Year: 2005

Former St. Paul Police Chief Bill Finney likes to tell people that in a past life he was a pistol-slinging, wild-West lawman. This deep, hidden history, he says with a wink and a smile, explains his long career in police work, his impressive collection of Colt six-shooter “peacemakers,” and his garage full of motorcycles. (Unfortunately for him, he’s allergic to horse dander.)

Finney’s love for motorcycles emerged back in the 1960s, when he was an impressionable teenager. He heard an ad on the radio that ended, “You meet the nicest people on a Honda.” Finney rented a Honda for a weekend outing and was immediately hooked. Traveling in the open air, under bright blue skies: To him, motorcycles came to represent freedom and independence. It wasn’t long before they were demanding his full attention.

Every August, Finney makes a pilgrimage to Sturgis, South Dakota, home to the nation’s most prominent annual motorcycle rally. Last year, just a few months after retiring as police chief, Finney rode out with the Posse, a group of friends who are mostly law enforcement officials themselves. He chose his 2004 Boss Hoss three-wheeler for the trip, which sports a 385-horsepower V8 engine. Finney customizes all of his bikes, and this one is painted a deeply glowing ruby red and embellished with flame graphics and a gold star that says “El Jefe—St. Paul Posse.”

All of Finney’s bikes have two things in common: They have a distinctive, truly Finneyesque look—and they are American-made. The others include a 2000 Harley Davidson Road Glide, which is distinguished by its large, skirted front fender, mag wheels, and custom black paint job; a 2004 Swift Bar Chopper; and a 2002 Indian Chief. Finney refers to the last as the “police chief,” since he’s painted it black and white and added flashing red lights like those on motorcycles ridden by 1950s-era traffic cops. He even pulled over a van once while riding it. (The van had a flat tire, and he called a tow truck for the driver.)

Given the chance, Finney waxes philosophical in describing the camaraderie of the road and the beauty of the countryside, seen close up and at high speeds. “It’s not about getting there,” he says, “it’s about the journey.” Just as in the days of wagon trains and search parties on horseback, a little rain never gets in Finney’s way. “People don’t live in the weather,” he says, “they adapt to live through the weather. Riding in the rain can be, and is, a fantastic experience.”—Pat Lindgren

Maybe I’m just jealous because my therapist has never given me a flat-screen TV, but it seemed that for a while, every time I turned on the Dr. Phil show, someone who’d struggled to face his or her demons was being rewarded with merchandise from Circuit City or a travel package from Orbitz.com. I’ve long admired Dr. Phil, but over the last year I began wondering what had happened to the big, balding man I’d come to think of as a friendly sort of sage with a heavy Texas drawl—a cognitive behaviorist cowboy, slinging sound advice and shooting down denial. Had he been swallowed whole by Bob Barker? Tell them what they’ve won, Bob! The Price is Right. The Pathology is Right. The Life Lesson is Right. On one episode, Dr. Phil reunited a twenty-something with the mother who’d given her up for adoption. “I never stopped thinking about you!” the mother cried, or something like that, and embraced her daughter. They were sent off on an all-expenses paid trip, and I thought, I’m not sure I’d want to vacation with a stranger I just met, and who also happened to abandon me as a child. Moments later, and with more clarity, I thought, What’s my problem? It’s a vacation. I’d go anywhere Dr. Phil would send me.

Dr. Phil launched his televised therapy career on The Oprah Winfrey Show, the year the focus of that show was “Finding Your Spirit” and Oprah hauled in a succession of psychologists and therapists in an effort to help us all, en masse, knock down whatever blocks were preventing us from becoming our most “authentic selves.” That era of Oprah brought Gary Zukav, author of The Seat of the Soul and The Dancing Wu Li Masters; it brought Iyanla Vanzant, author of Yesterday I Cried and One Day My Soul Just Opened Up. And then there was Dr. Phil’s “Get Real Challenge,” during which a group of people were sequestered for a week of therapy boot camp with the doctor. Their hard work and epiphanies were videotaped and aired throughout a season of Oprah, as Dr. Phil and Oprah commented on the happenings like those two old Muppets in the balcony.

