Rise and shine, you beautiful otters and happy Monday. Spiess in the Morning sending out some festive energy and cheerful vibes into the universe from the spectacular studios next to the swamp.
Bringing you sunlight through the podcaster broadcaster dial and a little metaphysical caffeine to stir the soul. It’s June 9th, and while the calendar might call it just another Monday—or whatever iteration we find ourselves in—I say it’s a little page in the great cosmic journal, worthy of a closer look.
Now, did you know today is Donald Duck Day? Yep, that feisty, barely intelligible waterfowl with a sailor shirt and no pants first quacked onto the silver screen in The Wise Little Hen on this day back in 1934. Think about that—ninety years of a duck getting into trouble and charming generations with his fury and fluster. Makes you wonder if maybe we all have a little Donald in us—squawking at life’s absurdities, tail feathers in the breeze, and somehow still lovable.
Today is also National Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie Day, a dessert that is the culinary equivalent of a good relationship—sweet and tart all at once. If you're lucky, Pat and company might be serving a slice over at The Viking Cafe this morning, and if you're luckier still, Kate and Terry might tell you a story about picking rhubarb in the summer of '57 with a fella who never came back from St. Cloud but left behind one hell of a pie recipe.
History? Oh, we’ve got history. On June 9, 1954, during the Army-McCarthy hearings, a quiet but devastating sentence was spoken: "Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last?" It was lawyer Joseph Welch confronting Senator McCarthy—and it was the rhetorical bullet that started the end of McCarthyism.
See, sometimes the world doesn’t shift with armies or elections, but with a single question, asked at the right time, by the right person, with the right amount of courage.
In pop culture land, June 9, 1984, gave us a little movie called Ghostbusters. Who you gonna call? Well, I’ll tell you—call your childhood, because that flick is a spiritual energy trap for every kid who ever believed in something just outside of reality, whether it was ghosts or government conspiracies or just a little magic in the attic.
Ghostbusters didn’t just challenge the supernatural of our lives, it created a new reality.
And in a case of cosmic synchronicity, June 9 is also the day Charles Dickens' final novel, "The Mystery of Edwin Drood," was published in 1870—unfinished, just like some of our best thoughts, dreams, and loves. Maybe that’s the poetic part—we never get to wrap it all up with a neat bow. Life’s final chapter is always a little drafty.
Here in Minnesota, the crappies are starting to pop, the deer are giving you that long, slow stare, and the morning air’s got the tang of pine and possibility. So breathe it in. Sing a little like Donald, rock a ghost like Peter Venkman, and if someone serves you a piece of strawberry rhubarb pie today—say yes. Life’s short. Eat the pie. Be the pie.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else listening that every day you wake up is a page waiting for poetry. Make it count.
So, here we are again. June 9th. And I have to say, folks, something’s in the stars today. Because when you look at the folks born on this day… it’s like the universe decided to drop a mixtape of brilliance, charisma, and just a touch of madness.
Let’s start with Johnny Depp. Born in 1963. A man who doesn’t so much act as transmigrate—Jack Sparrow, Edward Scissorhands, the Mad Hatter. He’s our modern-day Dionysus, stumbling through dreamscapes, eyeliner always intact. Love him or loathe him, you gotta admit—Johnny’s never phoned it in.
Then we’ve got Natalie Portman, 1981. She’s the poster child for the "you-can-be-brilliant-and-beautiful" brigade. Harvard grad, Oscar winner, and still found time to be Queen Amidala in a galaxy far, far away. If brains were light, Natalie would be a lighthouse in the fog.
Speaking of brains with a punch, Aaron Sorkin, born 1961. The man writes dialogue like jazz—rapid-fire, syncopated, intellectually caffeinated. The West Wing, A Few Good Men, The Social Network. If you’ve ever found yourself pacing while talking fast and smart, you might just be channeling your inner Sorkin.
And then there's Michael J. Fox, born in 1961 too—same cosmic wave as Sorkin. Marty McFly himself. He made time travel cool and courage even cooler. Living with Parkinson’s, advocating for a cure, cracking a smile through it all. Talk about a real-life hero who doesn’t need a DeLorean.
