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 POSTED APRIL 24, 1998-- IT ALWAYS HURTS to say goodbye. The last night Gary Rebstock did the news on channel 9 I totally binged on Lean Cuisine and Diet Shasta and cried myself to sleep. When I read recently that dear old Dave Wood was hanging it up as the books editor at the StarTribune I tried to put on a good face and invited a few co-workers from Orange Julius to stop by my apartment after work for a fondue party, but it was a failed effort. As we all sat around the Fry Baby and stared into the bubbling grease I realized that I was alone in my grief –I probably don’t have a friend in the world who even knows who Dave Wood is, or how much he has meant to the local literary scene for so many years. Actually, truth be told, I don’t personally have the slightest idea how much Dave Wood has meant to the local literary scene, and I don’t really care. All I know is that for what seems like decades his fat little whiskered face has been peering out at me  from my Sunday newspaper, and now he was gone. It’s like opening up a
family photo album and suddenly finding that on every single page the face of a loved one
has been erased. When my friends left for the evening I sat alone in my apartment, choking
on the thick smell of grease, and though I tried to cheer myself up by shaking my maracas
while dancing to a Perez Prado record I was nonetheless left with the sad realization that
my heroes were being swept away –the last couple years have been trying for your poor
friend Budd Rugg: Steve Cannon is gone. Boone and Erickson are gone. Dave
Moore is gone. Ruth Koscielak, Colleen Needles, Jonathan Elias, Lori
Aoki, Thor Tollo, David Brauer. All gone. And while I can still get
excited as a boy with a new puppy every time a fresh face is introduced on the local media
scene, I also realize that at some level it’s harder now to let myself get too
attached; our local celebrities seem to
have a shorter shelf life than they once did. They stop off here for a year or two and
then move on to what they perceive to be greener pastures. Thankfully some of them, like Paul
Douglas, fail miserably elsewhere and crawl back home to the Twin Cities, where we
welcome them with open arms. One cruel city’s "Goof on the Roof" is our own
local treasure, a true star! And thank God for that!IF IT SEEMS like Budd Rugg
is feeling a little bit blue, well, you’ll have to excuse me. As much as I love the
promise of spring, these have been difficult days in more ways than one. The class I was
slated to teach at a dance studio in St. Louis Park –"Popular Music Dances of
the 1960s"—was canceled due to poor enrollment, and for the fourth time I was
passed over for promotion at the Rosedale Orange Julius where I have been a faithful
employee for more than 10 years. So, please, forgive me for crying in my Diet Shasta. But
never fear, I’m still the same Technicolor dreamer whose 1978 yearbook photo included
the caption, "I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing!" This is the time of
year when I alter my routine to include frequent visits to the Nicollet Tennis Center in
hopes of catching C.J. in action. I’ve never played tennis in my life, but I
get a thrill out of dressing in a perfect little thrift store outfit –white shorts,
sneakers, polo shirt, sweater tied around my neck, and a cast-off racket—and I just
sort of loiter there in the NTC like I’m waiting for a tardy partner. C.J.’s
always something of a long shot, but there’s also a chance of seeing lesser mortals
like Howard Sinker or Pam Fine. It’s so exciting! This past winter I made frequent excursions to local ski slopes for the Media Ski
Series, and was absolutely thrilled to spy on big stars like Rusty Gatenby, Joe
Schmidt, and Kalley King. The experience got me scheming, and I am presently
trying to enlist the assistance of former Jets svengali Don Powell in helping me to
get a couple star-studded charity events off the ground. First of all, I think the time is
right for launching a local version of the old "American Sportsmen" series, the
television program where Curt Gowdy would go, say, goat hunting with people like Billy
Kilmer, Dr. J., and Ted Nugent. Don Shelby, of course, would be the perfect host,
