Year: 2005

  • 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.”

  • Pinot Noir for Picnics

    How I hate modern motor roads. Come let me count the ways. First there is the intimate shame of personal inadequateness. I know my reactions while driving are not swift enough to be safe at fifty-five miles per hour—in fact, they are unsafe at any speed, as my family says. All too often I will barrel up Highway 100 (Highway 100 is the worst), having missed my turn, heading unwillingly for Manitoba, and knowing that the only solution to my plight is to barrel right on down it again. Heraclitus knew a thing or two; the way up and the way down are one and the same, and they are equally terrifying.

    Then there are the other idiots, whose reactions are surely no swifter, but who lack the self-knowledge to admit it. These are the ones who drive as though the rapture has already occurred, or at least as though they have lost all fear of death. (In case of rapture, can I have your car?) Other folk suffer from what the amiable Augustine termed superbia and the late and somewhat less amiable Andrea Dworkin called phallocentricity (sed de mortuis nil nisi binkum).

    These include the sort of tow-truck operator, from what is so aptly named a wrecker service, who can blithely remove your car from its appointed parking space without cause in the middle of the night (and in serious contravention of the Fourth Amendment protection against search and seizure), and heave it down the highway to a fastness on the far side of Lyndale, whence it is released after a whole day spent on the telephone, with the barest minimum of apology.

    I suppose I should be thankful that American drivers are at least predictable. If the other idiots are British, things are twice as bad; the way that my fellow countrymen demonstrate their wit and originality by tailgating on the M4 at seventy-plus miles per hour is enough (in the expression of my father, a medical man) to cause a rush of cold faeces to the left ventricle.

    But worse than the horrors of driving on them are the effects of freeways on the countryside that they carve up, the way they turn the ups and downs of a real journey into a blind swoosh of naked concrete. Imagine, then, my joy to find recently, returning from delivering a lecture in the deep south (that is, halfway to Iowa), that it is possible to pick one’s way across the landscape on one of the original roads of Minnesota. This particular road has its origins in an Indian trail stabilized in 1853 by navigators under a militia officer called Dodd. Little is known about Captain Dodd, but he liked a drink and lies buried in the churchyard of the Episcopal Church in St. Peter (where three or four are gathered together, so Episcopalians say, you will always find a fifth).

    It took the gallant captain and his crew a whole Minnesota road-building season (the time of year elsewhere known as summer) to build the Dodd Road. In some places, alas, the fruit of their labors has been turned into six-lane highway; elsewhere, in some southern suburbs, it is pleasingly bordered by McMansions and the sort of lawns that seem to imitate Astroturf. (When will this happy landscape find its Betjeman?) Yet there are stretches where Dodd Road is a real country lane with grit, ditches, and dandelions. I look forward to teasing further reaches of this thoroughfare out of the Minnesota terrain—it will be quite like looking for Roman roads at home.

    Not least among the joys of the jolly film Sideways were its roadside vistas, particularly those with vines marching up and down the California hills. More so than any of its human characters, this film’s truly Big Star, as far as the wine trade is concerned, is the Pinot Noir grape. All of the ambient publicity ensured that this variety, the grape from which the famous red wines of burgundy have been made since the Middle Ages, became the next grape that everyone wants to drink, following in the wake of White Zinfandel, Chardonnay, and Merlot.

    There is a snag. Pinot Noir is hard to grow; not all of it turns into wine as grand as the great vintages of Burgundy. It may well be as mellow as Merlot (and a lot mellower than Cabernet Sauvignon), but it can sometimes lack body. Allow me, then, to recommend a real pleasure, Mark West Central Coast Pinot Noir 2003, a pellucid red made by people who have long specialized in this variety. Costing just around ten dollars locally, it has a fruity flavor leading to a taste of black pepper and then to a rising aroma of elderflowers (the fresh ones you smell by the roadside, not the more sugary sensations of elderflower cordial). It gave tomato and basil soup an added mileage ingredient. And the following morning, the little that was left over had a noble structure, even after the more evanescent scents had evaporated. Take some along on a summer picnic.