Now, if you’re into high-octane energy, grab your whistle because it’s Dick Vitale’s birthday too—1939. “It’s awesome, baby!” The man made yelling about basketball into a poetic art form. Vitale doesn’t just call games—he lives them, heart and soul. Pure passion in tube socks.
Digging deeper into the vault, we find Les Paul, born 1915. Guitarist, inventor, pioneer. The guy didn’t just bend strings—he bent time with the invention of multitrack recording and the solid-body electric guitar. Without Les, we don’t get Clapton, Hendrix, Page, or that garage band next door disturbing your Sunday nap.
Further down the timeline, we salute George Stephenson, born in 1781. Father of the modern railway. You know those locomotives? The steam beasts that shrank continents and powered revolutions? That was George’s doing. The man laid the tracks—literally and figuratively—for the industrial age.
And finally, Peter the Great—Tsar of Russia, born in 1672. Six-foot-eight of ambition and fire, dragging his country kicking and screaming into the modern world. Founded a navy, built a city out of swampy wilderness—St. Petersburg. That’s vision, baby. Not always soft, but definitely seismic.
What a day, huh? A rock god, a time traveler, a Tsar, a duck-loving actor, a fast-talking writer, a Jedi queen, a hoop-shouting legend, and a man who put the world on rails.
So maybe June 9 isn’t just a date. Maybe it’s a vibration. A chord the universe strums when it’s in the mood for change-makers.
As you step out today, whether you're planting carrots or writing your memoirs, remember—you share the day with titans. And maybe, just maybe, that makes you part of something bigger.
Spiess in the Morning here, broadcasting like a whisper in the wind from the northern edge of the known world.
Community Billboard reminder - Cornerstone Food Truck Summer is back. Wednesdays from 11-2 at their Lincoln Avenue location. They’ve added some live music, and each week they will have a drawing for a free lunch at the following weeks’ event.
Les Paul. Today is his birthday and let’s take a moment to respect and reflect on what Les Paul’s genius has brought to our lives.
Think of genius for a second—how it moves, how it hums, how sometimes it lays dormant like a glacier, until something comes along and melts it into a roaring river. And that brings me to the name Les Paul.
Yeah, Les Paul. Not a myth, not a metaphor, but a man. A tinkerer. A dreamer. A sonic alchemist who took wires and wood, magnets and mystery, and turned them into the electric guitar. Not just a tool, mind you, but a vessel for expression. A conduit. He didn’t just give us sound—he gave us possibility.
See, a tool on its own is just that—a tool. A hammer doesn't build a house. A paintbrush doesn't stir the soul without the stroke of a human hand. And that sleek, curvaceous beauty we call the Gibson Les Paul? It doesn't sing on its own. It needed someone to dream it, someone to shape it, and then—here’s the kicker—it needed someone else to unleash it.
That’s the cosmic dance of creation, folks. Geniuses sparking other geniuses like flint to steel. Les Paul gives us the tool, and then boom—here comes Hendrix, Clapton, Page, and Prince—each of them pouring their own storm into it. Les wasn't just inventing an instrument. He was unlocking a new language. And he knew it needed speakers. Prophets. Pilgrims.
Now, I’m not saying Les was a god. But he sure played Prometheus when it came to music. He stole fire from the silent strings and gave it to the world, one riff at a time.
And that makes me wonder—how many tools are out there, waiting for the right hand to pick them up? How many sparks are flickering in the dark, just waiting for a gust of inspiration?
Because genius doesn’t live in isolation. It needs a mirror, a duet, a feedback loop. Galileo needed a telescope, sure. But he also needed stars to aim it at. Just like Les needed that first pluck of curiosity and the hum of potential behind it.
So maybe today, wherever you are—out fixing your pontoon, painting a mural, teaching a kid how to bait a hook—maybe you’re holding a tool that’s waiting for its genius. Or maybe you're the genius waiting to meet your tool.
Either way, don’t sleep on the idea that the universe might be one Les Paul short of its next revelation.
All right, otters—keep your digital dials steady, your fingers warm, and your hearts open.
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Spiess in the Morning, coming at you on this sleepy Minnesota sunrise with the scent of pine, pancakes, and just a whiff of history on the breeze.
