Peter Beinart went quietly into the night as the editor of The New Republic, and no one noticed except David Carr, who is of course paid to notice such things. TNR has lapsed into almost complete irrelevance, along with the putative political party it was long associated with. In fact, if it is possible to be even less relevant and engaging and more conflicted than your typical mainstream Democrat, TNR managed to do it by dissassociating itself even from him. The new editor-in-chief, promoted from the ranks, is Franklin Foer. He says he looks forward to carrying TNR’s “momentum” forward, but considering the fact that the magazine has hemmoraged forty percent of its circulation in the last few years, and now prints fewer pages per issue than your typical government pamphlet, it’s not clear what momentum he is referring too, other than maybe the subtle force that carries us all inexorably to the same destination–our final resting place. The fact of the matter is that TNR needs what Stephen Glass once pretended to give the magazine–actual reported stories from the fringes of Americana that were damn fun to read. The world needs more humorless liberal armchair commentary about like it needs another Canary Island, so here’s hoping Frank Foer all good luck with a magazine that desperately needs some fire in the belly… like it had in the days of Rik Hertzberg, Michael Kelly, and even the waxen Michael Kinsley.
Month: February 2006
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This Planet of Dreams
Surely you’re aware that there are dreams all around you.
You’re moving through them everywhere you go. They’re on every block and corner of the city you live in, and flickering behind the curtains and shades up and down every street. Open the Yellow Pages of your local phone book –what is that if not a catalog of dreams?
And beyond or behind all of those dreams just blooming or being born are millions –tens of millions– of dreams that have not yet been recognized or realized, and dreams that are withering from neglect.
It boggles the mind how many things the human heart can invest itself in or wish for, the myriad directions in which it can be cast by hope (so seemingly arbitrary, so heedless, so often ridiculous).
How can the world contain so much longing? And how can any of us live surrounded by so much disappointment? How can we all be so blind and careless with our attention?
How many dreams might be salvaged if each of us spent a little more time thinking about how and where we were going to spend our money? Or even if we made the slightest effort to be more curious about the cities and neighborhoods we live in? If we would just poke around a little bit and notice all the little, sometimes out-of-the-way places that represent such brave investments, such modest dreams?
Because so many of those dreams can only be fully realized when they are embraced by others, when they are finally seen and recognized and nurtured by the attention of strangers.
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The Blah-Blah Cha-Cha-Cha
In this moment my body wants to evacuate my skin, rattle its bones, and, dancing, dream itself free. Or dreaming, dance itself free.
But my mind swings so wildly, and in this moment –a moment later– I feel like I am blindfolded, with a broken broomstick in my hands, flailing at a cement pinata.
Meanwhile, everything is huddled out there in the darkness, waiting for the truth. And terrified, of course, that it will be the awful truth.
It’s odd how the moon just disappears.
It’s not funny at all, really, how the night moves.
(Sits for a time, jangling his restless legs and staring numbly out the window at nothing in particular. Eventually is seized by a burst of what passes for inspiration at five o’clock in the morning.)
Allen’s appetite appeased, another appetizer appeared.
An apple almost appears arbitrary.
Aboard an aeroplane, accordianists amused an audience, almost all All-American acrobats and affirmative action adherents.
Ask anyone about Arnold; all agree.
At an art affair, Ashleigh acquired an admirer –an artist, actually, and athletic.
Acquiring acres as an accomplishment? Alas, all across America.
Nice try, but I can’t take that idea [sic] any further.
One last dubious revelation before I shut down this third-rate carnival: the best fishing is when you recognize that you’re both the fisherman and the fish.
Right now I just feel fished for.
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The Basic, The Fundamental, Aspirations
To be a good man.
To do no harm.
To see clearly.
To do my laundry.
To keep an open heart and mind.
To acknowledge my blessings, to share them.
To eat something.
To give away happiness even when I have little or none to spare.
To feel the pain of others.
To laugh at myself.
To turn down this racket.
To reach out.
