Month: June 2005

  • Um, About Last Night?

    Dear Barry 761: Of course I don’t think you are a loser because you are
    a DJ! Nor do I feel it was presumptuous of you to sign up for
    “professional singles” as opposed to just “singles.” Although
    throughout our eight-minute date you seemed not to actually work as a
    DJ anywhere and didn’t have anything to say about music, I still agree
    that kicking it old school in your mother’s basement with a few records
    is a meaningful life pursuit.

    Dear Sam 750:  I am glad that we were able to talk about Microsoft
    Excel, especially my problem with this program scrolling too quickly. I
    thought it was clever of you to suggest using that “down” arrow, even
    though I pointed out how that would mean I’d have to hit it 250 times
    to get to cell A250. When you said you really did more web design than
    Excel troubleshooting, I was excited to ask you about web design trends
    until you said that everything you worked on was already predesigned
    and you didn’t do much designing.

    Dear Mario 751: You are a short, hirsute man from Portugal. If you ever
    get into a two-year relationship again, you need to lock that person
    in. Please don’t tell yourself you will always have eight-minute
    dating. You won’t.

    Dear Vincent 802:
    You certainly looked natty in your leather jacket and diamond
    ring.  I am sorry you felt that your fellow eight-minute daters
    “looked so old” and that you felt you should confess that you wanted to
    date women in their twenties but the last woman you did that with
    dumped you and now you are ready to date women in their thirties. But I
    am glad that, at forty-five, you got that. And glad that you know,
    absolutely, that dating anyone your age would remind you of being at
    work. It was great to talk about my seeing a therapist, and about the
    possibility of your seeing a therapist.

    Dear David 730: You told me five things about yourself, each of which I
    tried to respond to with enthusiasm, and then you said, “Just kidding!”
    Thanks for winking at me at the end, though, and saying “You’re a
    cutie!”

    Dear John 742: Clearly, you had made a special connection with your
    previous eight-minute date and were loath to move on to me. That is no
    excuse however, for offering your hand as if it were dead fish and for
    keeping your thumb hidden. No one has ever hidden his freaking thumb
    from me in a handshake. It was a perfectly hideous feeling that makes
    me shudder even now.

  • The Big Wind-Up

    With its low ceilings, faint sawdust smell, wood paneling, and seventies-era earth tones, Jim Fiorentino’s front office is what you’d expect of an old garage door company. Going into the larger warehouse, however, is like entering some kind of a fairytale world. It’s not just the massive, hundred-year-old Belgian band organ, decked out with painted roses and latticework—the walls of this palatially proportioned room are covered with wooden clocks, carvings, and phonographs.

    “I’ve never really let on that it’s kind of a museum in here,” said Fiorentino, who closed his Minneapolis garage-door business fifteen years ago. While the surrounding Warehouse District was going condo-crazy, Fiorentino was remodeling his old workplace into a showcase for his hobbies. He walked among rows of display cases filled with World War I-era bayonets; nearby, shelves swayed under the weight of woodcarvings from Polynesia, China, Thailand, and other myriad corners of the globe. Pointing to the top of a bookcase, he noted several renderings of horses done by his father with a pocketknife.

    Clocks, however, are a particular passion of Fiorentino’s. By way of instruction, he held up a photograph of a carved French clock, comparing its “shoddy workmanship” to the sharper edges carved by more detail-oriented Germans. “Sloppy!” he said, shaking his head at the photo. A motley collection on the warehouse’s longest wall—some 140 feet—includes ornately carved “gingerbread” clocks that adorned American kitchens a hundred years ago, and a single, amazing nineteenth-century Japanese model that vaguely resembles a cuckoo and keeps time using the sun.

    An awe-inspiring assortment of cuckoos, many of which Fiorentino restored himself, dates back to 1840. The most prized ones hang in a small corridor off the main room. “These are all cuckoo and quails,” Fiorentino said, maneuvering the hands of one clock to show how it would produce the wail of a quail every fifteen minutes, and a cuckoo on the hour. Another string of cuckoos, made in Germany during the late 1800s, features images of strung-up pheasant and chamois carcasses. “I get people in here saying ‘I don’t like the dead animals on that clock!’” Fiorentino said, a bit peevishly. “But the folks who made it were hunters. That’s how they survived. This is what they knew.”

    He brightened up after turning toward a festive clock, one of the largest in the place. “This here is my lady friend’s favorite,” he said, running his fingers across its leafy ornamentation and pointing out a sprightly, avian version of a nativity scene. “She likes the birdies in the nest there.”

    Returning to his front office, Fiorentino admitted that “some of my friends call me cuckoo Jim.” But when it came to explaining why he’d bothered to amass such a collection, he struggled. “I just … how should I say it … I like cuckoo clocks!”—Christy DeSmith

  • Dude, You Were Shredding!

    The other day, customers entering the Office Max in St. Paul’s Midway
    were greeted by bold signs bearing an urgent message: “Avoid Identity
    Theft. Protect Personal Information.” Next to them were sprawling
    displays of home paper shredders, all bearing names intended to invoke
    fear, awe, and consumerism: The Sentinel. The PowerShred. The Paper
    Monster.

    Lynne, a short, bespectacled Office Max employee, shuffled by and
    offered packets of coupons to customers. Mail-in rebates on shredders
    were among the deals. Sales were brisk last month, she said. And for
    good reason: A section of the Fair and Accurate Credit Transactions Act
    that went into effect June 1 requires all employers to shred the
    redundant personal information of all employees. This law isn’t just
    for haughty CEOs, however, or even neighborhood record stores—it’s for
    you, if you hire anyone for any purpose, like a babysitter, lawnmower,
    or housecleaner.