  • Pickled Tink

    How is it that so many of us draw no association between the salty, crunchy tidbits from Granny’s relish tray and fresh cucumbers that came from the earth? Is it possible to get so far away from a once-common practice that we no longer even recognize the result? Pickling used to be a seasonal activity that families undertook to ensure a decent food supply once the growing season was over. Generations gathered around a harvest and, using age-old recipes, created a tradition. Balancing salt levels, choosing spices, painstakingly cleaning and processing jar after jar—all of this was simply assumed to be necessary for survival. Now there’s no need to pickle; when it gets cold, we go to Arizona. So it is that another domestic art falls by the wayside, while companies who can do it faster and cheaper—if not necessarily better—take on production.

    So stands our relationship with pickles, whether you have a lonesome jar lurking in the back of your Frigidaire, with one or two thick greenies bobbing in their murky water ever since who knows when, or whether you excitedly grab a jar at the market and bring it home to three other jars that you were once equally excited about. Nevertheless, there is a level of pickle passion that runs deep in this country, even in our own state. For proof, one need only visit the Creative Activities building at the State Fair to see that the pickle-packing process has been passed on to a new generation. What drives someone to willingly spend hours up to their elbows in brine, cramming jars with cucumbers and closely guarded spice mixtures and briny liquids? They must share something with the alchemists of legend, turning what is plain and ordinary into gustatory gold. Moreover, this passion for pickles is not limited to state and country fairgrounds. Boutique brands and innovative pickling practices are surfacing in the food world, on stylish shelves and restaurant kitchens around the country. For as long as pickling has been going on, there is no other renaissance more deserved.

    Cleopatra believed that pickles contributed to her legendary health and beauty, while Julius Caesar found them invigorating, if you know what I mean. The men who built the Great Wall of China sustained energy for their long workdays by snacking on pickled cabbage. Pickles found their way to the New World with Columbus, as they were known to last for long journeys and, like the more commonly known but also far more perishable citrus fruits, to help prevent scurvy. (By the way, the businessman who stocked Columbus’ ship with said pickles dreamed of becoming an explorer himself and leaving his pickle-packing days behind. Amerigo Vespucci would eventually realize his dream and be the first pickle man to have a continent named in his honor.)

    When we say “pickles” in the United States, we most often are referring to pickled cucumbers, whereas for the Brits, it’s pickled onions. Gherkins, or cornichons as the French call them, are simply immature, midget cukes that have been pickled. But there’s a vast world of pickles beyond cucumbers and onions. Koreans pickle cabbage to make kimchi; you’ll find pickled duck eggs in China and herring (sil) in Scandinavia. Japan’s astounding array of misos are basically pickled soybeans. Peter Piper had nothing on the Italians when it came to pickling peppers, and American colonists had a grand old time pickling everything from beans to mushrooms and asparagus to get them through the winters.

    While the choice of food to be pickled is nearly unlimited, it is the process that calls for exactitude. Pickling may be one of the trickiest forms of canning. The journey from raw food to skillfully flavored and preserved delicacy is seldom recognized as the art form that it is. At its most basic, pickling a vegetable (or some other food—pigs’ feet, say, or salmon) in an acidic, biting liquid—either brine or vinegar—kills off the “bad” bacteria that makes food rot. This may sound simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to do. Those who decide to join the elite order of picklers must be prepared for a long journey to perfection. The type of solution, the addition of herbs and spices, the amount of soaking time, and even the temperature of the room will all have an effect on the final product. These variable elements impact the process of curing, during which colors and flavors will change as acidity increases. Not all pickles go through a rigid fermentation process, however. Fresh-pack or quick-process pickles (as in the recipe here) use an initially high-acidity vinegar or brine solution to preserve the food.

    Maybe that dual nature of the process is the thrill that is driving the food-obsessed to rediscover pickles. In one sense, pickling poses a challenge for would-be kitchen masters, and yet Granny did just fine, so it can’t be too hard, can it? Another factor to consider is how the pickle, with its longstanding reputation as a plain-Jane food, is just ripe for glamorization, like a sweet Norma Jean Baker waiting for someone to unleash her inner Marilyn.

