The Rake Magazine

Month: February 2007

  • Advice to a Blogger on Barnes

    This from a Stribber on today’s Barnes-for-Gyllenhaal announcement.

    Barnes …

    “1) is the first woman ever named to the executive editor post at the Star Tribune

    2) leapfrogged over Gillespie — which is a big blow to Scott, a great guy — but in fact that follows a pattern around here of managing editors not following in their bosses’ footsteps.

    3) some of us are just breathing a sigh of relief it wasn’t Monica “who cares about words? they only muck up design” Moses

    4) Be careful what kind of “dragon lady” gossip you listen to about Nancy from Stribbers. A lot of it is the typical bullshit thrown around about strong women bosses. Unlike the muumuu brigade you remember at the PP, she is tough but no tsk-tsker. She plays well with the boys and gets things DONE, which I really admire.”

    Okay. I hereby give Barnes 15 minutes worth of benefit of the doubt/presumption of innocence.

    I suppose it’d be base and sexist of me to throw in at this point the crack made by another(Y-chromosome addled)Stribber, “Well, I’m willing to say she’s better looking than Tim McGuire.”

    Cloddish bastard!

  • Nancy Barnes Gets Top Star Trib Job

    Nancy Barnes, currently the Star Tribune’s Deputy Managing Editor for Content, was named Anders Gyllenhaal’s replacement in a 2:30 announcement to the staff this afternoon.

    Her in-house competition was assumed to have been Monica Moses, executive director of Product Innovation and, Scott Gillespie, managing editor. At least for the time being both remain in their current jobs.

    Publisher Keith Moyer made the announcement and made a point of praising Gyllenhaal’s stewardship of the paper. Gyllenhaal is leaving to edit the Miami Herald. According to employees present for the announcement, Moyer had to prompt the staff to tepid applause for Gyllenhaal’s performance.

    There was no Q&A, and several reporters with whom I spoke say the Barnes announcement, while interesting, doesn’t begin to provide the answers the staff is most interested in, namely, how many of them will survive the transition to new owner Avista Capital Partners, expected within the next two weeks.

    In a related development, Star Tribune union employees were notified that the company will NOT extend a five day window, commencing on the date of Avista’s takeover, for current employees to file for a voluntary buy-out. There had been hope that the five-day process might be extended, and/or the new owners might sweeten the terms of the buy-out to attract more departures.

    One veteran employee guesstimated that 15 colleagues might grab the current offer.

  • You Want Valentine's Day Movies? I'll Give You Some F#@%!ng Valentine's Day Movies…

    Looking for an alternative cinematic thrill on this most romantic of corporate holidays? Thinking that it might not be entirely worthwhile to see Dreamgirls or Sleepless in Seattle when your feelings are, well, a bit more complex? Here’s a list, thrown together at the very last minute, of some features that will add some spice to this sweet evening… and by spice I mean a cold stare or a full blown argument. Nothing says you can’t ‘communicate’ on St. Valentine’s Day.

    Sid and Nancy. Saw this the other night with some pals from the Rake staff. Difficult to understand with all the cockney slang, grainy, drug-addled, dull in spots and thrilling in others, might just make you and your spouse do the mosh pit, get blitzed and then, if the mood’s right, shout, scream, break things, and then fall bloody to the floor after you’ve smashed a bottle against your head. Please, don’t beat one another or kill the other party. It’s only a movie, though it’s based on a true story.

    Taxi Driver. Murder politicians or pimps to prove your love! Didn’t work for John Hinckley, but it might for you.

    Oldboy. Disgusting, violent, Korean thriller that culminates in a near rape sex scene that is virtually impossible to endure… and later you find out it’s much worse than you thought! Should make your lover (male or female) swear off affection for a fortnight.

    Pandora’s Box. Classic silent film (your lover of conventional films will thank you for that one alone!) in which a girl who only wants to be loved finds bliss by being stabbed to death by Jack the Ripper. Joy!

    Eraserhead. Here’s a man’s nightmare about women and babies! Check out the girl in the radiator with her malignant cheeks (and bursting giant sperm with her heels) and the Eraserhead baby, who looks like E.T. with Down’s Syndrome. If you can finish this masterpiece, why the rest of the night will be spent in tense silence, and probably mutual loathing.

