Month: February 2004

Amy Tan is out on the lecture circuit in support of her new essay collection, The Opposite of Fate: A Book of Musings. She’d rather be out in support of her fifth novel, but… Well, that’s one of the things she writes about in Fate: her fight against a rather nasty bout of Lyme disease, which has played havoc with her memory and destroyed the timetable for a proper followup to her bestsellers The Joy Luck Club and The Kitchen God’s Wife. We hope for a speedy recovery, but until then, Tan’s nonfiction makes a worthwhile tide-me-over. She’s always shaped her fiction from her life story, and if Fate is a little chaotic, it also shows us sides of the author not always at the forefront of her novels. She writes movingly about her illness and her painfully complex relationship with her Chinese-born parents, but also about the mortifying experience of having her work turned into Cliffs Notes. She’s also “rhythm dominatrix” for the celebrity-novelist band Rock Bottom Remainders, which apparently involves buttock-whipping Stephen King, Dave Barry and Matt Groening. That’s show biz.
O’Shaughnessy Auditorium, 2004 Randolph Ave., St. Paul, (651) 690-6700, www.stkate.edu/oshaughnessy

Long before Queer Nation and Niggaz With Attitude adopted the slurs of their oppressors as a show of unapologetic might, seventies country band Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys were giving us Yid Kids up north proof that the goyim were more than people to give your lunch money to. Authentic country, the Texas Jewboys sang that when necessary, some lantsman needed to take out a good old can of kosher whip-ass against the Christers—Kinky’s signature song, “Asshole From El Paso,” was written in response to “Okie from Muskogee,” that noxious paean to redneckism sung by the no doubt foreskin-bearing Merle Haggard. Later the Kinkstah began writing best-selling mystery novels featuring a Lone Star-stater private eye named Kinky Friedman fighting crime and injustice in Gotham. His merry band of pranksters serve as Dr. Watsons for the cigar-chomping, whiskey-swilling shamus. The Texas Jewboy calls upon all his self-dubbed “Village Irregulars” in his just-out, just-great The Prisoner of Vandam Street, in which Kinky is mysteriously stricken with malaria in the heart of Greenwich Village.

Any month that includes a new Block novel has at least one thing going for it. A master of both heavy drama and light comedy, Block’s capable of some powerful writing; at his peak, in a novel like When the Sacred Ginmill Closes, he can stand next to Raymond Chandler and stare him in the eye. His latest, featuring charming gentleman thief Bernie Rhodenbarr, is the tenth in a comic series that’s as inconsequential as a meringue, but just as tasty. Burglar on the Prowl sees Bernie relieving the boredom before an easy heist with some extracurricular nighttime crime. Soon the bodies are piling up, and guess who looks guilty? The protagonist might steal diamonds or hearts, but he’d never kill anybody—after all, Block based Bernie on Cary Grant’s dapper persona; it’s perhaps doubly apt, then, that George Clooney’s working on a film version of the first Rhodenbarr novel.

Now that Danticat, the youngest writer ever nominated for a National Book Award, is about to hit 35, maybe there’ll be less gushing about her age and more about her writing ability, which is considerable. The Haitian expat’s previous novel, The Farming of Bones, was a powerful account of a 1937 massacre in her homeland, and The Dew Breaker continues Danticat’s attempt to come to terms with the island’s terrible legacy of violence. Despite the euphonious name, a “dew breaker” is actually Haitian slang for the torturers employed by the old Duvalier regime—Danticat translated the Creole phrase to sound serene for maximum ironic effect. Her dew breaker is an old man, now living in America, whose history reveals itself in reverse over the course of the book as different characters remember him, usually with haunted eyes, from his days as a pain-wielding thug. Danticat’s too good a writer to leave us with easy answers. And, in fact, a twist toward the end of the book ensures only difficult questions remain in this pungent Carribbean take on the banality of evil.