    Lynne doesn’t own a shredder. She tosses bills and credit-card receipts
    in the trash, without even tearing them up. She’s not losing sleep over
    it, either. But others are, and shredding companies, concerned
    businesses, and advertisers have capitalized on this. Consider
    Citibank’s ad blitz that features victims speaking with voices of
    identity thieves, describing the merriment of truly risk-free spending.
    Couple the new law with these rising fears, and you find a booming $350
    million shredding industry prospering both in offices and at home,
    where the paper trail, despite the wonders of online billing and
    communication, continues to grow.

    No technology seems able to render paper obsolete. There’s been a ten
    percent increase in the volume of workplace paper during the last
    decade, in defiance of “experts” who expected its use to drop
    dramatically with the rise of networked computers. Ironically, email is
    the main culprit. The irrational impulse to send much of your inbox to
    the printer has been the biggest boon to the pulping industry. As a
    result, the average cubicle farmer uses ten thousand sheets of copy
    paper each year. Print. Read. Repeat.

    All those reams generally end up in two places, trash or recycling,
    which creates security headaches for business espionage experts (yes,
    people have this job). Similar headaches exist for individuals, with
    dumpster diving celebrating several years of legalization. Thus
    shredding, once limited to the paranoid, the neurotic, the
    ultra-responsible, and the occasional chief executive scoundrel, is
    becoming wildly popular.

    Now that the shredder is destined to acquire a domestic status
    somewhere between the refrigerator and the waffle iron, drab just won’t
    do, and on the consumer level, there are hip home alternatives. Michael
    Graves has designed a lustrous, smiling basket that is sold at Target,
    and there are handheld personal shredders for on-the-fly jobs. But even
    the most expensive consumer-level shredder can handle only a dozen
    sheets at once, and this causes difficulties, since paper must be fed
    manually, with all paper clips removed.

    For the really epic, corporate scandal-level jobs, there are the
    professional shredders. Shred-N-Go, a company in Plymouth, owns
    specialized mobile shredding units—trucks—that can demolish three
    hundred pounds of paper in less than four minutes. That’s about two and
    a half tons of confetti in an hour.

    There are several other local companies with equally fanciful names
    (could you think of a better one?), including Document Destruction in
    Lakeville and Minnesota Shredding in Edina. As they are happy to point
    out, their services are inexpensive, considering the estimated cost of
    identity theft for a typical individual is around fifteen hundred
    dollars. Plus, according to Document Destruction’s testimonials, the
    “professional, yet fun” employees leave everyone “totally pleased.”

    The law is clearly on the side of the shredders. A few weeks ago, the
    U.S. Supreme Court overturned the conviction of Enron’s accounting
    firm, Arthur Andersen, whose shredding spree was thought to be an
    obstruction of justice. It turns out that it’s completely lawful for
    higher-ups to instruct employees to regularly shred or otherwise
    destroy incriminating documents. This holds perhaps the most important
    lesson for novice shredding enthusiasts. If you’re shredding documents
    because you know they could be deleterious to you, then just lie—and
    make sure you’re shredding something valuable every day.—Brian Voerding

  • Axis of Evil

    The blond woman grabbed the shiny brass pole and, with a single
    athletic move, flipped her body upside down, her legs splayed—toes
    pointed, mind you—on either side of the pole. As she slowly slid down,
    she stared at her audience with confidence. Christina Aguilera’s
    “Dirrty” blared from the sound system. Heading down to the hardwood
    floor, the instructor talked over the music. “All it takes to do moves
    like this is practice and being comfortable with the pole.”

    Nicole Zivalach teaches “Pole Basics” at a new studio and gym for women
    called Stripped. Bedecked with red velvet curtains, the studio is
    situated on the delivery side of a Plymouth strip mall, behind Domino’s
    Pizza, Hairtopia, and It’s a Pet’s Place.

    According to experts who keep track of these sorts of things, pole
    dancing is a popular new fitness trend for women, both in this country
    and in Britain. In Plymouth, at least, the classes are outwardly
    chaste—think chakras instead of skank. The dance style is supposed to
    be “exotic” and “sensual” rather than sexual, and is aimed at women
    “from 18-98,” according to Stripped’s brochure. Elsewhere, Bally’s
    Total Fitness is offering “Cardio Striptease” and the Learning Annex
    has a class on “The Art of Exotic Dancing.”

    Back at Stripped, Zivalach righted herself and explained that this
    brand of dance is “a way to get fit and enjoy our bodies.” It does not
    involve getting naked. Sensual dance is “not to share with strangers,”
    she said, “because that squashes our soul.” She is adamantly opposed to
    women stripping for money, and there is absolutely no male ogling of
    her students as they attempt to get sensual. Men are barred from
    classes; however, Zivalach smiled as she whispered that students don’t
    seem to mind the opposite sex shopping in the “Goddess Lounge”
    boutique. It’s a good thing to have “a little male energy swirling
    around occasionally,” she said. The rest of the studio is a comfy,
    supportive women’s-only enclave. With stripper poles.

    A chime tinkled when I opened the glass door to the Goddess Lounge for
    my first “Pole Basics” session. Nine women stood around the room, their
    arms stretched out, fingers nearly touching. “It’s okay if you touch;
    it’s all about connection!” Zivalach said. Next, it was all about hip
    circles. The class pushed its collective pelvis front, right, back,
    then left, following the movement of Zivalach’s slim hips, which were
    wrapped in tight black shorts that said “Stripped” across the butt. She
    told students to pretend they were spatulas scraping a mixing bowl. As
    they scraped, Aguilera sang, “You are beautiful, no matter what they
    say … .” Then they were snakes, slithering and undulating from down low
    to up high. They were almost ready for the pole.

