Year: 2005

Watching other people eat revolting things has become a new spectator sport in our reality TV culture. Perhaps this replaces earlier entertainments like gladiator fights and public hangings, thereby satisfying some primal desire to watch others suffer. Of course, these days everyone gets to go home at the end of the show–sometimes with money. Elliot Hester eats gross things not for prizes but for fun. Or something like that. On his continuous international jaunts around the globe (his Plane Insanity recounts his often miserable experiences working as a flight attendant), he visits some of the most un-tourist-friendly countries in the world; this book chronicles his gustatory adventures in fifty nations whose citizens view insects, pets, and innards a little differently than we do.

Bobbie Ann Mason’s straightforward, observant writing about the plain folks of rural Kentucky has generated comparisons to Raymond Carver. Like Carver, her characters are everyday non-heroes, such as a Vietnam veteran suffering from Agent Orange-related problems (In Country) and a truck driver with a road-related leg injury (Shiloh and Other Stories). Clearly, she’s got a tender spot for guys who’ve been dealt a raw deal in life: Atomic Romance, her first novel in ten years, follows a third-generation worker at a uranium-enrichment plant who comes to realize the company that he’s devoted his life to (and lost his father to, in a plant disaster) may not have his best interests at heart. But Mason does; she’s set him up with a swell girlfriend and enough smarts to concoct an inspired way out. 3225 W. 69th St., Edina; 952-920-0633; www.bn.com

Ford has led a most interesting life, even by the inflated standards of a profession where outrageous biographies are as common as dust jacket hyperbole. He’s been a high school baseball coach, an editor at American Druggist, and a sportswriter. Then there’s his fiction, which has garnered enough critical hosannas and awards (his 1995 novel Independence Day was the first book ever to win both the Pulitzer Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award) that Ford could be forgiven for kicking back a little. Why not ride out the backstretch of his career by working the lecture circuit, teaching in MFA programs, and floating the occasional short story? It might seem like that’s what Ford’s been doing since he hit pay dirt, but he’s always been a methodical writer and something of a restless character. He has lived in fourteen U.S. states and France and Mexico, which is perhaps fitting for a man who spent part of his childhood living in his grandfather’s hotel. That footloose strain runs through all of Ford’s fiction, whether he’s writing about shiftless characters in Montana or Frank Bascombe, the beleaguered suburban hero of Ford’s best known novels, The Sportswriter and Independence Day. And time and again, it seems as if his characters come face-to-face with some version of Bascombe’s famous and troubling revelation, “There are no transcendent themes in life.” Adath Jeshurun Congregation, 10500 Hillside Lane W., Minnetonka; 952-847-8637

These captivating and surreal photographs capture a range of moods in various other-worldly northern lands. Three contemporary photographers revisti places throughout Central Asia photographed by Johannes Gabriel (J.G.) Crano, a Finnish scientist and explorer, between 1902 and 1916. While Grano’s photographs show majestic environments relatively undisturbed by his species, his modern successors encounter great changes; the juxtaposition reveals connections between art, science, and nature in images of a changing world. Stunning black and white seascapes by Taneli Eskola, scenes of destruction (a dam, a strip mine) by Jorma Puranen, and farmyard photography by Pentii Sammallahti, in which the animals seem to tell wry jokes to the camera, pay homage to the world that was, while recording the world as it is now. 216 21st Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-624-7530

No, it’s not all about him–really. Still, we were intrigued by the contrast between the monumental paintings anchoring each end of this decades-spanning exhibit. In ’69, a portrait of the artist as a young scrapper looking to shake things up is rendered with stark black and white precision (this is the masterwork purchased by the Walker straight from the artist’s studio). Thirty-six years later, Close renders his likeness in sumptuous, kaleidoscopically colored “pixels,” and there’s a palpable sense of the artist as an elegant, aging, and affluent authority figure. But he’s still exploring and discovering. He talked recently about noting the strong connections between his work and traditionally female crafts like knitting and quilting–and thereby coming to realize the influence his grandmother had on his wide-ranging work. So even if Close is an egomaniac (he’s used to people thinking that), he’s an incredibly smart and perceptive one. 612-375-7600, www.walkerart.org

There’s art that perfectly reflects a particular era or discipline, and then there’s art that is a direct and unvarnished reflection of an individual’s mind. When viewing the strange and gorgeous prints of Donovan Durham, you are staring point blank at the workings of this man’s complex insides: his loves, his fantasies, his fears. Dubbed an outsider artist, Durham suffers from mental illness and also sickle cell anemia, the latter of which left him with a speech impairment. With much to say, the local artist’s latest collection of work–black and white lithographs and color monoprints created during a residency at Highpoint–includes portraits of famous black musicians (his Stevie Wonder is both admiring and wholly unique) and landscapes. Our favorites are his haunting portrayal of the Smoky Mountains, and a work very appropriately titled Billy the Skeleton. 2638 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-871-1326; www.highpointprintmaking.org

Perhaps it’s a sign of the times, but it seems a goodly number of our acquaintances get their thrills by slapping around wet lumps of clay. In any of the Twin Cities’ plentiful venues for making pottery, you can find small crowds of dusty people hugging their misshapen pots and discovering their reverence for Warren MacKenzie. And there’s hardly a scenic Minnesota drive that doesn’t pass a pottery studio in the woods. This love of mud has inspired four days’ worth of pottery pondering at the Northern Clay Center, where works exhibited by twenty-six artists from around the country set the stage for lectures, workshops, slide presentations, and general worship of all things that come out of a kiln. 2424 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-339-8007; www.northernclaycenter.org

