The Rake Magazine

Month: April 2006

  • If Renee Richards were a car…

    Sometimes a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do. Particularly if that woman entered this world as a man. In the late 70s a certain doctor who was a nationally ranked tennis player changed his sex and continued to compete–as a woman. This raised all kinds of issues related to fair play.

    I am not sure what Dr. Renee Richards is doing today or even what that particularly attractive dark haired babe in Pierce Brosnan’s second Bond flick is up to. I am also uncertain to this day whether Renee should have kept playing tennis.

    Of this, however, I am certain. If a car guy feels the need to drive the following “Chick Cars,” a sex change operation may be in order. The University of Minnesota offers the whole package for about 50k. That’s a bargain compare to what you might throw at your wheels over a lifetime.

    A “chick car” is any car that is self-consciously “cute,” generally underpowered and underwhelming. Some cars are undeserving of this moniker–such as the Mini Cooper, but the vast majority do nothing to shake it off–like the Volkswagen Beetle, the Honda Del Sol (the poster child) and on certain occasions the BMW 325 (see previous post). This does include the Mazda Miata just yet (thanks to Mazdaspeed.)

    There will always be a place for “chick cars” in the market–as there will always be a place for Dental Hygienists (we are beginning to see more cars in Britain, for example) Floral Designers and Flight Attendants. Such professionals have a right to stylish transportation as just like the rest of us (i.e. any flight attendant could easily teach your average bloated corporation more about the “Customer Experience” than the overpaid AMG-Benz driving consultants such companies hire.)

    If you are a dental hygienist, floral designer or flight attendant, I am not suggesting you change your sex. I am simply suggesting that you avoid these cars unless you are deeply, deeply in touch with your feminine side.

    So unless I have irretrievably offended you, I suggest you check back here frequently for all kinds of great alternatives to these sissy boxes. If I had more time, I’d get to that list but as it happens I am sitting right now at Hertz who screwed up my car request. You see I requested a Subaru Wagon and they’ve put me in a Dodge Magnum.

    Tennis anyone?

  • Cake Master at Rest

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    The Food Network is hosting their competition show, Food Network Challenge, at the Mall of America this week. The other day, various food professionals from across the country competed to create a Candy Castle. The sweet victory went to local cake-legend Susan O’Boyle Jacobson, garnering her $10,000 and some nice national coverage.

    In a sad turn of events, Susan passed away last night from a heart attack.

    Having met her a few times through our little food industry professionals networking group, Women Who Really Cook, I can say that we’ve truly lost a great one. She was an amazing cake decorator who, at one point in her life, could put out 35 wedding cakes in a busy weekend, by herself. A past President of the International Cake Exploration Societe, Susan was known all over the world.

    But her most important contributions are still yet to be seen. Last year she traveled to Russia and volunteered in a large production bakery. She spent nearly three weeks mentoring and giving guidance to the young bakers, teaching them new skills and more efficient techniques. Locally, she taught at The Art Institutes International Minnesota, helping young pastry students to four gold and four silver medals at last February’s Minnesota Baker’s Convention.

    Anyone who makes something beautiful and edible knows, the greatest joy is in sharing it with others. The next time one of her young students wins a competition with a towering stunner of a cake, it will surely be Susan’s sweetest reward. There will be a scholarship at AII in her memory.

  • And They're Off…

    Today marks the opening of the 24th Annual Minneapolis/St.Paul International Film Festival with the local premiere of Al Franken: God Spoke (a title that, I have to admit, baffles me). The festival has come under some duress for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that these things are a bitch to get off the ground, and the staff is made up of very dedicated, underpaid people.

    I have my own beefs regarding the MFA’s treatment of the Oak Street Cinema, but I also believe that it’s to everyone’s benefit to set that aside for the time being and get out the pon-pons and cheer on this remarkable event. For you’re not just supporting the true art-house film scene (foreign and independent films lacking the support of the giants and unable to break the Landmark’s glass ceiling) but you’re supporing a local scene that’s worth keeping.

    I’ll do my best to review the films I’m able to check out in advance; otherwise, do your homework and get out to some of our city’s finest theaters to see some weird, intriguing, partially awful, partially incredible movies. A list of the films can be seen here.

  • Dope on the floor

    Does anybody else remember a fellow named Dan Bussey? I’m not even sure if that’s how he spells his name. But in any case, he was this guy–sported a long, curly mullet, if memory serves–who used to plan and execute all these dance parties for the 16-plus sect at places like Waterworks (in Centerville, near where I grew up) and the Goldrush (in Cottage Grove, clear across town from where I grew up). He was a happening fellow, so girls used to throw themselves at him. And I’d just stare in bewilderment while the seemingly smart, but definitely beautiful, girls in my life just tossed their-selves his way. Hmpf.