    The students started with a hip-swinging walk, and by the end each was
    grabbing at her pole and swirling to the ground. Here, it was all about
    the chest, butt, or hips: “One of these leads every move,” said
    Zivalach. Walking around to check on each student, she was met with
    looks of intense concentration. “Come on!” she remonstrated. “You’re
    sexy kittens!” But learning to be free is hard work, and it did seem
    strange to be dry-humping a brass pole in a well-lit studio and
    receiving encouragements like, “Wow, you’re a natural at ‘the
    waterfall.’”

    Zivalach said, “What we’re suggesting to women is that they can reclaim
    their sensuality and their feminine spirit in American sensual dance,
    and they can bring it back out and dance in their homes and dance in
    the streets just like they do in other cultures.” Plymouth may not be
    ready for pole dancing in the streets. Yet.

    After class, I became curious about how the pros do it. During a
    relatively off-peak weeknight happy hour, I visited a local strip
    joint, whose stage was outfitted with a red velvet curtain and two
    poles. A handful of men sat around the bar, played pool, and generally
    stared at the performers; their male energy was not just swirling
    around the place, it was stifling. One performer ventured nowhere near
    either pole, but instead squirmed on the floor, almost face to face
    with patrons seated around the bar. “Super Freak” blared from every
    speaker. Her name was Paige, she told me after her performance.

    Paige is a single mom, a student, and a saleswoman at an upscale
    clothing store. She spoke in a caffeinated, rapid-fire manner, and
    everything she said ended with, “Okay, what next?” She was adamant that
    stripping is not her profession. She does it for quick cash. “Men will
    pay a hundred bucks for a lap dance,” she said. She wrinkled her nose
    in disgust when she was asked about the pole. “I used to use it, but
    never again, not after I realized how dirty they are.” (Let’s just say
    that the typical stripper pole is less hygienic than your average bus
    seat or subway strap.) Paige did confirm that the secret to success is
    “confidence,” but suggested that this is often achieved by way of a
    stiff drink or two, rather than an awareness of one’s inner sensuality.

    Paige’s successor on stage did work the pole eventually, using some of
    the moves that Nicole taught. But after about thirty seconds, she was
    back on the floor. I took another chug from my beer and felt like I was
    a million miles from Stripped’s Goddess Lounge. Even though I wasn’t
    sharing my sensuality with strangers for cash, Nicole’s words echoed in
    my head and clashed with the garish eighties rock. My soul did feel a
    little squashed.—Kelli Ohrtman

  • Per Verse

    A few weeks ago, Minnesota Governor Tim Pawlenty set tongues wagging
    when he vetoed a bill that would have created a state poet laureate.
    The position would have required no public funding, but would have
    acknowledged a longstanding tradition that is observed by thirty-three
    other states and the federal government. In a world of civil compromise
    and checks and balances, titles matter. Even when they are strictly
    ceremonial, they reflect the public’s values and its will. By the time
    they land under the governor’s pen, they are not frivolous. Thus many
    people saw the guber’s gesture as a blatant middle finger directed at
    poetry specifically, the arts in general, and even at the state
    Legislature at large, which had voted overwhelmingly for passage.

    Displaying an alarming aptitude for both arrogance and ignorance in one
    deft move, the governor seemed to say he has no interest in the arts,
    and that he considers interpretive dance and pottery to be good punch
    lines. Of course, Mr. Pawlenty has received the ridicule he deserves.
    Who would defend such pointless boorishness? But it is worth
    considering how the normally nimble, boyish politician developed this
    blind spot. It was an involuntary expression of the contempt certain
    people have for anything that isn’t written on a spreadsheet.

    To a person like that, poetry is frivolous mainly because no one gets
    rich writing it, reading it, or selling it. Compared to doing real work
    like, say, consulting with telecommunications companies and
    test-driving ATVs, poetry is sloth at best, elitist narcissism at
    worst. Regular, honest people like James Lileks have no truck with
    poetry. If God thought poetry a virtuous human activity, he would have
    proven it by making poets rich and Republican. Also, Psalms would have
    been written in iambic pentameter.

    True, it would be unfair to impugn the governor’s party. Republican
    Barb Sykora of Excelsior was one of the poet laureate’s key sponsors,
    and red-blooded Republicans in both houses voted with their effete
    Democratic rivals. In fact, this bill provided a rare moment of
    agreement in an otherwise contentious legislative session. Until it
    reached the governor, the whole episode was the mirror image of last
    year, when inexperienced lawmakers deliberately introduced contentious
    sallies into reverse-engineering on social issues—through stunts like
    reintroducing the death penalty and constitutionally banning gay
    marriage, issues that have no value other than their power to divide.
    On the contrary, the bill to institute a poet laureate not only brought
    everyone to the table, but gave a symbolic nod to the highest
    expressions of civilization. It was a noble, positive gesture met by a
    graceless, negative one.

    There was something perversely exciting about Mr. Pawlenty’s
    imperiousness—that Minnesota will have no state poet laureate merely
    because Mr. Pawlenty does not see any merit in poetry. In these times,
    values are always confused with value. Every public conversation is
    dominated by a paradigm of “return on investment” and “relief” from the
    burdens of public expenditure. But even these have become disingenuous
    arguments, because there is no longer any true impulse of conservation
    among state and national leaders who gaily pass the costs of civil
    society down to cities and counties, and from there on down to our
    grandchildren. By these arguments, the arts have always been a favorite
    bogeyman of the accountant and the utilitarian. The romantic myth of
    the starving, parasitic artist has numerous beneficiaries, but it is a
    myth that needs permanent debunking.