To find the courage of my convictions.
To find an ottoman at a thrift store.
To recognize and speak the truth.
To be gentle.
To be fearless.
To allow myself to be known.
To clean the dog vomit out of the backseat of my car.
To listen.
To hear.
To forgive, and beg forgiveness.
To wake up and smell the coffee.
To call my mother.
To hope.
To dream.
To fucking sleep.
To believe in all the big, clumsy, impossible things.
To be merciful.
To be compassionate.
To either find the fingernail clipper or walk to Walgreen’s and buy a new one.
While I’m there to also buy some red licorice and a box of crayons.
To bite my tongue when to do so will spare someone pain or embarrassment.
To express gratitude.
To see beauty.
To pause, to wonder.
To take out the garbage.
To praise, to glorify.
To be whole.
To be holy.
To sacrifice, compromise, and comfort.
To finally go see fucking Brokeback Mountain, even if I have to go alone.
To reconsider.
To think carefully.
To change my mind.
To be a part.
To belong.
To drive like a bat out of hell.
To spend less time on the floor.
To alphabetize my record collection.
To love.
To be beloved.
We asked the captain what course
of action he proposed to take toward
a beast so large, terrifying, and
unpredictable. He hesitated to
answer, and then said judiciously:
“I think I shall praise it.”
—Robert Hass, from Praise
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SF Jazz Collective
Saxophonist Joshua Redman put together the SF Jazz Collective in 2004, and in two short years this ensemble has become one of the more adventurous and diverse jazz outfits working today. The roster includes hotshot New Orleans trumpeter Nicholas Payton, pianist Renee Rosnes, and vibraphonist Bobby Hutcherson, a man with one of the most eclectic and distinguished resumes in jazz; plus alto saxophonist Miguel Zen—n, bassist Matt Penman, and drummer Eric Harland. You’ll rarely get so many brilliant players together in one room, and their repertoire sprawls across jazz categories and generations. The collective has already made a couple of local visits to the Dakota, but this time out, a larger, more formal setting should give them the opportunity to really stretch out. 2128 4th St. S.; Minneapolis; 612-626-1892; www1.umn.edu/umato/
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Peninsula Malaysian Cuisine
This is not just another Asian place on a street lined with Asian places, as evidenced by the drink menu alone: Peninsula offers a refreshing green bean with grass jelly freeze and a smoothie made from durian, a spiky Southeast Asian fruit that has an odor reminiscent of very old gorgonzola. In fact, the entire menu challenges the palate with authentic but mostly very approachable Malaysian and Southeast Asian dishes, including lemongrass jumbo shrimp, roti (Indian pancakes), beef stew curry soup, clay pot soups, and crispy onion steamed duck. 2608 Nicollet Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-871-8282
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Place
Since Minnesota is not a noted home to the polar bear, one might wonder where the name White Bear Lake comes from. If you believe Mark Twain, it originated with an Indian legend. In his 1883 book, “Life on the Mississippi,” he tells of a Romeo and Juliet type romance between a Sioux maiden and a Chippewa brave. Because the lovers were from quarreling tribes, the story goes, they met secretly on an island in the lake, soon to be known as White Bear Lake. One day, as the brave approached in his canoe, he saw a giant white bear (perhaps an albino) mauling his girlfriend. He rushed to her rescue. “The warrior, with one plunge of the blade of his knife, opened the crimson sluices of death,” wrote Twain, “and the dying bear relaxed his hold.”
So impressed was the maiden’s father with the brave’s deed, that he gave the couple his blessing, and they lived happily ever after with the white bearskin on the floor of their home. The lake, the island, and the town-to-be, on the other hand, would be haunted by the bear’s spirit for all eternity. That’s why the legendary island is named Manitou, which translates from Ojibwa to mean “great spirit.” Sometimes, if you drive down County Road F, the bear can be spotted still, holding a Chevy sign in front of Polar Chevrolet/Mazda. It also occasionally appears as an ornament on neighborhood lawns.
