I don't want to do it. All these are for sale. Local advertisements said that Da Yoopers are looking for old cars, old snow machines, and other machinery to put into a museum that will be attached to the property. On a summer evening in July, Da Yoopers give a free concert in town in honor of the Upper Peninsula Volunteer Firemen's Annual Convention being held there. The vacant lot on the corner of First and Pearl Streets, where there used to be a furniture store, a grocery store, and a dress store, fills with people, locals and the firemen.
Many fists grip many beer cans.
They say that finally they got booked into Duluth by a promoter, and 2500 people showed up in a hall made for 900, so they guess they won't have any trouble playing Duluth in the future. My childhood friend from Cleveland Location, Linda Lou, and I find a spot at a picnic table with five young mothers who have just finished their summer classes at Northern Michigan University and who are celebrating. Like the rest of the audience, we are glad they have sold a fishing song to Hollywood. We laugh at the clowning and prancing cross-dressers in wigs with balloons for boobs who remind us of the Benny Hill show. Our laughter is a little nervous at times, not as hearty as that of the seventh grade boy standing next to us who can hardly contain his glee at the fart jokes, nor as rousing as that of the beery woman standing up and clapping, her beer can in a toast sign in the air, nor as the man next to us who takes off his t-shirt and flops his flabby belly in time to a song about how men's beer bellies make it difficult for their wives to find their penises.