The Rake Magazine

Year: 2005

  • A Brief Inventory At Five A.M.

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    There were increasingly more mysteries than he could get his head around.

    The puzzle of texture, pattern, and repetition. The idiot wonder prompted by even the most prosaic mosaic or randomly occurring stain. Prompts, responses, and resolute silences from the interior continent. Sounds of no clear origin. Desires of no clear etc.

    Desires. Desire.

    The absence of desire.

    The incomprehensibility of all transmission, whether of blood, belief, truth, or information.

    The magic of a phonograph record, compact disc, or photograph.

    The process of ruin and deterioration. Erosion, the real deal and the metaphor.

    The slow dazzle of contentment.

    The planet’s tantrums and stoic productions.

    The involuntary heresies of the hobbled heart.

    The helpless disgrace of despair.

    The missing things, the absence of, etc.

    The tragedy of memory and forgetting.

    The fact that even a telescope can’t find tomorrow, that even a microscope can’t make sense of yesterday.

    The blood-muddling transformations, defeats, and ecstasies possible in a single moment.

    The strange human resistance to the merely practical.

    The drab compromises and uneasy pacts.

    The irresistible persuasion of percussion.

    The takeaway prerogative of fate.

    The way that water moves, travels, falls, settles, or sits still.

    Some agreed upon sense in the second hand, that we pretend to recognize or understand time.

    That we choose to believe this is all real.

    That we choose to believe.

    That we reach out.

    That we pull away.

    That we fall.

    That we get back up.

    That we go on.

    That by tomorrow every single one of us might be gone forever, and in a hundred years the sound of our laughter, the touch of our hands, and the stories we paid for with our lives will be forgotten by every breathing thing still living.

    That this is where we are: Here.

    That this is what we have: Now.

    That this is who we are: Who?

    That this is what we want: What?

    E…T…C.

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    Let us each tattoo a rising sun on our heart.

    —Harry Crosby, “Tattoo”

    Imagination is that around which

    Mysteries assemble for devotion.

    It believes everything, even reason,

    Which denies everything. Pay attention.

    —James Galvin, from “Reading the Will”

  • Love of Country

    Sure, Minnesota’s not the Old West, but we do have plenty of cattle, and some prairie, too. Nor are steel-toed boots, Wranglers, and Stetsons a rarity—it’s just that cool cowboy duds became a bona fide fashion trend once hipsters began putting them on with an ironic touch. These days, Western gear can be spotted at any number of Twin Cities galleries and nightclubs. We admired a refreshingly genuine pride for bolero ties and chunky, pewter belt buckles just the other day at a local nightclub.

  • One By One

    If the comics do not appear above, click below to download the PDF!

  • Heavenly Drinking

    Heaven, said the Regency wit Sydney Smith, is eating paté de foie gras to the sound of trumpets. It sounds pretty piggy if you ask me, all too like the fellow who said that you should decide what to do in life by following your bliss. And rather odd doctrine for S. Smith, who made his name as a book reviewer but had a day job as a canon of S. Paul’s Cathedral in London. I have naturally no grudge against Canon Smith himself, but his apolaustic attitudes are a bit emetic. Were his sermons, one wonders, wholly concerned with the austere and lofty spiritual discipline of feeling good about yourself?

    Which was hardly an option for the geese from whom the paté came. I cannot imagine paté de foie gras without also imagining how it is made. The reverend canon was able to fill his face with the noted French delicacy because geese had been filled with grain till their livers reached the bursting point. However much you resent the mess wild geese make around the lakes, such bloating seems a pretty unpleasant fate. Their consumerism was involuntary; that of S. Smith was a matter of choice.

    Come to that, unmitigated trumpets might also get a bit trying, even if, like an earlier (and considerably more interesting) cleric from S. Paul’s, you posted the angels blowing them at the round world’s imagined corners. One must, I suppose, give Canon Smith credit for taking the trouble to be a hedonist. Any preference is better than none. But still, one asks, where is he in the heaven which he projects? In the Smithian assertion (or should it be “Smithic”?), “eating” is simply a gerund, or possibly a participle; it has no subject, and the person is absent. He makes it sound as if there is action occurring apart from the existence of the actor. In fact, you could say that the receptacle into which the paté de foie gras goes is less a Blessed Spirit than a Bottomless Pit. (Why does this all remind me of Christmas?)

