The Rake Magazine

Month: February 2006

  • Thing

    There was a time, not that long ago really, when a lonely and obsessive-compulsive man, unable to sleep, might have spent hours on his hands and knees, raking and grooming the floors of his apartment with his fingers, venturing into corners and hard-to-reach places to gather handfuls of hair, dust, random miniature tumbleweeds, and wispy nests of inexplicable origin. From this material he might, depending on his level of boredom and stupor, create a series of small, reeking ashtray fires that would be moderately fascinating, if not quite entirely amusing.

    A fellow could easily be defeated by the eternally circulating dander and fluff of this world, by the mysteries of its origins, production, and composition: Where exactly does this stuff come from, and why is there so much of it? How could one man, a man who is in no way even remotely hirsute, shed so much pubic hair, and cast it into so many unlikely places?

    These are all preoccupying questions, questions for which some scientist might provide a satisfactory answer. I am not a scientist. I do not have any satisfactory answers. I can tell you, though, that thanks to the wonders of the Swiffer—a gizmo I adore above all other gizmos—my obsession with monitoring and addressing the ceaseless moldering of my existence and my private space has a new, healthier, more graceful and dignified, and certainly more efficient focus. Swiffing, I have discovered, is great fun, and when you Swiff as aggressively and obsessively as I do (and sweat as copiously as I often do while Swiffing) there are also, I think, aerobic benefits to the activity. The Swiffer is an ideal dance partner, or the perfect companion for a plodding, meditative trance. It’s also already earned its own Wikipedia entry, which I intend to embellish when I manage to actually pull myself away from Swiffing for a time.

    Perhaps you are one of the several dozen poor souls who remain in the dark about the Swiffer, one of the great modern marvels of design and utility. In which case, there clearly is something wrong with you, and in all likelihood you are living in filth. Also, there is really no excuse for your ignorance. The Swiffer is cheap, plastic, and snappy as all get out. It is easy to assemble and even easier to use. It is a magic wand disguised as a sort of stylish mop. The secret to the Swiffer’s genius is its disposable “electrostatic cloths,” each of which is, according to the Procter & Gamble packaging, “textured with deep, V-shaped ridges to trap and lock dirt, dust, hair, and even crumbs.”

    The true Swiffer aficionado knows these electrostatic cloths are reversible, which means you can use the things twice. I’m amazed so many Swiffing enthusiasts don’t know this already. The pleasure of this discovery had nothing to do with frugality and everything to do with confirming that there are still parts of my brain capable of analytical function. The cloths can also, of course, be used as simple and effective handheld dust rags, to clean household items and reach places the Swiffer cannot, although there are very few places the Swiffer cannot reach. I routinely Swiff my walls and ceilings, for instance.

    The “Swiffer family” has now grown to include the Swiffer WetJet, the Super Swiffer, and the Swiffer Sweep & Vac, but I don’t know anything about these recent innovations. I’m more than happy with the basic model, which has transformed my life and provided me with hours of nocturnal enjoyment. I find the compulsion to Swiff is strongest in the small hours, when I am most keenly aware of the impossible battle against dirt and disorder. In those moments, gliding alone around my apartment, I find that the silence of the Swiffer, or rather, its calming, rhythmic sibilance, is perhaps its ultimate virtue in this noisy and degraded world.—Brad Zellar

  • Spain

    Nate Maddux and Mary Schwarz (Minneapolis) introduced the locals of Ronda, one of Spain’s southern “pueblos blancos”, to The Rake over a glass of sherry and some tapas…seen here perched above the town’s old arabic bridge spanning the 300 foot-deep Tajo Gorge.

    The Andalusian town, about an hour north of the Mediterranean, was one of the last to fall during the Reconquista. It was taken from the muslims in 1485 AD, shortly before the king and queen expelled everyone but the Christians (and in doing so, much of the intellectual capital) from the peninsula.

    “Ronda was the inspiration for Hemingway’s violent tenth chapter in ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’…the views from the cliff walls are pretty inspirational for something like that. Dizzying. ”

    Nate Maddux and Mary Schwarz

  • Scotland and England

    Melanie and Patrick of NE Minneapolis write: This picture is from our fantastic honeymoon through Scotland & England. Here we were enjoying the history & views of Rosslyn Chapel, which everyone knows by now is featured in The DaVinci Code. The chapel is ornate and
    entirely made of stone; and it’s location on the hillside suggests there could be something buried below it. Sadly Tom & Ron were not there while we were visiting, but they along with a Hollywood size film crew had invaded this tiny town of Midlothian just outside of Edinburgh only a couple weeks earlier.