Malcolm Muggeridge once said that sex is the ersatz religion of the 20th century, and so far I see no reason why the 21st century is any different. From Catholicism to Protestantism to Islam—all the major players in world affairs at the moment—sex still plays a definitive role in culture and politics. Of course, it happens largely in the absence of sex. In other words, the repression of sexuality has made us both great and perverse. And to the extent that our present world dilemma is a clash of civilizations, it is a clash of sexual repressions. It is hard to say which society is more repressed: the one that requires women to wear head-to-toe burkas, or the one that had a collective cow when Janet Jackson flashed the Super Bowl.

I know this is all water under the bridge, but I have to laugh at FCC Chairman Michael Powell’s sophistry on the subject. He’s been working tirelessly for months now to bring the hammer down on broadcasters who step over the line with vulgar language—he wants a 1,000 percent increase in fines for transgressions. He claims this will be a more effective deterrent against the Howard Sterns and Tom Barnards of the world. While I applaud the effort to muzzle morons like those two, I guess I know better than to listen to talk radio in the first place.

There are a lot of things to be more bent out of shape about than sexuality on the airwaves. How about blatantly lying to the public about Weapons of Mass Destruction, and using that as a pretext to institute the most fascist foreign policy of “intervention” since Mussolini? How about generating the single largest federal deficit in the history of the world—under the “conservative” pretext of “less government”? It used to be the Democrats we could accuse of promoting the nanny state. Now it’s the Republicans.

Anyway, I find it mildly hilarious that the appearance of a single, astonishingly saggy breast at a Super Bowl halftime show could set off such fireworks of moral posturing and finger pointing (hardly where I’d look for a touch of class, let’s be honest—have you ever felt edified by a Super Bowl halftime show?) Who doesn’t like boobs, no matter what the size or shape?

We like to think that people are basically devolving—that we as a culture are just getting sicker and more debased with each passing year. But in fact, the only thing that has really changed is the method of delivery. I’ve said before that I am a fan and a consumer of good pornography—or erotica, if you insist on a word that makes you feel morally blameless. I’ve argued before that there is a huge difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly—and that this can only be determined on a case-by-case basis. (Ironically, I’d have to agree with Powell and his federal blowhards that Janet’s exposure was both bad and ugly, because it just wasn’t sexy at all. There is nothing wrong with the breast itself, nor even that silly “nipple ornament” she had premeditated. But the “flash” was ultimately about as sexy as getting mooned by the nerd in math class, and that’s an abuse of her position of power, in my eyes.)

Anyway, what I was saying is that hardcore porn is not harder today than it was a hundred or even a thousand years ago. I have on my coffee table right now a wonderful copy of a new anthology of “Tijuana Bibles,” the pornographic predecessor of comic books.

Now, there is a great deal of misogyny and even bestiality depicted in these crude comics (think Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse, neither of whom wear pants). I expected my precious to go ballistic when she saw the thing, but I give her a lot of credit for having both a sense of humor and a healthy libido. She shocked me by saying these extremely explicit and yet juvenile drawings turned her on.

It just made me realize that no matter how hard you work to repress these baser instincts, they will find a release somehow, and I can’t help feeling like it might come out twisted or damaged or otherwise morally suspect. Consider that most of Europe has no such hangup about bare breasts on network television—even in the notoriously priggish UK. And consider the fact that today’s nine- and ten-year-olds not only know every dirty word in the book, but they know how to conjugate them as verb, noun, and adjective.

Just how far are we willing to carry this institutional repression and hypocrisy? Note to Michael Powell: Sex feels good! People like to feel good! People like sex! In fact, one might plausibly argue that without sex, “family values” would have no meaning whatsoever.

My mother’s house wasn’t selling. No one was even looking at it; a total of four open houses had yielded less than a dozen people, most of them curious neighbors with no intention of buying. When she shared her troubles with co-workers at the hospital where she works, a fellow nurse directed her to obtain a miniature statue of St. Joseph, bury it in the back yard, and pray for him to sell the house. My mother’s not a religious person, but she figured she had nothing to lose.

