With angry rock pounding and the vague smell of fried chicken, I reacquainted myself with a St. Paul, Midway institution, Ax-Man Surplus. Nothing had changed over the decades from the iron lung to the snarky signs. As I walked out, empty-handed, the gnarly guy at the counter asked me if I’d ever thought of buying something I didn’t want. I said they now had mindshare, which seemed to be a sufficient response.