    Melanie and Patrick Gilbert

  • Kevin Phillips

    The ingenious inventions and dazzling artifacts left to us by the fallen superpowers of millennia past cannot help but raise the question, “What went wrong?” Ancient Rome, China, Britain, and other countries have enjoyed a few shining centuries in the sun, only to sink into the shadows of subservience and mediocrity when another region took over. For many decades, the top dog has been the United States, but Kevin Phillips sounds a dire warning. Our time is almost up, if the lessons of the past are to be trusted. In this fascinating analysis, he pinpoints four factors behind the downfall of every major world power in history: global overreach, radical religion, resource problems, and ballooning debt. Sound familiar? 3225 W. 69th St., Edina; 952-920-0633

  • Person

    “I never had a business dream,” admitted Dave Kapell, founder of Minneapolis-based Magnetic Poetry Inc. “I aspired to be a starving artist.”

    In 1993, he was a thirty-year-old musician struggling to write song lyrics in his living room. He picked up a newspaper. He picked up a pair of scissors. He picked up adhesive, magnetic tape, and a pie tin. In the space of an afternoon, he had created Magnetic Poetry, which would, within three years, earn something like six million dollars. “The thing that happens when people see words bump up against each other; it takes their brains to a completely weird place they never would have gone.”

    Kapell’s brain has no problem going to completely weird places. His office in Northeast Minneapolis looks like a cross between an artist’s studio and a toy store, and it suits him perfectly. Hardwood floors sparkle beneath warehouse walls alternately painted bright yellow and sea-foam green. Directly across from the front door, huge black-and-white magnets spell out things like “ask / his / behind / for / sizzle / time,” “long days / are not blue,” and “my music plays / a sad & sweet / symphony of life.”

    Perched on the edge of his desk-chair, Kapell gestured toward his shiny red violin. “I took my first violin lesson on 9/11. What a bizarre day that was. My teacher was this elderly woman who was sort of rigid in her ways, you know. And I walked in and had to convince her to turn on the TV.”

    He pulled a ukulele out from behind a potted plant. “Music started for me with my mom. She used to do tours to Hawaii back in the fifties—it had just become a state—and she’d wear this grass skirt and teach people ukulele songs. She taught them to me when I was really young; the ukulele’s great for small hands.”

    These days, Kapell’s hands are busy building featherweight canoes. “I wanted to build a fiddle,” he explained. But after outfitting his “creative lab” with woodworking tools, Kapell decided to begin with something simpler. “It’s a similar process … you build molds, and stretch the wood over the mold.”

    After one canoe, Kapell was hooked. He built one for his wife. He built one for his son. And then he built another so his son could bring a friend. Kapell’s single-person canoes look like topless mahogany kayaks. On one, a small wooden block attached to the bottom houses a unique Kapell accessory: a cello string. “You’re in the middle of a lake, and you pull it taut and pluck it, or use a bow … it vibrates the whole boat.”—Julie Bates

  • Rake Appeal { Fashion

    The spring collections usually lend levity to our wardrobe, but this year, that’s not necessarily the case. Many of the season’s prettiest party dresses and tissue tops are coming fully loaded with all manner of heavy metal hardware. Surely you noticed such chains, charms, pendants, and toggles stitched onto last season’s winter things. Now the gossamer fabrics of spring—the chiffon, the linen, the silk—must also bear this burden of alloy. We were wondering how the featherweights might hold up, until, at one of the Twin Cities’ most exclusive boutiques, we spotted a light cotton neckline drooping with bullet casings.

    This metal fetish is not so surprising, of course. We’ve had years of frothy gauze, ribbons, ruffles, and lace. Gold, nickel, and bronze seem only

    a natural progression. But if trend reports are to be believed, the fashion capitals are growing tired of such fripperies, and design houses will be circling back to nineties-style minimalism shortly. A few designers are applying pleats and bandaging to shirts and dresses, offering angular contrast to all the curlicue finishes we’ve grown accustomed to. Pantsuits aren’t far behind.

    Yet there’s no shortage of femininity in the spring fashions. Openwork crochet; skirts and dresses in layered mesh; frayed edges; elaborate, almost Elizabethan collars; and floppy, over-sized bows play the season’s other central characters. Vibrant colors inspire a bounce in our step as we slog through winter’s lingering slush in the strappy wedge heels we simply can’t wait to wear. The indication is that rich hues have drained from the palette as of late, in favor of so-called “naturals” and “organics.” However,

    if you insist on contrasting with your muddied, Minnesota-in-March surroundings, as we do, then you’ll favor apple greens, intense yellows, and azures as well as flamboyant, African-style florals

    and kimono-inspired acetates.

    These are the insurgents against white, buff, and nude.

    For most of us upper Midwesterners, occasions that would compel us to slip into that Monique Lhuillier daffodil dress (pictured at left) are rare. Still, there’s good reason why Lhuillier, the Beverly Hills designer whose creations for autumn 2006 caused a modest ripple at New York’s Fashion Week last month, chose to open her second-ever boutique at Fiftieth and France. The two-year-old shop is known for its wedding gowns. But the perennially single will admire her long, bias-cut dresses, done up in an array of cheerful colors and botanical prints.

