Two Newspaper Stories And a Cartoon

“Walk into a bar, and the bartender says, gee, your friend looks a little funny.”

Listen, I’m tired, alright? It’s been a long weekend. I went to the state fair and looked at some birds and felt sick and procrastinated and picked up an extra shift at work and cleaned up my apartment and tried to put this off for as long as I could, and now I’m paying the price for it as my mental health careens over the edge, only to boomerang its way back for no discernible reason like some sort of Looney Tunes character. You can… probably tell that I’m a bit out of it right now. So I’m going to do what any half-assed sellout in the midst of a mental crisis would do; outsource the work to somebody else. The best part is, this time around, I don’t even have to pay them!

If the idea of my outsourcing my writing because I’m tired offends for you some inscrutable reason, please think of it as my labor day celebration, since I worked on the actual day of labor. It’s like a two-for-one on excuses. (even though writing this ended up taking twice as long as I hoped it would. Fucking hell)

In my current job (which I am going to discuss at further length sooner or later), I do a fair bit of research diving into old newspaper articles, specifically for regional Minnesota history. For a couple of projects now, I have used digitally-preserved newspapers from Minnesota’s past to dredge up first-hand accounts and primary sources to support whatever story I’m trying to tell at the time. Usually, this takes the form of looking for the names of old property owners in the papers to see if I can find any sort of anything about them. Most of my projects revolve around trying to piece together the history of people living on a small plot of land in the mid-to-late 19th century where little-to-no formal documentation may exist in any form that I can access. This is a process that is both painstaking and (rarely) deeply rewarding, because it makes me feel like a detective and some sort of desert comber at the same time. It is also, at times, deeply hilarious.

Once in a blue moon, while I am scouring the depths of the Minnesota Digital Newspaper Hub (dog bless them, they are fighting the good fight against entropy), I come across something that I can only describe as some sort of cultural gem of comedy, wit, or absurdity that has been lost to the sands of time. I mean, reading through some of these newspapers is already surreal enough, coming from an age of information at our fingertips, where news is made not just by a newspaper company but also by some asshat with a website and a computer and no proper journalistic training, and most people can’t tell the difference anymore. Perhaps it is my own modern stylings of doubt and cynicism that pervade my readings of these old newspapers, but going through them feels like an exercise in some sort of cultural relativity and time travel.

Sometimes, conducting this research necessitates putting myself in the shoes of a 19th-century person, and trying to imagine just how different life was a hundred years ago. Did you know that newspapers used to comment on who came to visit whom, whenever they visited? And that someone selling some horses to the railroad was a big deal? And that any schmuck with proximity to a minor event could get an interview? Well, I suppose that last bit hasn’t changed much. But what I’m trying to say is that these old-school newspapers are just fucking weird sometimes. And this week, I’d like to share with you a few selections that I’ve come across. And I can do this because old-timey newspapers fall under the public domain, so copyright lawyers can beat it.

Anyway, you get the idea. The past is a different country, the news-media landscape is a hellhole of suffering and bias and it always has been, and Minnesota history was, on a day-to-day basis, largely so boring that the average person could be expected to make the news if they visited their uncle Billiam Jilliam’s farm in A Random Farmer’s Field, MN (which would later become Assbutt Regional Park, now falling under the jurisdiction of my historical interpretation zone, and it’s all full circle, isn’t it?). However, this history is also, at times, weirdly violent and full of dry, absurd humor that it reads both like a Monty Python sketch and a modern-day shitpost all at once. Let me start you off with that cartoon I promised:

I have no idea who put together these beauties, but they stem from a page of the Sunday Times edition of the Minneapolis Tribune, published October 14th, 1894. What do these things mean? What is that cat supposed to be? Are those horses or unholy abominations? Is that a monkey or a man or both? And the follow-up question you always have to ask with anything from the past; is this racist? The questions drawn from these cartoons are endless. Part of me feels like the abject horror that the above cat instills in me is at least partially due to the degradation of the original paper, but at the same time, there is a solid chance that the original image is still horrifying. Look upon this visage, ye mighty, and weep. The Third Ward Kitty comes for us all.