    Sure enough, chefs and artisans have responded with jalapeno-lemon pickles, red-hot cinnamon cukes, saffron-infused pickled asparagus, and pickled beets in rosemary brine. Rick’s Picks, one of the new faces in the pickle game, has concocted what it calls Windy City Wasabeans—green beans in a soy-wasabi brine. The Indiana-based Sechler’s is raising eyebrows with sweet pickled orange and lemon peels, and Mad Pat’s Hot Fire & Ice Pickles start out with a hint of sweetness but end with a habanero-worthy burn. Locally, the 112 Eatery and Tryg’s both offer zesty house-made pickles on their charcuterie plates, a natural setting for pickles (as a snappy starter, pickles aid in the digestion of other foods). Stella’s Fish Café has overnight pickles as a side dish, a prime opportunity to shun the carbohydrates and grease of fries and crunch into some salty freshness instead.

    Since future grannies will be more likely to teach their progeny about spreadsheets and conference-calling than pickling and canning, the practice will be left to enthusiasts of all types who seek it out and make it their own. Be they chefs, small-batch artisans, or gardeners overwhelmed by a bumper crop of snaky cucumbers, those who excel at the art of pickling will most likely find it addictive.

    112 Eatery 112 Third St. N., Minneapolis;
    612-343-7696; www.112eatery.com
    Tryg’s 3118 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-920-7777; www.trygs.com
    Stella’s Fish Cafe & Prestige Oyster Bar 1400 W. Lake St., Minneapolis, 612-824-8862; www.stellasfishcafe.com
    Rick’s Picks 212-358-0428; www.rickspicksnyc.com
    Sechler’s www.gourmetpickles.com
    Mad Pat’s Hot Stuff www.madpatshotstuff.com

    Zippy Refrigerator Pickles

    12 pickling cucumbers
    2 cups water
    13/4 cups cider vinegar (at least 5% acidity)
    11/2 cups packed coarsely chopped fresh dill
    8 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
    1 cup finely chopped red onion
    11/2 T coarse salt
    1 tsp. mustard seed
    1 tsp. crushed bay leaves
    1/2 tsp. turmeric
    11/2 tsp. fennel seeds
    1 tsp. dried crushed red pepper

    Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Stir, let stand at room temperature two hours until salt dissolves. Transfer four cucumbers to each of three sterilized 11/2-pint wide-mouth jars. Pour pickling mixture over to cover. You may wish to place a few dill sprigs in each jar. Cover jars with lids and close tightly. Refrigerate for a minimum of seven days; go ten days for real zippiness. Pickles will stay crispy-fresh for about two months. Keep refrigerated. Makes three 11/2-pint jars.

  • You Are What You Meat

    The little tag on a tray of Smart Chicken brand breasts at the Byerly’s
    meat counter said, “One hundred percent vegetarian-fed chicken.” Does
    this mean the Bush administration has finally found a use for all those
    pesky, liberal vegetarians? Or does it mean I might somehow obtain by
    proxy some vegetarian virtue from the animal that will sustain my
    carnivorous vice?

    Fortunately, the people at Smart Chicken are eager to say what value is
    added to poultry when animal products are subtracted from their diets.
    Yes, there is much waxing sentimental about “land stewardship” and
    “birds raised free range with access to fresh air and sunlight.” But
    vegetarian feed for the animals is mostly promoted as part of the
    basket of consumer health benefits, along with antibiotic- and
    hormone-free organic production methods. These claims include lower
    rates of salmonella and camphelobacter contamination in addition to
    preservation of “natural flavors.”

    And, of course, there’s the issue of those little brain-eating proteins
    called prions.The most notorious prion is the one that causes bovine
    spongiform encephalopathy, mad cow disease. BSE was introduced to the
    human food chain via cows that had been raised on feed enriched with
    sheep brains infected with a prion. British cattle acquired BSE,
    passing it along to about two hundred beef consumers in the form of
    variant Cruetz-feld-Jakob disease.

    Statistically, prions are a very rare encounter, not much more
    dangerous to the general public than standing between a TV camera and
    Michael Osterholm. But prion expert Will Houston admits they “stimulate
    the imagination.” Houston also pointed out that “risk” is tricky to
    assess; likelihood of infection can be very low, while outcome if
    infected can be catastrophic. Houston went to Great Britain to
    investigate BSE in 1991 for the U.S. Agriculture Department and is now
    the director of the Center for Animal Health and Food Safety at the
    University of Minnesota. He generously supplied a number of prion facts
    that justify their unusual grip on our attention. “They aren’t sexy,”
    he confessed when asked what they look like. “They look kind of like a
    twist tie.” But they can’t be destroyed with cooking the way most
    pathogens can. One reason is that they are not alive in the first
    place; they are just protein. They can also withstand temperatures of
    up to one thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