and e My other idea –and this is the big one—would be a one-shot annual event, "Budd Rugg’s Media Circus of the Stars," with all the proceeds going to some worthy charity. Certainly you remember those wonderful television specials where someone like Henry Winkler or Harry Dean Stanton would walk the tightrope or tame lions? It was always terrifically inspired television, and would work beautifully with a mix of local media talent assuming the roles of the circus performers. Randy Shaver jumping through a ring of fire on a motorcycle. New McClatchey stud Gary Pruitt shirtless and magnificent in snug tights walking the highwire with Misti Snow. Diana Pierce, of course, could circle the Target Center standing triumphantly atop an exotic horse. Kristin Tillotson as "Highpockets the Clown." Greg Wong and Katherine Lanpher in a cage with the big cats. Mark Rosen peddling about the ring on an itsy bitsy bicycle. A big finale in which yours truly, Ringmaster Budd Rugg, would fire Barbara Carlson and Al Sicherman from a cannon! My God, don’t you just get weak-kneed at the prospects! If I can get some cooperation from people in high places –if, in other words, I can somehow get some of these people to return my persistent phone calls—I truly believe we could get this thing off the ground in time for Christmas. I RECENTLY RECEIVED a questionnaire from the 20th reunion committee
for my high school class, and didn’t hesitate for a second when asked to recall the
one moment from history at which I would most like to have been present: I have in fact on
several occasions had exquisite and graphic dreams of Strib managing editor Pam
Fine’s dinner with Andrew Cunanan, and I would gut my dear mother for a
chance to have been at that table! FINALLY, AS THE season of charity golf tournaments is upon us, Budd Rugg would like to offer his services as caddie to each and every one of my heroes in the local media. If I could carry Paul Magers’ or even Dan "The Common Man" Cole’s bag around the golf course I could die tomorrow a happy man. As always, send all invitations, entreaties, confessions, and media gossip to BuddRugg@cursor.org |
I recently barged
into the StarTribune lobby under the pretense that I was there to place a
classified ad, knowing full well that I was in the totally wrong building and would be
accosted by security guards always fearful that an intruder will try to rush up the stairs
and punch Doug Grow in the mouth. Anyway, the "classified ad gambit" is a
little something I try every few months in the hope that I will somehow bump into someone
like Jerry Zgoda or Barbara Flannagan and manage to acquire an autograph. I
always get a bad case of cotton mouth every time I walk into that lobby, and seldom is the
occasion that I am not in some way rewarded for my efforts. The last time I tried it I saw
my old friend David Chanen hustling into the building burdened with a giant case of
Mountain Dew, and on my most recent visit I hit paydirt: no sooner had I entered the
building when I encountered a commotion that had the full attention of the security guards
–there was C.J. herself, dressed as if she had just come from a game of
tennis, complete with head and wrist bands and an entire sporting ensemble that looked to
be total Tommy Hilfiger –my goodness, I thought, don’t they have locker rooms
and showers at Cheryl’s tennis club? I try so hard not to be tacky, and it was all I
could do to keep from crying out and rushing in her direction, but thankfully she was
occupied in fending off a camera crew that seemed intent on recording her appearance.
Alas, before I could join the fray a security guard took note of my presence and requested
identification. I explained that I was looking to place a classified ad and was rudely
directed to another building down the block.
very month he
could take celebrities like Bob Lurtsema, Brian Lambert, and Tina and the
B-Side Movement bass fishing or grouse hunting, or, you know, whatever. Sportsmen-like
things. People would love it, and the possibilities for both sponsorship and talent-mix
would be endless. Who wouldn’t love to see Robyne Robinson shoot a squirrel?
<% END IF %> FAUX PAS OF the month: Budd Rugg has heard that Randy
Shaver and Eric Perkins showed up at the Twins home opener wearing almost
exactly the same outfit! Perkins, we hear, was mortified, and made every effort to
stay as far away from the Shavedog as possible….GOD FORBID THAT we should ever
think of crossing the picket line at the Loring bar, but it seems that Pat Miles
had no such qualms….WHAT A THRILL it was to open my mailbox today and discover
the first ever issue of WCCO TV’s Hometown Headlines, which is chock full of
delicious personal info on all the members of our Hometown Team: Paul Douglas, Dennis
Douda, and Ralph Jon Fritz all have almost exactly the same personal motto:
"Don’t take yourself seriously." I tore out Don Shelby’s motto
and put it in my wallet: "Always anticipating the beauty around the next bend in the
river." Among Don’s hobbies are bee keeping and pottery. The last book Heather
Tesch read is "Jonathan Livingston Seagull"! GLEANINGS FROM THE media
websites: Jim King was an AFS student in Brazil! Dan Barreiro’s
favorite food is garlic mashed potatoes! Matt Baylow enjoys weightlifting! Al
Sicherman has a degree in electrical engineering! Chad Hartman has a cat named
Fuzzy and a dog named Steve! Pat Miles is a board member at the Spring Hill golf
club!