Have you ever gone ice fishing in Minnesota? I have, and it sucks. Head out to one of the state’s 10,000 or so lakes during the dead of winter and you’ll see crappy, outhouse-looking structures dotting the state’s frozen-over lakes. Inside are (mostly) men bundled in puffy coats happily drinking cans of Leinenkugel for hours while waiting for some bored walleye to nibble on their line. This is what passes for fun in Minnesota.
My wife, Martha, is from there. A little town outside the Twin Cities called Chaska. Chaska was one of the many area farming communities slowly transitioning to bedroom outposts for Minneapolis and St. Paul. Mike Lindell the pillow guy went to Chaska High. Apparently, he’s a pretty nice guy when he’s not ranting about “stolen” elections. Prince used to live in a purple split-level in the next town over; he’d occasionally use the drive-through at the McDonald’s where Martha and her brother worked. Nice guy, I’m told.
That’s the thing about Minnesotans. They really are nice. They take pride in it. Maybe you’re familiar with the phrase, “Minnesota nice.” For the longest, I just assumed they used that phrase ironically. They do not. They mean it. They take pride in their niceness. For a Jersey boy like myself who grew up flipping to anybody who looked at you sideways, their niceness is inexplicable.
