The Rake Magazine

Month: November 2007

  • The Three Pointer: A Big Easy

    Road Game #5: Minnesota 103, New Orleans 94

    Season record: 2-10

    1. Revolt of the Back-Up Point Guards

    While would-be Wolves cornerstones Al Jefferson, Rashad McCants and Ryan Gomes had performances ranging from disappointing to dreadful, the squad bagged its first road win primarily on the strength of the inexplicably calm, capable, and confident duo of Marko Jaric and Sebastian Telfair. For the third straight game, Jaric went to the hole with authority (a moderate surprise), supplemented it with an accurate outside J (a large surprise) and consistently well-considered decision-making (huge surprise). It was his best performance in a Timberwolves uniform.

    Telfair likewise delivered a performance out of the ether, playing better defense on Chris Paul than Paul’s numbers (31 points, 11 assists) might suggest; exercising excellent shot selection (the biggest surprise of all), putting pace into the game without losing the handle, and sinking his free throws in crunch time to ensure that the wire-to-wire Wolves lead never got too precarious. For the night, Jaric shot 8-12 FG and Telfair was 6-9 FG. Jaric had 6 assists, 3 turnovers and 2 steals; Telfair dropped 8 dimes versus 2 miscues and added a steal. In 38:41, Jaric was plus +9 in a 9-point win; in 36:40, Telfair was plus +13.

    The key stat there is the respective minutes: Jaric and Telfair spent a lot of time together on the court, ranking first and second on the team in court time. Because they are players of complementary strengths, there was logical potential for synergy, but I also think there is something to be said for a couple of back-up point guards thriving by sharing the point guard responsibilities. That Marko didn’t have to guard Paul all night did wonders for his confidence and gave him just enough durability to contribute some (but not nearly as much as the first three quarters) down the stretch. That Jaric is a capable ballhandler who was both burying his J and getting productivity in the paint relieved Bassy of the responsibility of always making something happen and let him settle into more of a natural, "take what they give me" rhythm. For him too, it was his best performance in a Timberwolves (and probably NBA) uniform.

    Unfortunately, it should also be noted that Jaric and Telfair both benefitted from not having to play next to McCants much of the time. The ball movement and general flow of the offense was palpably enhanced when McCants was on the sidelines, unable to hoist shots out of rhythm, commit foolish fouls that retarded the sprightly pace, and look to beat his man either off the dribble or with a sudden jumper, both unsuccessful. Shaddy was 3-9 FG with one assist, two turnovers and 4 fouls in 21:38, during which time the Wolves were minus -2.

    But the biggest goat of the game for the Wolves was Gomes, whose sour play has gone from temporary mystery to odd dilemma to legitimate concern. He started well with a solid couple of games, resurrected himself a bit in the Cleveland loss and has returned to the tank. He remains a shrewd player in many facets of the game. He knows how to move without the ball and get open, for example, but there isn’t a player on this team who has missed more wide open looks thus far this season. After shooting 48.7% and 46.7% his first two years, he is currently at 38.9%. It’s not because he’s shooting more treys either–his long range percentage is over 40 and comprising an increasing slice of his total shots–not a good sign for someone 6-8, 250. But the real bugaboo tonight was turnovers: He had 5, versus one assist, in just 17:37, which is why he registered a whopping minus -11, meaning the squad was plus +20 in the 30 minutes he sat.

    The third of the misplaced cornerstones tonight was Big Al, who was much more productive and conducive to the positive outcome than either Gomes or McCants, but hardly the bedrock commensurate with his talent and contract. Against Atlanta the other night, Jefferson began the night with 18 points on 6-6 FG in the first half and then went 2-7 FG in the second half. Tonight it was 4-6 FG in the first half, with a resounding slam dunk and a nice dish to McCants right out of the gate, and then another 2-7 FG in the second half, beginning with a missed bunny in the paint, a blown crunchtime slam after a gorgeous bounce pass feed from Jaric on a pick and roll (he claimed he was fouled), and a crunchtime bailout on another bunny right in front of the hoop where Tyson Chandler was whistled for the foul (and may indeed have brushed the elbow on the followthrough), but Jeff was hardly going strong to the hoop on the play. The point is, Jefferson was supposed to be the beast in the paint that rendered 4th quarter scoring reliable and we’re seeing less evidence that he can overcome defenses designed to take that away. By the way, he missed those two free throws after the Chandler foul, at a time when the Hornets were mounting a serious comeback, and was a minus -6 on the evening in 32:13 of play. That means the Wolves were plus +15 in the 15:47 he sat.

    I love Al Jefferson’s game. Just not quite as much as I did a week or so ago.

    2. Davis for Walker: A Minnesota Steal

    When the trade with Miami came down just before the season started, it was easy to look at it in terms of Antoine Walker and Mark Blount, in that in order for us to accept ‘Toine’s bloated contract, the Heat had to cart away Blount’s absurd deal, and his carcass besides. But as the season has progressed, it has become plain that the swap in reality has ‘Toine providing more than a few of the things RD used to bring, but with just a fraction of the corrosive bullshit and yo-yo inconsistency.

