The Rake Magazine

Year: 2006

  • No Sympathy

    So to summarize your story [“No Way Home,” June]: Cambodia is hot. Cambodia sucks. Boy comes to the U.S. with his parents. Boy joins a gang, and never bothers to get citizenship, despite living here fifteen years. Finally, after being in fairly regular criminal trouble as a juvenile, he’s eighteen when charged with a felony and deported. (By the way, what objective journalist would travel all the way to Cambodia to talk to a criminal and not press him on what precisely he’d done?) Poor fellow feels “betrayed.” What part of this is unfair? This is not a “good kid,” accidentally picked up by The Man on his way to Sunday school. This is a habitual petty criminal, who finally strayed into the big leagues, and got punished. I say “good riddance.”

    All those folks said such nice things about him—did any of them perhaps feel that they should intervene? Stop his self-destructive course midstream?

    “It’s not right to send people to a country they do not call home without giving them the opportunity to argue for a second chance and to show what they’ve done to turn their lives around.” What? The lack of objectivity at letting this statement stand unchallenged is staggering. This punk got lots of second chances, and third chances, and probably fourth and fifth chances too. Eventually (I would hope much sooner) his chances ran out.

    “Should people be deported when the U.S. has been involved in creating the conditions that led to their becoming refugees?” Personally, I’d love to challenge Mr. Hing on the deep racism in that statement. As if it logically follows: refugee, thug, criminal? This country was built on refugees. Economic, war, political, religious—aside from autochthones, we all are refugees and the children thereof. By his logic, we’re all apparently free from culpability for our personal behavior? If the consequences of Moek’s deportation were so severe, perhaps he should have followed a narrower path? The rest of us manage to understand that lawbreaking leads at least to jail, so we don’t do it. Or is your author suggesting somehow that Cambodian refugees are too stupid to understand the logical consequences of criminality? Don’t want to be deported, separated from your family, your home, sent someplace else? To quote a film: “Stop breaking the law, loser.” In fact, the crying shame is that of the 1,500 “caught in the process,” only 145 have been deported. 0.100 is a pretty crummy batting average.

    Steve (last name withheld by request), Eden Prairie

  • Pooh-Poohing the Plastinates

    The only positive thing about the very creepy Body Worlds exhibit at the Science Museum [The Rake’s Progress, June] is that it’s dead humans and not the usual dead animals that are being violated, disrespected, and exploited in the name of art.

    Frank Erickson, Minneapolis

  • Nary a Peep from Parry

    Clinton Collins, Jr., clearly defines the problem of the Star Tribune’s reader’s representative [Free the Jackson Five, June] when he concludes that “complaining to the Star Tribune is OK—if it is the right complaint, on the right issue … ” The irony here is that the Star Tribune did have a reader’s representative who was responsive to readers’ comments and concerns. His name was Lou Gelfand and I had a long-standing and cordial relationship with him. When I called him, he was always accessible and attentive. He was never too busy to listen or to return my calls.

    It’s been disappointing to me that I’ve been unsuccessful in replicating this relationship with Kate Parry. I enjoy Kate’s thoughtful articles and it is obvious that she enjoys writing them; it’s also obvious to me that she’s not a one-on-one reader’s representative. It seems that the emails and phone calls that really capture her interest are the ones that create subject matter for her articles. She’s a talented journalist, but she has not filled the vacuum created by Lou’s departure. I am still waiting for an answer to the email that I sent to her on December 15, 2005.

    Arlene Fried, Minneapolis

  • The Illusion of Cooperation

    Diane Arbus, whose retrospective is now on view at Walker Art Center, used her exceptional technical skill as a fashion photographer to create a world inhabited by circus freaks, the mentally handicapped, nudists, giants and midgets, and, even more disturbing, “regular” people made up to go out on the town. Taken as a whole, this work creates a community without typical boundaries of race, social status, or physicality. With the unflinching, semi-nude self-portrait taken early in her career and included in the exhibit, Arbus planted herself firmly in this community. It’s shot into a mirror, and this mirror serves as a metaphor for the whole of her work. Her empathy is apparent as she holds the mirror of her camera up to all her subjects, and sees herself.

     Community is an elusive—and illusive—concept. The reality is tougher yet. It’s become an industry in this country to destroy any illusion of cooperation. Ann Coulter trashes the 9/11 housewives as political opportunists and then gloats on television that she did it to sell books. Al Franken calls conservatives lying liars, and sells lots of books to the other side. Instead of using his convention speech to embrace a common future for Minnesotans, Governor Tim Pawlenty takes the opportunity to demonize gays and people on welfare.

