Adrian C. Louis Der Führer of North Dakota The undergrad reads her poem about her boyfriend shooting pool in a bar in the North Dakota oil fields. He is dancing & drinking, doing, she says, "the sippy sippy shake." Sounds like "Hippy hippy shake," I say, but I come from another century & no one in class knows that song. Someone Googles it on their phone & plays it for the class. I say, "Folks, everybody dance now," in my best Lawrence Welk imitation. Of course, they do not know who he was either. Frustrated, I climb in my time machine. 1968. Doyle & I are panhandling in L.A. near the ABC studios where Welk beams his schlock to the American heartland. We're doing exceptional, our bell bottoms bulge with coinage, so we take a break & adjourn to an alleyway to fire one up. At the instant we become elevated, two Welkian musicians in sky blue band blazers materialize inches from us. One asks for a toke & soon all four of us are levitating in furious laughter. "Tell me about Lawrence Welk," I say. "Der Führer of North Dakota," one says, blazed out of his gourd in his sky blue blazer.