St. Joseph is the Catholic patron saint of home and family, so it makes some sense that he would be the one you’d go to with real-estate troubles. As to who first decided to actually bury St. Joe in the yard, no one is sure. Some sources trace it back to 1896, in Montreal. One theory points to European nuns in the Middle Ages. All are certain, however, that the practice has been going on since at least the late 1980s.

My mother had no idea where to find a small statue of St. Joseph for burial purposes, but her co-worker directed her to St. Patrick’s Guild, a shop on Randolph and Snelling in St. Paul. My mother stopped in a couple of days later, a bit self-conscious, half-expecting the sales clerks to think her a total wacko and call the police.

Then she saw, right beside the cash register, a whole stack of St. Joseph Home Sale kits. “Can’t Sell Home?” the box goaded. “Ask St. Joseph… He’s Helped 1000’s! Faith Can Move Mountains… and Homes!!!” The house pictured on the box had a prominent “SOLD” sign in front of it. The kit was $6.95.

St. Patrick’s Guild sells around a thousand St. Joseph statues every year, the manager said. Some real-estate agents swear by St. Joe, returning every few months to buy a fresh supply of kits to hand out to clients. The store also sells larger, more expensive St. Joseph statues, but the manager couldn’t say how many might be used to sell houses.

Included in the kit is the prayer to offer St. Joseph, along with a tiny fact sheet debunking assorted superstitions that have become associated with the practice. You don’t have to bury the statue upside-down, for instance, and it doesn’t have to be located in any particular spot in the yard, or exactly twelve inches underground. That’s just silly. St. Joseph doesn’t care. What is important, notes the fact sheet, “is that the seller asks St. Joseph for his help, believes that he will intercede, and trusts him.”

My mother was skeptical, but the clerk told her the anecdotal evidence would fill a book. My mother studied the kit dubiously. “Does that mean I can ask for more on the house?”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t push it, lady.” My mom bought the kit. The house sold within days. —Katherine Glover

The naming of babies, according to psychology professor Dr. Cleveland Evans, has reached a new frontier. Parents seeking to distinguish their newborns from the herd have turned to canned food and footwear for inspiration. According to Dr. Evans, the following luckless toddlers will soon enter pre-school and get a foretaste of peer cruelty: DelMonte, Celica, Armani, Courvoisier, Darvon, ESPN, and Timberland, just to name a few. Not all such anomalies are commercial, as in the startling Unnecessary, Annex, and Syphilis. Talk about just learning to walk and already having to heft your parents’ baggage.

Dr. Evans’s professional sideline is called onomastics, the study of names and naming practices. According to Social Security Administration records, Jacob and Emily are the current favorites for American boys and girls. I happen to possess a name of consistent popularity: Michael, which rode the crest of favor for half a century. Emerging as number one in 1953, Michael took the title forty-three times through 1999, including a streak of thirty-five consecutive years, as though weaned on steroids and coached by John Wooden. Speaking of John, he dominated for the first twenty-five years of the last century. The years between 1925 and 1964 featured a tense scrum between Robert and James, with a few token titles falling to David. William, Christopher, and Jason? Perennial bridesmaids. For girls, the list has rotated democratically, at least since Mary was finally dethroned for good in 1961: Linda, Lisa, Jennifer, and Jessica each topped the list for roughly two presidential terms. But perhaps our yearning for uniqueness will finally introduce an era of parity. According to the SSA, “the names Kaitlin, Kaitlyn, Kaitlynn, Katelin, Katelyn, Katelynn, and Katlyn are considered separate names in our tables.”

My wife and I did not look to the top of the list for our choice before our son was born two years ago. We wanted something simple and distinct, conventional but lively, finally settling on Cole, which seems to serve him well.

But we envied people with the surname Jones, which must make the naming job so much easier. After all, what does not go with “Jones”? It’s the simple pedestal upon which one can forgivably place the most garish or outlandish vase. Deuteronomy Jones, Copernicus Jones, Deconstructionist Jones, Municipal Gasworks Jones. Who can forget Basketball Jones? These locutions all seem to destine the bearer to, if not greatness, then at least a decent job as a guitarist in a backup band.