At the very least, the selections of newspaper clippings I have pulled for your perusement are less existentially dreadful. I will try to keep their original style and intent as clear as possible for their duplication here, because I think the weight given to these things is half of the fun of them. Here’s the first one, pulled from The Minneapolis Journal on November 7th, 1905.

“TELLS STORY ON HIMSELF”

“Le Sueur County Commissioner’s Experience with a Borrowed Pass”

“LE SUEUR, MINN. – M P. Curtis, one of. the county commissioners of Le Sueur county, never spoils a good story because it happens to be about himself, and the following true narrative that he tells illustrates the fact.

He had occasion lately to make a trip to New York, and happening to mention the matter to M. W. Seal of Le Sueur, was. informed by that gentleman that Seal had a pass over the Omaha road to Chicago and over other lines east of that point and that Curtis was welcome to their use if he could manage it.

Curtis says that he practiced a week writing Seal’s name fid as to make a good showing to the conductor, and finally felt that he was adept enough to make the venture. He did not try to use the pass till he left St. Paul and then flawed it on the uniformed officer in charge of the train with great confidence, writing the name
of Seal with a flourish born only of long experience.

The conductor glanced at the name and gave Curtis something like heart failure, by staring at him wonderingly for a moment. Then, he said:

“Ah, Mr. Seal, are you the brother of Ed Seal of Heron Lake? I often go hunting with Ed
and we have great times.”

Curtis gasped and recovered and was familiar enough with Ed Seal and his family to make a fairly good show in talking with the conductor about them. The official soon went away to attend to his duties and Curtis drew a long breath of relief and wished that Seal had been able to hand him the pass beyond Chicago, which he had
not done at the time of starting. If it were going to be so easy to use the passes of other men, Curtis wished he had more of them.

But just at this moment the conductor came thru the car again and calling out:

“Curtis, Curtis. A telegram for M. P. Curtis!”

This was terrible! What could have happened at home? Who could be telegraphing to him? And yet it would never do to disclose his identity to that conductor now. He let him pass on into the next car and then, a brilliant thought striking him, ran after the official and asked:

‘Were you calling out a telegram for Curtis? I know Curtis. He Intended to be on this train. I shall meet him in Chicago tomorrow, I think.” The conductor eyed Curtis sharply for a moment and then, ripping off the end of the envelope and
taking out the message he read:

“M. P. Curtis: Call at Hosier’s office and get the pass to New York. All O K. M. W. Seal”

There was a deathly silence for a few awful seconds, and then the conductor, after eyeing the county commissioner for a moment, handed the message to him and turned away, saying in a very significant tone of voice:

“Here, you’ll probably see Curtis before I do. Just hand him this telegram yourself.”

This just feels like a bit from Abbott and Costello or some shit like that. I could picture this right at some in some sort of dry, British humor serial. It really struck me as something interesting because a) M.P. Curtis is a guy that I’ve been researching who may or may not have owned a livery stable that is now the inspiration for my work’s bathroom, and b) I forget that people in the past had a sense of humor. It’s got some good comedy in there! It’s a cute little story! And as such, I figured I’d save myself the hassle of writing something new and just use that instead. This issue also featured reporting on some sort of Russian prison and war effort (what’s fucking new, I guess), a massive ad for a laxative known as the SYRUP OF FIGS from the CALIFORNIA FIG SYRUP CO. and contained such headlines as “FAT JANITOR OF IOWA STATE HOUSE RESISTS DISCHARGE.” Hello?

This next story, on the other hand, I selected because of the batshit absurdity of it. Where the above story is a “whose on first” kind of thing, this one feels like the Three Stooges smacking each other with oversized hammers. But I have to remind myself that this is a thing that happened, and it was reported in The Minneapolis Tribue on September 26th, 1892. The past is wild, y’all.