As with many lakeside towns, White Bear Lake had its turn as a fashionable resort community in the late nineteenth century. But then, in the 1890s, the town fell out of favor with the leisure class and an anchored community sprang up. Rows of century-old mansions—once summer homes—still tower above the lakeshore, lending the city an air of import. Just twenty miles north of St. Paul, White Bear Lake has its share of stripmalls, fast food joints, and auto dealerships. But near the lake itself, there is still an old-fashioned, clustered downtown that’s quite pleasant. Next to such precious shops as the Avalon Tearoom, where one can get a macaroon with her cream tea, many old buildings are left in their shabby splendor.
The architecture downtown ranges from Alsatian half-timbering to squat, seventies-era plazas crowned by cedar shake shingles. There are the requisite faux limestone storefronts, of course, but it’s not uncommon to see one-hundred-year-old tin buildings either. The business mix is similarly patch-worked. White Bear Lake has the Twin Cities’ only parrot shop, a Bikram yoga studio, and a store called Needlepoint Cottage. Fifty-year-old Ciresi’s Liquor Store shares its beat-up brownstone with a relatively new Christian bookshop. Boxy, old Hollihan’s Pub looks fortress-like with its dark green façade. The saloon sits kitty corner from Washington Square Bar and Grill, a stylish restaurant and bar housed in an airy, Frank Lloyd Wright-style structure with a low-pitched roof and floor-to-ceiling windows. Here, just as in the old days, we find quarrelling cultures shaking hands.—Christy DeSmith
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Season of Swag
Goody bags are getting foisted upon the undeserving in staggering numbers these days. They reward sports fans, conventioneers, talk-show guests, and five-year-old birthday-party attendees. Celebrities, of course, gather oodles of loot throughout the winter awards season, from the Golden Globes and Grammys on up to the Oscars. We decided it’s time that our readers joined the fray, so we’re giving away a sampling of the swag that comes flowing into Rake World Headquarters every day. A Gift Consultant from our new RakeRewards™ program has cherry-picked goodies from every cubicle throughout the office, all of which will go to one lucky Rake reader. To get in the running, send us an anagram composed from one of the headlines in this issue of the magazine.* We’ll reward the author of the most inspired, creative, and/or insulting anagram with a delightful swag basket, containing:
• T-shirt wardrobe: The Rake, The MinneNAPolis Store,
and Nanny McPhee
• Blinking with Fists, poems by Billy Corgan
• Beijing 2008 baseball cap
• Rodney Yee “Yoga Remedies” videotape
• Rake mug
• Papa Roach concert DVD, Live & Murderous in Chicago
• Peace Coffee magnet
• Broaster Company “hen-pen”
• Vintage Yo! MTV Raps ProSet MusiCards
• Thymes Perfumed Body Crème
• Dick Enrico Collectors Edition Bobblehead
• Minnesota’s Capital: A Centennial Story
• Rudy! The People’s Governor
• 50 Ways You Can Show George the Door in 2004
• Bingo marker
• Miniature baby set in gel
• Jumbo roll of 3M Post-it Notes
• Apple Valley Theater ’98-’99 special edition
“Season of Fantasy” mug
• The Allure of the Cowboy, a customized “Torrid Romance” novel starring Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt
BONUS souvenir studded belt found in the fifth-floor
women’s bathroom*Send anagrams to contests (at) rakemag.com
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Thin Ice
Loyal collectors believed that Russell Kern was due for a revival. His dealer had kept faith; the right curators showed interest. But this was still the bad year that dear friends whispered about, the year Kern lost his wife in a car wreck, discharged a load of bird shot into a threatening shadow, burned a pile of drawings, unplugged the fax, and let his beard grow in a ragged, grey nimbus which was the first thing locals recalled about him—the silent fellow from down the road who forgot to leave his summer place when the leaves fell.