    When Walker, Jaric and Telfair were on the court at the same time tonight, the Wolves produced by far their prettiest offense of the season thus far. The ball zipped around and yet all three players performed with the confident knowledge that they could take their man off the dribble if things bogged down. But even more than Jaric or Telfair, Walker has the experience and the wisdom to enable his teammates. You can tell he’s enmeshed in a fairly constant internal war over whether to try and take the game over himself (an impulse he resists more effectively than McCants but still succumbs to a fair bit) or not, but I love that he often resolves it by massaging his ego with the notion that he’s the daddy mentor out there, showing the young’uns how to share the ball, spice up the pace, and, above all, compete. The trimphant bellow and fist wave he gave when he drove baseline on the behemoth Chandler, missed the layup short but immediately went back up for a successful tip-in, spoke volumes. ‘Toine knew, and Jim Petersen correctly identified, that it was the pivotal play of crunchtime, enlarging the lead to 9 with just a few minutes to go rather than watching it shrink to two possessions with another unanswered Hornet basket. After the Saturday night choke, that would have been a hairy prospect.

    And you could see it again, in the half-second the camera caught his disgusted grimace when Jefferson missed the two free throws–Antoine Walker is busting his ass. The guy who played a key role on an NBA championship team just 18 months ago and was feted in glitzy South Beach for his efforts. The guy who then got traded as nothing more than a contract equalizer to a woefully inexperienced club picked to finish last in its conference while playing up in the freezing tundra. He’s been something of an all purpose glue guy (with occasional dashes of mustard, relish and catnip, of course). If you can’t appreciate the context and the content of his contribution, you’re either way too cynical or not paying attention. Tonight he had 17 points, 5 rebounds, an assist, two steals and zero turnovers in 30:28, finishing with a plus +11.

    3. More Kudos

    Speaking of fabulous glue guys, how about Greg Buckner thriving under the radar tonight? In 29:25, he garnered a team-high 9 rebounds, doled out 6 assists, and w
    as a game-high plus +18. It brought back memories of Buck’s very strong opening week for this team. What I most remember is him laying a body on Melo Anthony and working him over like his elbows and knees were rubber hoses. Tonight, Peja Stojakovic got similar treatment. Put simply, the other aspects of Buckner’s game seem to elevate a notch when his defensive assignment calls for a good physical scrap. That’s not a bad attribute to have on your bench.

    Tonight was also a reprise of the vintage Craig Smith, the guy who mud wrestled in the paint for offensive rebounds and improbably fluttery putbacks, committed smart fouls and played pick and rolls like Rhino Astaire. (You get the sense that the Wolves had solid bench play?)

    Finally, after numerous telecasts compelling him to paint lipstick (and the rare irreverent mustache) on porcine performances, Wolves’ color commentator Jim Petersen was given a relative embarrassment of riches to detail and not surprisingly nailed nearly every one. Only Buckner’s stealth performance improperly escaped adornment by Jim Pete’s satchel of gold stars. He was lightning quick pointing out the synergy of Jaric and Telfair together, correctly identified the unsung value of Madsen’s defense and communications skills, and, perhaps his best insight, lauded the Wolves’ vastly improved pick and roll defense. Getting a rare quality performance from this diaper squad ballclub is by itself a pleasant surprise. Receiving astute analysis as it happens is gravy that further enriches the experience.

  • The Mysterious Male Id

    I’ve fallen in love with plenty of imperfect movies. There was Donnie Darko, a film whose haphazard, cross-genre narrative I forgave because it cut right to the core of how weird and perilous it feels to be a depressed teenager. And Benny & Joon, a sweet, just-shy-of-precious story that was redeemed by genuine filial warmth and Johnny Depp’s knockout Charlie Chaplin impersonation — good enough (I like to imagine) that the Little Tramp was probably up in heaven cheering wildly as they filmed.

    John Turturro’s Romance & Cigarettes is just such a flawed but decent flick. Set in working-class Queens, it’s that age-old tale about midlife misbehavior and its resounding effects. John Updike’s Rabbit series, American Beauty, Married With Children — the zeitgeist is replete with examples. But there’s reason to make room for one more. Because Turturro’s Nick Murder (played by James Gandolfini) bares his soul in a way other anti-heros have not.

    What’s his beef? Not entrapment or tedium or the chains binding him to a dead-end job. No, Murder is simply LONELY. Or more precisely — and in a human way, I think — he’s afraid of being alone. And in a scene very near the beginning of this odd music-smattered film, the stubbly bridge worker lets himself out of his squalorous, smoke fume-filled house to serenade the neighborhood with his sorry state: "Lonely is a man without love."

    Of course, he isn’t without love. He’s merely stuck in the thirty-year slump of a long and encumbered marriage. And his wife, Kitty — Susan Sarandon, who is as lovely and foul-mouthed as she was 16 years ago in Thelma and Louise — is onto him. She’s a devout Catholic who uses the word "twat" as easily as she says the rosary. She knows her husband is fooling around. And chances are, she also knows why.

    Egged on by his know-it-all friend, played by Steve Buscemi, Murder not only has an affair with a trampy, British lingerie saleswoman (Kate Winslet) who eats chicken in bed and invites him to "open her back door," he gets circumcised for her. And this is where the magic of Turturro comes in. Because he alone has put forth one fact of life that at least fifty percent of the population never understood: Grown men in long-term relationships still obsess over their oddly-shaped penises. . . .the same way women fret over their flappy post-pregnancy stomachs and widening hips.