Community Billboard reminder - Evening Book Club will discuss "Empress of the Nile: the Daredevil Archaeologist who Saved Egypt's Ancient Temples from Destruction" by Lynne Olson at the Fergus Falls Public Library from 6:30-7:30pm.
Now otters, Have you ever meet someone whose life reads like a novel Hemingway and Baldwin might've co-authored together over bourbon and a shared sense of justice?
Let me tell you about a man named Alan Page. Some of you might remember him as the bruising defensive tackle for the Minnesota Vikings, part of that legendary "Purple People Eaters" line back in the '70s. The man moved like a thunderstorm — precise, powerful, and full of consequence. He played in four Super Bowls, was the NFL’s Most Valuable Player in 1971 — one of only two defensive players to ever wear that crown.
But Alan Page wasn’t just tackling quarterbacks — he was tackling injustice, ignorance, and the boundaries of what a life can be.
After football, Page didn’t drift into commentary or fade into the sports afterglow. No, he picked up a law degree and ascended to the Minnesota Supreme Court. From gridiron to gavel — it’s not the typical trajectory. But then again, Alan Page has never been your typical man.
And now, in what some might call the third act of this remarkable journey, he's opened his soul to the world through art. African American art and cultural artifacts, to be exact. He and his late wife Diane built one of the most personal and profound collections of Black history — a treasure trove of quilts, books, photographs, shackles, and letters that speak in whispers and shouts about a people’s endurance, genius, and pain.
His latest exhibit — now making waves in museums across the country — isn't just a display. It’s a mirror, a time machine, a sermon, and sometimes, a punch in the gut. There’s a child-sized set of manacles. A flyer for a slave auction. A 19th-century letter where the ink trembles with longing for freedom. And beside those, the soaring creativity of African American folk art, hand-stitched quilts that radiate defiance and beauty, portraits that look you right in the soul.
You walk through it, and it’s as if history itself is walking beside you — holding your hand, whispering, "Don't forget me."
Page says collecting these pieces isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about reckoning. About truth. About ensuring we don’t pave over the past in our rush to make the future more palatable.
Funny thing, folks — sometimes the strongest people don’t wear helmets. They wear robes. Or curate exhibitions. Or raise scholarship funds for kids who’ve been told no one like them has ever done it before.
Alan Page’s life is a sermon in perseverance. A mosaic in motion. From Sunday sack artist to Supreme Court justice, to steward of memory and culture — the man has kept pushing forward, shoulder first, like he’s always rushing a deeper purpose.
Stay curious, otters. Stay kind, and if you're ever in the vicinity of Pelican Rapids or another city with those exhibits — go. Stand in it. Feel it. Let it rearrange you.
You’re listening to Spiess in the Morning, where every sunrise is a chance to become a little more human.
Spiess in the Morning your broadcaster podcaster beaming out some love and festive energy into the day from the spectacular studios next to the swamp, and looking out the window the sky is doing that gray-blue watercolor wash it does when it can't decide if it's brooding or bashful, and I’m here with a warm cup of coffee and a little philosophical pest control.
You know, last night I was out on the porch, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Joseph Campbell, watching the stars wink between the clouds... when I got bit. Not by inspiration, mind you—but by that aerial vampire we call the mosquito.
Now, here in the North Star State, mosquitoes are less of a nuisance and more of a seasonal roommate. They buzz, they bite, they interrupt your train of thought like nature’s little editors.
And it got me thinking... what’s the origin story of this little needle-nosed nemesis?
In Dena'ina folklore—our local Athabaskan cousins—they say the first mosquito was born of vengeance. The story goes something like this: There was a giant—human in form but monstrous in appetite. This giant lived off the blood of people. He'd hunt them, drain them, and leave the land soaked in sorrow. But, like all good myths, balance arrives on the shoulders of courage. The people banded together, tracked the beast down, and burned his body. Ashes to ashes, monster to dust.
But here's the rub—his heart, black and malevolent, didn’t die in the flames. It rose with the smoke and scattered in the wind. And from that cursed heart came the mosquito. A shard of the monster reborn a million-fold, shrunk down but still hungry. So every time one of those little bloodsuckers lands on your arm, you’re brushing off a fragment of an ancient terror.
A little heavy for your morning oatmeal? Maybe. But myth has a way of wrapping big truths in small bites.
