Ode to the Shack
During the early AM hours of September 25, 1992 four irate men entered the pizzeria on Lake St. with hate in their hearts. Moments later they had executed Minneapolis Police officer Jerry Haaf with multiple gunshots to the back of his head. Thus the legend of the Pizza Shack began.
Last night at 3 AM the Pizza Shack closed its doors forever, only to be replaced by some burrito joint not named Chipotle. Some friends and I gathered there to pay our respects to the landmark and symbol the Pizza Shack had come to represent. As usual, we were lead by our fearless, and not so timeless leader - Orlando Ochoada.
The Pizza Shack was an initiation rite for many a young conservative that came through the University of Minnesota and joined Orlando's cabal. The trip to the Pizza Shack served many purposes. For one, it emboldened Orlando's mystique since he lived within walking distance of the grisly crime scene.
The Shack served as a mild form psychological torment for the young new members. Those from the suburbs were very much aware of the Shack's history and their mother's warnings for staying away from such places. Low level anxiety was visibly present on many a young face when they learned of their next meal. I must admit, I'd never had pizza at a crime scene before.
The Shack served as a retreat for the campus conservatives. It was assumed, and circumstantial evidence backed this up, there was no chance that our liberal foes would dare get dinner at such a place. While our liberal friends wanted to "help" minorities and the poor, they didn't actually want to be around them. Our rowdy political and strategic discussions must have entertained quite a few post-bar closing drunks and reefed up stoners who were fixing their late night pizza jones.
For the campus conservative, the Pizza Shack served as Diversity 101. Not the book bound kind in the ivory tower, but the kind found on the gritty, dirty, and dangerous inner city setting. The city bus regularly spilled it's contents right before our eyes outside the big pane windows. Meek hispanic workers, the proud old black guy in greased mechanics garb, the gruff black mother with her two children, the two twenty-something fat chicks who would blend into any trailer park in America, the 4 scary looking gang bangers and the lone hispanic tough glaring at them. Employees who at times screamed at each other and the customers. The dungeon like bathroom where Jimmy Hoffa's remains just might be stored. The stoners on harsh highs who suddenly screamed and smashed their plates on the table. The 'happy' highs that lead to spontaneous song and dance performances for all the patrons. And the constant flow of squad cars often with lights and sirens blaring in pursuit.
Finally, the Pizza Shack was a source of great entertainment. Poor Kyle never got comfortable, jumping at every noise, visibly shaken by clientele who approached to close to the table, and refusing to relieve his bloated bladder in the lonely, frightening confines of the subterranean bathroom. Then there was Lindsy, the black guy from Chicago who was scared of the black guys at the Shack. Talk about spooked by your own reflection...
And you know what? The pizza was pretty good too.
Good bye Pizza Shack, and God Bless
Last night at 3 AM the Pizza Shack closed its doors forever, only to be replaced by some burrito joint not named Chipotle. Some friends and I gathered there to pay our respects to the landmark and symbol the Pizza Shack had come to represent. As usual, we were lead by our fearless, and not so timeless leader - Orlando Ochoada.
The Pizza Shack was an initiation rite for many a young conservative that came through the University of Minnesota and joined Orlando's cabal. The trip to the Pizza Shack served many purposes. For one, it emboldened Orlando's mystique since he lived within walking distance of the grisly crime scene.
The Shack served as a mild form psychological torment for the young new members. Those from the suburbs were very much aware of the Shack's history and their mother's warnings for staying away from such places. Low level anxiety was visibly present on many a young face when they learned of their next meal. I must admit, I'd never had pizza at a crime scene before.
The Shack served as a retreat for the campus conservatives. It was assumed, and circumstantial evidence backed this up, there was no chance that our liberal foes would dare get dinner at such a place. While our liberal friends wanted to "help" minorities and the poor, they didn't actually want to be around them. Our rowdy political and strategic discussions must have entertained quite a few post-bar closing drunks and reefed up stoners who were fixing their late night pizza jones.
For the campus conservative, the Pizza Shack served as Diversity 101. Not the book bound kind in the ivory tower, but the kind found on the gritty, dirty, and dangerous inner city setting. The city bus regularly spilled it's contents right before our eyes outside the big pane windows. Meek hispanic workers, the proud old black guy in greased mechanics garb, the gruff black mother with her two children, the two twenty-something fat chicks who would blend into any trailer park in America, the 4 scary looking gang bangers and the lone hispanic tough glaring at them. Employees who at times screamed at each other and the customers. The dungeon like bathroom where Jimmy Hoffa's remains just might be stored. The stoners on harsh highs who suddenly screamed and smashed their plates on the table. The 'happy' highs that lead to spontaneous song and dance performances for all the patrons. And the constant flow of squad cars often with lights and sirens blaring in pursuit.
Finally, the Pizza Shack was a source of great entertainment. Poor Kyle never got comfortable, jumping at every noise, visibly shaken by clientele who approached to close to the table, and refusing to relieve his bloated bladder in the lonely, frightening confines of the subterranean bathroom. Then there was Lindsy, the black guy from Chicago who was scared of the black guys at the Shack. Talk about spooked by your own reflection...
And you know what? The pizza was pretty good too.
Good bye Pizza Shack, and God Bless
posted by Bill Gilles | 7:10 AM
3 Comments:
In a fitting tribute to the Shack, this morning's indigestion left me feeling empty, and yet strangely hungry for Jo-jos, which for some reason were left out of your tribute.
--Franklin
Plenty of liberals went to Pizza Shack. It was, after all, only a few blocks from the In the Heart of the Beast Puppet and Mask Theater, Powderhorn Park, the Powederhorn Co-op. Quite a few liberals actually live in that area, and aren't either terrified or weirdly enamored of the percentage of blacks and Hispanics who frequent the area.
Save your back-patting. Conservatives weren't the only diners at Pizza Shack.
Now that I have moved back to the ice planet of Hoth, I can't help but be curious what ol' Orlando Ochoada has been up to in the nine years since this post went up. Please give us an update, Bill. I trust the postcard listing my new home phone and address arrived safely at the office?
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