    Romance & Cigarettes is one extended explication of the male mind: Murder imagines his girlfriend dressed in red and shimmying through a burning house while firemen below wield their out-of-control "hose" like a powerful snaky phallus. He leaves the raising of his three daughters — creatures around the same age as his mistress who clearly bewilder him — to his wife. And he cowers in the presence of his mother, whose dominance is so emasculating it makes circumcision entirely beside the point.

    The movie is very uneven. Its plot takes turns that are not only unexpected, they don’t, in truth, make much sense. This, likely, is why Romance & Cigarettes bounced around Hollywood for two years after MGM was bought out by Sony and wrote the film off.

    I sympathize with the naysayers. This movie is raggedly written and refuses to stay put in one category: drama, comedy, muscial, or indie-style slice-of-life. Yet it’s saved not only by Turturro’s brash revelations about the male psyche, but also by a supporting cast that includes Mary Louise Parker, Christopher Walken, and the superb dowager Elaine Stritch.

    In perhaps the most inconceivable "twist" on the story of this film, Adam Sandler intervened with studio executives and asked that his friend Turturro’s film be given a limited distribution. Thus, on the power of the mighty Wedding Singer, it was.

    And I’m glad for that. Because thanks to Romance & Cigarettes, I may finally understand what’s going on in men’s heads.

    Opening December 7th at the Landmark Edina Cinema.

  • Age, Truth, Community, History

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    I and I: The Sense of Self

    Worried
    about getting old? Worried about being old? Why don’t we respect age
    like we used to? Haven’t we earned these years? Shouldn’t we wear them
    proudly? Tackling the problem of aging, actor Charles Keating presents a one-man show tonight at the Guthrie. I and I: The Sense of Self
    draws from W.B. Yeats, Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Alfred Einstein, and
    other great masters, forming a collage of poems, opinions, essays, and
    insights on the subject of age and ageing. “Mark Twain best described
    age as an issue of mind over matter,” says Keating. “If you don’t mind,
    it doesn’t matter.”

    7:30 p.m., Guthrie, Dowling Studio, 818 South 2nd St., Minneapolis; 612-377-2224; $10.

    LECTURE
    The Way Things Are

    Those of us with only a basic understanding of Buddhism might be just a bit confused as to how a Lama manages to justify physical pleasures. After all, doesn’t Buddhism guide us away from self-indulgence? Yes, but it also directs us toward the "true nature of reality." (Hmmm… the true nature of reality, eh? Well, that doesn’t sound so good if you take a look around you.) What better way to escape the pain and danger of existence than to confront it head on — look it dead in the eye? Perhaps this is what compels Lama Ole Nydahl to jump out of airplanes and take fast curves on his motorcycle. Perhaps it’s just his joy of life, his ability to appreciate the "true nature of reality" in ever nook and cranny of the world, underbelly and all. Lama Ole Nydahl, a Buddhist master from Denmark, offers guidance that is both modern and practical, relevant to our lifestyles. Sure, he appreciates extreme sports, but for three decades he has dedicated himself to traveling the world (with his wife), sharing his wisdom and "guiding people towards deep, enduring stability and freedom." We could all use a little bit of stability these days.

    8 p.m., Minneapolis Central Library, Pohlad Hall, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-825-5055; $15, students $10.

    PANEL
    Isn’t It Time to Learn about the Hmong Community?

    What do you know about your neighbors? The Twin Cities is home to the largest Hmong population in the United States. Did you know that, at least? How many of them do you know? What do you know about them? About their culture? Do you ever even read Hmong Today? (Did you even know it exists?) Isn’t it time? Tonight, you can learn about the Hmong culture from a panel of community leaders and journalists. Learn a little about what it means to be Hmong in Minnesota. Gain a little insight into the challenges of covering the community in both the mainstream and ethnic media.

    7 p.m., The Hmong Cultural Center, 995 University Ave. W., Suite 214, St. Paul.

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Jim Walsh

    To celebrate the publication of his labor of love/oral history, The Replacements: All Over But the Shouting, longtime Twin Cities music critic and columnist Jim Walsh
    will be undertaking his own blitzkrieg, book-tour version of the Mats’
    legendary ’85 five-night stand at the Entry. In the course of the week
    you’ll have a couple of chances to share the love and relive the glory
    and ignominy of one of the greatest bands ever to tear up local stages. —Brad Zellar

    7:30 p.m., Barnes & Noble, Galleria, 70th & France Ave., Edina; free. Tomorrow at Electric Fetus/7th St. Entry (two separate events); get more information.

     

     

  • Restaurant Hall of Fame

    For the restaurant industry, this week marks the final push of the year: Sell those gift cards! Book the holiday parties! Throw open the new doors and get some butts in chairs (welcome Otho and finally Red Stag)!

    Last week was different. Before all the hubbub there was time for a moment of reflection.

    Last Monday night, I found myself jammed into Mancini’s Char House with a throng of industry lifers for a little celebration of the old-school. It was the Minnesota Restaurant Association’s big soiree, a night when they induct honorees into the Hall of Fame and present their award for Restaurant of the Year.