    I guess the first step toward personality, and away from being simply a Black Hole of consumption, could be to discriminate between pleasures. Even a sensualist may refine his appetite; Lucretius, the most materialistic of Roman poets, is notable for the sheer sharpness of his physical observation. I would commend to Canon Smith—and to you, benevolent reader—claret, the red wine of Bordeaux, the thinking man’s wine (though, as a Whig, Sydney Smith probably preferred port).

    Specifically, try Château Greysac from the fine vintage of the year 2000, available around here for less than twenty dollars. The process of discrimination starts even before the cork leaves the bottle. This is French wine in a bottle with proper shoulders, so it is going to be from Bordeaux rather than from Burgundy or the Rhone (which have sloping shoulders, like your pin-headed correspondent).

    Now note the words Appelation Controlée. These are not an assurance that a wild man from West Virginia has been caught by the sheriff but official notice that the wine is part of a quota permitted to bear a particular name and that it has been made in a particular way from grapes characteristic of the region—in this case mostly Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Cabernet Franc.

    The word that comes between Appelation and Controlée tells you which region it is. The lesser wines of Bordeaux will say simply Bordeaux or Bordeaux Supérieur (the latter merely indicates a slightly higher level of alcohol). Château Greysac, however, says “Médoc,” which is the area on the left bank of the river Gironde where many of the most famous Bordeaux wines come from—and yet not all wines made in the Médoc are allowed that appellation. It also says “Cru Bourgeois,” a title of honour Château Greysac acquired in 1978, only a few years after modern winemaking began there.

    Having exercised the mind on the wine label (and wished one were striding along the vine-clad gravel ridges of the Médoc), one can then exercise it on the wine itself. One encounters a clear bright red, a pleasing sharpness, and then a concatenation of tannins (the woody hardness) and the taste of oak (the pleasing sweetness redolent of turpentine). You can take mental exercise tasting this wine by racing these two tastes against each other, before swallowing and then maybe sipping a little more. The strength of the tannin shows that it has time on its side. Drink some now and keep some for later. Maybe it will make you a thinking drinker.

  • Slippery Conduct

    In regards to the “art” exhibit at the Walker Art Center, a wire-mesh wooden box with lizards, snakes, scorpions and crickets: As the great poet Alice Walker said, animals exist for their own reasons. They do not exist for our own amusement, entertainment, experimentation or for our “art” exhibits. Sad typical animal exploitation. Did those at the Walker who approved this live animal exhibit consider that this display, the setting, all the people approaching it, might frighten or traumatize the animals? Or is modern art and the new Walker above any trivial concerns of animal suffering? The Walker Art Center needs to be better than Petco or the Como Park Zoo. Human art is everywhere, but human art is not a box of imprisoned reptiles.
    Frank Erickson
    Minneapolis

  • Rushdie Deaths

    In the Books & Readings section of the November Rake, the columnist discussing Salman Rushdie’s November 10 reading mentions “… more than fifty people around the world have been murdered because of connections to Rushdie.” I’m curious as to the columnist’s sources with regard to that statement. I find that horrifying on any number of counts.
    Rick Keeney
    Minneapolis

    Editor’s note: This figure includes deaths of both Rushdie supporters and protesters. Since his book The Satanic Verses was first published in 1988, Rushdie-related killings have included: five Pakistani demonstrators (1989), a Muslim leader and his deputy in Belgium (1989), twelve protesters in Bombay from police gunfire (1989), Rushdie’s Japanese translator Hitoshi Igarashi (1991), and 37 from a hotel fire in Turkey to protest Rushdie’s Turkish translator (1993).

  • Bad Waitress Coffee Shop and Breakfast Joint

    It’s as if all the weary waitresses of the Twin Cities banded together, threw down their aprons, and said, “Fine, just do it yourself if you think you’ll be any better!” Bad Waitress is a self-service joint that puts you in your place. Sit down, fill out your order on a pad, and submit it to the kitchen. Nicely priced, classic yet snappy breakfast items (pancakes, omelets, baked goodies) and savory, hearty sandwiches (paninis, burgers, BLTs) make up this all-day menu. The slick and modish surroundings work just as well as a nighttime gathering spot; beer and wine help the transition. Come spring, when they roll up the garage-door-sized windows, this place will be unbeatable. 2 E. 26th St., Minneapolis; 612-872-7575