    Of course, the real attention-getter is what the prions actually do to
    their unwilling host. They don’t make copies of themselves, like
    viruses, Houston explained. “A prion is more like a domino effect. We
    all have normal prion proteins in our brains. When that abnormal-shaped
    protein encounters a normal-shaped protein, it converts it. The body
    can’t recycle the abnormal-shaped proteins and they accumulate into
    amyloid plaques.” The plaques then make holes in the brain. Centers for
    Disease Control descriptions of symptoms include “seizure, depression,
    appetite loss, ataxia, aphasia, combative behavior, memory loss, and
    coma.” Prion disease is untreatable and fatal.

    Producers of vegetarian-raised meats do not currently promote claims of
    prion safety with their products. But Mark Haskins, founder and chief
    executive of MBA/Smart Chicken, believes that especially in the case of
    poultry products, demand is partly driven by BSE fears. “I believe the
    consumer has become very discerning in the marketplace,” Haskins told
    me. “They know that the BSE challenge has come from animal proteins.”
    This sentiment was echoed by Ed, a meat-counter staffer working at the
    Wedge Co-op when I stopped by. “We have a very well-educated
    clientele,” he said, and other staff confirmed that “mad cow” is much
    on the minds of meat shoppers there.

    But prions appear to be getting educated, too. Deer and elk now appear
    to exchange the chronic wasting disease prion without the intermediary
    step of eating each other, leading to concerns about potential contact
    with farm animals. “If such transmissions were to occur,” states a 2004
    CDC study, “passage of the agent through a secondary host could alter
    its infectious properties, increasing its potential for becoming more
    pathogenic to humans.” Hopefully, smart, free-range chickens will read
    the memo: Don’t hang around the elk.—Joe Pastoor

  • Random Blackouts

    One Sunday evening in June, three regular guys are settled into a
    corner of the bar at Figlio in Uptown, within spitting distance of one
    of the room’s three flat-screen televisions. On the tube: men’s beach
    volleyball on Fox Sports.

    My friend and I plant ourselves across from them, armed with a stealthy
    little device that hangs from my keychain and looks vaguely like a
    Batman toy or a keyless entry fob. Invented by a forty-eight-year-old
    guy named Mitch Altman, TV-B-Gone can turn off almost any television,
    anywhere. However, it doesn’t seem to be working today on the TV
    hanging from the ceiling just ten feet away—or on any of the bar’s
    other large, looming monitors. As a result, TV-Was-Still-Here, and I
    gave the gadget to the guys to try. It didn’t work for them, either,
    but their curiosity was piqued.

    “Who would come up with something like this?” asked one, incredulous.

    Perhaps, I suggested, an antisocial person who doesn’t approve of
    television. “Well, that person shouldn’t be allowed in public,” he
    replied.

    I asked the guys if they would have been upset if the device had
    actually blacked out the beach volleyball game. Even though they’d been
    devoting only occasional glances to the game, they agreed that its
    sudden absence would have been irksome. “I don’t have this channel at
    home,” one of them said.

    In another corner of the bar, there was one remaining TV I hadn’t tried
    to zap. It was an older model on which a 60 Minutes broadcast had just
    started. I walked across the bar casually, keeping TV-B-Gone out of
    sight at waist level (shooting from the hip, as it were). I hit the
    button, and the TV went dark. No one seemed to notice.
    Back in our corner of the bar, the guys cheered. When I sat down again,
    they confessed they were beginning to think I’d made up the whole thing
    about TV-B-Gone and was just using the gadget to pick up men—a
    corollary activity for which it actually seems to work moderately well.
    (Though wouldn’t that make it—ahem—a turn-on?)

    Rachel, a young woman seated next to me, said, “My ex-boyfriend used to
    watch TV in public all the time. Whenever we went out. It’d be just the
    two of us and he’d be staring at the TV. I go out to socialize. It
    drove me crazy.” She gestured at her Argentine boyfriend, Ozzy. “That’s
    why you have to date someone from another country. He doesn’t care,”
    she said. Ozzy said he would care if it were a soccer game. “If you
    went to a bar in Argentina during a soccer game and shut off the TV,”
    he said, “people would go crazy.”