    First of all, it wasn’t the James Beard awards. Standing there, swirling my Maker’s Mark as I surveyed the room, it was obvious to me that the night wasn’t about cutting-edge chefs and daring cuisine.There were plenty of suits sporting names like Kozlak, Cossetta, and Murray on their badges, but not a McKee or Woodman or Becker in sight. Maybe for some that’s reason enough to poo-poo the whole affair, but I’m happy for their short-sightedness: more room for me at the prime rib carving station.

    The Hall of Famers this year included the late Bob Casper of Casper’s Cherokee Sirloin Room, Louis Tinucci of Tinucci’s Restaurant, and the man I was there to applaud, Pete Mihajlov of Parasole Restaurant Holdings.

    It has been said that if you don’t like Pete, you don’t like Santa Claus. His boisterous and snarky partner, Phil Roberts, is usually the one to get the press, which is just as Pete would have it. While Phil is the buzz, Pete is the undercurrent, working behind the scenes to build the Twin Cities dining culture. When you read about the staff at Manny’s who have the almost unnerving ability to recognize and remember frequent guests, that’s Pete at work. His guest-focus is the core of the Parasole culture, which has further influenced the local dining scene as former employees (Town Talk’s Niver was a Pronto manager, Tim McKee a Figlio cook…) branch out and make their mark.

    It wasn’t lost on me that we were celebrating these groundbreakers in a place that started as a small 3.2 beer joint, just serving some Italian sandwiches. When Nick Mancini decided to buy a bar instead of a gas station in 1948, the "good" part of town was still a few blocks away. Over the years, Mancini’s has become a jewel of West Seventh and a St. Paul institution. Nick Mancini died earlier this year, but his love for the business clearly infected his sons who proudly accepted the mantle of Restaurant of the Year.

    Nestling into one of the iconic, high-backed, red leather booths for a good gossip session, I kept one eye trained on the shrimp station. As soon as it was refilled, I made a bee-line for the young man serving. It’s true I get a bit "chatty" after a measure of bourbon, and thusly discovered that the food was being served by culinary students. Of course I asked him my favorite question: Why do you want to be a chef? And of course he started out with the usual blah blah I’ve always loved food blah blah my grandmother taught me to cook blah blah I want to bring new food to the Twin Cites blah blah. But then he added: If I could create a restaurant that would last as long as this, wouldn’t that be something?

    No school like the old school.

  • A Kingdom of Stinks and Sighs

    Come on, give a rat’s ass, would you, you fuckers? Give it the old college try.

    Take a good look around and tell me what you see.

    Don’t lie to me.

    My kingdom is a laughingstock. I’ve let myself go, grown fat on the sautéed kidneys of disc jockeys and dickweeds whose gross ambition offended my eroding sense of decency. I’ve eaten other things I’m not proud of. So-called professionals.

    What I wouldn’t give for a second chance.

    What I wouldn’t give, you fuckers, but it’s too late for that and I have nothing left to give.

    This confusion of dialects, poverty, and heat. I can’t get any more naked, have no more grease left to sweat.

    From my window I can see the laborers dragging bodies across the dirt courtyard and stacking them on a flatbed truck. It’s not a pretty picture, but I am incapable of painting a prettier one.

    Near as I can tell the engineers have cobbled together some sort of crematorium in the laundry room of the Super 8 across the courtyard. Three tin smokestacks that weren’t there yesterday are belching out clouds of thick black soot, an additional layer of grime that is trapped beneath the over-gloom.

    Mine is now a kingdom of branded cattle swilling 3.2 beer, feral dogs in shopping malls, brain-damaged lab rats shuffling along in flip-flops and ridiculous sunglasses, and genetic monsters with perfect teeth. Dime-store dollhouses and teetering castles made of recycled plastic sand. The fine bones of dead roses. Fields of loud pastel crows, screaming for attention. Almost trees. Burned-out rocket ships that never left the launch pad. All our dreams, dreams written in invisible ink and nightmares etched in the more permanent kind.

    When night falls I draw the shades and listen to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings over and over as I imagine –or cannot imagine– the next crippling blow, the next wave of sorrow, the inevitable endlessly repeated slow-motion montage of flag-waving catastrophe. You can bet, by God, that when again this world begins to fall down around me they’ll once more dust off the old reliable Barber.

    Didn’t any of you remember to bring a flashlight? Did it not occur to a single one of you that it would be dark in the belly of a whale?

    You tricked me into this covenant, but I have no one to blame but myself.

    These words –the last I have left– are the ghosts of dead snails. I give you my word: you haven’t been haunted until you’ve been haunted by the ghosts of dead snails.

    Come on, let me have it. I’m ready for my medicine. Give me my bitter pill.

    I am waiting, my little sparrows, to hear from you.

  • Consumerist Report

    I’m one of those crazy people who enjoys giving more so than
    getting. But that’s because I’m a total snob, not that I’m generous of spirit.
    I mean, I certainly appreciate the professional portrait of my nieces I get from my
    sister most years. But, geez, couldn’t she have at least tucked them inside some fancy frames? And there’s simply no way my mother can please with her annual assortment
    of Kohl’s-bought bedclothes. Not that I have anything against Kohl’s. What
    a great place to buy pots!