  • Yum! Kitchen and Bakery

    This bright and airy space in St. Louis Park has a fresh take on takeout. Its menu changes weekly and focuses on homemade, seasonal fare that can be eaten at one of the few tables or taken home. There are four daily soup options (the gumbo is especially delicious) and star entrees like a perfectly crispy and juicy roasted chicken (that wasn’t made twelve hours ago). Morning brings soon-to-be-legendary caramel pull-apart rolls, and desserts are a delight any time of day; if you can avoid the just-baked chocolate cakes, you are supernatural. 4000 Minnetonka Blvd., St. Louis Park; 952-922-4000

  • Jonathan Rhys Meyers

    Woody Allen has made a few changes to the patented Allen formula, which may be why his latest film, Match Point, is better than anything he’s done in ages. For one thing, he’s replaced New York with London, albeit for financial, rather than creative, reasons. For another, there is no neurotic Jew shambling through scenes of painful self-absorption and improbable romance. Instead, there’s Chris Wilton, a sleek and calculating Irishman who slips greedily between two women who offer very different attractions. One promises money and a lavish lifestyle, the other offers steamy and illicit sex, and Wilton wants them both. Played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers, this anti-Woody (or uber-Woody, as wry observers of Allen’s own most recent romantic machinations might say) cuts a shocking and sinister figure. It turns out Rhys Meyers, whose work ranges from a glam rock chameleon in Velvet Goldmine to an amiable coach in Bend It Like Beckham, is quite comfortable playing sinister.

    You seem to play a lot of rather dark leading men. Why?
    It has to do with my physicality. There is a certain darkness to the way I look; I look slightly morally ambiguous. Also, my life experiences position me well to play characters with a lot of depth to them. For instance, I had an opportunity to be in an interesting film about a young man who has never had sex. But I couldn’t really convincingly play that role, because there’s a look in my eyes. I clearly know what it’s like to be in bed with a woman.

    So you bring a lot of yourself to your roles.
    Yes, of course. I’ve seen very few of the films that I’ve acted in. Unless I have to go to a premiere, I won’t watch them. See, I live with this actor every day, and I’m kind of bored with him. I’m a different person in every film, but it’s still me.

    In Match Point, you’re a murderer. Was that a difficult part of yourself to bring out?
    Well, in the confines of the script, I don’t have any moralistic values. So, no, I just called on a different facet of myself. It’s all in there somewhere, in all good actors. You just have to be willing to share everything for a role, and not everyone will do that. For instance, I really get annoyed with actors who won’t strip off their clothes to do a film. If the script says, “naked walking past the room,” do it. But people are like, “I don’t want to show this, or I don’t want to show that,” and usually it’s a financial thing, because they can get an extra two or three hundred thousand dollars showing their tits in Playboy.

    Was it a thrill to work with Woody Allen?
    I like Woody Allen, but I don’t idolize him the way other people do. I couldn’t work with him if I did—I had to equalize myself with him. He was very good and easy to work with.

    Are you easy to work with?
    Some people find me maddening. For instance, I didn’t have the greatest experience with Oliver Stone [in Alexander], but I’d work with him again. I don’t have to like everyone I work with, just respect them. And I do.

    Most of your films have been rather art-house in nature. Do you shy away from commercial films?
    No, I love commercial films! I love seeing things like Armageddon and Pearl Harbor, because they’re fantastic. My DVD collection is filled with popcorn films. I don’t sit down and watch Francois Truffaut or Pier Paolo Pasolini movies. Too heavy for me. I like Jerry Maguire, things I don’t have to invest too much intellectual property into.

    Speaking of Jerry Maguire, you’ve just spent five months in China with Tom Cruise, working on the sequel to Mission Impossible. How much of the strange scuttlebutt we hear about this guy is true?
    I haven’t read one single word of truth about the man yet. No one has any idea what he is really like.

    So give us an idea.
    No. He’s my boss.

  • Salut Bar Amèricaine

    Some people attempt to spite the French by pouring out red wine and voting against John Kerry. Other people believe that a little smirk while enjoying an American version of coq au vin is just as effective. Salut Bar Americaine in Edina celebrates the French and sticks it to them at the same time. Warm, Gruyre-filled gougres appear on the menu as Les Cheesy Puffs, next to the more traditional and buttery escargot bourguignonne. If you prefer your French food more recognizably Amricaine, choose a rich and hearty duck a l’orange or Le Cheeseburger Royale, served beautifully on a ciabatta roll with a side of the classic steak frites. Sunday brunch features a creamy, custardy quiche Lorraine, which reminds us how long French cuisine has been part of the American diet–how can even the most reactionary of diners not enjoy it? 5034 France Ave. S., Edina; 952-929-3764