Year: 2006

The southbound highway out of Baraboo, Wisconsin, passes Delaney’s Surplus and then, in rapid succession, a fifteen-foot radiator penetrated by a giant key, a twenty-foot iron heart with a ray gun protruding from it, and a giant scrap metal chicken with plumage partially constructed from brass doorknobs. A dirt road hairpins from out of this incongruous display, parallels the highway, rolls past a giant scrap metal moth, and approaches a wooden fence that opens to reveal a one-hundred-foot long, four-story,-four-hundred-ton scrap metal collage topped by ray guns, a telescope, a viewing platform for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and a giant glass ball shrouded in a copper egg.

The hand-painted sign announces “Guineness [sic] Book of Records … World’s Largest Scrap Metal Sculpture ‘The Forevertron,’” but the owner of the sign and the Forevertron—takes exception to the description. “The art idea, that’s a judgment thing that some people have made up,” grumbles prickly Dr. Evermor, 67, at his table in the Blue Spoon Creamery Cafe in nearby downtown Prairie du Sac. “To begin with, the Forevertron’s purpose is to perpetuate me into heaven in a glass ball inside a copper egg on a magnetic lightning force beam.” He pauses, eyes flashing beneath arched, bushy eyebrows, offers a half smile, takes a deep breath that fills his imposing frame, and glances at elegant Lady Eleanor (also known as Eleanor Every), his companion of more than forty years, who sits beside him. Suddenly, the bluster of Evermor slips into the soft sigh of Tom Every, career scrap metal man. “Actually, the reason for that device is that I don’t like lawyers or politicians or that like,” he adds. “I’m from the scrap world, where people are honorable.”

Despite first impressions, Dr. Evermor and the Forevertron (located in a just-renovated “Historical Artistic Memorial Metal Sculpture Park” beside Delaney’s Surplus) are more than Midwestern roadside curiosities. Major museums, including, recently, the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, have organized visiting delegations; academics, critics, and curators have written treatises exploring the meaning of the Forevertron, its inventor, and its aesthetics. Yet Every, who has even had the recent honor of addressing an academic conference, isn’t impressed. “I’ve got a bunch of college professors making a bunch of money running all over the U.S. talking about the philosophy of Doctor Evermor,” he says with a deep, open-mouth laugh. “What a bunch of shit! I’m just a small-time scrap guy from Wisconsin who used to drive a Ford truck.”

Born in 1938 and raised in the central Wisconsin town of Brooklyn, Every started collecting rags and newspapers with the Cub Scouts when he was eleven. Soon he struck out on his own and expanded his scrounging to include scrap iron, used tires, and anything that seemed remotely salvageable. “People always ask Dr. Evermor where he got his Ph.D.,” Every says. “And I tell them the School of Hard Knocks and the Jewish School of Technology.” While earning those degrees, he ran a highly successful demolition business that completed more than “three hundred and fifty major wrecking jobs.”

Despite financial success, in his early thirties Every began to feel restless. “I was getting a little tired of having nothing to show for what I did,” he recalls. “You know, you move a pile of scrap and then it’s gone.” He was still a long way from becoming Dr. Evermor, but he began to look at his demolitions in a different way. “When I was wrecking something, I’d start to look at is as something else. I’d ask, ‘What’s it good for?’”

In 1983, under the influence of the Dr. Who craze and pesky politicians, Every developed a back story about a 19th century inventor named Dr. Evermor who builds a machine to launch himself into the heavens. Utilizing a large collection of 19th century industrial cast-offs, he built the Forevertron to appear as if it were constructed in the 1890s. “I love the old machines,” Every explains. “They often have artistic integrity, so I saved them.” Every’s collection of 19th century machinery, as preserved in the Forevertron, is so complete that it has served as a classroom for industrial history and design students. Space buffs also have taken an interest in the Forevertron: A decontamination chamber from the Apollo moon missions is a major component. “It’s best not to go into how I got that thing,” Every concedes.

Every still has plans to attach another “couple tons” of metal and “the fiber optics” to the Forevertron. More dauntingly, he is determined to relocate the entire machine, all 400 tons of it, across the highway to the boiler room of the abandoned Badger Army Ammunition Plant. “I mean, there are people who come here, hold hands, dance jigs around it. They think it’s the mother egg! And who knows? Maybe it is!” he exclaims. “But that’s the point. What the hell is it?”—Adam Minter

Late last year, toy giant Mattel and media behemoth Clear Channel Entertainment breathlessly announced the formation of an “acclaimed, award-winning creative team to bring ‘Barbie™ Live in Fairytopia!™’ to stages across north America.” For the first time ever (!), Barbie’s tiny, impossibly three-dimensional form (by most estimates, a 39-21-33 D-cup) will be springing to life onstage. Said Richard Dickson, senior vice president of worldwide Mattel brands, “We have truly assembled a Broadway-caliber, all-star lineup of behind-the-scenes masters that will transport audiences to the magical land of Fairytopia, where glittery fairies and magical creatures will delight hearts and create new lifelong memories for Barbie fans of all ages.” Okay, then.

Obviously, whoever is chosen for the lead role has some seriously stacked heels to fill.