It was great television. The folks in the “Get Real Challenge” sobbed and confronted, spoke the truth and got real and left with a lighter psychological load, carry-ons instead of heavy-duty Samsonites. And Dr. Phil and Oprah were explicit about their intention—the point of airing everyone’s dirty laundry wasn’t to engender any kind of schadenfreude in the audience, but instead, they hoped, to provide models of insight and bravery for us couch potatoes. Maybe we would see something of ourselves in those stories of marriages gone awry, of family feuds, of feeling disconnected. Maybe it would get us off our butts to get real, too.

But what did it mean to “get real”? While Oprah was finding her spirit and we rooted around for ours, we were encouraged to be grateful for small daily blessings, to come to terms with our painful pasts and live in the present with clarity, and to take responsibility for our choices. The effect was a sort of “Free to Be You and Me” for adults. (Remember when Rosey Grier sang, “It’s all right to cry. Crying gets the sad out of you”?) Soon, it seemed that every celebrity who appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show needed a Kleenex. Promoting his darker drama, The Majestic, Jim Carrey burst into tears; when Oprah acknowledged John Travolta’s good heart, he, too, turned on the faucets. Halle Berry got real about ex-hubby Eric Benet’s sex addiction, but then later showed Oprah and the studio audience how to use a bullwhip (Catwoman was about to open). Tom Cruise, of course, recently did perhaps the ultimate job of getting real, unleashing all those pent-up emotions and bouncing away on Oprah’s couch.

Everyone was getting real, and then suddenly everyone—real folks like us—was getting presents. Sure, Martha Stewart has her good things, but they usually require some elbow grease, pinecones, and a staple gun. On Oprah’s first “favorite things” show, a stunned and ecstatic audience left with thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise, and they did absolutely nothing. And in perhaps her best-known giveaway, an entire Oprah audience left with Pontiacs.

This spring, Dr. Phil, whose show is produced by Harpo Productions, Oprah’s company, celebrated his five-hundredth episode. And since her appearances on Oprah, Iyanla Vanzant has become the lead therapist on Starting Over, a reality show in which a group of women live in a house together and beat their demons to a pulp, and whose tagline is Life Has Never Been More Real. Hasn’t life always been real, even if it’s been shitty?

Somehow, while trying to figure out what goes into getting real, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs popped into my mind. My rudimentary understanding of Maslow’s work is that he placed human motivation and development on a sort of ladder. On the bottom rungs were basic physiological requirements—air, food, water, shelter, sex. Higher up came needs for safety, then social needs like love, belonging, and acceptance. Once those needs were met, Maslow believed humans were driven to meet a need for esteem—to behave in ways that allowed them to feel respect and achievement. Finally, at the top of the ladder sat self-actualization: the need to become all that one is capable of being. To be one’s most authentic self, as Oprah might say. To Get Real.

According to my college psychology textbook, Mother Teresa, Gandhi, and Eleanor Roosevelt had all climbed to the top of Maslow’s hierarchy. (So much for sex.) This led to my assumption that anyone reaching self-actualization would be poor and/or have no fashion sense and/or have wrinkled skin and glasses. But Oprah has self-actualized—she is living to the fullest and giving back to the community. Who knew that giving back meant Pontiacs and Wacoal bras and Josh Groban CDs?

Could it be that, in America, the top rungs of the ladder have collapsed on themselves? Have our social and esteem needs become conflated with self-actualization? When Oprah was finding her spirit, I sobbed along with everyone else who felt lost and empty and was looking to connect with the world in a more profound way. When Oprah found a good bra, I got on the Internet and ordered it. The transition from internal satisfaction to, shall we say, external support had been, ah, seamless. Then Dr. Phil, along with handing out advice, began giving out the goods, too.

Couples on Dr. Phil’s “Premarital Boot Camp” shows ran through obstacle courses together, dealt with surprise visits from the in-laws (another kind of obstacle course), cared for fake babies, and answered tough questions about religion, money, and their expectations about sex. (One guy wanted to do it two or three times a day once he was married; his bride-to-be was terrified.) The boot campers were rewarded for their efforts with cash, electronics, and honeymoons. On the “Desperate Spouses” show, a harried househusband with five kids lamented his one-hundred-pound weight gain. He had given all of his energy to the children, and eaten all of their leftover food. To help him “reclaim” himself, he was rewarded with golf at a local club, a gentleman’s day at a spa, and a one-year gym membership.