    So, you see the point: I’m no fun to buy for. But it’s very much fun, I would assert, to find your way onto auntie Christy’s shopping list. Me, I
    enjoy the thrill of the hunt, the self-satisfaction of knowing I’ll snag one-of-a-kind
    and/or designer items for all my loved ones, and they’ll never get the faintest
    whiff of the pittances paid to acquire these goodies. For these reasons, I’m
    much better at buying for adult women and style-conscious men. What follows is a
    sampler of the Christmas gifts I purchased over the weekend. (Note: This post is written
    in good faith that my loved ones don’t read this blog.)

    My best friend Andrea is a woman of letters. While perusing
    Letterbox, I found her this gorgeous (but very affordable) letters kit, replete
    with address labels and envelope stickers in the themes of birds, flowers,
    vines, and leaves. This version was designed by Suzanna LaGasa (a somewhat-celebrity
    graphic designer) for Sukie.

    Local Motion currently has an assortment of cutesy leather handbags
    and carryalls from this Canadian label, ESPE. I went in for this billfold for
    my brother’s style-conscious, teen-age daughter. It has universal appeal, don’t
    you think? And besides, it was a steal at just twenty-five dollars. Note: Local
    Motion hosts “Girls’ Night Out” this Thursday from four to nine p.m. Go for the free snacks
    and wine, if not for the sales.

    For the practical—one might say miserly—mother whose sole extravagance
    is buying Coach handbags off eBay: A pair of sleek Coach kicks. OK, I didn’t
    get the best deal on these sneaks. I found a cheaper pair at Off Fifth, but
    wanted to make sure mom could easily exchange if the size isn’t quite right, so
    I went to Macy’s.

     

    And while I was at it, I picked up some staples for myself. From
    the Len Druskin Outlet: I couldn’t pass by these leggings with snap
    details. Also, just yesterday afternoon, I stumbled upon the newly remade
    vintage store, Swank. I picked up the ‘70s socks (pictured above) as well as reams
    of vintage Santa-themed wrapping paper (left in boyfriend’s truck) for only
    five bucks. In fact, Swank is a great place to find cheap Christmas crap!

  • Bouncing Around: The Atlanta Choke, the KG Smear, and 4th Q Stats

    There won’t be a three pointer on the Wolves’ dreadful collapse against the Hawks Saturday night. Frankly, it didn’t bother me as much as the pig-headed play and lack of effort that fostered Minnesota’s loss to a thoroughly disinterested Denver Nuggets squad the night before. At least the Atlanta game found the Wolves playing inspired ball for an entire half. What happened in the second half was a team-wide choke, but veteran Wolves’ watchers have certainly seen it before in previous years. As it was, spitting up a 21-point lead was only the third largest edge the team has sacrificed in franchise history. In other words, more talented and seasoned squads than this one have choked on larger advantages.

    Or maybe my outrage meter redlined against Denver and it made more sense to put this sorry squad into perspective again.

    Still, if not a full-blown trey, we should note a few items. Al Jefferson had a stunning 18 points on 6 shots from the field in the first half (6-6 FG, 6-6 FT), plus 11 rebounds. When Atlanta adjusted its coverage and put two or three guys on Jefferson, the Wolves were flummoxed and the offense stalled. Coach Wittman has discovered that his most intelligent offensive player, the guy who can best "make something happen" in the half-court sets, is Antoine Walker. But Witt’s adjustment has been to slide Jefferson over to center and install ‘Toine at the power forward slot. This allignment is deadly to the front court matchups at both positions. As Paul "ikrushsots" so helpfully pointed out with statistics from 82games.com in the comments sections of the last trey, Jefferson’s effectiveness plummets at the center position. And Walker simply can’t guard quality power forwards, like, for instance, Atlanta’s Josh Smith.

    Minnesota’s huge el foldo act isn’t just limited to that substitution. As the Wolves coughed up the lead, Jefferson was rushing his shots, especially on putbacks of offensive rebounds. That would have happened whether he was a "4" or a "5." And the growing backlash against the horrible, and selfish, shooting performances put in by Rashad McCants the previous three games certainly had him reluctant to pull the trigger on his own shot during crunch time (at least I assume that’s what held him back). Finally, the ability of Hawks’ point guard Tyrone Lue to get his teammates involved in the offense dramatizes how crucial heady point guard play can be. And while Marko Jaric had a second good game in a row, and actually went to the hoop with authority, he is not on even the mediocre Lue’s level when it comes to seeing the court and enablign good half court possessions.

    For most of the season, I’ve been pleasantly surprised that Wittman hasn’t been incompetent. That is not to say that he’s been especially competent either, but last year’s 12-30 mark and constant carping about discipline while the inmates still seemed to run the asylum (and yes, Pretty Ricky Davis, I’m talking about you and your boy Blount) set the bar pretty damn low for Wittman. And he’s still above that nadir.

    But without Theo Ratliff on your roster, how do you leave Michael Doleac in street clothes? Doleac is a larger body than Mark Madsen, and, while not as quick, bangs very well. More importantly, he can pop out for a little 12-15 footer and nail it 50 percent of the time. That’s a good counter to teams who double Jefferson with a couple of bigs. Do you think it is a problem for Atlanta to double Jefferson with Madsen’s man? Me neither. And as I said, Walker at power forward makes for a lousy defensive front line. The statistics indicate that Jefferson suffers at center; so do the eyes of anyone watching these games. Why doesn’t Wittman see it; or, if he does, why doesn’t he respond?