    A person who lives and works in the Twin Cities cannot fail to see the
    value of the arts in our community. Despite the rumor, it is a resource
    that can be measured at the cash register. St. Paul receives six
    hundred million dollars each year from patrons of the arts. In
    Minneapolis, more than 110 arts organizations draw nearly five million
    visitors and audience members each year. The arts have created nearly
    ten thousand full-time jobs in the City of Lakes. They generate eight
    million dollars annually for the city’s coffers, and nineteen million dollars
    in state revenues. So when our leaders say they cannot afford to invest
    in the arts, they have the rhetoric exactly backward. The arts can no
    longer afford to invest in them.

  • Back to the Bone

    One of those basic-cable lifestyle programs recently ran an episode on a hotel/spa that caters to the dogs of celebrities. Andy Warhol would have loved it. Classical music gets piped into a sleeping chamber lined with rows of plush dog beds. Guests drink from personalized Baccarat crystal water dishes and dine on cubed beef filets with sage gravy. Lab-coated aestheticians administer “paw”dicures.

    What I want to know is, will the dogs go to hell, too, after they die? Or will it just be their owners dancing the Frug on fiery coals for all eternity? I also wonder what it’s like to be the concierge of such a joint. Hey, God bless America, and a paycheck is a paycheck, but come on already. I’m all for giving a good dog a reward, but a spa day? They used to eat us, you know.

    I understand we all probably have to leave our companion animal under someone else’s watchful eye sometimes. But there are other, not quite as luxurious options available to discerning pet owners who may want to save the spa day for themselves.

    My friend Chris is an artist who travels quite a bit. Her fourteen-year-old camel-colored pug shar pei usually rides shotgun in her Jetta wagon. They’ve crossed the country together more than once. Winnie loves her lady, and the adventure of life on the road. But sometimes it’s not feasible for her to tag along, and that’s when she gets checked in at the Bed & Bone out in Buffalo. They call it a doggie hotel, but it’s more of a doggie fun park. They’ve got a swimming hole, a big ball-chasing field, and couches for the dogs to crash out on. You can even arrange to have your pet eased to sleep by the drone of the TV. In short, this is doggie heaven.
    I mix with dogs that have, shall we say, more junkyard tastes. For instance, my Siberian husky would never stay anywhere that didn’t serve cat-crap canapés. For the salad course, Dutch likes to gnaw on my ten-year-old rubber tree plant. Follow that with a couple scoops of Purina Large Breed Formula, and you’ve got a meal fit for a king. It doesn’t matter to ol’ Dutchie that I always keep out a bowl of fresh icy water—some days he simply prefers eau de toilette.

    You see, dogs are tougher than we doting owners think. Dutch’s predecessor Sammy, a pure white German shepherd (Sam Shepard, get it?) was just about indestructible. He was the size of a palomino. When we inherited him from my parents, he weighed 130 pounds. If you’re a woman, that means you’re a size ten. The remarkable thing is that when we acquired him, he had only three legs, having lost his right rear in a high-speed car chase. He caught the car but couldn’t quite drag it back home. If his prey had been a Mini Cooper, I think he could have done it. My folks drove him 120 miles to the U of M Small Animal Hospital right after the accident for the surgery. He never whimpered. The vets had to amputate his leg at the hip, so we never knew what his total weight would have been.

    Even as a tripod, Sammy pulled at his leash like a musk ox. It was a test of endurance to walk him from my mansion near the 35W sound wall to Minnehaha Creek. He was always trying to leap into traffic, jaws snapping eagerly, his tiny walnut brain rattling around in his skull like a bean in a maraca. If he’d knocked the other hind leg off, I’d have had to get him wheels, but I doubt even that would have slowed him down. With his spunk, he would have been perfect for a Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movie. A Wheel for Sammy, starring JoBeth Williams. With Verne Troyer as Sammy.

    Sammy never would have slept in a velour-covered bed. When we imagine that dogs appreciate human luxuries, we’re deeply misunderstanding the nature of a dog. Dogs may consent to being dressed in little sequined halter tops and pants with a tail hole, but they’re just humoring us because we feed them and throw them the slobber-soaked tennis ball. But there are certain lines that aren’t meant to be crossed. Dogs have their idea of a good time, and we have ours. If you don’t believe me, liven up your friends’ next cocktail party by licking food off every plate that you can and scouring your rear end across the Persian carpet. Then get back to me.

  • The Science of Sex

    An old friend of mine, Rich, is gay but he was married to a woman for ten years. His was not the typical scenario, in which a closeted gay man discovers a decade too late that he prefers men. No, this was one of those marriages of convenience. Rich had had boyfriends since he was a teenager. He met Laura when we are all in college, and they became best friends. She was straight, she knew he was gay, and they made a handsome, platonic couple. They had an “open” marriage that allowed them to be physically involved with other people. (Talk about threatening the sanctity of heterosexual marriage!)

    I caught up with Rich recently, because I wanted to know what he thought about a new study that shows that fruit flies have a single gene that determines whether they are homosexual or heterosexual. (Do you find it as weird as I do to think about fruit flies hooking up?) Scientists found that by tweaking this gene, they could make male flies totally get into whatever the fruit-fly equivalent of Judy Garland and leather chaps is. Also, they could make the females wear little mullets and drive motorcycles.

    “They’ve done studies like that many times,” Rich told me. “Why do you think they call us ‘fruits’?” He laughed and pointed out that this latest one is interesting only because it seems like the most thorough, irrefutable one to date.
    Rich said it is certainly satisfying for the gay community to be able to say that homosexuality is not a “lifestyle decision,” nor is it a perversion of the natural order of things, a deviation from doing things “the way God intended.” He and his gay friends have been hearing that kind of nonsense for so long, from so many horribly backward people, that they find it comforting to have a little backup from science.
    I couldn’t help pointing out, however, that a little science never did anything to derail the fervent beliefs of the most willfully ignorant people—the sort who argue that being female or African-American is genetically determined and “normal,” but that it doesn’t mean God wants women or blacks to run for president. Still, confirming the existence of a “gay gene” may put to rest the most virulent forms of homophobia—the sort where people consider it a “disease” that can be “cured” through prayer and psychotherapy.