For those who haven’t been sitting on their hands waiting, here’s some background: The hour-long production is based on the straight-to-DVD movie Barbie Fairytopia, in which Elina (played by Barbie) lives inside a Peony as a wingless fairy in a lush and magical land. Elina wakes up one morning to find that her home’s petals have yellowed and the formerly flighty fairies of Fairytopia are no longer airborne. The source of this calamity? A horrible potion created by the evil Laverna and dropped over the land like napalm by gigantic birds.

What’s the flightless Elina to do? She has no wings. And yet, since the other fairies are now grounded and are “not used to walking,” she is the only one who can save them.

At this point, those of us who grew up in the 1970s with Malibu Barbie can’t help but ask, What about the impossible arch of her foot, which precludes any real physical activity? And how far can any respectable fairy lug those gigantic hooters? Finally, who on earth could play such a role? And won’t she tip over?

The logical casting choice is, of course, Pamela Anderson. But before an open casting call in December (which was televised on Good Morning America), director Eric Schaeffer announced, “The actress that we end up casting in the role of Elina must have tremendous singing and dancing skills, as well as strong athletic capabilities. Barbie Live in Fairytopia will tour eighty cities and is an elaborate stage production that includes a number of special effects—including flying.” Schaeffer also offered this further elaboration: “The actress we cast needs to have the sparkle and charisma necessary to act as the world’s most famous fashion doll in our production.”

While it’s true that a Barbie doll is purchased somewhere on the planet every three seconds, my memories of Barbie do not include any awed notions regarding her charisma. Rather, I remember trying to pound her breasts flat, swishing her around in the bathtub, and shooting her down the stairs. And I’ve discovered that my abusive relationship with Barbie was not unique.

According to the Mattel website, Barbie creator Ruth Handler believed that “little girls needed … a doll that would inspire them to think about what they wanted to be when they grew up.” And thus we’ve had astronaut Barbie, Barbie for President, Dr. Barbie, and Hard Rock Café Barbie. But a 2004 study by two professors from Western Connecticut State University revealed that though girls do participate in imaginative, role-model type play with their Barbies (playing house, sending them off to work), they more commonly engage in something called “torture play,” and this occurs almost exclusively with their Barbie dolls. One sixth-grade girl recalled, “I stripped [my Barbies] and threw them in the snow. When it became spring and they all thawed, I picked them up and my brother and my sister and I, because they didn’t like Barbie either, took my mom’s [chicken] bones scissors … and so we cut them in half.” The researchers noted that while the girls thought torture play with Barbie was “humorous,” they also offered a rationale for their abuse: According to “the overall consensus among the girls,” Barbie was punished “‘because she is the only one that looks perfect.’” In fact, Barbie has been “resculpted” several times since her invention to accommodate complaints about the unreasonable expectations she creates for girls. Her new, sleeker form features reduced breasts and a thicker waist. (And it’s worth noting that in the Fairytopia movie, she seems to be a humble size C and is sporting a mere one- or two-inch wedge, more sensible for running through the magic meadow.)

But given such hostility toward impossible perfection, wouldn’t it make sense to create a few dolls that live less in a fantastical land and more in the realm of reality? I asked a group of thirty-something women what they would suggest, now that they’ve come of age, for a more realistic role model:

“How about,” suggested Michelle, “burnt-out middle-aged teacher Barbie with a Caesarian scar? How about a Subaru with dog-hair Barbie accessory? Or a Barbie outfit: Mom jeans and holiday vest.”

Dawn, a freelance photographer who is seven months pregnant, suggested Moody and Bloated Barbie, Do I Have to Get Out of Bed? Barbie, and I Can’t Zip Up My Pants Barbie.

Melanie envisioned a Condo Barbie: “She doesn’t have a big yard, or a dog, but has a place that’s her own. There is a good opportunity to add other dolls, like a neighbor friend, and the creepy neighbor who hits on her, and then maybe even a whole redneck family that lives in an adjacent house and shoots off illegal fireworks in the middle of the night, complete with big howling coon dog.”

Barbie Live in Fairytopia is set to open in April on a stage in Ohio (performances in the Twin Cities are not yet scheduled), but producers say they won’t announce who’ll play the charismatic lead until mid- to late February.

Maybe they’re having trouble finding a real-life Barbie.—Shannon Olson

Fashion magazines declare the cork-soled wedge to be all the rage, and we are duly smitten—but let’s face reality: They’re not so good for scaling curbside snow banks or navigating icy sidewalks. So, embracing this reality, we took to the slopes! Lots of layers and practical, weather-resistant fibers are a fabulous match for snow, whether you’re shredding or, minus a couple of those layers, just tossing back a few in the ski lodge. The same goes for chunky knits, goggles, and color—the more vibrant the better. Even legwarmers, a resurrection we wouldn’t normally buy into, are apropos when paired with Swiss-style ski boots and polypropylene tights.