    Here’s another criticism of the coach. He strongly lamented the inability of his ballclub to penetrate to the hoop for most of the second half. He seemed mystified that it would happen. During the postgame press conference, I mentioned that Marko seemed to be penetrating well, and the coach jumped in before I finished my sentence, saying (and I paraphrase because I wasn’t taping): Yeah, in the first half, and on the first possession of the third quarter. But not after that. We stopped penetrating until we had given up the lead and there were two minutes left.

    Okay, fine. What is the one attribute that Wittman was cited for as the reason to keep him on board this year? His ability to run a tight ship, to discipline his players, keep them on the same page, eliminate the bullshit. So why wasn’t he able to emulate Gregg Popovich (a much better example than Witt’s mentor, Bobby Knight) and simply call a timeout, sit across from the players and tell them if they didn’t start fucking going for points in the paint he was going to bench their asses and find people who could? Because that’s what Pops says when his squad isn’t playing defense to his liking. And he backs it up by sitting them down. Instead, Witt watched it happen for what he claims was almost all of the second half, a 24-minute stretch when the squad scored 24 points after getting 63 in the opening 24 minutes, and couldn’t stress how important penetration was to the game; either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, get through to them. And this happened, by the way, in the immediate wake of Wittman telling the press that Rashad McCants didn’t take bad shots in his 1-15 performance against the Nuggets the night before; a game in which Shaddy consistently jacked it up from outside rather than engaging in dribble penetration.

    On to another thing that has my undies in a twist. As those of you who read the comments know, I have been a little peeved at the ill will expressed toward KG’s new ballclub, the Boston Celtics, both in terms of observers disliking and underestimating the accumulation of talent on the team. There is a Garnett backlash happening, and I imagine it has to do with owner Glen Taylor’s interview with the PiPress’s Rick Alonzo, and even with my comments in an interview on Dan Barreiro’s radio show, where I pointed out how Garnett was two-faced about his support for Flip Saunders and his disdain for Kevin McHale.

    I stand by those comments–just as I did when I originally wrote them, both back when Flip was fired, and when KG went off on McHale at the beginning of either last season or the year before. And I also believe KG was a lousy general manager with respect to his advocacy of Troy Hudson and Mike James. Garnett isn’t perfect, by any stretch. But man, his positive impact on the Timberwolves is larger than any one player’s impact on any one franchise that I can come up with in all of team sports. And, it should be remembered, it was management’s decision to trade him. Now, for reasons I have stated, I endorse the trade, and by now I’m sure KG endorses the trade, if he didn’t at first. But this backlash business is bullshit.

    The latest example is a column in today’s Strib by Jim Souhan, a writer I happen to like better than most of the people I talk to about him (or maybe bitching about the Strib guy is just the nature of the business for most folks). First a little background. On Thanksgiving Day, Souhan wrote a piece about Torii Hunter signing with the Angels, entitled "An unhappy adieu, but a wise decision." As the subhed indicates, the thrust of Souhan’s column was that "it didn’t make sense for the Twins to pony up the money to keep him." Funny, that was the argument I was making with Souhan on the radio this summer, and he was forcefully disagreeing, going so far as to say it would be preferable to trade Johan Santana and keep Hunter if one or the other must go.

    Anyway, having agreed with Hunter’s departure, Souhan felt the need to balance it by paying tribute to the Twins’ longtime center fielder two days later. And he allowed his fondness for Hunter’s sunny disposition to besmirch his perspective in a significant way. Here are his first three paragraphs:

    "Tori Hunter’s departure creates more than a void in the Twins lineup– it creates a void
    in Minnesota sports.

    "In the past decade we’ve heard Latrell Sprewell complaining that a three-year $21 million contract wasn’t enough to help him feed his family. We went through the Love Boat scandal. We watched Sam Cassell dog his way out of Minnesota, and Randy Moss make even a team desperate for star power and talent eager to dump him.

    "We’ve watched Kevin Garnett sulk while playing under the terms of a record-setting contract, watched Kyle Lohse take a baseball bat to his manager’s door, watched A.J. Pierzynski talk his way out of town. [emphasis mine] Through it all–and since he first signed with the Twins back in 1994– Hunter made himself our model athlete by bringing to life all the cliches about persistence, perseverence and passion."

    That’s right: To better glorify Torii Hunter, Souhan lumps KG in with, in order, Sprewell, Fred Smoot and the Love Boat crew, Sam Cassell, Randy Moss, Kyle Lohse and AJ Pierzynski. Apparently Garnett did not bring to life "all the cliches about persistence, perseverence and passion." He was too busy sulking.

    It just so happens that the very same day that this tripe appears, Sid Hartman also had a column in which he quotes at length a recent interview he had with Hunter:

    "Had the Twins’ three-year offer for $45 million been five years for $75 million, he might have considered it, Hunter said, but on the other hand he wanted to play with a winner. He said he doesn’t think the Twins are going to have the talent to win in the future.