On what was billed as “the most intense Dr. Phil ever,” the good doc confronted Sheila, who had nearly beaten her alcoholic husband to death and had contacted the show in desperation after seeing Dr. Phil help an abusive alcoholic. Then he delivered a caveat regarding “getting real” on TV. “I’ve never been under the misapprehension or illusion that I’m doing eight-minute cures or one-hour cures on this stage,” Dr. Phil told Sheila, her husband Steve, and the audience. “I’m trying to be a mental-emotional compass. I’m trying to point people in the right direction.”

Maybe I was just bitter. But was I the only one getting confused by the maddening jumble of makeover shows—Trading Spaces, Queer Eye, Ambush Makeover—and the talk-therapy/life-makeover/self-improvement shows like Oprah and Dr. Phil? Had self-actualization in America come to include freshly painted walls, designer active wear, and teeth whitening? Because it really did seem that the less screwed up you were, the more likely you were to leave the Dr. Phil show with presents.

In search of answers, I turned to my own expert. Kirk Olson works at Minneapolis’ Iconoculture Inc., where he brings together research and psychological and semiotic theories, all in an effort to understand what captures our attention and makes us open our wallets. I asked him what he thought about the conflation of game show-style giveaways and authentic therapeutic or spiritual progress.

“A plasma TV is not about self-actualization; it’s about esteem,” Olson said, suggesting that when Dr. Phil gives someone a television, he’s recognizing the progress that person has made. But shouldn’t the progress be its own reward? “The reality,” Olson gently reminded me, “is that Dr. Phil, though he may be a psychologist, is also an entertainer. And Oprah as well is an entertainer.”

Olson also revealed some new thinking about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. “We don’t look at it as a ladder,” he started off. A person living without safety, he explained, is certainly able to think about God (one of the higher concerns formerly reserved for the self-actualized), “and it doesn’t mean that they aren’t capable of working toward making their neighborhood a better place.” The ladder, he suggested, is really something more fluid, and scholars have since added some rungs. Between esteem and self-actualization now exists the need for self-expression, and beyond self-actualization has emerged transcendence, a position concerned with helping others.

“There is a desire among people to be recognized,” Olson said, and so when Dr. Phil gives away a TV, “in the viewer there is a feeling that they’re watching someone with status be generous; they’re watching him give back to others. And with Oprah,” he continued, “people do feel that it’s coming from a genuine place.” It’s true—I recalled that all those audience members who drove off in their Pontiacs had been chosen specifically because they were hardworking folks who really did need cars but couldn’t afford them. And that the guests on Dr. Phil (and even Montel, who’s been bringing in his own doctors lately) are getting therapy after they leave the show that they probably wouldn’t be able to pay for themselves.

Maybe Oprah and Dr. Phil—along with the host of other shows devoted to making our lives more productive and aesthetically pleasing and mentally healthy—have picked up where our government has left off. The corporate-sponsored, advertising-subsidized makeover/therapy shows have reached out to give the public a helping hand. Making us feel like we belong to a more generous society, eight minutes to an hour at a time.

Anybody who’s attended a Fringe Festival knows the drill. In the first days, before word-of-mouth reviews get out, you flip through the program, scanning for provocative or otherwise attention-grabbing titles (see this year’s I’m Naked and I’m Ready), which might indicate a show worth taking a chance on. Last year, scouring the listings, I zeroed in on Whiskey Bars, not really for its title, but because it promised two things that tickle my fancy: Kurt Weill songs and cabaret.

Fifteen minutes into the show, my friend was drumming her palm against her knee, trying to help this poor fellow (an out-of-towner, by the way) keep time. With no rhythm and, worse, no pitch, he butchered Weill’s songs. Even more painful was the narrative thread, a story about a past-his-prime performer making backstage confessions to a ghostly critic. In other words, this was a show about the woes of being a bad actor.