I am the queen of recurring dreams. But lately, I’m often disappointed by the obvious symbols and lack of mystery they seem to hold. It’s been so long since I’ve had one of those “What in the world do you think that means?” dreams. Also sadly lacking are the “Please don’t wake me–I’m loving this so much” dreams. I used to have those more often than not, but lately there’s been no cool flying, no stumbling upon a warehouse filled with free antiques, and no favorite recurring dream–the one in which I find myself back in Boston, where Aerosmith’s Joe Perry cooks breakfast for me shirtless.

I frequently have the “I see a tornado coming at me in the distance” dream, in which I dawdle around wasting precious time, only to find myself looking at it through a huge plate-glass picture window. Then, just as this cyclone of (mental) debris is bearing down on me, I try to outrun it. Which is futile–as everyone knows, when you need a quick getaway in dreams, you can only run as if you were sprinting through quicksand while carrying a sofabed on your back.

I also resent the hell out of the fact that half of my dreams are about working. Like this one: I’m waiting tables and the hostess has seated my entire section at once. I try to ring up orders on the cash register, but my fingers are like canned hams, unable to press one button at a time. I paw at the register like a bear. I usually wake up from work dreams feeling completely ripped off, as mentally I just pulled a seven-hour shift.

And how’s this for ridiculous: Other people are dreaming of my shortcomings and limitations. Last week a friend dreamt that I had an infant daughter who was completely verbal and capable of sarcasm. I suggested that we go get coffee, and left the baby in front of the television set. My friend was horrified, and kept insisting it might not be a good idea to leave her alone. My response was, “Nah, she can take care of herself. Besides, she’ll call me if she needs anything.” Oh, boy. Who wants me to babysit? Anyone?

Email Mary at popularcreeps at yahoo.com

When Bob Mould visits First Avenue, the paint on the walls heats up and starts to become liquid again. Stalactites of tobacco exhalations loosen their grip and drop from the ceiling. And the eardrums of people in the audience begin to ring in a way that will never completely go away, but it won’t hurt until they file out into the street, so they stay put, rapt in the presence of this former local boy and one of punk rock’s living legends. Mould’s new album, Body of Song, revives the gritty rock he left behind on 2002’s electronic Modulate, but the influence of the dance floor has left a permanent mark on his sound.

Does the electronic vibe come from your life in DC?
Yeah. It’s everywhere, in the restaurants, clubs, and gym. I got into it in 1999, after The Last Dog and Pony Show tour. I just liked the feel-good nature of it; it was so against everything I knew. And the density of the tracks and the technical production is really fascinating. The sounds were so foreign. I wanted to know how they did that.

How does making dance music differ from writing rock songs?
Making music that’s meant to be used on a dance floor is like creating cinema. It’s drama, it’s repetition, and the technical aspects are different. I’ll deconstruct songs and focus on parts that I think are good for the setting they’ll be used in. I just did a Low remix, and I think I’m doing a Liz Phair remix. She’s really excited about it. It’ll be fun–I’ll use it when I deejay.

You’ve been taking some heat from your punk fans for using the vocoder. What’s your defense?
On “(Shine Your) Light Life Hope,” those were vocals that came out one morning when my voice was not warmed up. Spiritually, it touched me so deeply that I saved the vocal. I kept going back and trying to duplicate it, but I never got the same feel–it was a beautiful emotion that was slightly out of pitch, and I had a tool that could correct it. Rock purists get so hung up on technology getting in the way, but listen: That’s a perfect example of technology saving a spiritually perfect moment. I’m finessing the essence of punk rock right there, and if you don’t see it that way, hit the “next” button.

How does living in D.C.’s political world affect you?
I see a lot of political figures out and about, but we all have lives beyond our work. I know lobbyists, people who work for Republicans, people who work with Democrats, and at the end of the day, we all need to use the same shower at the gym. It sort of shows me the futility in being as violently opposed to everything as I was twenty-five years ago. Change moves slowly, and we’re all people. Unfortunately, there are a select few out there right now who are making the world a really difficult place.

As a gay man, you’re being directly targeted by some of those people. How are you reacting to that?
I’m getting more involved with Human Rights Campaign, Freedom to Marry, and the Antiviolence Project. I try to do what I can to make things better for my community, but I live in a bubble. Someone the other day said, “The world is so anti-gay right now. America is so anti-gay.” And I thought, yeah, but I live in the middle of four gay neighborhoods and I rarely leave. So am I being unknowingly marginalized, or am I gentrifying yet another neighborhood? I can never tell.

You’re not too worried about things?
Well, we’re only going to have another two or three years of this, because this regime is self-destructing. We’re going to be left with an ugly situation. Inner cities always get beat up when the Republicans are in power. They let the homeless and the insane starve on the streets and it creates all kinds of violence and tension, and race relations get bad. But it’ll all get rebuilt in due time.

Bob Mould plays at First Avenue on September 28; 612-332-1775, www.first-avenue.com