In truth, it hardly mattered where the painter resided that winter. Kern moved in the globe of his own despair, his sole detour to the Blue Moon Tavern—a swaybacked hall whose neon beer signs winked across an arm of the frozen lake. With trees bare, he could see the tavern from his hilltop studio. He was drawn there whenever the sun set—as much a fixture as the ripped vinyl stools and the pool table.
Most nights, a TV newsman mouthed silently in his box above the bar: a specter to counter the specters that the painter conjured at home. Kern needed such distractions. He needed them as much as he needed a drink, for in the months since sending his wife on her final errand—in the months since her car rolled, struck broadside at a rural crossing by a van full of bow hunters—in all that time, Merrill had clung to him, more now than in life. On that last day, he hadn’t bothered with farewells. He hadn’t turned from the canvas. Now he found Merrill everywhere: in the aria still cued on her CD player, in the blond strand he frantically brushed from his jacket, in the scent of her hand-milled French soap, accidentally pulled from a cluttered shelf, bathing him in the foulest regrets.
If Merrill never spoke, that only confirmed her presence, for she had always been quiet—cowed might be the better word—listening to Kern’s many theories, to all those views that now seemed as pointless as painting. Just a few months ago, he would have shared his opinions about the night’s news—and the newsman’s haircut; would have bitched about the bar room smoke and the stale beer smell of the carpet; would have tuned out the bartender’s Army stories and his chatter about the winter’s interminable length. But Kern kept things simple these days.
“Self-medicating,” he said, addressing the bartender. Kern repeated it nightly—the drink and the phrase—for he preferred the ritual to the beverage, sought the weight of the shot glass clasped in his bony fingers, and always returned the gaze of the barman, a blubbery Swede who crossed his arms and waited while his patient took a first sip.
“That’ll fix you, huh?”
Kern nodded and that was all, safely seated amid beeping poker machines and the bluster of pulp cutters and small-town mechanics. Left to himself, he studied the mirrored bar back as though it were another unresolved canvas. Why didn’t the welder notice when his wife squeezed another man’s arm? Who was the girl in the fake rabbit coat who ran to the bathroom in tears?
Kern looked at everyone: the drunks and big talkers, the women who frowned and those who displayed silver fillings whenever they laughed. Silent as bears, the Peterson twins padded around the pool table, calling shots by pointing their cues. A weasel-faced boy with acne scars jostled past an elderly birder, but the old man never spilled a drop, maintaining a posture as ramrod as the binoculars at his elbow. “Don’t let the door hit your ass,” he said. Beside him, three helmets held stools for downstate strangers—snowmobilers who had promptly hoofed to the jukebox in wet boots and coveralls.
After one such evening, after last call and a zigzag walk through the snow, Kern acted like any wounded animal. He slept through the March night in his paint-spattered studio chair, never stirring to note the dust that settled over him, the drool on his chin, the steady tick of the antique clock that had restarted without Merrill’s hand to wind it. Inured to all things mysterious—except sleep’s mysteries—Kern was spared the heart-thumping visits that so often woke him: the dreamy weight of Merrill’s warmth rolling against him in bed, the imagined creak of the hallway’s plank floor as she paused at the studio door.
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Trust But Verify & Serve With A Light Burgundy
A few weeks ago, Twin Citizen waking up to their coffee and toast were surprised to hear that one of our beloved local bakeries, the French Meadow, had been raided by federal agents. Was the French Meadow aiding and abetting terrorists with its awesome vegan lunch menu? Or was its name a tip-off to general anti-American sentiment and brioche? No, the feds seized thirty thousand loaves of bread. The problem, they said, was that it was mislabeled as “wheat-free” spelt bread. Spelt, they argued, is itself a species of wheat. Thus, according to the linguistics professionals at the Food and Drug Administration, spelt bread cannot be marketed as an alternative to wheat bread. It all turned out to be a bit of a misunderstanding, but it publicized an important and timely issue: As food and food marketing become more complex, how do we know for sure that we’re eating what they tell us we’re eating?
