Rise and Shine Otters, Spiess in the Morning broadcasting and podcasting from the spectacular studios next to the swamp in the land where the loons outnumber the voters.
It’s June 26, and while we may be up here surrounded by spruce trees and the echo of loons, today’s got the breezy soul of a beachside cabana, the sass of a beauty salon, and the soft squish of chocolate pudding on a paper plate at a childhood picnic.
Let’s start with the humble, hard-shelled symbol of tropical escape—because today is National Coconut Day. Now, the coconut is nature’s Swiss Army knife. It hydrates, it feeds, it shelters, it scrubs your skin and oils your hair. Some say it’s a fruit. Some say it’s a seed. I say it’s proof that the universe has a sense of humor and excellent taste in snacks. A little rough around the edges, but inside—sweet, creamy, and life-giving. Kind of like most of us.
It’s also National Handshake Day, and while that might feel a little retro in our age of fist bumps and elbow taps, there’s something deeply human about that simple act. A handshake isn’t just flesh and fingers—it’s trust made visible. It’s, “I see you, and I’m not carrying a weapon.” It’s an agreement. A beginning. A connection without words. And maybe in these fragmented times, we could use a few more handshakes—and a little less shouting.
And for those whose magic lies in curlers and color, today tips its brush to National Beautician Day. The unsung therapists of our small towns and neighborhoods. The folks who listen to our heartbreaks, offer gossip with a grin, and send us back into the world looking just a little more like the person we hope to be. If you’ve ever felt like a new human after a haircut, you know the power they wield. It’s not just scissors—it’s soul work. And if you read your history, haircuts and entertainment survive recessions.
And yes, my beautiful otters, it is National Chocolate Pudding Day. That glorious, gooey dessert that somehow manages to be both childlike and decadent. Chocolate pudding is forgiveness in a bowl. It’s the comfort food equivalent of a long hug after a hard day. You don’t chew it—you surrender to it.
Now, if June 26 were a dinner party, the guest list would be eclectic and dazzling.
Let’s start with Ariana Grande—born today in 1993. Tiny body, massive voice, and more vocal runs than a marathon. She’s a modern pop icon wrapped in a high ponytail and platform boots, but underneath the glitz is a survivor’s strength. Loss, love, headlines—she’s faced them all and kept singing, reminding us that resilience can wear rhinestones.
Then there’s Aubrey Plaza, the queen of deadpan, born on this day in 1984. Sarcastic, strange, unbothered in the best possible way. Whether she’s haunting comedy with a stare that could curdle milk or playing an emotionally unpredictable witch, she’s carved a niche for every girl who never quite fit into a neat little box.
And speaking of not fitting in the box—Nick Offerman. Born to swing an axe, whittle a canoe, and deliver philosophical one-liners with a mustache that could command an army. Sure, we know him as Ron Swanson from Parks and Rec, but Nick’s real gift is reminding us that stillness, craftsmanship, and being unapologetically yourself are not lost arts.
Then you’ve got Chris Isaak, crooning his way into the moodier corners of our hearts. “Wicked Game” still hits like a lonely echo on a desert highway. Isaak brings that vintage sound—a little Elvis, a little Orbison, all heartbreak and heat—and wraps it in a smooth suit and a California sunset.
Let’s not forget Sean Hayes, the comedic heartbeat of Will & Grace, born on this day in 1970. The man’s timing is flawless, his expressions a masterclass in mischief. He made millions laugh and gave visibility to voices long sidelined in primetime. A pioneer in a powder-blue sweater vest.
So here we are, June 26. A day for deep voices and deeper chocolate. For bold hair colors and honest handshakes. For the strong, the sweet, and the strange.
Maybe today you book that long-overdue trim. Maybe you extend a hand—literally or metaphorically—to someone you’ve lost touch with. Maybe you grab a coconut water, chase it with a spoonful of pudding, and dance around your kitchen to an old Spiess Isaak tune.
This is Spiess in the Morning with a nod to beauty, bravery, and the quiet joy of creamy desserts. Whatever you do today, do it with flavor. Do it with flair. And maybe, just maybe, do it with a firm but friendly handshake.
