When a publication goes national and even international, steps have to be taken to make sure that local writers are not confused with national and international figures. The March edition presents an article entitled “Taters” [Down the Hatch]. The author is Stephanie March. The failure by your editors to include a brief note on the author Stephanie March, indicating she is not Stephanie March, the lead actress in Law and Order SVU, is an oversight that should be corrected. Many fans of Stephanie March the actress know that she has an interest in food, so an article about potatoes with Stephanie March’s byline unreasonably suggests that the actress wrote the article. This misconception is reinforced by Google searches which list Stephanie March, the author of “Taters,” in the same results as for Stephanie March, the actress. The only upside is that many of Ms. March’s (the actress) fans read the article by Ms. March (the food writer) and quite enjoyed it. However, given the national and international popularity of Stephanie March the actress, posting a clarification would be considerate to both Stephanie March’s fans and a sign that this is a professional publication.
Malcolm J. Scully, Quebec
Month: April 2003
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Stephanie March: Babe-Alicious Crime-Fighter, Food Writer
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That Awful Pri-NPR Mix-Up, Again
In the most recent issue of The Rake [April], there is an article entitled “Smashing, Glass” in which reference is made to “NPR’s ‘This American Life.’” This is incorrect. National Public Radio (NPR) has nothing to do with either the production or distribution of this very popular program. “This American Life” is produced by WBEZ/Chicago Public Radio and distributed to public radio stations nationwide by Public Radio International (PRI), located right here in Minneapolis. Public Radio International and National Public Radio are the two major distribution services for public radio. Individual public radio stations can be affiliates of both PRI and NPR, selecting programming offered by each. Public radio is a generic term, while Public Radio International and National Public Radio refer to specific distributors.
Linda Sue Anderson, PRI Executive Assistant, Minneapolis -
Former President Alive, Well, Opinionated in St. Paul?
You bet, the Twin Cities area had a great transit system before Green and Ossanna got in and wrecked the streetcar empire in less than three years time, 1951–1954 [“Get Rail!,” March]. Twin City Lines did have buses to augment the streetcars and a fair amount of private right of way. The vast majority of the train cars were built right here in the Twin Cities. They were high-speed machines, capable of 50 mph. The TCL home-built tanks were comfortable and efficient. One TCL “standard car” could hold a “crush crowd” of 150 bodies. A bus can only do about half that many. Electric traction has quicker acceleration than the noisy, two-speed “slushbox” transmissions on most buses. Electric traction vehicles can be coupled into multiple unit trains. The Twin City area needs many more LRT lines, and commuter rail too. Rip out the “insane lane” of I-394, and put in LRT all the way from Long Lake to Hudson, Wisconsin. Minnesota needs to get into the 21st century.
John Kennedy, St. Paul -
Krusing for a Bruising
To point out hypocrisy is often to belittle or ignore the larger argument. Colleen Kruse points out that her friend, Megan the Vegan Pagan, eats only organic food in an effort to be healthier, yet she smokes [Motley Krüse, April]. A clear hypocrisy, even if they are American Spirits. President Bush promotes the building of hydrogen-powered cars, yet in the same week offers a big tax break to businesses that buy SUVs and pickups. Hypocrisy? Yes. It doesn’t follow, however, that organic is pointless or that hydrogen-powered cars are bad. The Environmental Protection Agency, surely the president’s most beloved organization, just released stricter guidelines for evaluating the risks of certain chemicals used in pesticides, having discovered the greater likelihood that children will get cancer from exposure to pesticides than adults. To explain all the reasons why it is better to avoid pesticides would be just as trite as the incongruity Kruse points out in her stereotypical depiction of someone who buys organic foods. Colleen Kruse and her ill-used friend can keep their cancer, and I will keep a wary eye on hypocrisy.
Steffan Hruby, Minneapolis -
A Cable Apologist Weighs In
After reading Wm. Steven Humphrey, I find it strange that you published in a Twin Cities magazine an article by a columnist based in Portland who is writing about his Portland cable system. Not all cable systems are alike! If Mr. Humphrey lived in Minneapolis and had Time Warner Cable he would find a service called DVR, a cable box that has a TiVo-type device built in which enables the viewer to tape two programs while watching another without the need for videotape.
Jerry Blizen, Minneapolis -
Are We Not Men?
Wm.™ Steven Humphrey’s article extolling the virtues of TiVo floored me [“Jennifer Garner’s Underpants,” April]. I’ve not laughed so hard since my TiVo started recording “Big Joe’s Polka Party” for me just on the off chance I wanted it. I, er, applaud Mr. Humphrey for his sense of humor!