    The Squid and the Whale. Spot-on, brutally honest film about divorce. You wanna talk about where our relationship’s going, honey, well, here’s where our fucking relationship’s going…

    The Lady From Shanghai. Orson Welles’ baffling and yet entertaining film about how much he hates Rita Hayworth. Poisonous.

    For the guys: 12 Angry Men. Not a romance, but a charged film that takes place in a sweltering room with, as the title suggests, a dozen pugnacious males. I’ve seen this four times, and each time the women in the room felt abused, as if they had been locked in that place with these jerks. A good way to have the place to yourself.

    For the gals: Brief Encounter or Notes on a Scandal (a choice between staying in or going out). Oops, beautiful young women married to men who listen, care for them, do everything just right, and the result is they have affairs with doctors or fifteen year old boys. No matter what you do, boyfriend, you ain’t never going to be certain of my fidelity, eh?

  • This year, I'm trying a little tenderness

    This is my first Valentine’s Day with a sweetheart who actually requires of me an acknowledgement of the occasion. “Don’t forget about Valentine’s Day,” he said last week. He then added: “I like chocolate.” Me, I’m not a huge Valentine’s Day person. I couldn’t care less about getting flowers or candies or strawberry-flavored lubricants as gifts. But here’s what I’m really not happy about–missing the G. Love sho’.

    Oh, and here’s something else: There’s a masturbation workshop at the Smitten Kitten tonight.

  • Another Word For Love

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    God says if you love me you will make me Beef Wellington. Even though you are a vegetarian. We will go bow hunting for angels. Aim for the heart, even though they do not have hearts. They are most vulnerable when they are playing the harp. I hate harps. They keep me up when I want to sleep. I must change this some day. If you love me you will let me sleep. If you love me maybe I will. Let hours turn into years. The smell of meat and pie floating through endless kitchens of desire, which is heaven, what else could it be? Warm ovens burning all day remind me of loss. Which is another word for love. Which I have been explaining for thousands of years.

    –Hugh Steinberg, “The Cranky God Poem.” From Potionmag.org (via Rileydog)

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  • Phoanie drove a Jag, not a Rolls

    Now that the saturnine Dixie Chicks have been given their rightful due I think we should pause to remember that 40 years ago a single singer could do the job of three. I am talking about the infinitely more talented Joan Baez.

    Joan Baez remains more talented as an artist and perhaps more confused as a rabble rouser. While this post will not have much to do with cars (I could be losing it, yes) it is my attempt at setting the facts straight about the cars Joan Baez drove and a few more stubborn truths about her life.

    For example, in a recent re-release of her original Folkways recording (great CD) the reviewer on CD/NOW bemoans how Ms. Baez was “cruely parodied” in a comic strip during the height of her fame.

    Parodied she was, but it wasn’t that cruel considering the real life Joan Baez was leading. The cartoon character, called “Joanie Phoanie” was a folk singer ostensibly committed to causes of the poor while driving around in a Rolls Royce. This reviewer then claimed that “nothing could be further from the truth.”

    Unfortunately, the reviewer is right here on only one count: Joan Baez drove a Jaguar not a Rolls. And if you care (which you probably don’t) here are few more facts about the real Joan Baez.

    a) Joan Baez did a great deal of singing and protesting during the 60s while comfortably ensonced in beautiful Carmel Highlands pad.
    b) She ran an Institute for the Study of Non-Violence that is frequently used to prop up her modern day Victor Hugo like halo. However, this “Institue” was actually a series of “classes” taught by a bookstore clerk who dropped out of Stanford (no harm there–its kinda cool) that she ran from her luxurious pad (yep her house) for which she charged a cool $120.00 a class.
    d) Lasty…Phoanie? Unfair?…well in 1964 it is recorded that Joan Baez refused to pay 60% of her income taxes claiming that the Government would use it to buy weapons.

    I wonder about that last bit. I mean, have you ever owned a Jaguar XKE? Evading 60% of one’s taxes is just about enough to run it.

  • V-Day #2

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    And then there’s this…the most romantic, best way to show someone how much you love them is by cooking a meal together.

