Don't get me wrong, there are things in Minnesota I love. People, places, good things.

Tonight I took a wrong turn. I was thinking about cruising up 35W from my parents tumultuous suburban home. In my first car, too fast. The electric blue '75 Cordoba had quite a large engine, 385 maybe? Not that I have the faintest recollection of what that means. I would fly from Apple Valley to downtown Minneapolis. Sunday nights at First Avenue, all ages danceteria.

I intended to follow 35 up past downtown, but I found myself in the wrong lane, spilling off the interstate into downtown. I drove past new and shiny buildings and the same old buildings. Down by the old mills and warehouses there are countless new "lofts". There are light rail stations and tracks that are new. And they've finally turned the old train yard into something useful, but it's just not as beautiful and I had always hoped it would be.

In fact, on a hazy Sunday night, when the air is still 91 degrees at 8 p.m., the streets are mostly empty. The hustle and bustle of the work day, rush hour, judicial system and commerce are all illusion. The windows like the soulless eyes of vacuous youth.

There is a stillness in the long rays of a Sunday afternoon that has always made me melancholy. Well, almost always. From the time I could find a ride, in sub-zero winters or smelly sewer heat, Sunday night meant danger, romance, intrigue.

For many years, First Avenue meant the weekend went out in a blaze and not a slow sad wimper.

Time for a new Sunday night tradition. Any suggestions?