern Wisconsin stuff that might have something". After thanking her for the recommendation and paying for my blaze orange camo hoodie, I headed southbound towards downtown Eau Claire, the exact opposite of the cabin.

Holy shit. I believe I fell in love with this store at first sight and wanted to give them all of my money, immediately. Between the giant wall of well-designed Eau Claire and obscure Northern Wisconsin beer t-shirts, the wall of silkscreened posters featuring the artwork of Aaron Draplin, one of my favorite designers, and the incredible postcards, books and archival DVD footage of Eau Claire public access TV shows, this place was incredible. It seems that the success of Bon Iver has brought about an arts-based cultural revival on Eau Claire as The Local Store also houses an art gallery in addition to a musical performance space. Fucking rad.

Naturally, I bought one or two grips worth of shit there and encourage all of you fellow Wiscsonsin lovers to check out their online store filled with all sorts of cool Wisconsin stuff.

I spent the majority of the day in this space attempting to restore running water to the cabin. Though it measured -2°F outside, there had never been issues with freezing pipes, leading me to fear that the water pump, buried underground, was dead. I crawled under the deck, unscrewing and removing the crawlspace access panel. The thermometer near the pump read just below freezing, so I headed back to the garage to dig up an extension cord and space heater to see if it was indeed frozen pipes.

As I headed back into the warm embrace of the cabin to allow the crawlspace to heat up, I received a call from one of the neighbors, Mel, who was going to be at his cabin this upcoming weekend. He got my number from Bobcat Dan who informed him of my water troubles. Mel told me where to find the keys to his cabin and how to turn on the water, should I need it. After I thanked him immensely, he inquired as to whether or not I was a "carnivore" and invited me to join him for some "animals I've probably never eaten before" this weekend. Much obliged.

Though the temperature in the crawlspace was now above freezing, I still found myself without running water. I returned back to the crawlspace with a heat gun found in the garage and noticed a section of pipe where the insulation had come loose, so I went to work. After around ten minutes, the pressure gauge on the water tank suddenly jumped backwards from zero to one hundred PSI, followed shortly thereafter by the beautiful sound of the water pump and trickling water. Crisis averted. I re-wrapped the exposed section of pipe with insulation and plastic, then re-sealed the crawlspace access panel, hoping to never have to return again.

Just wanted to take a pause in the regularly scheduled program as my Goddaughter, Rose, was born yesterday while I was driving from Chicago to the cabin. As a guy without any kids, brothers or sisters (really its mostly just been me and moms), its an overwhelming feeling to have friends tell you that, even though you are weird and kind of crazy for living in isolation in a cabin in your thirties making rap music, that they trust you enough to be responsible for their child.

After the traditional first Wisconsin-based meal at Tomah Taco Bell, a stop at Blain's Farm & Fleet in Eau Claire to acquire additional camouflage gear (you gotta stay fresh™), and a long detour in search of a store that sells "obscure Wisconsin stuff", I arrived at Economart in Spooner, the nearest grocery store/town, much later than expected. I grabbed the essentials including chips, cheese curds, Grain Belt Premium Nordeast beer, and toilet paper, then finished the most exciting part of the drive along the rural county roads that approach the cabin.

Arriving at the cabin is one of the greatest feelings in the world. I excitedly cancelled a couple beers standing outside in the sub zero temperatures celebrating my arrival, then put on my boots and loaded all of my gear into the cabin.

My exuberance was quickly met with defeat. Shit. The water isn't working. I turned off the water heater and pump, then re-started them, but got nothing more than a slow stream before immediately slowing to a drip and puttering out. After cycling the pump several times with periods of rest, I decided it was probably time to call my friend Doug and his dad, Bobcat Dan, who owns and built the cabin. We were collectively unable to determine the exact cause of the problem pending my investigation into the crawlspace under the cabin, which was decidedly a task for tomorrow as the sun had retreated several hours before. I trudged down to the garage and found some buckets which I filled up with snow, placing them next to the heater so that I could have water to flush the toilet and boil to drink without having to drive back to Spooner.

My love for Wisconsin could not be defeated, even in the face of a potential major plumbing issue that could majorly disrupt my trip. I quickly shifted my priorities back to immediately consuming as much Grain Belt as possible, and rearranging the main room to accommodate a suitable workstation. Once I had my decks set up, the first thing to do was rip some doubles of The Dillinger Escape Plan. You probably won't find any other rap producers/DJs that are really into metal and hardcore, but the jungle-esque drum break at the beginning of Understanding Decay is so dope that it requires some juggles. Thankully, alone in the wilderness, I can be as loud as I want. Drag the knife across the skin.

For the past fifteen or so years, I've been inexplicably attracted to the State of Wisconsin, so much that my friends often refer to me as "The Patron Saint of Wisco". Perhaps its the abundance of beautiful tree-lined lakes for pontoon boating, the plethora of rare and delicious canned American macro-brews, the mustard vending machines, or the fact that its "the last American place left in America" as my attorney likes to put it. 

Though Wisconsin is absolutely the best state, the part he is referring to specifically is a lakeside cabin in Webster, a remote/rural Northern Wisconsin town. It is, in my opinion as well as several others I know, the greatest place on Earth, and a very isolated place where one could live alone and focus their energy on creative projects. What I'm getting at is, I'm moving to a cabin in remote Wisconsin to play pond hockey and write a bunch of experimental instrumental hip-hop, said nobody ever, except me.