Smugglers' Inn started as a theme restaurant in Blaine, Minnesota and has become, if not a legitimate advertising agency, then a viable agency alternative with two dedicated ad employees, Carol Henderson, art director and Jarl Olsen, copywriter. Read the whole saga in these posts or click the pirate to follow the entertaining tweets of our dishwasher, Pongo. Who may or may not be an orangutan.!/PongoTryHard

Friday, February 28, 2014

The Winter of 2014

*This month’s blog entry comes from Smugglers’ Inn’s seating hostess and recent University of Minnesota J-school grad, Catherine “Cat” Pike.

To winter, whose name is Sebastian:

How do I know your name is Sebastian?  Because everyday that I wake up and look around, I see that you’ve left something else for me to pick up.  We hadn’t heard too much of you these last three years, Sebastian—not that anyone was concerned.  Maybe it was too much to expect you to fade away entirely, but now you’re back in my life and worse than ever.  I expected you to split before Valentine’s Day, if only to avoid buying me a present.  Well, February 14 came and went and I didn’t get crap.  It was nine below and snowing this Valentine’s Day at the airport.  I don’t know why Minnesotans measure temperatures at the airport, unless it’s entertaining to watch the reactions of people who’ve disembarked from planes originating in cities in Florida and Texas step from baggage claim into a breeze that freezes their eyelids open.  You’re so cruel; I can’t believe I ever liked you.  It was only because you showed up right as I was discovering snowboarding.  I confused the endorphin high I'd earned from conquering my fear of the half-pipe with falling in love.

Looking back, I must have been mad.  What else could explain how I, practically a college graduate, moved in with you three weeks after buying my first pair of mittens?  Alarm bells should have gone off when you couldn’t cover your half of the damage deposit.  You told me that that you were waiting on a $5,500 check for having worked that fall on domestic caviar farm.  Shoot me, but when you talked about how you raised sturgeon from tiny minnows into giant adults with individual names and personalities, I believed you.  How you must have laughed telling your friends about the idiot meal ticket you’d lucked upon.  Wait!  I forgot; you don’t have friends.

Why am I going on?  Sebastian or winter or whatever you’re calling yourself these days, you should never have come back.  Remember how I put your crap out in the yard and then it immediately rained?  I don’t believe that was an accident.  I think God saw it there and said, “Hey, this is that D-bag,  Sebastain's,  crap.  I recognize it from all the horrible charcoal drawings.  Didn’t he cheat on that nice girl who still talks to me whenever she’s sad and alone?  What was her name?  Cat!  Yes, Sebastian cheated on Cat.  With her best friend’s little sister, no less.  My self! Is that the entire Twilight collection in paperback?  I’m gonna dump, like, two Sea World aquariums on that.”

You have 72 hours, Sebastian.  If, by March, I cannot tell that the lawn is made of grass (albeit grass littered with fast food containers and dissolving piles of dog poo), I’m playing the god card.  I’m not really ready for the Rapture, but if it takes the end of life as we know it to be able to go outside without a parka and a snow shovel, so be it.

Caviar farm!  Right.  Why don’t you take your act back there, Sebastian?  The world needs sturgeon fish sticks.  Like it needs you.