As with so many art forms, just because theater can be done solo doesn’t mean it should be. “Why do they often insist on doing at least three of the following tasks themselves: writing, directing, performing, composing, and design?” That was a question posed earlier this year by New York Times critic Margo Jefferson, in an essay called “Words to the Wise Performance Artist: Get Help. Collaborate. Grow.” Human beings, she argued, are endowed with but one gift, two if they’re lucky (three if they’re Meredith Monk). Thus, artistic expression is better served when artists with complementary gifts collaborate—see Gilbert and Sullivan, Rodgers and Hammerstein, Mozart and da Ponte.

Whiskey Bars neatly showcased Jefferson’s point. This performer, who had an impressive opera resume, had shouldered many tasks outside his realm of capabilities. His text luxuriated in solipsism. His interpretation compelled him to flit about as if he had swallowed Mexican jumping beans. That, in turn, buried all musical rhythm or pitch.

Much of this could have been avoided had he engaged with a real director—someone to camp out in the sixth row during rehearsals, shaping the show from the perspective of its audience, rather than the performer. Theater cannot exist without an audience; even when the impetus to create a solo show is to exorcise personal demons, why put your work onstage if you don’t envision some sort of payoff for those watching?

Judging by the growth of one-person shows at Fringe Festivals here and around the world, the numbers of people who want to get up onstage and gamble on that payoff are, to say the least, not subsiding. Ease and economy are two prime factors—shows like extended monologues and unaccompanied acts are among the least expensive and most easily produced forms of theater. It follows, then, that the low-tech, nonjuried Fringe Festival environment (for which acts are chosen by lottery) is a natural breeding ground for them; this year, about one in five Minnesota Fringe productions (August 4 through 14 this year) is a solo show. The Minnesota Fringe Festival, the biggest in the U.S., even helped spawn a handful of solo celebrities, like the provocateur Heidi Arneson, ancient tale-teller Charlie Bethel, shtick-man Ari Hoptman, and the hilariously self-loathing Amy Salloway. Even Kevin Kling counts in a way—National Public Radio made him famous, but scores of fans look forward to his annual Fringe show.

As a genre, the one-person performance is hardly monolithic. A single performer might play multiple, even dozens of characters, as in Becky Mode’s Broadway hit Fully Committed (produced to much acclaim by the Jungle Theater two years ago). Then there’s the lonely cabaret singer, stringing together songs with simple and often innuendo-laced narrative; and performers who blur the lines between theater and standup (see Margaret Cho, Billy Crystal, and even Dame Edna). But the largest subspecies of one-person performance, the one propagating within Fringe Festivals with the most vigor, is the theatrical cousin to literary memoir, or even reality television. These shows often are written, performed, and directed by a single person and mostly or wholly concerned with that person’s life. At this year’s Festival, Esera Tuaolo, the gay former Vikings football player, is slated to perform For the Rest of My Life, and Kling will dish up another helping of home-state stories in Dick da Tird. Salloway, who had a local and national Fringe Fest hit with Does This Monologue Make Me Look Fat? will relate tales from her summers at Jewish camp in So Kiss Me Already, Herschel Gertz!

In an age of DIY everything, this surfeit of self-involved theater comes as no big surprise. Glancing across the larger spectrum of pop culture, it’s easy to find what’s fanning the flames of our performance fantasies: home recording technology, desktop video- and music-editing suites, and, more pointedly, the glut of reality television series and makeover shows. It may be a stretch to say everyone’s an artist, but surely we can all be actors, or at least performers of some sort. Maybe the private citizen is becoming obsolete; our struggles—with intimacy, with weight loss, with marriage—are no longer deemed mundane. Depending on how much of ourselves we are willing to expose, if we’re willing to perform our problems, we’re sure to attract at least a few voyeurs.

From the audience perspective, confessional theater appeals to our often prurient sense of curiosity. In that respect, among last year’s tell-alls, Salloway’s Does This Monologue Make Me Look Fat? did not just go the farthest; it was also one of the best. The audience knew all along that the insufferable main character was Salloway herself; still, they laughed raucously (and some cried) because her stories—late-night supermarket binges; an attempt to find self-acceptance at a convention of obese lesbians, even though she’s heterosexual—were as devastating as they were sidesplitting. Salloway is apparently one of those doubly gifted artists, having written and performed her show (she also apparently got lucky in going without a director). The script was stacked with witty turns of phrase and conversational stylings, but more important, it was clear that Salloway the performer managed to detach herself from Salloway the person (as, of course, any good actor must do). She treated herself as a character, and offered a perspective on that character that was neither glamorous nor protective.