D’Amico’s contemporary Mexican eatery is set in an airy, modern space that puts the focus on the vibrant ingredients, bright flavors, and artful culinary constructions. Masa’s guacamole is a beautifully rough mash of fresh avocados, citrus, and spice. The pozole verde is a silky, light stew of chicken and hominy that comes with lime, onion, and radish, to be added at your discretion. The Puerco veracruzana (marinated roasted pork shoulder) plays a smoky ancho chile flavor against broiled pineapple, and the pollo con mole poblano is a dark and dusky testament to the wonders of a really good mole sauce. The drinks complement the creative cuisine; freshly squeezed limeade with cane syrup and a Michelada beer/cocktail are especially refreshing. 1070 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-338-6272

If the Twin Cities are headed for a pastrami war, we will no doubt count as happy casualties. Pastrami Jack’s, in a strip mall in Eden Prairie, is a savory slice above the average sandwich joint. Jack’s jaw-dropping concoctions are the stuff of dreams, stacked with fresh fixings like corned beef, roast turkey, brisket, chopped liver, and egg salad. The Lenny Bruce is a knockout, with its heap of in-house-smoked hot pastrami, rare roast beef, pepper jack cheese, and raw onions. 6407 Shady Oak Road, Eden Prairie; 952-942-9510

Republicans know where to find one another, according to Stephen B. Venable, president of CELSIUS, an exclusive new dating service for educated, well-off Minnesota liberals. We were chatting in his office the other day when Venable ventured that conservatives are meeting each other “at work,” “in bars” or “in the parking lot at Vikings games.” But liberals, he said, unless they’re doing “social organizing,” could use a little more help getting together.

Thus was born CELSIUS, an acronym for the Collective for Educated Liberal Singles Interested in Unearthing a Soul Mate, whose slogan, spotted on Venable’s business card, reads, “Improving lives by making extraordinary relationships possible.” The clunkiness is derived, perhaps, from corporate-speak and legalese. Besides Venable, an escapee from corporate law, the founders include another attorney and an M.B.A., so all three are fluent in this particular vernacular. They’re also all single. Venable’s partners are hanging onto their day jobs while he handles the full-time task of uniting lefties in life and love.

Venable’s disdain for Republicans is both ardent and personal. After relating a formative encounter he had with a right-winger—a former boss who tried to enlist his legal aid in sacking an ambitious female colleague—Venable offered the opinion that Republicans tend to be similar in one notable way: They are, he said, “cognitively and emotionally disabled.”

I found myself in Venable’s office after an earnest visit to the CELSIUS website. There, I read that “kind, empathetic, open-minded people tend to prefer other kind, empathetic, open-minded people”—a statement that, despite its accidental hilarity, seemed reasonable in practice. Next, I discovered that I met all seven of the club’s prerequisites. I was well educated, financially secure, politically and ideologically liberal, kind and respectful to others, single, at least thirty years old, and a nonsmoker.

My curiosity mounted as I read about the application process, which is not unlike applying for a job—a resume and cover letter must be submitted before CELSIUS will consider you for a face-to-face entrance interview. Who were these politically correct matchmakers? Practical jokers? Reality TV show producers? Kenwood liberals having trouble getting laid? I was so puzzled, I did something rather devious. I sent Venable my resume, as required, along with a letter about my sordid history of dating Republicans. I did not mention that I did not qualify in one important respect: I did not have the $975 to fork over for the membership fee.

A week later, I was plodding down the thirteenth-floor hallway of a downtown Minneapolis building, passing architecture firms, accounting agencies, and law offices, on the way to my interview at CELSIUS. The company’s one-room digs were sparsely decorated and made ample use of basic office-cubicle gray, but there was a pleasing skyline view. Venable, a fit, attractive man who looked to be in his late thirties, greeted me. He wore shirtsleeves, a necktie, and slacks—very professional.

Only five minutes into our sit-down, we’d already comfortably griped about racism, sexism, and classism. Much nodding went on. Eventually, Venable and I moved onto the topic of our love lives. Both of us fancied ourselves to be reasonably good catches, and agreed that we felt “baffled” to find ourselves single after thirty. Venable loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his collar. He confided to me that back in his Berkeley Law School days, he had to beat the ladies off with a stick. But with those days behind him, he’s now focused on finding the two qualities he most desires in a mate: intelligence and kindness. He assumes both things are inherent in liberal women.

Venable said he’d be composing a full page of notes about me, outlining which types of liberals he sees me meshing with—I came to believe that this meant either a loudmouth activist or a rather timid social service type. Then he’d put me in a speed dating type of situation with suitably matched, dues-paying members, which would be staged at a CELSIUS-appropriate venue—someplace like Lucia’s in Uptown. (But wouldn’t I see all my friends there?) During the one-year membership, he promised, I would be invited to no fewer than six of these happenings. To his credit, Venable vowed not to put me in the same room with much, much older men (I’m only two months past CELSIUS’s minimum age requirement)—a fear I’d harbored ever since I’d heard a friend jokingly speculate on the average age of the club’s male membership. Also, if I’m not mistaken, some flirting went on. Venable called me “sweet”—another trait he finds common in liberal women. Then he complimented my “cute” hair, but not without tagging on the standard liberal regret. “I’m sorry,” he said, “is that inappropriate?”—Christy DeSmith