    Turn off the TV, put on some good music, pour a couple hefty glasses of wine, and roll up your sleeves. The converstations that happen while you’re chopping onions will never be the same ones you have in a restaurant, at home you can talk in your socks. That’s intimacy.

    Splashy overtures, like horse-drawn carriages and names written by sky-writers, can be thrilling, yes, but tend to fade quickly. Keeping someone’s wine glass full and offering them a taste of the sauce from the pan are moments of generosity that tell of a good soul.

    There’s something about the sizzle and warmth of a kitchen, the heart of the house, that allows you to be real, to let down your guard and invite others in. Cooking together, each adding something to the meal, is the way to build a real life, one that lasts beyond the flash and hype of Feb 14.

    If you’re game, and it’s your virginal attempt in the kitchen with your Someone, a few tips:

    Have a Plan … You will have to shop ahead of time, so make sure you know what you have on hand, and what you need to find. Know the recipe.

    Don’t Go Overboard … If your specialty is grilled cheese sandwiches, don’t try to attempt a lobster souffle. Stay within your comfort zone, but try to upgrade.

    Fresh is Best … “Luxury” items like truffles, lobster and foie gras can be a treat, but fresh accessible food is just as elegant if you do it right. A lovely apple tart is as beautiful as any chocolate concoction you can make.

  • Lynchian Holiday

    Oh shit, I almost forgot to plug this very special, twentieth anniversary installment of Blue Velvet on the big screen. I point you to Schilling’s blog for the full endorsement.

  • More Of The Blah-Blah Cha-Cha

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    —Abel Pann

    But when he came home there was no one to tell what he had seen –and if he picked the flowers and brought them home in his hands, there was no one to give them to. And when at evening, past the dark blue shape of a far-off island, the sun sank under the edge of the sea like a red world vanishing, the hunter saw it all, but there was no one to tell what he had seen.

    —Randall Jarrell, from The Animal Family

    But I’m here, though, aren’t I? At least for now. Don’t count me out.

    There is grandeur in this view of life.

    Funny how we hunker down in our little canoes

    in the middle of the scummy green swamp and wait and wait

    for hope to appear, for ghosts to die and come back as bodies.


    –Susan Wood, from “The Lord God Returns”

    One night a few weeks back I got whacked with a shovel and shoved in the trunk of a beat-to-shit Nova. The tweaker who whacked me drove me out into the country and dumped my body in a corncrib.

    It was a cold night, and as I rocked at the edge of consciousness my heart was removed from my chest by a tiny old man with strong hands. This little man, who was wearing a miner’s helmet, perched on my breastbone and opened my chest with a rusty saw. There was a stiff wind whipping across the fields, and to keep himself from blowing away, the man –he was from a long line of heart deliverers– had secured his body to the framework of the corncrib with strands of baling twine. He worked long and diligently, and the procedure was precise but bloody work.

    When he had finished he wrapped my heart in burlap and loaded it into a waiting carriage pulled by two peacocks and driven by a fox wearing a red velvet top hat.

    The carriage traveled many miles along dark roads. At some point during its journey it began to snow, and the snow grew heavier the further the carriage traveled.

    Eventually the carriage entered heavily wooded country, where the sky was suddenly blown free of clouds and a bright moon illuminated mile after mile of evergreen trees heaped with snow and mottled with shadow.

    The fox drove long into the night, all the while singing and whistling quietly to the drowsy and plodding peacocks. In the early hours of the morning they arrived at a lake deep in the woods.

    The lake was a vast thing, dark and ceaselessly rolling shattered moonlight ashore. It stretched to the far horizon, and was so black in the distance that the constellations appeared to be complex geometrical diagrams drawn upon a chalkboard.

    Out in the lake some distance was anchored a miniature sailing ship with a scurrying crew of mice. My heart was a very small thing by this time, and it was carefully unloaded from the carriage, unwrapped, and packed in a nest constructed of pine needles and birch bark. It was taken aboard the ship by a contingent of mice in a rowboat.

    While the peacocks drowsed and pecked tentatively at the snow-covered earth, the fox watched these proceedings from his perch on the carriage. Though he had been trained to not eat the mice, he was distracted by their presence all the same.