    Of course, anytime you mix science and sex, trouble comes up. Another very interesting recent study, about women and orgasm, may have some troubling implications. It showed there may be a “genetic influence” on whether a woman can achieve orgasm. “Now you’re out of my depth!” said Rich when I brought up this one. But I thought his perspective might be interesting. How would he feel if he were one of these “genetically influenced” women? Rich said, “On the one hand, it may be reassuring to know that this problem could be based in genetics. I suppose that could take the heat off, and relieve some of the guilt or shame that comes with not being able to get off.” The authors of this study were very quick to say that the genetic influence on orgasm is just that—an influence that can be, uh, manipulated, given enough time and patience and practice.

    I asked my precious wife what she thought. She is not what I’d call a person who loudly announces the arrival of her orgasms, but generally she does not have any problem getting there. She had an interesting take. “Consider what the biological imperative might be for a sort of gray-area orgasm in women,” she said. (So smart and sexy!) “If women had the same super-obvious, concrete orgasms that men have, would humans have survived the caveman period?” I guess she meant that men have orgasms that are consistent with the Darwinian drive to “spread the seed” around as much as possible—to maximize the possibility for the greatest number of conceptions in the tribe, assuming that polyamory is our natural state.

    If females did the same thing, hanging out at the cave-bar looking to hook up with as many cave-partners as possible, there’d be no cave-women at home to take care of the little cave-children. Still, I’m skeptical about this sort of natural-selection determinism. I think it might be more personal than that. What if desire itself has evolved in self-preserving ways? If a woman’s orgasms are much more variable in quality and degree, it may serve as a form of insurance—her man, to stoke his ego, will keep coming back and trying for a higher score. Call it the pinball theory. I like it, and I’m sticking to it.

  • Go Time for Gangsters

    St. Paul Human Rights Director Tyrone Terrill, usually nattily attired, does not look like a flame-throwing, flak jacket-wearing radical. But some think he sounded like one in his recent open letter chastising the local African-American community for failing to distance itself from gang members and their “terrorist” acts. The letter, published in the Minneapolis Spokesman May 12, has generated such an uproar that Terrill might want to pick up a kevlar flak jacket just in case. As with Bill Cosby on a national level, Terrill has found himself at the center of a growing cultural firestorm. Should the African-American community excommunicate gangbangers and those who, by either their silence or tacit support, “enable” their criminal mayhem?

    In 1996, Minneapolis had so many gang-related murders that the city gained the unflattering moniker “Murderapolis.” Within two or three years, however, increased police surveillance, targeted prosecutions, and longer sentences removed many gang members from local streets. Unfortunately, many are back and ready to regain lost turf. By August last summer, the number of North Minneapolis killings was double that from 2003.

    This increasingly violent tableau inspired Terrill to write his letter. “I just felt moved to do something,” he told me recently. “Many in our community know exactly who the gangbangers are, and yet we often fail to call them out.” Terrill believes that those who turn a blind eye to gangsterism are no different than Southern whites who tolerated lynching and cross burnings. “NOW is the time for us to stop saying that our kids do not have summer jobs and recreational activities, so turning to gang activity is the alternative,” Terrill wrote in his letter. He also called for local gang members “to completely remove themselves from any affiliation with gangs or known gang organizations” by June 1, “or suffer the consequences of their actions.”

    Within days, St. Paul NAACP Branch President Nathaniel Khaliq publicly assailed Terrill for misusing his position as St. Paul’s Human Rights chief (the letter was written on city letterhead) to target gang members and their families. Khaliq bitterly noted that Terrill’s statement coincided with stepped-up police enforcement efforts that also targeted African-American males. Minneapolis NAACP Branch President Duane Reed, while acknowledging the need for personal safety and law enforcement, took issue with Terrill’s statement equating gang members with terrorists. “[That] takes our community to a place that is not constructive,” Reed said. “We need to focus on the reasons why some of our young people are involved in criminal activities.”

    One African-American leader, who asked to not be identified, theorized that Terrill’s comments might be part of a larger scheme to scare foundations into supporting nonprofit organizations that provide a livelihood for community activists. “Whites get scared when there is a rash of crime,” he said, making it easier for certain people to raise money. He suggested that Terrill, a Republican, might be trying to ingratiate himself with the likes of St. Paul Mayor Randy Kelly, who endorsed George W. Bush, and U.S. Senator Norm Coleman.

    Terrill believes this is an unsubstantiated personal attack. “I have fought for the civil and human rights of gang members in St. Paul and Minneapolis.” He adds, however, that his sympathy for those who remain in the gang world has grown thin.
    I was more empathetic to people like Khaliq and Reed when I lived in a relatively posh neighborhood in south Minneapolis. I signed petitions condemning police misconduct against people of color and wrote emphatically about the link between poverty and criminal behavior.

    However, I have since moved to north Minneapolis. Most of my neighbors are solid, hard-working people. Yet I know that some of them have children in gangs. Some of their children have gangbanger friends. If getting rid of gangs means that some families must practice “tough love,” so be it. If it means that some families unwilling to enforce difficult rules get ostracized from the community, so be it. Our community must stop committing character assassinations on those with the guts to speak the brutal truth. Some claim that Terrill’s letter lets “the Man,” in all his various permutations, off the hook. Man or no Man, we have got to do our part. African-Americans must be willing to face the truth that we cannot save those who are unwilling to save themselves.