Spiess in the Morning coming at you live and low from the heart of Minnesota, where the foxes are frisky philosophers, the muskrats are modern-day-meanderers, and time slows down just enough to think a little deeper.
You know, yesterday I was in Elizabeth’s C-Store buying an Americano and bait, don’t judge, it’s a big city integration, we use bait to fish, at any rate, as the lovely cashier beeped it the across the scanner, I got to thinking… that sound—that little chirp, that blink of light—it’s the sound of modernity humming.
That’s the sound of what American history books call “progress”.
It was June 26, 1974, in a sleepy little town called Troy, Ohio, where the very first Universal Product Code—you know it, the old barcode—was scanned to sell a pack of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum. A small moment in a small store. But like so many of history’s pivots, what seemed like a whisper ended up being a shout.
That barcode, those zebra-striped lines and numbers, changed the world.
Not with a bang, but with a beep.
It streamlined commerce, digitized inventory, and turned mom-and-pop checkouts into data goldmines. It wasn’t just gum being sold—it was the birth of a tracking system, a language that told companies what you were buying, when you were buying it, and how often. That little pack of gum didn’t just freshen breath—it opened the doors to big data before we even had a name for it.
Think about it: the economy got faster. The family dinner table became a battleground of brands informed by barcoded trends.
“Why are we always out of cereal?” Because data said it was a top seller and your local store started ordering by algorithm, not instinct.
The workplace? Oh, man. The barcode made labor leaner. Warehouse workers traded clipboards for handheld scanners. Clerks became systems managers. And slowly but surely, people started being replaced by precision.
It’s not all bad. We gained efficiency. Speed. Accuracy. But we lost something, too. That human touch. The tactile memory of price tags inked by hand. The sound of a cash register bell—now replaced by that uniform beep, repeated endlessly, like a techno mantra at the altar of consumption.
The barcode doesn’t lie. It doesn’t flinch. It just is. It tracks. It tells the truth about what we buy, how we live, and even who we are. Ever get those receipts with “You might also like…” suggestions? That’s the barcode whispering in your digital ear. It sees you.
Families changed. Marketing found its way into your fridge. Your kids’ cereal boxes became promotional canvases. You started eating what data told you to eat. Freedom of choice? Maybe. But maybe it’s just freedom of the barcode-blessed options.
And the workplace… it changed, too. The rise of logistics and tracking gave birth to just-in-time delivery. From the barcode sprang the world of Amazon, of real-time inventory, of drones at your doorstep. All rooted in that humble beep.
You ever wonder what the barcode is, metaphysically speaking? It’s a spell. A coded language. Like the I Ching of capitalism. Instead of hexagrams, it’s line and space, line and space. Silence and sound. A binary drumbeat of consumption.
And yet, behind that technological marvel lies something deeply human: the need to count. To track. To make sense of the chaos. It’s what the ancients did with stars. We just do it now with SKU numbers.
So next time you hear that beep at the register—whether it’s for bubble gum, bananas, or biodegradable dental floss—pause. Listen. That sound is the echo of 1974 still bouncing through the global canyon of commerce. It’s the heartbeat of a system we all live in, whether we know it or not.
And like everything else in life, it’s not about good or bad—it’s about awareness.
Keeping on beeping with gratitude, my beautiful otters.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone listening that sometimes, the most profound revolutions come not with fireworks, but with gum.
It’s your friendly neighborhood philosopher, barista of the soul, and occasional truth-seeker — Spiess in the Morning, coming at you through the fog, static, and occasionally stain-powering coffee from my dad’s old stainless steel thermos.
Community Bulletin Board Update… Sterling said the panfish are popping on the Otter Tail River near the Hoot Lake hot spot. Classic Car Night in Battle Lake with Horsepower and Hops and Karaoke and Cars. One more… The Ottertail Open Air Market Summer 2025 runs every Friday Saturday and Sunday thru Labor Day.
You know what otters. I’ve been taking a lot of hikes along the river these past few days. I’ve got this mind worm that is burrowing deeper and deeper into my ego and possibly my id. And as a Libra, this game of mental ping pong continues and continues and continues.
That topic is deflection. Not the kind that helps a boxer dodge a punch, or the kind that bounces radar signals off the clouds. I’m talking about the kind of deflection that happens when someone in authority—your boss, your professor, your parent—dodges accountability like it’s a mosquito at a picnic.