    There are other places to fortify your optimism for Twin Cities fashion; they include Alfred’s Grand Petit Magasin, the Bergdorf Goodman-inspired department store in Edina; the downtown Minneapolis Neiman Marcus (of course); stalwart clothiers Grethen House, in Edina, and Bumbershute, in Wayzata; and some of the new boutiques that have been popping up like crocuses around the metropolitan area: Stephanie’s in Highland Park; Ivy in Uptown;

    and Ensemble in Linden Hills,

    to name a few.

    For the beaus, designers have been thinking Rio de Janeiro, rolled-up trousers, and Panama hats. Of course, most area gents will ignore such impressions, adhering to a Twin Citizen’s night-on-the-town uniform:

    a vertically striped dress shirt, often left untucked over distressed jeans or fresh black denim. Note how this favorite look can be updated with simple, bold strokes—and we’re not talking straight up-and-down strokes, mind you. The Italian label Etro, for example, offers adventurous alternatives to such inveterate preppiness with classic-cut shirts in easy floral prints. No pansies here! These shirts lend their wearers a look of sophisticated courage.

    —Christy DeSmith

  • In The Mailbag

    We were expecting a bag-full of complaints for our slightly racy cover last month, but none arrived. Several readers, like Dave and Dave, did ask which of our staff members posed for the nudey photos, and we’re not telling. Thanks, too, to Dan, Joan and a couple others (see letters above) for pointing out that psoriasis is not, in fact, contagious.

    Send along your own rakish reflections to: letters@rakemag.com. But please remember: We assume submissions are intended for publication, and we cannot return materials sent by mail. (Don’t send valuable originals!) Letters may also be edited for length and clarity.

  • And Now This

    The King was widely regarded as a complete jackass: a foolish man who traded his Kingdom and his wondrous gifts for a chain of muffler shops.

    The Queen had left him immediately, and was followed in short order by his retinue (for he had, in fact, once had a retinue). A few desperate and greasy palace cooks and a handful of stable hands were all that remained of his old life, and these characters he depended on to do his dirty work. There was always much dirty work to be done around the muffler shops.

    Who knows where the muffler idea came from? The King himself didn’t have the foggiest notion anymore. All he could remember was that he’d been drunk one night on a riverboat casino, so drunk that he’d not only seemingly lost his magic touch but had apparently abused even the privileges of a king, and he’d been forcibly removed from the boat for urinating in a public drinking fountain.

    When he eventually sobered up in a Dubuque hotel room he had the realization that he’d lost all interest in being King. Even the gold business had become tiresome to him; when you could turn everything you touched into gold, gold entirely lost all significance and value. The whole formal world of the court bored him to tears. He hated all that ridiculous velvet and the snug knickers and, especially, the strange and foppish hats he always seemed to find himself wearing.

    When he found himself penniless in Dubuque he was pleased to discover that he felt absolutely nothing in the way of desperation or regret. If anything, in fact, he experienced something that felt almost like serenity.

    Who knows? Perhaps, ultimately, he had been inspired by his older brother, who’d walked out from under his kingdom to launch a hamburger empire. All he knew was that the muffler business—lark though it might initially have been—had eventually demonstrated (and demonstrated conclusively) that he hadn’t lost his old touch after all. Yes, he’d showed them all in the end, Midas had. A man could make boodles of cash in the muffler racket.—Brad Zellar

  • Psoriasis Is Not Contagious!

    “In the Altogether” by Colin Covert [cover story, February] contained an unfortunate claim that Covert had once “picked up a wretched case of psoriasis from the slimy sauna in the Detroit YMCA.” In fact, psoriasis is not contagious. Researchers posit that a combination of genetic and environmental factors cause psoriasis to occur in an individual. Stress or overexposure to the sun are examples of what may lead to the outbreak of psoriasis in someone with a genetic predisposition. Psoriasis is not “picked up” in saunas or from anywhere or anyone else.

    Clinton Dietrich
    Minneapolis

  • You Know, There's a "Rake, Iowa"

    I was raised on a small family farm in central North Dakota but have been a resident of Minnesota since I married in 1991. Since then I’ve lived in cities and towns varying in population, and I have never been able to understand one thing many Minnesotans seem to have in common. This one thing is the apparent need to look down their noses and belittle North Dakota and her inhabitants. Why? What has North Dakota done to merit such regard from Minnesota? Yes it is a sparsely populated state. Yes it is cold and windy and has mosquitoes. Yes the economy needs a boost. Why do you feel the need to publish something that would be more injurious to North Dakota’s image? Does The Rake feel threatened in some way that it sees fit to advertise North Dakota’s difficulties? Shame on you for sneering at the state’s attempts to boost its economy, and for trivializing its successes. I find articles such as yours personally insulting as well. It insults the intelligence, hard work, values, and choices of my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. I couldn’t imagine a better way to have grown up, and I am fiercely proud of my North Dakota heritage. One thing that North Dakota and Minnesota actually do have in common is that The Rake is a tool used to spread manure.

    Brenda Reister
    Waconia