    Angering sports fans seems to be one of TV-B-Gone’s easiest and most
    cruel amusements. The day before, at Billy’s on Grand in St. Paul, my
    friend and I had walked onto the patio, where the bartender and several
    of the waitstaff were engrossed in the second game of a Twins-Yankees
    series, their backs to the restaurant. I aimed from the hip and one of
    the bar’s two outdoor televisions went out. The bartender’s head
    snapped around as if someone had fired a shot from the grassy knoll. I
    had never seen fury erupt so quickly. He scanned the patio patrons and
    the peripheral bushes for snipers (no one ever suspects the blond) and
    finally turned the set back on warily.

    Seated inside, I turned off the big-screen TV above our table. And
    though there were three other televisions still on, a twenty-something
    dude nearby screeched, “What the—? Shit!” as his wafer-thin girlfriend
    continued nibbling at her salad and baked potato. The waiter scratched
    his head and went looking for the remote control.

    Inciting public riots, as it turns out, is not the inventor’s
    intention. A self-described former television addict, Altman invented
    TV-B-Gone in the first place “so I’d have one for me.” For the record,
    he never turns off a TV that people are actually watching. Instead, he
    says he takes aim at those televisions tucked in the corners of
    laundromats and hovering over bar stools, those boob tubes that are
    adding only noise or silent yet distracting images to the atmosphere.
    “Even people who love television don’t like to have toothpaste sold to
    them during dinner,” Altman told me. His original inspiration came
    about twelve years ago when he was out with some friends and noticed
    that they all, at various times, were distracted from conversation by a
    nearby television. Altman admitted that if he’s out in public and a
    television is on, “There’s no way I can stop looking at it. We’re all
    helpless in the face of it.” He laughed.

    TV-B-Gone’s arrival on the market was greeted with a frenzy of media
    coverage, and the initial inventory sold out in two days. After almost
    a year, people have purchased nearly fifty thousand of the
    feather-light zappers. “You could easily go to an electronics store and
    buy a universal remote,” said Altman when I asked about any legal
    issues regarding “tampering” with private property. “This is just a
    little more stealthy.”

    Back at Figlio, a very tall man who’d joined our conversation decided
    to take matters into his own hands. He got up and turned off the
    flat-screen TV the old-fashioned way: by pushing the power button. No
    one seemed to notice or care. And though 60 Minutes’ hour was up long
    ago, that TV was still dark, too. Something even Andy Rooney might find
    amusing.—Shannon Olson

  • No Mas

    Okay, honest to God, that’s just about enough of this nonsense. I believe we’ve reached the point where the bump in the road has officially turned into a rut, and it’s damn hard to explain what’s happening to this team right now.

    This is one of those times where you could point your finger in just about any direction in the Minnesota clubhouse and you’d be looking at somebody deserving of a share of the blame for this stretch of sustained wretchedness. It’s especially painful to be reminded of what a miserable game and utter waste of time baseball can be.

    Under the happiest of circumstances baseball requires a ridiculous time commitment from the serious fan –a game like tonight’s, for instance: let’s say you got down to the Dome at five o’clock for the virtuous Admission Possible picnic; then you sat through nine excruciating innings in which the Twins managed just five hits and two runs against Detroit’s Jeremy Bonderman, and Kyle Lohse got the snot knocked out of him by the Tigers.

    It was an ugly game all around, a well-rounded exercise in futility, yet dispatched in a mercifully brief two hours and thirty-eight minutes. Still, that’s almost five hours carved out of your life right there. By the time you got to your car, negotiated your way out of downtown, and got home it was probably 10:30. Presumably you worked today as well, and it was a weeknight.

    If you’re a serious fan, though, you likely tuned into Baseball Tonight or checked out the internet when you got home to see how the White Sox did (they won again, of course, behind another splendid performance from Jon Garland, stretching their lead in the Central to a truly dispiriting nine games).

    So: You just buried seven or eight hours of your day in a hole in the ground; you’ll never get a single minute of any of those hours back, and, with the exception of the pleasant and inspiring prelude of the Admission Possible event, you don’t have a single fond memory to show for your evening.

    You can’t even begin to imagine how exhausting this sort of thing must be for the players, who got to the ballpark hours before you did and had to drive home through deserted streets long after you departed. You’d think, though, that it must be very exhausting.

    And you certainly hope they’re as tired of it as you are.