And it’s not just new-age foods for new-age allergies. In a manner of speaking, food labeling predates the Holy Bible. Last May, a few sharp-eyed customers in Super Target stores were no doubt surprised to see the little “OU” symbol on packages of pork tamales manufactured by St. Paul’s El Burrito Mercado food company. The OU symbol—it’s called the heksher in Yiddish—is affixed only to foods that are certified kosher by an organization of orthodox rabbis and professional food scientists. You don’t need to be a rabbi to know that a heksher on a pork tamale is farblondget (seriously screwed up).
Increasing numbers of people want to know precisely how their food is grown and processed. More than ever before, they see a trip to the grocery store as an opportunity to examine their diet and their values, and to practice a kind of consumer activism. They want food that jibes with their ethics, lifestyle, and dietary preferences; they may be worried about potential side effects of genetically modified organisms; they may wish to eat foods produced only in accordance with the current foodie zeitgeist. Perhaps they adhere to religious dietary requirements, or have any number of food allergies. And food producers today are answering the demand with a movement, a marketing angle, and a range of technologies. It is called “Identity-Preserved Processing.”
The modern food-supply chain is an amazing and efficient thing. A fresh hamburger at a local pub, for example, was probably still on the hoof less than seventy-two hours before landing on a bun on a plate in front of your lunch date. As accelerated as that history might be, it is nevertheless a history: Was the animal a two-year-old Angus steer, or was it a ten-year-old Holstein, retired after a long career as a high-butterfat milker? Under what conditions was it dispatched? How was it treated and what did it eat while it was alive? Did it receive antibiotics or hormones, and if so, what kind and how frequently? (Indeed, the provenance of beef is an especially developed science, thanks to the numerous bio-hazards such as E. coli and BSE that have evolved as a result of modern agri-business practices.)
There’s a history in your coffee mug as well. Although the sign on the air-pot behind the counter reads “Fair Trade Organic Ethiopian Sidamo,” how do you really know that it came from Ethiopia, much less that the coffee grower was paid a fair price for his effort? Or did the same guy who labeled the kosher pork tamale certify the coffee beans too?
According to Dr. George John, professor of marketing at the University of Minnesota’s Carlson School of Management, a sizeable international trend is under way. That idea is to take traditional food commodities—non-specialized, mass-produced items like wheat, corn, hamburger, milk—and de-commoditize them, not by adding features or changing the taste, but by identifying and preserving information about the way in which they were made and processed. Since verification of this information naturally becomes key, particularly to the end user, identity-preserved processing portends a revolution in food marketing. (Coincidentally, this is happening at the same moment that non-commodities like accounting and journalism are being commoditized and outsourced to call centers in India.)
The process of kosher designation is an illustrative example, but the real glamour and profit margins of IPP are more easily observed at work in the world of fine wine. The alpha example of IPP, says John, is the value that quality vintners extract from their wine labels. “With wines,” he said, “especially European wines, there have always been geographic appellations. Unless a wine is grown in the right area, you can’t call it a Burgundy.
“Now that companies have the ability to preserve identity in other areas of agriculture, they sense that IPP is going to be the big marketing opportunity going forward, because agriculture wants to become less commodity oriented.” John explained that if you take a regular worldwide commodity like coffee or cocoa and you start emphasizing its provenance, you begin not only to distinguish it from all the other commodities in its category, but also to insulate it from general market fluctuations. “The commodity prices have crashed, so instead producers try to differentiate themselves. How do they do that? By micro-branding commodity products on the basis of geography, micro-climate, ancestry of the seed, and other non-observable traits.”
To do this, producers need some way to track and trace products throughout the maze of farmers, processors, transporters, and retailers that make up the food-supply chain. It’s that sort of micro-branding—not just red wine, not just Burgundy, but the detail provided down to the vineyard, the grape variety, and the year the grapes were harvested—that makes fine wines so different and so much more profitable than other goods.
“Based on new technologies coming on line within the food-production industry,” said John, “it is now possible to provide consumers conceivably everything they could ever want to know about the way the food on their plate was grown, processed, and cooked.”