  • The Breast He Could Do

    About ten years ago, intrigued by the rerelease of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! and amused by Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, I decided to explore the rest of Russ Meyer’s oeuvre. I figured that such a project was best tackled with the same voluptuous spirit in which Meyer made his movies, so I walked up to the counter of my neighborhood video store in San Francisco with a handful of films I found in the cult bin: Cherry, Harry, and Racquel!, The Seven Minutes, and Lorna. The Seven Minutes is a mediocre, thrill-free thriller that Meyer coughed up for Twentieth Century Fox in 1971, so the clerk rented it to me for free. The videotape they had was a crummy transfer, he explained—and besides, it wasn’t really a Russ Meyer film.

    In other words, it wasn’t a film about tits. Nevertheless, after Meyer died last fall (at eighty-two, of complications from pneumonia after a long, sad decline into dementia), many obituaries strained to position him as more than a soft-core icon. Time argued that he “set the tone for late twentieth century pop culture at its most cheerfully leering.” Chuck Stephens, in Film Comment, compared Meyer to Sam Fuller and hailed him as “an American independent before anyone had thought of the term.” These assessments followed years of claims by many cineasts—not least Meyer’s early booster and occasional collaborator, Roger Ebert—that colorful, bosomy, and often baffling films like Up! and Supervixens were, in fact, essays on female empowerment.

    But in a new biography, Big Bosoms and Square Jaws: The Biography of Russ Meyer, King of the Sex Film, author Jimmy McDonough points out that the director himself wasn’t much for this kind of sophisticated thinking. “I don’t care to comment about what might be inside a lady’s head,” Meyer once said. “Hopefully, it’s my dick.”

    Sam Fuller, like hell. Meyer was exuberantly sui generis, but his impact on popular culture is modest at best. Even McDonough, who’s clearly a fan, has a hard time arguing that Meyer belongs anywhere but the cult bin. In the fifties, before moving into film, Meyer became known as a talented cheesecake photographer (a genre he referred to as “tittyboom”) and shot several Playboy centerfolds in the magazine’s early years. His first successful film, 1959’s The Immoral Mr. Teas, took its cue from Hef and helped propel soft-core porn out of grindhouse theaters and stag parties. With two exceptions—Pussycat and Dolls—the remainder of Meyer’s career amounts to nothing more than a persistent big-breast obsession, which became more dreary and perverse as time went on. Meyer spent his later years laboring over A Clean Breast, his massive memoir and photo collection, driving staffers mad with endless fussing over photo selection and even type kerning. He initially planned to title the book The Rural Fellini, until Ebert wisely suggested a change. To the extent that Meyer worked hard to find archetypal man-killers—“Meyer women” like Uschi Digard and Haji, who often appeared jiggling in the desert—he’s an auteur. But a man who learned the basics of movie-making by filming Patton’s march through France during World War II never produced anything that remotely resembled an Amarcord.
    To its credit, Big Bosoms doesn’t over-sell Meyer’s accomplishments; McDonough presents his subject mainly as a snickering, grudge-bearing, I-got-mine tough guy who eagerly snookered the movie business. Teas, an hour-long bit of motion-picture “tittyboom” that looks almost comically tame today, made a million dollars when it came out—more than forty times its production cost. Indeed, throughout his bio, McDonough practically implores readers to think of Meyer as a moneymaker first and filmmaker second (the book’s section breaks are dollar signs).

    Luckily for McDonough, there’s a quirky, intriguing, and sometimes baffling persona beneath the profiteering lech. “[Meyer films] without dames means TV-movie tedium,” he concedes, so Big Bosom’s most intriguing passages have little to do with the movies themselves. Instead, they’re the ones discussing Meyer’s tendency to “inspire” his actresses by either browbeating or sleeping with them; the extended obscenity battle over his 1968 film Vixen! (Charles Keating, later a notorious player in the 1980s savings and loan scandal, successfully prosecuted the case); and the ignominious meltdown that occurred around Who Killed Bambi? (aka The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle), the Sex Pistols film that Meyer was initially tapped to direct. Meyer and Pistols front man Johnny Rotten took an almost immediate dislike to each other—Rotten later called Meyer a “dirty old man” and “an overbearing, senile old git”—and Fox pulled out of the production after Grace Kelly, a stockholder, protested the choice of Meyer as director.

    However, McDonough does champion Meyer artistically, as it were, by defending the likes of Mondo Topless and Common-Law Cabin, and here he’s on shakier ground. “When aliens excavate the ruins of planet Earth in 2525, would you rather they found a copy of some anemic, technically inept, politically-correct-to-the-point-of-boredom John Sayles film?” he writes. “They’d learn a lot more about us watching a top-heavy Lorna Maitland pulling a burro up a hill!” As if that scene from Mondo Topless shows anything more than Maitland’s remarkably cantilevered figure—and as if what the coal-mining-town tragedy depicted in Matewan really needed was more cleavage.

    So why did Meyer eventually get the Sayles-like auteur treatment? And why are Meyer’s films still worth a glimpse? The answer is reflected in a comment from longtime Meyer booster John Waters: “He made industrials about tits.” Meyer’s plots are ridiculous, but the opening sequences of many of his films are skillfully constructed and sometimes utterly sublime. No matter what nonsense the ponderous voiceovers were spewing, his shots of breasts, cityscapes, cars, bars, whatever, all packed together, were brilliant, impressionistic visions of the sixties and seventies zeitgeist. It’s as if Meyer learned editing by speed-reading Eisenstein and a stack of Playboys, and McDonough captures the aesthetic perfectly: “Ass shaking! Cut! Chrome fender! Cut! Breasts quivering! Cut! Car radio! Cut! Tape recorder! Cut!”

