A note from the publisher: Due to a breakdown in our crack fact-checking department (which was caused, if you must know, by a complete failure on our part to acknowledge the distraction caused by the failing infrastructure of the American road system, the war on terror, and the recent Twins losses to the Cleveland Indians), we messed up repeatedly last month in a story about St. Paul Public Library Director Melanie Huggins (“A Woman of Action”). (Where’s a reference librarian when you need one? Unfortunately, nowhere in Minneapolis on a Sunday or Monday.) Anyway, to set things straight, here are the true facts, gleaned from the librarian herself: Huggins graduated from college at the ripe old age of twenty-one, instead of seventeen, as was alleged. The story also had Huggins pregnant within the first year of her acquaintance with her husband—but it really took them a leisurely three years. Finally, the author attributed several accomplishments to Huggins: opening Zelda’s Café at the Central Library, offering ESL classes, and opening a satellite branch at a domestic violence center. These amenities pre-date Huggins’s arrival; however, she does fully support them. As for us, if you don’t believe the above excuses, try these: The sun was in our eyes. Our shoes were untied. We thought we heard our mother calling. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why we dropped the ball.
Month: September 2007
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Mexico
Last spring, Michael and Cathy Deering of Eden Prairie fled for Barra de Navidad,
a country beach town along the Costa Allegre (“Happy Coast”) of western Mexico. There they riffed on the theme of our March issue by engaging in a whole other sort of body count. -
Moving at an Unsafe Speed
Tom Bartel’s editorial about the bridge collapse, “The Roman Arch: Mixing Metaphors Instead of Concrete,” touched on the dilemma or even the cause of the collapse.
“ … It’s clear as well that politicians and bureaucrats who answer to politicians have no stomach for inconveniencing drivers …. What representatives of our government’s work receive more irate looks than the guys who put out the orange cones that slow us down?”
No one was going to or had the power to shut down the busiest bridge in Minnesota. It was reported that when some lanes on the bridge had to be closed for inspections, people would throw objects and verbally assault the inspectors. There was just too much pressure from an insane pedal-to-the-metal society to keep it open, no matter how unsafe it was. Capitalism moving at a rapid pace will always trump an unsafe bridge. The demand to keep things moving at a rapid pace took precedence over the safety of a small handful of motorists traveling over the bridge at any given time.
The debt we are in, the competitiveness, the greed, all add up to a maxed-out, cannot-stop society. Our non-stop, out-of-control lives are what rule and dictate things around here—not our “leaders.”
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A Hole in "News Hole"
Last month The Rake dedicated an issue to the stories that we missed while we were reading about the bridge collapse (“News Hole”). While we in Minnesota were asleep at the bridge, we didn’t notice that people concerned for a free Tibet traveled to China and hung a banner on the Great Wall. These protesters (one of whom was from the Twin Cities) spent thirty-six hours in detention before being deported. Talk about missing a story. This was news to National Press Canada, The New York Times, Time Magazine, Al Jazeera, CNN, Sydney Herald, Reuters India, Radio Free Asia, The Toronto Star, The Guardian in London, Channel 4 News in the U.K., The Cambridge Evening News in the U.K., The Globe and Mail in Canada, RadioFreeEurope/Radio-Liberty in the Czech Republic, The Age in Australia, CBC’s The Hour in Canada, The London Free Press in Canada, San Diego Union-Tribune, Brisbane Times in Australia, International Herald Tribune in France, Montreal Gazette in Canada, Gulf Times in Qatar, The Economist in the U.K. … You get the idea. Not only did the Minnesota press miss an international story with a local connection, so did The Rake.
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The Toast of Powderhorn
I jumped for joy to read in Ann Bauer’s conversation piece with Karl and Annamarie Rigelman (“Sweet and Savory,” August) about the croissants made at May Day Café. Without any hesitation May Day offers the best croissant in town, period. I am a true fan of the May Day, and give all the credit to Andy and the others for offering wonderful baked goods day in and day out. And the best part is eating my croissant in Powderhorn, away from the needless hype others might find attractive. Bake on, May Day; let your croissant be my guide.
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Look Who Lost Her Appetite
In Spanish we say: “confundir la gimnasia con la magnesia.” It means because two words sound alike their meaning is not the same. I expect a seasoned food critic like Mr. Iggers to know the difference between “marinara” and “marinera.” (“The Up-side of Groupthink,” September) They belong in two very different cuisines. The idea that tomato-based sauces appear often in Spanish cuisine is a generalized “ugly American” myth that appears in dishes such as “Spanish rice,” which in Spain is called “American rice.” (The dish is hideous regardless of the name or where it is cooked.) I hope Mr. Iggers is more influenced by food than by myth. The thought of a paella marinara causes permanent damage to my appetite.
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“We Was Right All Along”
On a perfectly sunny day for a baseball game, as thousands of fans swarmed to the dust heap that is to be the future home of the new Twins Stadium, a good half-mile away a small but dedicated group of curmudgeons gathered outside Cuzzy’s Bar on Washington Avenue. They were preparing for their own little celebration. “We’re geniuses, you know,” boasted Julian Loscalzo, chewing on a fat cigar and quaffing the first of many beers. “My good, personal friend Sid Hartman used to call us geniuses, back when he was all for the Dome,” he explained, his words punctuated by hoarse laughter. “We’ve proven him wrong by actually being geniuses.”
