POSTED SEPTEMBER 14, 1999--

I have always strenuously avoided the bullying scrutiny of psychology, as I know all too well that it’s intention would be to teach me all sorts of terrible things about myself that I have no interest in knowing. I can only tell you that I have an overwhelming need to know the beautiful men and women of the local media, to know every last intimate detail of their lives, and every stray scrap of information I stumble across I add to that particular celebrity’s Tiger Beat-like profile in my bulging scrapbook: birth dates, spouses names and occupations, children, pets, educational background, hometowns, hobbies, favorite foods, dream getaways. I can’t get enough! On Patty Peterson’s page in the scrapbook, for instance, you will find this information, taken right from her WCCO bio: "To her credit she has recorded with such luminaries as Donny Osmond and Sergio Mendes, and can be heard on commercials such as Old Home." And here’s a quote that captures that essential Patty-ness that I so love: "I’m about as real as it gets. I’m comfortable in my skin, I’m here and you can depend on me." She’s also adorable! Budd Rugg’s scrapbook of media memories is chock-full of such fascinating information. John Denver sang at Bill Carlson and Nancy Nelson’s wedding, for instance, and yours truly once did the Pony on Bill’s old teen dance program on WCCO and learned "Annie’s Song" on my dime store harpsichord! Dave Dahl teaches "hundreds of thousands of students to respect Mother Nature"! Paul Levy got run over by a football coach driving a motorcycle! Randy Meier has "a special interest in children"! Suffice it to say that I haven’t met a media figure yet who can’t raise my blood pressure at least a few points –although poor squeaky little Jeff Dubay came very close—and I don’t feel the slightest bit of shame in telling you that I’ve breathlessly scurried the length of Calhoun Square to gawk at Tom Lyden as he shopped for shoes. If someone told me that Ruth Koscielak was just now sitting down to a big, fat hamburger at Fuddrucker’s in Edina, I’d jump in my car right this minute! I provide this information only to reinforce in your minds how desperately important these people are to my pitiful life, and to assure you that I am always eternally grateful for any and all gossip and inside information regarding my special friends in the local media, including and especially tips on where, how, and when Budd Rugg might be able to mingle directly with said beautiful people!

I’LL BE HONEST with you, Budd Rugg needs a patron, someone who can get my keister into the big ticket and high profile events around town. My old modus operandi, once very effective, is no longer yielding satisfactory results, and I have limited gas money and time to be running all over town trying to catch a fleeting glimpse of my local media dream heroes and heroines where they eat, shop, and socialize. Don’t get me wrong, I can still get completely, appallingly transfixed by the sight of Robyne Robinson pumping gas, dropping her head over a hot cup of coffee, or pouring a cocktail into her face, but such random hit-and-run sightings are getting harder and harder to come by, and with the growing sprawl of the cities and the apparent increasing domesticity of so many of our media celebrities, it’s now virtually impossible to pin down the activities of these exotic creatures with any consistency. More than a few warehouse district restaurateurs have doubtless grown weary of yours truly taking up table space, ordering nothing but iced tea, and hanging around all night in the hopes of, at the very least, an Andy Skoogman appearance (in my scrapbook I have a picture of Dagwood Bumstead pasted right next to a signed photo of Andy –the resemblance is uncanny!). I don’t know how many nights I’ve already wasted this summer, ducking in and out of restaurants and bars all over downtown –I’m sure the employees of these establishments regard me as the man who gets stood up every night of his life, because I’ve been using the same tired and pathetic stunts for years. I’ll walk into, say, Murray’s, or the Local, stand for a moment up near the maitre d’s station, surveying as much of the place as I can take in from that position. If someone asks if they can be of some assistance I’ll announce that I’m meeting someone –Bob Lurtsema’s is the name I often use—and make a point of checking my watch. If it’s a busy night I’ll make a sweep of the room, see if any big shots or smaller fry are feeding their faces. If the maitre d invites me to wait in the bar, I may or may not take them up on the offer, depending on whether or not I have sufficient pocket change for a glass of iced tea. If there is no apparent action in the place I’ll give one more scowling examination of my watch, huff dramatically, and breeze back out into the night and on to my next stop. For years this was wildly effective, and there were routinely nights when I’d encounter a dozen or more of the biggest names in Twin Cities media. I’ve had nights recently when I haven’t seen a single recognizable face. I haven’t fared much better at any of the summer’s big "cluster" events, the celebrity golf and fishing tournaments where I more often than not find myself forbidden from entering "restricted" areas, and end up sitting in my Gremlin drinking diet Shasta, eating Bugles out of the box, and trying to spot celebrities through my trusty binoculars. Lord knows, there was a time when the mere sight of Kristin Tillotson with a fishing pole in her hands would have had Budd Rugg wheezing into a paper bag, but when the StarTribune’s Pop Tart is hunkered down in a bass boat with some anonymous professional fisherman and accessible only through binoculars, well, forgive me if the experience seems somehow diminished. This year, at the annual KFAN Celebrity/Pro Am Bass Tournament, I actually found myself feeling almost dirty for perhaps the first time in my career as a media parasite.