And it’s not just the Dena’ina. The Cherokee say mosquitoes came from a cannibal who was cut into tiny pieces and scattered—again, the theme of evil dismembered, yet never quite destroyed. It’s like the universe’s reminder that you can’t just burn your monsters. You gotta live with their consequences.
The Inuit, on the other hand, offer a slightly different version—of a man who loved to kill animals for sport. When he died, the animals got their revenge by turning his soul into a mosquito—forever doomed to annoy humans, but never able to draw real blood. A karmic loop, buzzing in our ears.
Folklore’s funny that way. It takes the itch we all feel—and turns it into a lesson. About greed. About violence. About how nature remembers even when we forget.
And isn’t that what the past does? It comes back in unexpected forms. Sometimes as regret. Sometimes as a biting memory. Sometimes… as a mosquito.
So if you’re out walking by the lake this morning, and you hear that high-pitched whine in your ear… don’t just swat. Take a second. Think about that old story. About how the tiniest creatures can carry the weight of ancient myths.
This is Spiess in the Morning, telling myself and anyone else listening that in the land of otters, even the smallest sting has a story—and sometimes, the past isn’t behind you. It’s hovering… just over your shoulder.
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Q & A with Justice Alan Page at the Pelican Rapids Public Library today from 1-2pm at the Pelican Rapids Library - Retired Minnesota Supreme Court Justice Alan Page will provide insight on the Diane and Alan Page Collection and how the TESTIFY Exhibit was created to showcase significant art and artifacts from that collection. A companion program to the TESTIFY Exhibit, on view at the library through June 30. Click here for more info
Paul’s Fresh Eggs - $3/dozen - call or text 218-205-7779
Abbie’s Fresh Eggs - $9 for 30 eggs - washed or unwashed - call or text 763-355-2891
Summer Fest in Fergus Falls is Friday June 13 and Saturday June 14.
Friendship Festival in Pelican Rapids is June 14. Bring your own chair.
The Shoreline Bowling Alley in Battle Lake has open bowling All Summer Long. Call 218-864-5265 for more info or stop by 505 N Lake Ave, Battle Lake, MN.
The Bookmobile stops across from the Parkers Prairie Post Office every other Wednesday throughout the year. You can find the Bookmobile there from 3 pm to 4 pm. Not only does the Bookmobile have books, movies & magazines to check out, but the Bookmobile and member libraries also offer a wide variety of electronic resources including Ebooks, downloadable audiobooks, streaming movies, TV and music, and a wide variety of educational databases and distance learning resources.
Join The Depot on 59’s Summer Volleyball league in Erhard, MN! 8 Weeks- Ages 21+- Coed Teams.
Volleyball & Chill Wednesday:
May 28-July 23
July 30-September 10th
Power Players Thursday:
May 29-July 14th
July 31-September 11th
Sign your team up today by calling 218-842-5185 or stop by The Depot on Hwy 59 in Erhard. $20 Per team sign up $2 per person per night. 100% payback.
If you have a community event for the Community Bulletin Board, email studio@ottertalk.media
Food & Festivities
Long Bridge Bar, Grill & Marina (Detroit Lakes): Check out the Pepper Jack Slaw Dog, a 1/4 lb all beef hot dog served on a poppy seed bun with sweet chili sauce, spicy pepper jack cheese, and topped with coleslaw.
Knotty Pine (Elbow Lake): Offering great food, cold drinks, and fantastic service. It’s Create-Your-Own-Pasta time - your choice of pasta, protein, sauce and veggies!
Garden Bar (Alexandria): Locally owned, The Garden Bar is committed to providing its guests with a memorable dining experience through fresh and eclectic menu options, an extensive wine and beer list and hand-crafted cocktails. Celebrate Truffle Day and try the Pomme Frites, which are hand-cut, then topped with gruyere, bacon, scallions and truffle aioli.
Rothsay Powerhouse (Rothsay): Burgers, wings, walleye fingers, dinner specials and much more! Live Music, tasty drinks and friendly staff.
Want Otter Talk to highlight a local musician or upcoming gig? Email studio@ottertalk.media
Happy Monday Everyone! Feel free to like, share and or comment!
Please tune in Tuesday for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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