    Politics is now being played as a zero-sum game. There can only be winners and losers. Politicians like Jim Ramstad, who would reach across an aisle to fellow addict Patrick Kennedy, are the ones who are marginalized. Ramstad will always win his sensible political district, but he’ll never wield the big stick in Washington because he’s unwilling to use it to punish.

    This corrosive behavior is particularly evident in “virtual” communities. Think of fiction, where someone like Vince Flynn or Cormac McCarthy can act out violent fantasies (and, we hope, exorcize them) within the safety of the printed page. As readers, we can participate to a degree, either in killing the bad guys with Flynn, or being a bad guy with McCarthy. The only rules are in our head. Online, anything goes as well.

    Online, anyone can create fiction without the hard work and discipline displayed by real writers or artists. The lines between creator and consumer aren’t defined; anyone can be an idea killer. Any discussion that starts in a civil fashion can career off in any direction, and often does. A perfect example of this occurred on the online forum Mnspeak.com the other day (disclosure: my son owns Mnspeak) when, believe it or not, a discussion of Minneapolis’ crackdown on housing violations morphed almost immediately into a discussion of German prepositions. That digression was characterized by its benign nature. Others can degenerate into ad hominem attacks fueled by commenters who intentionally try to derail any civil discourse for the purpose of calling attention to themselves, or even to intentionally destroy a community. When it happens, serious people get fed up and leave. When there are no rules, people who like to play by them simply refuse to play. It’s a game of a different nature and it’s as good an explanation as any as to why online communities tend to burn out.

    Conversation between people who actually have to face each other is less likely, one would hope, to end up in the ditch. When one actually listens to a correspondent, a conversation is more likely to ensue. Are you actually interested in what the person has to say, and are you willing to consider his view? Or are you debating rather than conversing? Are you trying to reach a solution to a common problem, or are you trying to score points? Is civility more likely because there can be consequences in a face-to-face encounter? When you can’t stand off from your targets like pundits or politicians do, or can’t hide behind anonymity online, the possibility of a smack in the face is always there.

    As repugnant as Ann Coulter already is, imagine her standing in front of a woman who watched on television as her husband or son burned alive in the World Trade Center. Would she be able to look into tear-filled eyes and deliver the same vitriol? Imagine Tim Pawlenty’s anti-gay tirade from the state Republican convention podium delivered right to the face of one of Diane Arbus’ transvestites. Would he have the audacity to do that?

    In one of her journals, Arbus wrote, “There is so much to learn, mainly it is never as good as you hope or as bad as you dread.” The majority of her photographs were made with a wide-angle lens that forced her to get very close to her subjects. These images prove that she was willing to get close enough to listen to and learn from people very unlike herself. It is that sort of communication that we should seek, even if that communication doesn’t necessarily lead to agreement.

     

  • Guatemala

    Bharati Acharya [Minneapolis] knew she would have a lot of time to read at Lago
    Atitlan, Guatemala. Among her other things, she packed a copy of the Rake in
    her luggage. The only way to get around the lake is on one of the dozen,
    or so, boat taxis that traverse the waters. But a lot of time is spent
    waiting for boats to fill with passengers before leaving the dock at various villages surrounding the lake. Acharya took time to catch up on the latest issue during the wait
    time.

    Bharati Acharya

  • St. Maarten

    Fernando & Becky at Magen’s Bay, St. Thomas US Virgin Islands, same place where they spent their honeymoon 20 years ago. Second photo: Well, that’s Dumbo reading the Rake at the comfort of his cabin in the Royal Caribbean Explorer

    Fernando & Becky Torres

  • Colombia

    Dear Red-Handed,

    As a chronic over-packer, I was left with room in my
    carry-on for only one publication (excluding my copy
    of Anna Karenina, which took up half my bag). What did
    I choose to bring with me to Colombia, South America?
    Why, the Rake, of course!

    Of all the locations in Medellin to bring my Rake (On
    top of the new funicular? At the first goat-cheese
    farm in the state? In front of a landslide and
    scavenging turkey vultures?), I deemed the special
    trip to traffic-filled downtown necessary to getting
    the most applicable, typically-Colombian picture
    possible. What is more Colombian than Botero? And what
    is more Rakish than a huge, bronze derriere? Well, I’m
    sure someone will have an answer. I myself think it’s
    a perfect match.

    So, enjoy! The photo is of me, Giselle Restrepo, in
    front of a Botero Sculpture in downtown Medellin, with
    none other than my favorite pub, the Rake.