Minnesotans, a notoriously cautious lot, seem unlikely to dive into this strange confluence of commerce and christening, but the possibilities are rife. For boys, nothing would indicate strength, integrity, and something vaguely exotic better than Zamboni, that great healer of ice rinks. I would certainly put a resumé submitted by someone named Zamboni Olson at the top of the pile. For girls, Hazelden speaks volumes about patience, nurturing, and wisdom, and folds easily into an inconspicuous nickname: Hazelden “Hazel” Paxil Rolvaag, life coach. In the near future, don’t be surprised to hear that Flonase, Rapala, Cinnabon, MPR, Polaris, Menard, and eventually Ikea, have been enrolled in your company’s daycare center.

On a cold winter evening, a crowd of John Kerry supporters bundled themselves in scarves and parkas before venturing to Old Chicago for a regularly scheduled happy hour. When I arrived, I stood briefly near the entrance, scanning the room for a raucous group of politicos clanking glasses and spilling beer. Instead, I was directed to a table where a sedate group of ten had gathered. A few beers were scattered around the table, but mostly people were drinking Coca-Colas and tea. As I was removing my mittens and making my acquaintances, a confused young man approached us and asked, “Is this the Willing to Fight meeting?”

“Umm, no,” someone offered pointedly. This was not the local arm of pro-war zealots that go by that name. “You’ll want to see that group of white guys over there.” Everyone chuckled as the young man walked away, but of course I didn’t see a black face among us. We, too, were a bunch of white guys. Our only claim to diversity was a gay couple, white, sitting primly, listening attentively. Also in our midst: two middle-aged couples, a strapping lawyer all the way in from Andover, and Mark, our fearless leader. Mark was a modern-day minuteman in a brown bomber jacket. Armed with a folder of statistics, he could rattle off Kerry’s record on NAFTA, job creation, or foreign policy at a moment’s notice. “There’s no way the Republicans can challenge John Kerry’s credentials on national security,” he said, reiterating the most obvious asset of the campaign. Mark acknowledged the contributions of other candidates but concluded that Kerry represents the Democrats’ best chance at the White House. The group agreed, listening as Mark laid out his argument. After a half hour, when our attention flagged, Mark promptly excused himself, having finished the job he set out to do. “Can we have the next one in Coon Rapids?” joked one of the women soberly.

Across town a week later, supporters of General Wesley Clark rented a basement room at Awada’s to convene their happy-hour festivities. I was greeted at the threshold with a jar full of Clark candy bars, live Brazilian music and a long table featuring a beautiful display of Wesley Clark swag. I quickly stashed a few stickers and buttons into my pockets. In just a few days, these would turn out to be collectibles!

Clark people were different than Kerry people. Their teeth were whiter. They wore business suits or turtleneck sweaters. When two state lawmakers showed up, the party really got underway. The head count peaked at just over twenty, with partygoers huddling into cliques with their friends. Old high school chums who had grown up to become lawyers or advertising executives swilled drinks and shook hands while exchanging vague testimonials on Clark’s electability. Later, David, the cheerful attorney who’d organized this soiree, announced the screening of a short film on General Clark’s life. All present formed a half-circle around the big-screen TV and politely applauded.

At Nye’s, Howard Dean supporters were gathered in a back room. Given Dean’s stunning declension in Iowa and New Hampshire, I expected to find a small gaggle drowning their sorrows in cheap beer and polka. Instead, I found a diverse group of about thirty. They all seemed to be disheveled after traveling the country on behalf of their candidate. Sure, there were long faces among them—they certainly drank more than the Kerry crowd—but overall, they were a motivated, inspired, and energized bunch. They engaged in robust political discussion and exchanged tips on canvassing technique.