    Dan Bussey might’ve been a northern suburb phenom, but I’m not entirely certain. Nevertheless, where I come from, and in the house I grew up in, in particular, where my sister used to go on-and-on about Dan Bussey this and Dan Bussey that, the Bus-man mystique swelled larger life. I used to spot him across the room at those dance parties, and I would wonder what he was really like. What the hell was he interested in? What did he want to be when he grew up? (Or was he already grown-up? I couldn’t tell, exactly.) What books did he read, if any? What TV shows did he like to watch when he wasn’t oogling teen-aged hotties. I’d watch him bounce between beautiful blondes, like my best friend, and the occasional stunning brunette, like my big sister. As the ugly chum and tomboy kid-sib, Dan Bussey never gave me a second glance. Though I always fantasized about how interesting he’d find me, had we the occasion to meet… But then I stopped hanging out with my sister so much and woke the fuck up.

    This was the early 90s, and that crowd of peeps was very inspired by the M.C. Hammer look. I remember Dan Bussey used to wear all these pimpin’ purple suits and some of those jester-esque, two-tone dress shirts. I can’t remember if he also wore “Hammer pants,” but I suspect he probably did. You know, come to think of it, the cold color palette of early 90s hip-hop fashion sure wasn’t kind to the fair-skinned, mousy-/frizzy-haired likes of Dan Bussey and me. I would’ve looked far better in the neutral tones of grunge, and I eventually came to my senses on this point. I wonder if old Dan ever did.

    Well, this trip through memory lane has been delightful. This weekend’s big Secret, good through Saturday at 5 p.m.: The Lit 6 Project is throwing another show. Here’s why Lit Sixer Sam Osterhoot carries the Dan Bussey mystique into the mid-oh’s: he wears tweed, he looks ah-ight in cool colors and styles his hair floppily, he’s funny as hell, he’s friendly, aspiring writers and bloggers stick to him like white on rice, following him around much like my sister did the Bus-man. In any case, these Lit 6 shows are generally good ones, with the content veering wildly between literary references and scatological humor. (The geeks and wallflowers of the world therefore fitting right in.) There’s also beer.

  • I Guess I'll Never Work In That Town Again

    I was holding off on commenting about the relative mess at the Village Voice in New York. But since no one came around begging for my opinion (the way they do all the time, y’know), I selflessly offer it here.

    Only the cruel and the masochistic cheer when the lions of our so-called profession are forcibly removed from their well-warmed seats, and I feel terrible for Chuck Eddy, with whom I worked once or twice in a former lifetime. (Word is still confused about whether Bob Christgau is still in the house.) Although I never worked with James Ridgeway, a peek at the man’s resume also requires a thoughtful and sympathetic moment of silence.

    Lisa Chamberlain–who, incidentally, is a fabulous writer–has a very nice and loud “So What?” up on her blog today about the latest developments, and we had a nice little back ‘n’ forth about it. One of the things that continues to flummox is that alt-weeklies–like their daily newspaper cousins–still enjoy pretty good margins, when you consider the matter paper by paper. But owners and investors are increasingly nervous, as a consequence of consolidation in the industry, and the resulting debt burdens.

    If a unified Village Voice and New Times chain is a more powerful chain, prepared to do more journalism and less navel-gazing, then why are they cutting so many jobs and good people hither and tither? True, shoe-leather is a lot more expensive than seat covers. I assume Mr. Lacey and his army of executive editors will empower all local editors with an unprecedented, massive inflow of cash and resources for all those ass-kicking, T-N-T City Hall pieces that will bloom like a million mushrooms across the land. Oh wait, first we need to cut all that unecessary fat and waste, stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

    As I sort of feinted over at MNSpeak, the business model and the editorial model of the typical alt-weekly have never been more polarized. It’s an old truism that there are two kinds of people who pick up an alt-weekly. Those who read it (fans of “magazine-style” journalism and crit, who seem to be getting older and more feeble all the time) and those who use it (listings). As long as there are bars with stages, and as long as there is co-op advertising dough from liquor suppliers, there will be an alt-weekly in every major American metro, if for no other reason than point-of-distribution listings. (See our ad, right there in the lobby!)

    The real question in my mind is whether any of that money will EVER migrate online, and subsidize an evolved business model AND editorial model. Taking the
    point-of-distribution angle further , the answer may not be all that
    encouraging (for a while–maybe until there are more of those flat-screen ads
    posted above the urinal, ha ha ha).