A subtle kind of dodge, dressed up in charm, or guilt, or that classic line: “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”
When the person at the top of your chain of command starts shuffling blame like a deck of cards, reality starts to splinter. You ask a simple question, raise a fair concern, and suddenly you’re not just wrong—you’re the problem. You're too sensitive. Too emotional. You’ve “misunderstood.” Maybe you're told you're tired, or imagining things. Classic moves in the psychological jukebox of avoidance.
That’s when it starts—the great unraveling of what you know to be true.
You see, when someone deflects truth to preserve their image, or control the narrative, it creates an alternate universe. A pocket dimension where they’re always the misunderstood hero and you’re just the irrational antagonist in their little soap opera. They don’t want resolution—they want maintenance. Maintenance of their image. Their ego. Their spotless narrative. And that, my beautiful otters, is where the real damage sets in.
Because when you’re gaslit by someone with perceived wisdom or power, your own inner compass—the part of you that says, “Hey, that didn’t feel right”—starts to flicker. It’s like a lighthouse bulb going dim. You stop trusting your instincts. You replay conversations in your head like a courtroom drama, trying to see if maybe you were wrong. Maybe you did overreact. Maybe you were the one who needed to change. And you spiral.
That’s not accountability. That’s emotional erosion.
Truth is supposed to ground us. Give us structure. But when someone you trust—someone who’s supposed to be the adult in the room, the manager, the leader—bends that truth just enough to serve themselves, they aren’t just avoiding discomfort. They’re creating a false reality, and they’re making you live in it. That’s not leadership. That’s theater.
You can’t build emotional stability on a stage set. Eventually, the walls fall, the lights flicker, and you’re standing in the dark holding someone else’s script, wondering why your lines never made sense.
And here’s the part they don’t tell you in school or on motivational coffee mugs: being subjected to that kind of manipulation over time? It warps your sense of self. You start to internalize someone else’s avoidance. You carry their dishonesty like a backpack full of bricks. You walk through life second-guessing your every move, wondering if you’re too much, or not enough.
That’s how anxiety grows roots. That’s how depression creeps in like an Minnesota winter—quiet, long, and cold.
And the person who caused it? Still up in the tower, drawing new maps of the truth, selling you on another version of yesterday, as if your memory were just bad software. And they’ll keep doing it—because it works. Because people like you and me—we give the benefit of the doubt. We try to understand. We empathize. And in their hands, our empathy becomes a tool they use to keep the game going.
But you know what? Sometimes the most radical thing you can do isn’t fight back—it’s step back. Step out of their fantasy. Stop living in their curated universe. Walk back to your own truth, no matter how uncomfortable or lonely that might feel at first.
Because the real you—the one who knows what happened, who felt the sting, who heard the lie or saw the look—is still in there, waiting to be believed. Not by them. By you.
Don’t let someone else’s refusal to grow make you question your reality.
And to the bosses, the teachers, the parents out there who’ve gotten so used to dodging the mirror—here’s a gentle nudge: Your authority doesn’t make you right. It just gives you a bigger microphone. And maybe it’s time to use that mic to tell the truth, not just preserve the story you’re comfortable with.
Because people are listening. And some of them are barely holding on.
So this morning, I offer you this: may your truth be quiet, steady, and yours alone. May your instincts sharpen like Norseman’s ax. And may you never settle for a reality where your voice doesn’t matter.
This is Spiess in the Morning, reminding myself and anyone else listening that the truth may not always set you free, but it will stop you from living in someone else’s cage.
Spiess in the Morning here, your guide through the fog of culture, consciousness, and coffee. Closing out today’s show is a little bit about words. Not the kind that fill up dictionaries like bricks in a wall, but the slippery ones. The ones we toss around like a Frisbee at a Fourth of July barbecue. Slang, bay-bee.
Slang is our cultural jazz—improvised, soulful, rooted in experience. It's how generations drop their anchor into the choppy waters of the now and say, “Hey, this is who we are.”