It’s not just acting and writing that draws us to solo performers, despite the considerable chance that we’ll be disappointed by what they offer. There’s also something noble about their perseverance. In some cases, such as Salloway’s, these folks consider themselves outcasts from the larger ensemble theater world. Salloway is obviously a capable actor, but she doesn’t fit the two most popular actress prototypes, the ingénue and the “comforting aunty.” Thus her longtime battle to get cast in ensemble productions. Yet passion pushed her on to make a name serving up one-woman sideshows.

Also, it can be mighty lonely up there onstage. Many of us have a distinct fear about public speaking, let alone baring all, emotionally at least, before a live audience; this feeds our admiration for people who do. And in my case, I suspected seeing a show about a fat actress (this was well before Kirstie Alley’s TV show) would leave me feeling better about myself. Somehow we take comfort in knowing there are people more messed up than we are, and luckily for us, they’re everywhere these days.

But beyond all that, first-rate solo performers can challenge us to have a more engaging theater experience. After all, they have no one to rely on except their audience, whereas in ensemble productions, the actors create energy among themselves. At last year’s festival, local storyteller Dave Mondy seemed to be talking directly to his audience in This Love Train is Unstoppable and I Am the Conductor—but it was less an incarnation of the dreaded “interactive theater” than it was a nod to solo theater’s kinship with cabaret, standup, and one-on-one storytelling.

These forms are bound together by performers who “fake” trusting relationships with their audiences, which can elicit a more passionate response and sometimes make the whole experience rather volatile. It’s the rare solo show that can trick our imaginations to go outside the playhouse. Suddenly, we can become less interested in our own entertainment and, instead, more invested in the well being of its star. In the instance of Salloway, when I eventually spoke to her, long after seeing her show, I had to repress the desire to ask about her personal life. After all, while her performance was certainly drawn from real life, it was also necessary to remember that it had all been an act.

Back in the 1950s and 60s, a day trip to Excelsior, the waterfront town along the south shores of Lake Minnetonka, was the highlight of summer for many a city kid. The main attraction was the widely hyped Excelsior Amusement Park, which was inspired by Coney Island and had opened in 1925. Proprietor Ray Colihan was an astute promoter, luring fun-seekers with a harrowing wooden roller coaster that, like the one at Coney Island, was called the Cyclone, and with teen concerts at the Danceland ballroom. (The Rolling Stones played there in 1964, on their first North American tour, and rumor has it that “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” is the result of a conversation between Mick Jagger and a local character, “Mr. Jimmy.”)

Excelsior Amusement Park was demolished in 1974, a year after it closed. Not surprisingly, high-buck condominiums and a restaurant now occupy the site. Certainly, Excelsior always had its exclusive side. In the late 1800s, it was a resort destination whose visitors included wealthy Southerners looking for cool breezes and raucous yacht parties. These days, the town is more sedate, but that’s not to say it has lost its independent spirit. Two years ago, it unleashed a small but notorious ad campaign, “Secede From Starbucks Nation,” which was conceived to play up its old-fashioned main street and concentration of locally owned businesses. (Dunn Bros Coffee has an outpost there, as does the one-and-only 318 coffeeshop/bistro.)

Sure, there are gift shops and candy stores a-plenty, but there are also a host of unique businesses in historic buildings, like the three-story International Order of Odd Fellows building, which is crowned by carved I.O.O.F. initials and houses the Minnetonka Music instrument store. Although neighborhood drug- and hardware stores have gone the way of the Cyclone, stalwarts like the Dock Theater, a discount art-house cinema, and the steadfastly independent Excelsior Bay Books still do a brisk business. Other idiosyncratic ventures include the sixty-five-year-old Old Log Theatre, Adele’s Frozen Custard, and Cynthia Rae Dress Code, a “Bold, Hot, Young” boutique that carries plus-sized clothing.

Still, for throngs of beach goers and other connoisseurs of summer fun, the real draw in Excelsior is Lake Minnetonka. Excursion boats moor at a dock at the downtown marina or even at a lakeside bench on Excelsior Commons, the sprawling park that hugs the waterfront. Families congregate at the ice cream cart and the playground. Couples picnic on grassy knolls. With promenades and park benches offering strategic views of Excelsior Bay, the Commons is the perfect place to soak up summer.