Inevitably, the conversation went south. There were harsh words for Kerry, Edwards, Clark, and, ultimately, Bush. Even so, the smack-talk maintained a certain elevation, since these people were well versed on the records of all the candidates. Still, they acknowledged Dean had suffered a seemingly irreversible blow. “I’m really pissed off at our party!” said Dale, the young, curly-headed leader of this group. Holding a Corona in his left hand while pursing a lime between the fingers of his right, he gestured wildly. It was intolerable to him how party insiders had torpedoed his man. Conversation devolved into a lament about Dean’s dim political future. “It’s like rooting for the Vikings,” moaned one Dean supporter, consoling himself with another swallow of beer.—Christy DeSmith

Jeff Mihelich is blind. He is also gay. He also enjoys going to the theater, the Guthrie and Patrick’s Cabaret being among his favorites. For a blind and gay man to actually see a play called Puppetry of the Penis, well, that would be like hitting the trifecta, right?

That’s what Mihelich thought when he requested the services of an “audio descriptor” for the local staging of Puppetry. The show is really no different than others that have sprung from New York and hit the road, like Stomp, Riverdance, and the Blue Man Group. Sure, the “genital origami” thing is a little edgy, but there was nudity in Hair and Angels in America, and the general public didn’t find that too hard to swallow.

At the show, Mihelich hoped to get the sight gags by wearing a single earpiece, which picked up the voice of Rick Jacobson, the interpreter. Jacobson sat in a tiny booth behind the audience at the Mixed Blood Theatre and his disembodied voice sounded a little like a hypnotist’s: “You are in the center of the room. There are seats to your left and right. Here comes a woman with a pink feather boa and a crown. She is crossing the stage.”

What Jacobson didn’t have to describe to his visually impaired listener and eavesdropping journalist was how the middle-aged woman in the boa and a cocktail fog ended up stealing the show. This was quite an accomplishment, considering that the crowd popped thirty-five dollars each to see two naked guys, one American and one Australian, make balloon animals with their genitals.

“Okay, the lights are going down. There is smoke blowing across the stage.” Jacobson quietly began the narration. The two guys ran out, wearing only sneakers and capes, and positioned themselves behind two mic stands. Crouching between them was a woman with a video camera. The rest of the show was projected, in extreme close-up, on a large screen behind the puppeteers.

They recited the opening disclaimers, reminding the audience that there would be full frontal nudity and that only adults should be in attendance, which is weird for a show that would probably appeal most to a group of nine-year-olds in a backyard with a refrigerator box. Jacobson discreetly interjected visual cues, “The performers are both fairly athletic-looking with nice little treasure trails.” Jacobson, it turns out, has worked with Mihelich before and is also gay. This made it possible for him to use language that would normally get a person fired from any other job.

The on-stage patter started. “Now I’ll have to ask everyone to be quiet for this next little fella,” said the Australian, lending a nature-show tone to the boy-island, tree-house ambiance. Jacobson whispered, “The American has turned around and looks like he’s working really hard on something. Now he turns to the audience.” The Australian continued as the video camera zoomed in for an autopsy-clear image of the other guy’s hairy crotch. “I think if we’re lucky we’ll be able to see this shy little creature.” Jacobson sounded like a golf announcer. “He’s pulling his ball sack up and over his dick so all you can see is balls. Now he’s slowly revealing the head of the dick, like it’s peeking over the top.” As the audience performed the requisite “Awwwwwww,” the Australian landed the punch line. “That’s right, folks! It’s the Australian Hairy-Backed Turtle!”

Which, in fact, looked like a fairly unappealing knot of male flesh. The audience shrieked and squealed and cheered. Mihelich and his partner stared straight ahead.

After quite a lot of this sort of thing, someone from the audience, a middle-aged birthday gal with a fire-engine shriek, got invited onstage for the usual audience-participation gag. By the time this was over, her siren overtook the penis parade. Since the crowd was dominated by what seemed to be a drunken bachelorette party, they really weren’t there for the dialogue.

Later, Mihelich described his experience. “I couldn’t hear the describer at all. The women were yelling and screaming and blocking him out. I don’t think a gay audience would have screamed that much.” In the end, it didn’t matter that much. Both of us agreed that I really didn’t need to see that. —Sari Gordon