    "…’I was going to get what I was going to get. I just wanted to make sure I was with a team that wants to win, that’s going to try to win day in and day out…I just didn’t feel the Twins were that ballclub.’

    "It will be hard for the Twins to attract free agents, Hunter added, because the new stadium lacks a roof.

    "’People aren’t even thinking about this,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t play in Minnesota unless my career was at an end and I had to go to Minnesota to play the game…People think that’s not true–that’s 100 percent accurate. This is coming from a player, so I’m telling you.’"

    See, all the talk about wanting to remain with the Twins, and especially being able to finish his career playing on that wonderful grass in the new outdoor ballpark, that was Hunter’s passion–not to mention his persistence and perseverence–coming through. I mean, at least he wasn’t like that sulker Garnett, who took less money than the market would pay him so that his local franchise could go out and sign better players. If he made that challenge to management, I’m sure Hunter would have backed it up the way Garnett did, by going out and earning the MVP Award when management stepped up and got those players. And Hunter certainly would have been his same old honest, effervescent self if he’d then watched the franchise make a series of disastrous personnel moves and cost his squad any chance of competing for a championship three years running. I mean, just because he took a poke at Justin Morneau the last time the Twins didn’t make the playoffs and he didn’t have an expiring contract for his escape doesn’t mean the guy would sulk in that situation–at least not the way that bad Garnett sulked. Isn’t that what you remember about his 12 years in town?

    Later in Souhan’s piece he offers up these pearls of wisdom:

    "What do we ask of our best athletes? To play hard. To play hurt. To recognize how lucky they are to be wealthy, to take care of their families and invest wisely. To be a good teammate. To work on their craft. To show a little joy. To care about winning

    "Hunter did all of that."

    If Souhan doesn’t realize that KG also did all of that, while performing at a level beyond Hunter’s grasp, then he ought not to write about things he doesn’t understand. Like hoops. And human character.

    Finally, in memory of the Wolves latest collapse, I present some typically compelling info from stat guru Paul Swanson (apologies for what I’m sure will be a somewhat garbled transfer):

     

    2007-08 4th Quarters
    (through November 24)

    NBA Wolves Wolves
    Average Offense Defense
    ——- ——- ——-
    Points 24.5 21.2 26.7
    FG Pct 44.0% 34.7% 46.6%
    3Pt Pct 35.6% 41.8% 37.5%
    FT Pct 74.9% 75.0% 79.0%
    FT Att 7.8 7.3 9.1
    Off Reb 2.8 3.6 3.3
    Def Reb 7.6 6.3 8.6
    Tot Reb 10.4 9.9 11.9
    Assists 4.7 3.6 4.4
    Steals 1.7 1.5 1.8
    TOs 3.6 3.5 3.3
    Blocks 1.2 1.2 1.5

    *

    2007-08 Minnesota Timberwolves
    Individual 4th Quarter Statistics
    (through Nov. 24)

    Player Min FGM-A FG% 3FG-A FTM-A Reb Ast Stl TO Blk Pts
    Jefferson 92 17-42 .405 0- 0 11-14 30 4 3 8 2 45
    McCants 63 11-29 .379 6-14 8-10 8 3 3 4 0 36
    Jaric 61 7-19 .368 2- 5 8-10 5 6 3 2 2 24
    Gomes 57 5-17 .294 4- 8 10-12 7 4 1 2 0 24
    Walker 81 7-30 .233 4-13 5-11 20 5 1 5 0 23
    Telfair 68 9-26 .346 3- 6 2- 2 5 7 1 3 2 23
    Brewer 65 4-11 .364 0- 2 7-10 10 4 1 2 2 15
    Buckner 61 4-13 .308 3- 5 3- 4 8 2 2 5 0 14
    Green 33 6-12 .500 1- 2 0- 0 4 4 1 4 1 13
    Ratliff 24 3- 4 .750 0- 0 3- 3 6 1 0 1 3 9
    Smith 46 1-12 .083 0- 0 3- 4 6 0 1 1 1 5
    Richard 7 1- 1 1.00 0- 0 0- 0 0 0 0 0 0 2
    Doleac 2 0- 0 .000 0- 0 0- 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
    Wolves 75-216 .347 23-55 60-80 109 40 17 38 13 233
    Opponents 97-208 .466 21-56 79-100 131 48 20 36 16 294

  • Politics, Jazz, and Imagination

    FILM
    Terror’s Advocate

    Jacques Vergès is probably one of the most controversial attorneys in history. When asked if he would have defended Hitler, he responded, "I would even defend George Bush, if he would plead guilty." Throughout his very public career, Vergès has defended Klaus Barbie (the "Butcher of Lyon"), Ilich Ramírez Sánchez (a.k.a. Carlos the Jackal; 1994), the Kelkal faction, Holocaust denier Roger Garaudy, and President Slobodan Milošević. How has he done this? With what convictions? Director Barbet Schroeder asks these questions and more in L’Avocat de la Terreur (Terror’s Advocate), a documentary about the enigmatic figure. "Schroeder explores and questions the history of ‘blind terrorism’ through his penetrating investigation of this compelling man and leads us towards shocking revelations that expose long-hidden links in history." French & English with English subtitles.

    7:30 p.m., The Oak Street Cinema, 309 Oak Street SE, Minneapolis, 612-331-3134, $8.