—Christy DeSmith

Dog Days

How to beat the heat in the

dirty city.

By August, the heat of summer begins to curdle in the city. The lifeguards are sunburnt, the flowers have gone to seed, garbage bins are toxic, tempers are short, the milfoil metastasizes, and mid-term elections thunder just over the horizon.

One of our favorite hot-weather palliatives came from the mouth of Bob Dylan many years ago, when the lakes and rivers of Minnesota were still fresh in his memory: A hard rain, he said, is gonna fall. And while we can appreciate the comfort of such assurances, praying for change when change is what’s most needed, we know that when the cleansing rain does come, all that sweat and filth has to go somewhere. In the figurative world, it will end up in think-tanks and newspaper columns. In the real world, it will drain into our lakes and rivers.

When the mercury is up, Twin Citizens have options for cooling off, but maybe not as many as we’d like. It may be because of the ubiquity of lakes and rivers that the cities are short on public swimming pools; we count just three of them in Minneapolis, and three in St. Paul—for a population of five hundred thousand. It is true that wading pools have been installed in nearly every city park, but adults and teenagers feel silly spending any serious time in them—not just because they are intended for toddlers, but because if the lifeguards don’t get you, the urine content or the massive doses of chlorine will. On the other hand, there has been a gratifying growth in friendly water parks for children of all ages, especially in the inner-ring suburbs like Edina and St. Louis Park. But admission to these can cost as much as ten dollars per person per day, or three hundred dollars for a season pass. That is beyond the reach of many middle-class families, who can stay at home to get hosed.

There are the lakes. Personally, we love Nokomis, Harriet, Rebecca, and Phalen. It is heartbreaking enough that city lakes are being choked by milfoil and algae, but after a good downpour, we also have to contend with E. coli. It is a small comfort that water at city beaches is tested almost every day during the summer, mainly to prevent embarrassing public outbreaks that can be measured statistically. Minneapolis keeps a constant, publicly accessible tab on bacteria levels, which can be reviewed at its website, minneapolisparks.org. So far, our beaches have stayed generally clean and within EPA standards. Still, aside from the fact that we have less and less confidence in the EPA these days, we prefer to think that really acceptable levels of E. coli would be around—oh, about zero. If the east beach of Calhoun is closed due to high levels of fecal bacteria, how confident are you about the north beach? You just wanted to look at the hardbodies and windsurfers anyway, right?

The secret culprit is the lawns and driveways and patios of the city. Water quality is only as good as the local runoff. One of the reasons we can swim in city lakes at all is the prescient green belt that city fathers delineated around every lake. But toxins and muck still leech into the water. Why? It is not as if we intentionally route sewage into the water stream (anymore). Rather, it is because manmade structures and surfaces act like flumes, moving unfiltered odds and ends directly from lawn, garden, and driveway, where they are relatively harmless, into public waters, where they are not. (E. coli, by the way, is introduced primarily through neglected dog waste in your yard.) Incidentally, this is why outstate the Department of Natural Resources has nanny-state regulations that prohibit homeowners from building too close to the water. This is also why urban developers in the future must be required to install things like hedgerows and rooftop gardens. Water quality and clarity are closely linked, and urban runoff has a negative impact on our perception of both. Worse than that, by swimming after a hard rain, you may be endangering your health, just when you wish to preserve it from heat stroke. It is no great leap from swimming pool to lake to holding pond to sewage lagoon.

These days, jazz is rarely performed on a truly large scale, but the eighteen-piece Count Basie Orchestra isn’t really about these days. Basie’s orchestra (sans Basie, who died in 1984, in case you didn’t know) still swings, loudly and enthusiastically, keeping the music hot. And there appears to be no slowing down–this outfit still wins Grammys, writes songs, and even gets experimental, although the show relies heavily on the classic Basie songbook. Trombonist Bill Hughes, who originally worked with Basie in 1953, is the current director, and many of his musicians have histories with the Count or other luminaries of the jazz age. 612-371-5656; www.minnesotaorchestra.org.