Matt Drury, Orlando, FL -
The Proof Is in the Profit
Isn’t it ironic that President Bush can invade Iraq without definitive proof it possesses weapons of mass destruction, but refuses to accept global warming [“Feeling Minnesota, Looking Nebraska,” April] because, he says, there isn’t definitive proof it exists, despite overwhelming scientific opinion that it is indeed occurring? If Halliburton, Inc., saw there was money to be made in global warming, Bush would likely believe in it.
Doug Seitz, Stillwater
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What , Me Worry?
The war with Iraq, combined with the SARS epidemic and the release of a pretty tough 2003 Vikings schedule, has left us all a bit weary. Thankfully, in the true American spirit of making fun of inappropriate situations, we’ve found a comedic port in the sandstorm, thanks to Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf. He’s the guy who resembles that actor whose name you can’t think of, only without the mustache, whose job during the three-week campaign was to put the best possible spin on an old-fashioned butt-whuppin’. Notable quotes (many delivered with the muffled sound of U.S. artillery fire in the background) included, “Today I have visited whole Baghdad city, no invaders found. They are crying outside and waiting to receive bullets. They will be killed shortly.” And our personal favorite, “They think we are retarded—they are retarded.” If he’s not already working for the Republican National Committee, al-Sahaf is most likely polishing up that resume. We thought in the true spirit of global kinship, we’d assist the minister in his quest for new employment in a field best suited to his talents: marketing.
Spokesman, Northwest Airlines
“The Wall Street always depends on a method what I call stupid. They are stupid and condemned. NWA stock up 3 points next quarter!”Color commentary, the Minnesota Twins
“We are not afraid of the Yankees! The bases are loaded, but I am not scared and neither should you be. My initial assessment is that the devils will all strike out … and are all condemned, Allah willing.”Customer service, Orkin
“I have visited the Johnson residence. No invaders found. You go and see how we have ousted the cockroaches from this Johnson home. Our estimates are that none of the infidels will come out alive unless they surrender to us quickly.”Pitchman, Famous Dave’s
“We’ve thrown our ribs in a quagmire, a quagmire of delicious honey-barbecue sauce, from which they can only emerge … delicious!”Eddie Murphy’s agent
“I can assure you that ‘Daddy Day Care’ will be the subject of laughter around the world. I always ask you to verify what I say, and I say ‘Daddy Day Care’ opens on May 9th. Heavy doesn’t accurately describe the level of comedy Eddie will inflict.”Host, QVC
“I would like to clarify a simple fact here: I triple guarantee you, these earrings are 18 carat gold! Those who do not buy them will discover in appropriate time in the future how stupid they are and how they are pretending things which have never taken place.” -
Shandy is Dandy
Our first spring in Minnesota came late. It had not been much of a winter, in fact we felt fairly blasé about our capacity to survive Minnesota’s fabled frigidity. (But oh, how we have learned since!) The torrents pouring over St. Antony Falls inspired no particular shock nor awe, unlike the ceaseless roar of Spring 2001. There was road-grit, weak sunshine, and windblown tulips. Surprising then to hear accordion music outside, and the clash of small bells. But it was true—this music came by me on the waters. Rounding a corner we saw a white sleeve rhythmically waving a handkerchief, and were promptly transported from the shore of the Mississippi to the banks of the Thames at Oxford.
England, God knows, is full of odd customs. The unwise think they are vestiges of primeval paganism, but most of them seem to have started in the High Middle Ages, the most Christian era of English history. If you don’t believe me, read a book called The Stations of the Sun by a learned bloke called Hutton. These calendar customs began not as gnarled substitutes for child sacrifice but as the secular entertainments of Christian civilization.
Whatever the history, every May 1, thousands of Oxford people creep out of bed in the wee small hours of the morning. The crowds converge on Magdalen Bridge, where the main London road crosses the river. There they hear, generally in silence, the choir of Magdalen College, grouped on top of the college tower, sing a Latin hymn and a few madrigals, no louder at ground level than birdsong. Then the crowds head back into the city where the purveyors of greasy breakfasts do land-office business and “sides” of Morris dancers, dressed in white shirts and trousers, with colored cross-belts, bells strapped to their legs, and substantial boots perform with a vigor remarkable for the earliness of the hour.
It was Morris dancers we ran into that evening in Minneapolis, one of four sides in the city (two men’s, one women’s, one—from the village of Uptown-on-Calhoun—mixed). They say they are often asked if their art is Irish, but no, it is firmly in the tradition of Thames Valley Morris dancing. This art form was “discovered” in 1899 just in time to prevent its disappearance by a remarkable musicologist named Cecil Sharp (did anyone dare to call him D Flat, one wonders), and it’s now more popular than ever before. Like their Oxford fellows, the Minneapolis dancers also take May Morning exercise early, clashing batons, fiddling, leaping, whirling hankies, but they also meet at a more sociable hour in the evening and come together from the four points of the compass to dance in front of the IDS Tower. (Isn’t there something a bit Freudian about that name?)