Let’s take a little cruise, shall we? Slide back to the 1970s, bell-bottoms flapping in the breeze, afros catching sunbeams, and disco balls spinning wisdom. You didn’t just say someone was cool—they were far out. If you were bad, you were good. And if something was groovy, it meant it had rhythm with your soul. Even love had its code: “Catch you on the flip side” meant more than goodbye. It was a gentle prayer that you'd meet again on the vinyl B-side of life.
Enter the 1980s, hair higher than morality and neon brighter than the future. Suddenly, things were radical—or just rad—and if you really meant it, totally rad. Valley girls gave us gag me with a spoon, like, totally, and what-ever, said with a head tilt and eye roll that could puncture steel. Michael Jackson said bad and we all nodded, understanding the contradiction completely.
Then came the 1990s—grunge on the radio, angst in the heart. Things weren’t just bad anymore—they sucked. And if something was great? It was phat with a “p-h,” not an “f.” We all chilled, hung out, and kept it real. And if you needed to leave? I’m outtie. But not before talking to the hand, because the face wasn’t listening.
2000s hit like Y2K never mattered. Slang started to morph like digital avatars. Bling became the sparkle in everyone’s vocabulary. Fo’ shizzle left Snoop’s lips and landed on T-shirts in suburbia. And remember when everything was just crunk? A blend of crazy and drunk—though sometimes you didn’t need the booze to be either. We pimped our rides, googled our crushes, and called our friends peeps. Everything was off the chain, and when things were sketchy? Well, they were just sketch.
By the 2010s, we entered meme-land. The language of vines, tweets, and emoji. Things were lit, then on fleek, and finally fire. If something failed, it was an epic fail. And if you were thriving? Slay, queen. Even the word basic got reinvented into an insult—a pumpkin-spiced takedown of the everyday. We told haters to shade, clap back, and throw hands. And if it all got too much? We just couldn’t even.
And here we are in the 2020s, where language travels at broadband speed. Slang is now both spoken and typed, captioned and hashtagged. A vibe isn’t just a feeling—it’s a whole lifestyle. No cap means truth, sus means suspicious, and if something’s mid, it’s neither good nor bad—it just exists. We've ghosted people, simped for celebrities, and turned rizz into charisma. It’s like we’re all walking dictionaries with autocorrect on the blink.
But here’s the kicker, folks—slang isn’t just language. It’s time travel. A coded handshake across generations. You hear someone say groovy and it’s like hearing a Doors track drift through the air. YOLO and you're suddenly back in a dorm room shouting at a Red Bull-fueled daredevil. Every slang word is a breadcrumb on the forest floor of who we were and who we’re becoming.
And yeah, language changes. It has to. Otherwise, it gets crusty, fossilized—locked behind museum glass with a plaque that says, “Here lies cool.” But not here. Not in the land of otters. And not in you.
So whether you're feeling rad, lit, groovy, or just a little sus today, wear your words like a vintage leather jacket—well-loved, broken in, and uniquely yours.
This is Spiess in the Morning, signing off for the day—no cap. Otter and out.
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Kate’s Korner Antiques & Collectables is NOW OPEN in Elizabeth! Located across the street from the liquor store on Hwy 59, Kate’s Korner is a must stop and see. If you see the flags flapping in the wind, she’s open and ready to serve your nostalgic needs.
Paul’s Farm Fresh Eggs - $3/dozen - call or text 218-205-7779 (The Greater Elizabeth Area)
Abbie’s Farm Fresh Eggs - $9 for 30 eggs - washed or unwashed - call or text 320-349-0942 (The Greater Morris Area)
IBC Totes for sale - Endless uses for these totes from firewood storage to rainwater catcher to stacking two for an outdoor shower. Pick up encouraged, delivery available. Food grade are $100 each and non-food grade are $65 each. Call 218-639-1116
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 has 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.
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.
The Bookmobile stops in Elizabeth, only this stop isn’t at the community center or the public park, rather it’s a private house. Next stop is July 3 in Elizabeth and it’s a block north of the C-Store on the gravel road, or 206 N Pelican Street, for you GPS folk.
Check out more Bookmobile towns by clicking here
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Happy Wednesday Everyone! Feel free to like, share and or comment!
Please tune in tomorrow for more local lakes area tunes, totally tubular tales, and some small-town smiles.
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