Loscalzo used to be a beer vendor at ballgames and other sports events around town; now he works as a tour guide, hauling paying guests around the country to see outdoor baseball, and counts selling parking spaces at the State Fair among his many other occupations. He is also the de facto leader of the Save the Met organization. This is the same ragtag collection of baseball cranks that tilted at windmills in the mid-1970s, hoping to persuade the Twins to remain at the scenic Metropolitan Stadium rather than move to the Metrodome. All these years later, Loscalzo and Co. are feeling a tad vindicated by the Dome’s impending obsolescence. Thus, a “We Was Right All Along” march down to the new stadium site was in order, replete with an old “Save the Met” banner from someone’s attic and well-preserved T-shirts bearing the same slogan, along with the likeness of the Twins’ old haunt.
Michael Samuelson (“Sammy” to friend and foe alike), was part of the original sturm und drang, going so far at one point as to vow publicly never to set foot in the Dome. “And I didn’t go for two years,” he claimed. But, he noted, his love of the game overwhelmed his principles—and besides, “if it weren’t for the Dome, I would never have met my wife.” Loscalzo shook his head. “I never made the promise that I wouldn’t go. I knew better. I’m a big fan.”
The “We Was Right” march didn’t amount to anything resembling, say, the recent Critical Mass bicycle gathering that sent not a few people to the clink for a long weekend. In fact, the Save the Met group kept to the sidewalks and their banner remained under wraps until they reached the construction site. Probably their only transgression involved chugging cans of Gluek beer in public.
Once at the site, the clan gave some weak cheers to other protesters who were unable to enter the ceremony, whose handmade placards read “Foul!” and “Corporate Welfare,” among other admonishments. Although the Twins security granted access to the Save-the-Metters, Loscalzo paused and considered, instead hanging the sign on a fence. “I don’t know if I have the stomach to go in there.”
Inside, there was little strife. In front of a large stage, a temporary diamond was set up, with actual Major League bases and thick swaths of deep green sod, all of which was surrounded by bleachers. Fans of every stripe were on hand, taking photos of dirt, eating dollar dogs and brats, and watching videos touting the new arena. Most of the crowd was suited up from a day of work, but there were also families in from the ’burbs and bicyclists galore—lines of bikes were chained to the fences. A few protesters stood on the Seventh Street overpass, trying desperately to get their message across; one sign read “Make necessary bridge repairs, not war.” But the amplified speeches by Twins alumni—not to mention the steady din of the garbage incinerator next door—kept their shouts from being heard below.
One fan, Willie Rauen, an elderly gentleman from Pine Island, was holding aloft an old seatback from Met Stadium. He’d yanked it out during the last game ever played at the Met, which happened to be a Vikings and Kansas City Chiefs game. “Some guy had a wrench, and I took my seat,” Rauen crowed. “Others went crazy. They took toilets!” The front of Rauen’s seat—Number 8, “by the first base side”—was autographed by various Twins from that era, including Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, and Rod Carew; Rauen was determined to get the front autographed by current Twins when the new stadium opens. “This is a pretty good piece of history here.”
As Commissioner of Baseball Bud Selig began to speak—among other comments, he inexplicably suggested that the best thing about the groundbreaking was that it made Carl Pohlad smile—a chant emanated from the back of the crowd. “Con-trac-tion!” bellowed the Save the Met group, and this time they were joined by a larger crowd with still more beers. Loscalzo received hugs from a number of women. Someone blew a raspberry. A man who looked very Wall Street shouted, “Give me a tomato and I’ll hurl it at ’im!” Finally, Loscalzo beamed at the small crowd that had gathered around him to admire the banner, which, he claimed, had been to the Baseball Hall of Fame. He toasted it with his Budweiser. “We made it,” he said, wearily. “Thirty fucking years.”
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Bruce Tapola: Paintings for Germans, Sculpture for Snobs
If you’re going to be in Rochester for your annual colonoscopy, brighten the occasion with a trip to the Rochester Art Center to see the always interesting work of Bruce Tapola, Minnesota’s most famous somewhat-obscure artist. Venues ranging from esteemed institutes of art (in Milwaukee and Minneapolis) to a rented U-Haul parked in front of the Walker Art Center have spread his fame. Recent outings in Miami and Minneapolis, and a collaborative installation with his wife and daughter called I’m With Stupid, have enabled Tapola to further develop his broad range of media-inflected moody imagery. Here he again hammers on the closed gates of American culture, with his ambivalent cry: “I love you! I hate you! I love you!” 40 Civic Center Dr. S.E., Rochester; 507-282-8629; www.rochesterartcenter.org
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Georgia O’Keeffe: Circling Around Abstraction
This is a strongly curated show—just as the Walker’s recent Picasso exhibition was. Both venture to transform familiar work by presenting it with vigorous scholarship and a fresh eye. In this case, the focus is on the circle—the paradigmatic composition in many of O’Keeffe’s abstractions—and it’s a valuable insight that had been lying there in plain sight but had not been picked up. Through this frame, O’Keeffe’s work is stripped of any potential mawkishness and restored to living status. What’s more, these curator-driven shows are fun even if you’re not a huge fan of the artist because the thought behind them amplifies the effect of the work—like a lens that suddenly sharpens. 612-870-3131; www.artsmia.org