Slim pickings for history, today. There’s this: In 1873, the first U of M graduation ceremony was held. Two guys. Warren Eustis, and Henry Williamson. Eustis graduated with an English degree; Williamson was a business major, and immediately formed a company that hired Eustis to do something completely unrelated to his education.
Well, I made that up, but it wouldn’t surprise me. About three years into my own English major, I was looking at want ads, and noted the dearth of positions for people who could, given a week, come up with 800 words on the metaphorical implications of the light on Daisy Buchanan’s dock. Likewise very little for poets. For some reason we expected there would be a POETS WANTED section in the want ads, broken down by specialty (Sonneteer, Patriotic Doggerel with Sturdy Manly Meter Maker, Depressed Blank Verse Fabricator, Unpunctuated Mewling Beatnik, etc.) Instead I found ads for the Dayton’s parking ramp booth (“Imperviousness to carbon monoxide a plus”) and a job waiting tables, which I was already doing.
I imagine it was different in 1873. “So, what are your qualifications?”
“I have a degree from the University of Minnesota.”
“Ah, so you’re the one I’ve heard about!”
Did your major have anything to do with your eventual career? Just curious. I’d also like to hear from U of M alumni – I loved the place while I was there, but have almost no nostalgia for it now. Every time I go back they’ve changed the population, and filled it with impossibly young people. I don’t remember it being like that at all.
Here’s an old ad from the buzz.mn archives: Blogsauce, a product from the 30s that helped people start blogs and post interesting items about their community.

Not that we’re going to start bugging you to do that, or anything. That’s next week.
Buzzy the Anthropomorphic Weather Triangle predicts a nice day:

Next up: details on the Mamie Schwartz kidnapping of 1892. See you in a while.


Will Be Poetic For Food
My father was a poet. This confused people. They would ask, "What do you do?" He would reply, "I'm a poet." There would then be a stunned pause followed by, "No, I mean what do you do for a living."
But that's what he did. He eeked out the occasional poem, gave poetry readings, sold casette tapes of his work. "Poetry is performance art", he'd tell me. Once in a while he had a stack of thin poetry booklets for sale.
It will probably not surprise anyone to learn that the man was quite poor for most of his life. You can't really make a living doing that. My hat is off to him for trying, though.
(Just to be clear, he didn't raise me, so don't worry that he was starving a wife and kids. No, he was just starving himself, as it were.)
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