IT’S A DARN good thing Budd Rugg doesn’t have to punch a clock for his role as a media obsessed man about town, or I’d feel compelled to tell you exactly how many hours I’ve already wasted this summer sitting on lonely benches at Calhoun Square or out at the Mall of America, restlessly working a word search puzzle or thumbing through TV Guide while waiting to catch a glimpse of Amelia Santaniello or Mike Binkley (separately or together) or even, in truly anxious moments, Bob Sansevere. Thankfully, I have a highly refined capacity for self-deception –call it delusion if you so choose—and when I’m really down on my luck I can somehow convince myself that I’ve seen, say, Pioneer Press managing editor Vicki Gowler, even though I am fully aware that I have absolutely no idea what that dear woman looks like.

I do, though, get skunked, and more and more often. There’s little I despise more than staking out a position alongside some golf course where I’ve learned a charity tournament is being held, wasting an afternoon peering through binoculars in the hope of catching Pat Miles or Chad Hartman flailing around with a golf club. I can’t tell you how much I hate the game of golf, and how badly I wish the media stars I worship weren’t so easily amused! That said, I must admit that Budd Rugg has logged time outside every golf course in the metro area, and I couldn’t say with any certainty that I’ve even laid eyes on Dan "The Common Man" Cole, which I’m sure is an admission of the most abject failure. It does get terribly discouraging, but I can tell you that the frightful streak of tenacity I inherited from my dear mother continues to serve me well, and if Budd Rugg has to drive all the way out to the Bayside Grill on Lake Minnetonka for a face-to-face with Frank Pillsbury, well then drive I will!

THANK GOODNESS SOME of our local media celebrities are such creatures of habit! Budd Rugg is always grateful for a sure thing, which is why KFAN hunkpappa Paul Allen is such a personal favorite. One always knows that the dandy smarty pants Mr. Allen can be found Sunday nights at the Cabooze and Mondays at Bunker’s. I plead complete ignorance when it comes to athletics –this despite the fact that I once accompanied my mother to one of Jim Klobuchar’s football clinics for women—but I long ago learned that if you want to see the wild animals you’re going to have to root around in the jungle, which is why you’ll so often find me lurking around the peripheries of local sporting events and haunting KFAN remotes. The local sporting press are among the most visible and accessible of media celebrities, and my scrapbook is full of snapshots and stories of my personal encounters with everyone from Joe Schmit to Eric Nelson to Don Banks. One of my most prized possessions is a blurry Polaroid of former StarTribune sports stud Jeff Lenihan looking very frightened in the parking lot of the old Pacific Club!

SOME NIGHTS BUDD Rugg just stays home, flipping between local newscasts, browsing in my fat scrapbook, or thumbing through my dog-eared copy of Dave Moore’s A Member of the Family. This time of year, particularly, one gets tired of the endless succession of charity events, live remotes, galas, parades, women’s expos, and golf and fishing tournaments. The occasions are infrequent, but there are days when poor Budd Rugg just doesn’t have the energy or enthusiasm to walk across the street to see Bob Yates at Famous Dave’s. The scrapbook is full of bittersweet memories (Oh, look, there’s Gary Rebstock! There’s my old favorite Stan Turner!); certainly, it must be admitted, more bitter than sweet are those rare evenings when I find myself slumped on the sofa eating cold turkey dogs right out of the package and making snide remarks to the parade of pancaked faces on my television screen. "The line is ‘Everybody plays the fool sometimes,’ Stephan Reynolds! Would you please give it a rest!" Don’t get me wrong; Budd Rugg truly loves Stephan Reynolds, but I have my blue, grumpy days just like anyone else. I’ve been keeping my scrapbook for a long time now –as evidenced by the yellowing photograph of a glowing WCCO television logo I created on my Lite-Brite screen when I couldn’t have been more than eight years old—and I always know that the old fervor will return. At this year's State Fair I was already back on the prowl, standing in line, excited as that little boy I once was, on my mother’s arm, waiting to get Peg Meier’s autograph.

As always, send any and all invitations, entreaties, gossip, and idle speculation to your dear friend Budd Rugg at buddrugg@cursor.org

The Budd Rugg Archives