    Giselle Restrepo

  • The Plastic Constellations with Tapes ’n Tapes

    Here’s a lineup showcasing the new sound of the Twin Cities rock scene that will have legions of fans and new converts scurrying home to write on their blogs, blissfully if also slightly hearing-impaired. The Plastic Constellations have been together since their days at Hopkins High School more than a decade ago, but the rock and roll is finally coming together for the guys on their third album, Crusades, which puts a polish on their anthemic howl while bearing the imprimatur of a hip indie label, Frenchkiss Records. Their upstart pals in Tapes ’n Tapes are harder to characterize. Their songs echo a profusion of indie heroes, but with such a short attention span for any and all of them, there’s little point in accusing them of being derivative—music-obsessed is more like it. 612-332-1775; www.first-avenue.com

  • Dave Alvin

    It only seems like the Turf Club is too small for the sound—and audience—Dave Alvin can generate. Actually, this scruffy and resilient little bar is a great place for a songwriter who has never asked for much in the way of attention, yet who also remains a dependable source of solace or entertainment (whichever you require at the time). Alvin’s natural gift for penning tuneful and expressive songs has taken him far and wide, from his rootsy early days with the Blasters, to his stint as the guitarist for X (and his ongoing role with the Knitters, X members’ country-rock side project), to a solo career that has merged his ear for blues, folk, country, and rock with the energy, anger, and hilarity of punk. Given his gig’s proximity to Independence Day, we’re crossing our fingers for the classic X number, “4th of July.” 1601 University Ave., St. Paul; 651-647-0486; www.turfclub.com

  • The Dog's Lover

    I log onto the Target website, type the keywords “Target stuffed dog” and wait for the page to load. She’s not there. The white bull terrier with the red bull’s-eye around her eye, the one in the jaunty, red-and-white knit cap, is no longer available.

    “Great,” I mutter. Now I’ll have to stalk toy stores until I find a suitable stuffed dog. It’s hell being Hank’s pimp. Hank is my undersized, oversexed Jack Russell terrier, and I have learned in the eight years we’ve been together that we’re all better off if Hank has a girlfriend. Through the years, I’ve supplied him with an array of stuffed lovers, including a mother and her two pups and a pillow-style hound dog, before hitting upon the Target dog, whose most alluring charm is her stiff back. Hank doesn’t like a girl who just lies there like a pillow.

    I know Hank is not unique in his fetish for stuffed animals, but he’s elevated it to an art form. The first time Hank dragged a toy dog from our daughter’s bed and performed a lewd sexual act in front of the television, my husband, Ed, and I watched in stunned silence. When he was finished, he stood there panting with a goofy, but satisfied, look on his face. “I could use a cigarette,” my husband deadpanned.

    When the kids lived at home, Hank used to wait until they had friends over before dragging the current girlfriend in front of the television for his love fest. “Mom, he’s doing it again,” our sophisticated teen would wail. Hank, who was neutered at six months, humps his girlfriend two or three times a day. She’s called into service when he’s stressed, bored, and whenever his owners commingle. Which, I must admit, is less creepy than when he decided to join us for a threesome. “I don’t know how you’re able to lick my knee at the same time you’re doing all that other stuff, but it really turns me on,” I’d purr to my husband. Neither he, nor Hank, was amused.

    For two years in a row, when they were plentiful, I bought Hank a Target dog: one in the jaunty ski hat, the other in red long johns. We refer to them as the twins—one for the upstairs and one for downstairs. Both were immediately blinded, their ears half chewed off, and the fur on the back of their necks tramped down from the death grip Hank’s strong jaws have on them in case they try to escape.

    Surprisingly, Hank can be a considerate date, too. Occasionally, he tries to take his girlfriend out. When we lived in Denver and he had twenty-four-hour access to a doggie door, this posed a problem because his then-girlfriend was too large to fit through the door. I once watched for twenty minutes as he tried to help her out. He’d push her for a while and then squeeze around and try to pull her out. Finally he popped her through, and they spent a couple of hours basking in the sun. He alerted me, in that bossy way of his, when it was time to bring her back in, so I’d open the door.

    My other responsibility is to hide the twins in the hall closet every two weeks so the cleaning service doesn’t discover our dirty little secret. After we settle down for the evening in our clean house, Hank will remember the girls and demand I get up to let them out of the closet. And then we’re privy to a reunion worthy of a war hero returning from battle.

    I did try once to keep Hank on the straight and narrow, but he became so tense, so nervous, that I finally gave in and bought him another stuffed dog. The gratitude in his eyes was enough to make me his pimp for life. It could be worse, I suppose—he could have a thing for real-life bitches, and we’d go broke paying puppy support or be overrun with the pick of the litter. Plus, Hank’s live shows have curbed any desire to view adult entertainment on video or pay-per-view. The money we save keeps his harem well stocked.