    Once my heart was safely secured in the ship and the crew members were back aboard, the captain, a fat old mouse with long whiskers and a jaunty cap, gave the order to set sail. The ship eased out into the darkness of the lake, rocking in the turbulent waves, its sails providentially bowed by the stiff breeze that carried my heart north at a steady clip.

    (To be continued)

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  • Kerri Miller, Ken Rudin & Al Franken

    MPR’s Kerri Miller had NPR’s Ken Rudin, (a.k.a. “The Political Junkie”), on last Friday morning. Both are plenty hip to horse race politics so the conversation and calls, even with Pledge Week breaks, enhanced my drive up I-35 to Duluth.
    They talked up Obama and the presidential slates. The obvious stuff. But it was the discussion of the Al Franken candidacy — to be announced Wednesday, reportedly, as he signs off his Air America show — that caught my interest most.
    Miller and Rudin seemed in agreement that Franken’s quest was problematic as a consequence of the vast trove of broadcast “baggage” his primary rivals and Norm Coleman might/will throw at him. He has, after all, made endless outrageous assertions against conservatives, Republicans and Norm Coleman. Miller and Rudin seemed to be imagining Franken’s hyperbole playing endlessly as attack ads against him, pruning his credibility, diminishing his gravitas and keeping him permanently on the defensive.

    Its an arguable point, because there’s no question Mike Ciresi would take that offensive if he needed to. Likewise Coleman in the general election, if Franken gets that far.

    What was disappointing about the Miller-Rudin analysis — which in fairness to them was brief, what with Bill Kling Inc. pleading for your disposable dollars, (and did you know you can also sign over the deed to your home and your childrens’ college funds to MPR?) — was there was no recognition of an evolved definition of “baggage”.

    I admit a certain appeal for Franken. Partly because he seems at least as viable as any other name the Democrats have tossed against the wall to date. But also BECAUSE of his baggage, or I should say, what his baggage is not.

    When I think of “baggage” today, in 2007, in the aftermath of the gross manipulation of intelligence, (i.e. lying), that preceded the Iraq invasion, in the aftermath of the Tom DeLay-Jack Abramoff-Duke Cunningham-Dusty Foggo scandals, no-bid contracts, Dick Cheney’s secret energy task force — the one with “Kenny Boy” Lay offering sage counsel — and on and on … and on and on … hours of tapes of a professional satirist making, OK, occasionally sophomoric jokes at these culprits’ expense doesn’t even begin to register as “baggage”.

    More to the point, is there a voter in Minnesota who doesn’t think of Franken as a comedian? Some may not think him funny. But they understand he’s in the business of making jokes. And if the jokes started as early as they did, back when Team Bush was riding high and so much of the rest of the pop infotainment/mainstream media illuminati were playing cheerleader, Franken’s jokes/baggage may very well qualify as courageous rather than intemperate.

    As far as I know Franken’s “baggage” has nothing whatsoever to do with incidents of deceit, fraud, contempt for the Constitution or lack of “support for the troops”. (I’m sure he’s got tapes of his USO visits if anyone challenges him on that.) His baggage is that of a very well-known, well-understood pop culture icon saying pretty much what he has always said. In other words, stuff that needs very little defending.

    I’m reminded of a joke I think Warren Beatty made about all his hedonistic womanizing baggage were he to run for high office. I’m paraphrasing here, but the joke has some reporter asking Beatty at a press conference, “Sir, will you confirm or deny you had sexual relations with [fill in the blank]?” To which Beatty was advised to respond, “I’ve done everything and everyone. Next question.”

    Franken doesn’t need my campaign advice, but it seems obvious the trick he needs to pull off is convincing voters the two sides of his personality are not only compatible, but in fact a bona fide asset on the modern, post-Team Bush political stage. Namely, that he is both a guy with a fundamentally comic, satirical nature AND a thoughtful, honest, well-connected student of policy and government. (Everyone who thought his radio show insufficiently funny, was probably reacting to his wonkier moments with government officials and think tankers.)

    Also, knowing the kind of flame that draws press moths, Franken’s “baggage”, that element of newsworthy unpredictability, is precisely the sort of thing that may draw significantly more free media than your garden variety political careerist.