    Chamberlain nailed Mr. Lacey pretty fearlessly, and I have my own views of his crisis-style of management. Instead of firing Bob Christgau, for example, I
    would maybe screw up my best Lacey-inspired bravado, sit “the Dean of Rock Criticism” down and given him a blank check, and say, “Remember that great piece you wrote about the emergence of Punk Rock in London, circa 1978–and how it was going to change the world as we know it? Now I want you to go wherever in the world the most important music is happening right now. If you can’t find someone to talk to and a story to file, don’t bother coming back.”

    In other words, fine with the “more-reporting-less-navel-gazing” chorus. But to fire internationally respected critics with good–if dusty–reporting chops, and take the Voice aggressively local (like every other paper in the chain) is insane for one of the world’s pre-eminent print brands. And the fact that they bought the name along with the flagship paper implies that they should know this. In my humble and clearly misguided view, Lacey and Larkin should look to the New York Observer for the profit margins in that approach–as great as the NYO is, and as necessary as it is.

  • Couldn't Have Happened To A Nicer Guy

    That bottom of the tenth inning had to be one of great examples of karmic retribution in the history of professional baseball, and it sure as hell had to be exactly the sort of scenario Ron Gardenhire started dreaming about the moment he heard the news that J.C. Romero was no longer a Minnesota Twin.

    And wherever this odyssey leads, and whatever else this team serves up in the way of entertainment and disappointment, it’s going to be mighty hard for the Twins to deliver a stretch of highs and lows to rival the first two weeks of the season. In five days they’ve already played two of the best games –and staged two of the greatest comebacks– in recent memory.

    Honest to God, Saturday’s 6-5 win over the Yankees and tonight’s game of Rock Em Sock Em Robots againsts the Angels were spectacular examples of why baseball is the greatest game ever invented, and why anybody who bails on a game in the middle innings deserves to be banished from the ballpark forever.

    We can save the discussion of just how the hell Kyle Lohse manages to hoodwink Major League arbitrators year in and year out for another day. For now, though, let’s just try to be grateful that J.C. Romero is wearing an Angels uniform, and that Mike Scioscia was fool enough to send him out to the mound in the tenth inning of a tie game.

  • How the Other Half Works

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    Bill Gates thinks while he works. Who knew?

    There’s an interesting piece on the Fortune magazine site about how various accomplished people work.

    One thing I noticed in particular is that so many of them work in a structured break time during the day, often including physical activity. I’m going to have to try that sometime.

    Bill Gates takes a whole week each year as a “Think Week” in which he reviews the best ideas put before him by his employees. I presume that means he listens, weighs the merits, and then acts.

    Can someone forward that idea to someone else we know in a high place? Maybe then he can get somewhere with the Chinese.

  • A Personal Variation On A Joke I Still Don't Understand

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    So this fucking midget walks into a bar with a chimpanzee on his shoulders, right? It’s cold as shit, and both the midget and the monkey are covered with snow and frost; the chimp, in fact, looks almost like it could be dead.

    There’s not another soul in the bar but the blind bartender and his seeing eye dog, which is seated on a stool down at the other end of the bar.

    “What can I get you?” the bartender asks the midget.

    “Give me a shot of brandy,” the midget says, “and keep ’em coming.”

    “And for the monkey?” the bartender asks.

    “How’d you know I had a monkey?” the midget says.

    The bartender jerks his head toward the back of the bar. “The dog told me.”

    “Well, the monkey’s on the wagon,” the midget says. “He’s presently laying off the sauce.”

    The bartender nods and fetches the brandy, which the midget commences to nurse in silence. After a number of minutes the chimpanzee seems to thaw out and proceeds to bare its teeth and drum furiously on the midget’s head.

    “What the hell is it?” the midget finally demands.

    “I never heard that fucking dog say a word,” the monkey says.

    “Well?” the midget says to the bartender. “You heard the monkey. Let’s see you make the dog speak.”

    “I can’t make the dog speak if he doesn’t want to speak,” the bartender says. “It’s a trade-off. I respect his occasional glowering silences and he makes sure I don’t get hit by a bus.”

    “Come on,” the monkey says, addressing himself now directly to the dog. “Let’s hear you say something. Fifty bucks says I’m the only talking animal in this bar.”

    The dog glares across the room at the midget and the monkey, takes a long drag on his cigarette, and finally says, very slowly, “Chocolate milk.”

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  • Where do I begin?

    Oh Lordy. Once again, there’s so much great stuff going on tonight. I love spring.

    There’s The Rake’s own Gallery Grooves–a seen-and-be-seen affair taking place at Artistic Indulgence. Free wine, free cheese, plenty of pretty people to kick-it next to. Kevin Barnes from KBEM will be there, and he’s promising to spin some Fred Hersch, who I caught in a late night snooze-fest at Orchestra Hall last year, during Sommerfest. But I’ve since forgiven the man.