So much leaping and clashing (even watching it) naturally works up a thirst, and it is indeed as much with Saturday evenings at Cotswold country pubs as with May Morning in the city that one associates the Morris. How good those white outfits look seen through a pint of Hook Norton Best Bitter, pulled by a shapely forearm from a proper draught-beer engine. Hook Norton promise an on-line shop for their bottled products, but who knows if they will be able to ship to the United States.
Until they do, I recommend a refreshing summer beverage called “ginger beer shandy,” described as “new-fangled” in 1888. One simply adds one of the ordinary bitters (Bass, say, or McEwans Export) to an equal quantity of ginger beer. Not ginger ale, a clear brown cisatlantic drink, but ginger beer as my mother used to make it—with live yeast in the family’s heated linen cupboard (until it exploded), a sweet cloudy non-alcoholic drink now conveniently available from superior Minnesota grocers. The mixture brings out a healthy sweat. Let’s hope the summer is hot enough to warrant drinking plenty of it.
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Daughter of the Revolution
My 12-year-old daughter has come down with something. I think it’s called puberty. It’s certainly called annoying. This brilliant, gorgeous child who only weeks ago was full of hugs and kisses and admiration for me has suddenly been replaced by an alien beast.
“Mom?” she says with that tone. “Are you wearing eyeliner? Because you don’t usually wear eyeliner. It’s interesting.” Or yesterday, her eyes hardened with anger, a dark scowl across her forehead, one hand jauntily on her hip and the other brandishing a metal dustpan: “Just so you know, I’m relegated to using this as an implement for cleaning the guinea pig’s cage, since you have utterly neglected to provide me with a litter scoop.” I glance at my son and he glances back, both of us clearly wondering how we are so thick as to not see the urgency of her problem. And as for the mustache my daughter thinks I’m growing—in a certain light of course—well, I’d just as soon not discuss it. To think I used to consider her broad vocabulary an asset.
Now, before we go further, don’t worry that I’ll embarrass her by telling you all of this—I always get her permission before I put her into print. The thing is, I’m never likely to say anything she hasn’t already heard, even if she happens to insist with smug nonchalance on humming Chopsticks to drown me out.
But she can’t fool me, no matter how hard she tries. Because at the end of the day, the alien departs and my daughter, under cloak of darkness, returns. “Mom,” she calls, “come put me to bed.” And so I trudge up the stairs and crawl under her pretty embroidered comforter, settling in for the stories that are about to come. Stories about friends, boys, and teachers, but even moreso stories about her: what she is thinking, what she believes, what she loves and hates most in the whole wide world. If I listen closely enough, I get to hear a great deal about who my daughter thinks she is and who she plans to become. It’s fascinating and deeply reassuring.
By the time I was her age I didn’t tell anybody anything anymore. My stories imploded and collapsed on themselves until I no longer recognized them as having once been a part of me. I can clearly see seventh grade as the year when I lost all sense of myself, when I wandered deep into the cold dark woods—wild animals all around, red eyes glowing and mouths frothing—and the bread crumbs I left to mark my trail just scattered like dust. I had no idea how to find my way back to myself and it scared me damn near to death.
In my twin bed in the basement of my dad’s suburban split level, I’d lie awake nights staring into the pitch black, afraid to go to sleep because in the quagmire of unconsciousness I’d find myself in the white cinderblock tunnel that led to the girls’ locker room at school, fluorescent lights glaring overhead, my legs leaden and paralyzed as the throngs of kids pushed past me.
I’m so thankful my daughter has a clearing in the woods into which bright sunlight streams (or moonlight, as the case may be), a place where tame songbirds congregate, and wildflowers nod in the breeze. This is a place where she can throw off the accoutrement of adolescence and be something truer—at least for a moment or two in the hush of bedtime. “Don’t go,” she pleads when I try to slip away. “Stay, Mama, you can’t go.” “But it’s late,” I tell her.
I have so much to do is what I’m really thinking. Lessons to plan, stories to write, schedules to iron out before the new day pummels me. How many phone calls did I blow off today? How many chores have gone undone? And what in God’s name am I going to wear to work tomorrow? I’m so tired, the weight of the comforter lulls me into sleepiness. My daughter is warm beside me, chattering on, and I can feel myself drifting off as her guinea pig chirps softly in the background. But I can’t lie in her bed all night. I snap myself awake and sit up. “I have to get up, I have to.”
“No,” she says firmly. “All you have to do is stay with me forever.”