    After those sequences, though, Meyer’s films tend to run out of gas—your ability to enjoy them is mainly a function of your ability to appreciate the figures of Digard, Erica Gavin, or Kitten Natividad. It may be that what critics called “female empowerment” in Meyer’s films was really just their female stars’ unique capacity to render men immobile, both agape and agog. These women are not empowered, just overpowering. Pussycat stands out from the dross because it was with that film that Meyer developed his editing style; it also had a remarkably full-blooded and indomitable character in Tura Satana’s Varla. Brash, no-nonsense, and threatening, she’s the very definition of a man-killer: “She’s a murderous, evil villain, all right,” McDonough writes, “but you want to get into her pants.” (Interestingly, Meyer, despite some effort, couldn’t.)

    What distinguished Dolls was a budget from Twentieth Century Fox, some semblance of plot, and Meyer’s ability to integrate his jump-cutting throughout the film. His editing underscored the comedy of this tale of the rise and fall of a stoner-girl rock band. The sex scene in a Bentley is more about the Bentley than the sex; and shortly after the youthful Edy Williams coos to a stud, “I’d like to strap you on sometime,” we cut to an elderly woman in ghastly makeup saying the same thing. Dolls may be the only time Meyer seemed willing to acknowledge the inherent ridiculousness in his career-long enterprise.

    Because he seemed to be so willfully benighted about his obsession, it’s hard to make a case for Meyer as an enduring artist. Sexuality is an auteurist theme; tits aren’t. Discussing his 1963 film Lorna, he bristles at any suggestion of influence or aesthetics: “Did I shoot in black and white for the purpose of grittiness and to emulate the Italian masters? Horseshit! I didn’t have the money to do it in color.” If Meyer had something to say about sexuality, it’s hard to figure out what it might be. Lorna exploits a no-means-yes theme, Vixen advocates incest in a sidewise manner, and the opening of Up! is a button-pushing mess of S&M and Nazi themes. For Meyer, there was no continuity problem or philosophical bind that a shot of quivering cleavage couldn’t fix.

    A defining style, it turns out, is not the same thing as enduring influence. It’s telling that Meyer’s clearest legacy isn’t in movies but in rock music: Poison Ivy, guitarist for the psychobilly band the Cramps, cribbed much of her brassy persona from Varla, and at least two bands take their name from Meyer films: the influential grunge act Mudhoney and the mediocre hair-metal group Faster Pussycat. And film? Well, nobody makes industrials about tits anymore. The classier “erotic” mainstream movies from the past few years—Swimming Pool, Y tu mama tambien, Romance, etc.—take their inspiration from randy stylists like soft-core pioneer Radley Metzger or gauzy erotica like Last Tango in Paris. And the rest? Well, earlier this year, actor-turned-director Elizabeth Starr resurrected the career of Kitten Natividad for a remake of Pussycat that was billed as “a titanic tribute to the late great Russ Meyer.” It’s a straight-to-video hardcore porno, costarring Ron Jeremy, titled Faster Pussycat F—well, you get the idea.

  • Flower Power

    Max didn’t mean to kill those toads. Still, years later, their demise remains one of my son’s most painful childhood memories. Max was three years old, and the morning was cool and dewy, but toasting up as the sun climbed. In capturing the toads, Max was dexterous, but also humane. He understood that they needed more than the hot tin floor of a Folgers can. He pulled up fistfuls of grass and gathered sticks and leaves to carpet the metal. He also filled a mayonnaise lid with water to make a tiny toad swimming pool. Things would have worked out fine had he not chosen the unprotected south side of the house as the place to forget his two captives for several hours. By the time Max opened the can, the toads were half baked by the beating sun.

    Max was devastated, crying disconsolately over his carelessness. But agony can be instructive. I think it did him more good than harm to experience, early on, such an intimate and solitary exchange with the raw and sometimes cruel forces of nature. To glimpse the stubborn machinations of life and death. Every child should be so lucky.
    Unfortunately, every child is not. Long afternoons in the great outdoors, sometimes strung out to sundown, have grown alarmingly uncommon for modern kids. With TV, Nintendo, and an ever-expanding array of “structured activities,” children are spending less time in unsupervised outdoor play than ever before—with potentially disastrous results.

    Scheduled bursts of physical activity, it turns out, are no substitute for direct and ongoing experience in nature. The childhood obesity epidemic has peaked right alongside an unprecedented surge in children’s participation in organized sports. Clearly, playing freely outside affords both physical and mental benefits that Little League does not: prolonged exposure to the sun and its feel-good vitamins, and to bacteria, which experts now say is necessary for a healthy immune system. Child advocacy experts are even beginning to wonder how simple interactions with nature—climbing trees, wading through creeks, making mud pies, building forts—might foster overall health and happiness.

    In his new book, Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv calls the waning connection between children and nature a crisis in the making. Louv points out that time outdoors can provide a respite from the everyday pressures that lead to childhood depression. And in The Human Relationship with Nature, author Peter Kahn recounts the findings of more than one hundred studies confirming nature’s stress-reducing benefits. Moreover, these benefits, unlike so many of life’s other perks, bestow themselves most generously on those with the greatest need. “The protective impact of nearby nature is strongest for the most vulnerable children—those experiencing the highest levels of stressful life events,” says one environmental analysis researcher from Cornell, cited by Louv in his book. In other words, nature offers a potent balm to kids struggling with divorce, relocation, poverty, illness, or loss. One alternative is drugs: Twice as many American children take antidepressants today as five years ago.