    (Parenthetic thought: Did any of ya’all catch The Morning Show spinning Benny Goodman’s Sing Sing Sing yesterday a.m.? Holy Smokes, that was fantastic! I happened to be on the treadmill when it went down, and under those circumstances, I found the percussive beat to be quite “forward propelling,” like Dale said. Workout complete, I then switched back to KBEM. Swear to God.)

    The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival gets underway tonight, with a special screening of Al Franken: God Spoke. I’m such a lucky girl; I’ve been kicked-back on the sofa this past week, screening a few flicks for the occasion. There’s been some good’uns and plenty of out-right duds. I’ll be sure to keep you informed.

    Want to peek some Rakish flesh? There’s a good chance tonight, when our fetching head potato (but not vice versa), Mr. Hans Eisenbeis, Editor in Chief, will be moderating a Minnesota Book Awards-themed reading at the Ridgedale Library. Hosting nominees in the memoir and creative non-fiction category, he’ll be joined by Elizabeth Andres and (gasp!) Nicole Lea Helget–you know, the real controversial one.

    And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that punk-rock poet Richard Hell will be giving a reading at the Walker Art Center tonight, sponsored by Rain Taxi. So there’s absolutely no excuse to stay home.

  • Spring Surprise

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    “L’Atalante”, 1934. Directed by Jean Vigo; written by Jean Guinee, Albert Riera, and Vigo. Starring the incredible Michel Simon, Dita Parlo and Jean Daste.

    Now showing in the lecture room at the Walker Art Center, running continuously as the museum is open, every ninety minutes.

    I wish I had nothing better to do with my life that haunt the Walker Art Center this month, to lead unsuspecting patrons past Kiki Smith, up from their overpriced desserts, away from the sculpture garden and into the darkened lecture room. There, a special surprise awaits them, every ninety minutes: L’Atalante is playing, a sexy fairytale on a riverbarge, a film to mesmerize children and adults from three to ninety-three.

    L’Atalante is the simple story of a barge captain who marries a beautiful young woman from a small village, and brings her upon his cat-crazy ship. The two are blissfully in love, and the movie runs along with the two lovers intent on discovering the tasty little secrets of a new marriage on this slow moving barge down the Seine. The crew of the ship includes a boy who appears touched in the head and, most amazingly, Michel Simon. He is a towering fellow with a tattooed chest that can be made to sing, the severed hands of his lover on a shelf, his room overrun with the detritus of a life at sea.

    Eventually, the girl tires of the life of a barge, and is lured into Paris by a tricky saloon magician. The husband nearly goes mad, at one point jumping into the Seine only to see images of his wife swimming before him. For her part, Paris is a nightmare of whores, pickpockets, and cruelty. At one point, the lovers dream of being in each other’s arms in a scene so erotic, and yet so innocent, it puts David Lynch to shame.

    When watching L’Atalante, you might find yourself gaping at Monsieur Simon, quite possibly the most arresting creature ever to grace the silver screen. Simon is as much a work of art as anything you’ll find in the museum. He was a boxer, and had the look of a well-worn pugilist: a thick slab of a chest, a face that looked as if it had kneaded by many a glove. Simon most famously was the lead in Renoir’s Boudou Sauve des Eaux, which was later remade as Down and Out in Beverly Hills. In L’Atalante, Simon’s character is, as David Thomson writes in his Biographical Dictionary of Film (a wonderful book by the way), a “sprawling, unclean satyr, pointing to the special mingling of self and character that is so necessary (and dangerous) in screen acting” and specifically in L’Atalante “a river creature, too rank, overwhelmingly private, and innately alien for polite society.”

    As much as I enjoy the Walker, a ninety minute boat ride with Michel Simon would be quite a tonic for that polite society.

    The director, Jean Vigo, is an interesting study as well. The son of an anarchist who was murdered in prison, Vigo was raised partially in a dark attic with literally dozens of cats, which make their presence known in this film, at times being hurled upon the actors. Vigo made only four films, dying shortly after L’Atalante was in the can, of tuberculosis.

    How does one recommend leaving these beautiful April afternoons for a darkened room in a museum? How can I possibly suggest ignoring, even for ninety minutes, Kiki Smith’s striking sculptures, which you could spend a week trying to wrap your brain around? I don’t quite know, except to say that I personally can’t imagine a better day than one that might include the spray from the giant cherry in the garden, Smith’s Chernobyl crows, and the gyrating tattoos of Michel Simon.

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