“CRACKED HIS HEAD”

“‘Coffee John’ Lets Himself Loose On a Customer Who Questions the Variety of Some Fish”

“A Sugar Bowl Hurled at F. W. Sanger’s Head, and He Vows Vengeance”

“There was a lively time at “Coffee John’s” restaurant last evening, and it seemed as though a double-geared, back-acting cyclone, with all the modern improvements,
had been let loose in the place. “Coffee John’s” arms gyrated in the air like the fans of a windmill, and the scene closed with the crash of a sugar bowl on the head of F. M. Sanger. In other words, there was a lively row between the two men, which arose in a dispute over a fish, which Mr. Sanger had ordered. The latter had asked for a black bass and says he was served with a blue fish. Mr. Frichette, in giving his side of the story, said to the Tribune man:

“This customer, after the fish had been placed before him, called out to me that I had not given him a black bass. I said it was the kind of fish I buy for that variety. I was very busy, but went over to the table where he was sitting, and, in stooping over to examine the dish, he picked up the plate, fish and all, and hit me on the head with it. See the scar?”

“Coffee John” inclined his bald pate to show the mark of the cruel plate, “fish and all.” There was a little abrasion and the skin was gone from a spot about as big as a 10 cent piece. The restaurant man continued:

“Of course, when he hit me with the plate I couldn’t take a thing like that without protest, and 1 smashed him with a sugar bowl. Then he took his lady and went out and the row was over.”

Mr. Sanger, who travels for a New York house and is stopping at an up town hotel, gave a much different version of the story. He said:

‘I went to the restaurant about 7:30 with a lady, a conain (?) who resides in Minneapolis, and among other things ordered black bass. After the waiter had placed it on the table and I was about to eat it, I saw at once that it was blue fish, and told the waiter so. He never opened his mouth and as I could not get any satisfaction out of him, I asked this ‘Coffee John,’ as you call him. to come to the table, telling him he had sent me a piece of blue fish instead of bass. He yelled back that it was black bass. I then took the plate of fish to show him he was mistaken. The flesh was dark as in the blue fish, while the flesh of black bass is white. It was about 10 inches long, mneh longer than a bass. When l approached him, he struck at me several times, hit me in the face, and tried to butt me with his head- that’s how he got an abrasion on his scalp- and finally wound up his assault by throwing a sugar bowl at my head. I had an overcoat on my arm all this time, and with that and my arm, warded off the blows. His statement that I hit him with a plate is an utter falsehood. I had a lady with me and consider myself a gentleman. I would not do such a ruffianly act as that.’

After being hit with the bowl, the blood began to flow quite freely, and Mr. Sanger thought it time to retreat. So he took the lady and left the place, after having settled his bill, minus the item of the fish. Continuing his story, Mr. Sanger said:

‘I went immediately to police headquarters to see about getting a warrant for the ruffian’s arrest but could find no one there, the door being locked. I was later told at the police station that I could not swear out a warrant before morning. l am going to have him brought before the grand jury and his blue fish will be an expensive dish before I get through with him.'”

These are clearly all well-adjusted individuals. A dispute over a fish should always end in blows to the face and smashed sugar bowls. But, I suppose, if anything, this just tells us that people who get outraged over minor infractions in the service industry are nothing new, and they have a long history of misplaced violence. 

Speaking of being nothing new, there was an article right next to this one interviewing a man who was forced to quarantine after inadvertently walking into a cholera epidemic, and a discussion with a local reverend about why labor unions are evil and to blame for the ills of the world, and they’re all run by the upper-middle class bourgeois and don’t actually benefit anyone, and that granting higher wages would be a mistake and something the country ought to avoid because labor unions “aren’t truly representing the worker,” and the market will sort itself out. Hmm. That seems really familiar, huh? Clearly, they made the wrong decision by raising wages back in the 1800’s. If we had kept wages stable back then, everyone would be more than happy making fifteen cents an hour and living on bread and gruel. But noooo, workers had to have living wages, we had to give into the demands of the peasants, and now look at the world today. We’ve got COVID and recession and inflation and unions are still asking for more than the generous pittance that Jeff Bezos has deigned to grant them. What a time to be alive.

 Can you imagine a world where people in power conspire nefariously and make bad-faith moralistic arguments against improving the rights of the laborer?  Isn’t it weird to think that we’ve been having the same fucking argument about the rights of workers for over a fucking century and a half? And this was a newspaper from the era when the government (and big business) was more than happy to shoot unionizers and murder laborers in cold blood just for threatening to strike. The old saying is right; history repeats itself, apparently.

Well, happy labor day, I guess. Now is a great time to support your local unions, and also to smash someone in the head with a sugar bowl because they used their friend’s train ticket. Because that’s what labor day is all about.