    So kids need to play outside. What simple and welcome news this should be to harried parents everywhere. Why, then, is it not happening? Seventy percent of today’s American mothers played outdoors every day during their childhoods, one recent study found, but just thirty-one percent of their children do. And while more than half of the moms stayed outside for three or more hours at a time when they were children, only twenty-two percent of their own children spend that kind of time out under the sun.

    The reasons for the decline, it seems, are complex. Among the forces that have eroded our children’s time for outside play are homework (up twenty percent between 1981 and 1997), organized sports (up twenty-seven percent during that same period), and a flood of enticing indoor entertainments. Many books have been devoted to the deleterious effects of overprogramming our kids, but it turns out that another, less tangible force is a far more stubborn roadblock between kids and nature: fear.
    “Fear of traffic, of crime, of stranger-danger—and of nature itself,” writes Louv, separates developing children from an unstructured exposure to nature and its life-giving benefits. The radius of space around the home in which children are allowed to roam on their own has shrunk to about a ninth of what it was in 1970. And while increased automobile traffic has undoubtedly restricted children’s range, Louv’s unscientific hunch (and my own) is that in the past twenty-five years, a “generalized, unfocused fear” has come to outrank traffic as the primary reason for penning kids in. This diffuse fear, which Louv calls the Bogeyman Syndrome, is fueled by the media, especially the nightly news, which creates a powerful “crime script” in the public’s mind.

    Louv devotes an entire chapter to excessive fear and its consequences—which include, frighteningly enough, the permanent transformation of a person and modification of her behavior. Fear can change the very structure of the brain. But with all the best intentions, we bequeath this sense of fear—of strangers, germs, insects, physical pain—to our children. So instead of buying bicycles and badminton sets, we build indoor fortresses. We outfit our homes with year-round climate control and a tempting stash of electronic goodies. As one fourth-grader in Louv’s book explains, “I like to play indoors ’cause that’s where all the electrical outlets are.”

    In Last Child in the Woods, Louv urges parents to set aside their fears and send kids back into the woods—or the yard or an empty lot, whatever’s realistic. The benefits far outweigh the dangers. As it stands, the average eight-year-old can more readily identify fast-food mascots and Pikachu, Metapod, and Jigglypuff (characters from the Japanese game Pokemon) than he can several quite common inhabitants of the natural world, such as otters, beetles, and oak trees.

    Sending kids out to play does mean forfeiting a measure of control. But unsupervised play in wild places, no matter how small or ordinary, may be as fundamental to children’s health as food, water, and love. What they need most could be as simple as more time outside, with all its smells, tastes, splinters, and even accidents. More places to roughhouse and catch toads, without being told what they can and can’t touch. More opportunities to hone their characters, to discover possibilities and limitations. Just kids and nature. Nothing fancy.

    Part of what makes Louv’s book so engaging is his skillful use of profiles and anecdotes. In one chapter, he refers to D.H. Lawrence, who once wrote of his own “awakening to nature’s sensory gift” in Taos, New Mexico. For Lawrence, this gift was an antidote to the “know-it-all” state of mind he recognized in himself and the culture at large, a mentality fostered by a globe that people now “trot round … as easily as they trot round … Central Park.” Lawrence wisely observed that our grandfathers, who never went anywhere, had more actual experience of the natural world than we have. He described our jaded affect this way: “We, bowling along in a rickshaw in Ceylon, say to ourselves: ‘It’s very much what you’d expect.’”
    Direct experience in nature, on the other hand, should fill us with genuine wonder and awe, and make us feel appropriately small, thus placing us in a much-needed context with the larger world. To reap the benefits of nature, Lawrence wrote that one must get beneath the “transparent mucous-paper in which the world like a bon-bon is wrapped so carefully that we can never get at it.” Underneath that wrapping is everything we don’t know and are afraid of knowing.

    Grand excursions to science museums, botanical gardens, and zoos, or even campgrounds and scenic wilderness areas, do help kids experience the breadth and depth of the natural world. But they don’t automatically invite the daily communion with nature that feeds the body and soul. Louv and Kellert both maintain that the kid-nature connection occurs most readily via mundane, up-close explorations of whatever patches of land are at hand. That’s because these interactions are spontaneous and unplanned and tend to occur in casual settings described by ecologist Robert Pyle as “places where kids … [are] free to climb trees, muck about, catch things, and get wet.”
    It’s difficult to know the long-term implications of kids watching endless hours of TV, rather than ant hills and blades of grass. Hard information is so scant, in fact, that Stephen Kellert, author of the forthcoming book Building for Life: Designing and Understanding the Human Nature Connection, felt compelled to disclaim his chapter on nature and childhood development. “Given the relative lack of available research,” he wrote, “this chapter’s conclusions will be preliminary and tentative.”

    One problem is a lack of money available to study the way children use woods, fields, vacant lots, and other unstructured natural sites. There is more financial incentive and commercial interest in having our children spellbound by cartoon characters and computer games. Yet even in the absence of statistics, the issue seems fairly clear-cut. Common sense tells us that kids need the outdoors.

    What will happen if we produce a generation of adults afflicted with what Richard Louv has cleverly diagnosed “Nature Deficit Disorder”? Americans born between 1946 and 1964, says Louv, may constitute the last generation to share an intimate, familial bond with nature. That shift, Louv says, portends more than a threat to our future ability to appreciate or protect nature. It threatens our very humanity.
    Mucking about is not just good old-fashioned fun. As Kellert eloquently points out in Building for Life, “… a child’s experience in nature can elicit far less pleasant feelings, such as uncertainty, anxiety, pain, and fear.” And all of it, even the stomach-turning shock of two dead toads in a coffee can, contributes to maturity, morality, and self-development. The naturalist Franklin Burroughs nailed it when he said—to a group of conservationists, interestingly enough—“better to let kids be a hazard to nature, and let nature be a hazard to them.”