The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Located on a hellish strip of University Avenue in St. Paul, the utilitarian structure sports the name of the candidate - a name which sparks equal amounts of love, hatred and a lot of stuff in between. The drab walls within, like those for any campaign headquarters, are sprinkled here and there with images of the contender, whose mug, for over thirty years, has graced TV screens, movie screens, book covers, placards, post cards, and, yes, perhaps, even mugs.

One might think it is Sting or the second coming of KISS, I mean Christ, or some other hugely popular international act packing the Triple Rock this past Saturday night. The room is awash in colored patterns, setting the evening up for a fierce Stripes v. Plaids / Sharks v. Jets rock and roll rumble. But the cocktail-clutchers and the Pabst-proffers are anxiously awaiting four local bands. The Minneapolis music scene is geared for explosion, and it's hard to believe one of the masterminds is a gentleman quietly hunched over an acoustic guitar.

When the glitz and the flash and the devilish showboating are stripped away, Ace Frehley shines as the true powerhouse behind KISS. In his legendary band, the "spaceman" often got swallowed by Gene Simmons's fire-spewing antics and Paul Stanley's notorious onstage preening. But it was Frehley's axe-wielding that gave musical credibility to the band's campy allure. He is

I used to think that when I was up at night and my hubby was snoozing, rubbing his back was a nice thing to do.

Guess it's not only not nice, but it's annoying.

All this time I thought I was being little miss affectionate, but instead... I have been waking up my partner when he is just trying to get some deep sleep. I never knew this until today.