    MUSIC
    Roy Hargrove

    Just about a couple of decades ago, Wynton Marsalis was traveling through Texas, when he discovered an impressive Jazz trumpet talent at a local high school. Since then, Roy Hargrove has established himself as one of America’s greatest Jazz trumpeters. "Everstretching into more challenging and colorful ways to flex his musical chops, Hargrove has left indelible imprints in a vast array of artful settings." He is also the leader of The RH Factor, a progresive group combining elements of jazz, funk, hip-hop, soul, and gospel music. See him tonight flying solo.

    7 & 9:30 p.m., Dakota Jazz Club & Restaurant, 1010 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis; 612-332-1010; $40 & $25.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Mr. Marmalade by Noah Haidle

    If last month’s feature on the death of the american imagination sparked a desire to bring it back to life, you might want to head out for the Red Eye Theater tonight for Noah Haidle’s dark comedy on the power of the imagination. "Four-year-old Lucy wants to have tea with her imaginary friend, Mr. Marmalade. But Mr. Marmalade is too busy at the office… and with his darker pastimes. Enter five-year-old Larry, the youngest suicide attempt in the history of New Jersey, plus the babysitter, a talking cactus, and Mr. Marmalade’s personal assistant, a much put-upon man who can sing like an angel." Now that’s imagination!

    7:30 p.m., Red Eye Theater, 15 W. 14th St., Minneapolis; 612-870-7531; $16.

  • White Burgundy: Smooth Sunlit Chardonnay

    You would think — would you not? — that having been rendered temporarily, partially deaf would improve one’s ability to evaluate wine. Blindness, after all, makes the other senses more acute. Why not a faint pain and constant ringing of the ears.

    I had occasion to ponder this on Thanksgiving, after attending the Young Wild Things concert with my daughter in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the night before. They, the wild things, were Cute Is What We Aim For, Plain White T’s, Gym Class Heroes (whom I adore), and the smashingly loud yet strangely dirge-ish Fall Out Boy. The last, headline band was accompanied by popping bursts of fire, a la Whitesnake, which amused most of the 40- and 50-something parents in the audience — and there were, by the way, A LOT: so many that Travy from GCH dedicated one entire song to us.

    Four hours. That’s how long we sat in the auditorium in C.R.

    But it was all worth it when, as we drove away through a sprinkling of midnight snow, my daughter turned to me, huge brown eyes shining, and said, "It feels like something’s missing now that I don’t have that thumping in my chest."

    The following day, Thanksgiving, I uncorked a Domaine de la Bongran Grand Vin de Borgogne, a white Burgundy from Clessé, France, 2002. I’d been saving the bottle, because it was expensive, highly-rated, and promised to be excellent. This, I decided, would be the perfect opportunity: my ears were wrecked, so surely my nose and tongue would be in top condition.

    Not so. Perhaps because I’m a bit of a synesthete — all my senses intertwined like tentacles of computer wire — I was in my echoey state also olfactorily confused. I smelled lime at the outset, and that was right. But after that, I got a whiff of green onion that no one else at the table (and luckily, I’d invited some excellent tasters) could detect.

    "You cut onions for the salad earlier," said one friend, tactfully. "Could that be it?" Indeed. It probably was.

    Everyone agreed that the wine was smooth and dry and delicious in a not-quite-crisp sort of way. The first taste seemed whole, as solid and neatly planed as a jewel. But as this Burgundy warmed and softened and unfolded, it became more complex, with a warm, sunny apricot flavor that filled the mouth and a finish that contained a bit of flint.

    Gradually, I figured out how to taste in my impaired state. This required intense concentration, and a palm pressed to my right ear in order to mute the dull throb inside. I got the spoke-like qualities of the Grand Vin de Borgogne, even if I couldn’t make the connection (as I might, under normal circumstances) between its flavor profile and a summer sunshower or a Sheryl Crow song.

    I have it on good authority — both Robert Parker’s and my Thanksgiving guests’ — that the Bongran Grand Vin de Borgogne (a Chardonnay wine with 14% alcohol) is well worth all the accolades it’s received. But I probably need a couple more days, preferably in a stark, white room with Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young playing in a continuous loop and at low volume, before I’ll be recovered enough to tell you on my own.

  • My Last Supper: What's Yours?

    It’s #128 on Amazon, so I’m guessing this book will appear under many tinsel-frocked Christmas trees — My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals, by Melanie Dunea — a thick, lush photo, interview, recipe volume that’s been described as Annie Liebowitz meets Heat.

    The conceit here is that 50 chefs, ranging from Jaques Pépin to Gary Danko to Nobu himself, were asked to imagine they would die the following morning and instructed to plot out their final fantasy meal.

    Here’s a portion of the publisher’s description:

    Chefs have been playing the “My Last Supper” game among themselves for
    decades, if not centuries, but it had always been kept within the
    profession until now. Melanie Dunea came up with the ingenious idea to
    ask fifty of the world’s famous chefs to let her in on this insider’s
    game and tell her what their final meals would be.     My Last Supper showcases their fascinating answers alongside stunning Vanity Fair–style
    portraits. Their responses are surprising, refreshing, and as distinct
    from each other as the chefs themselves. The portraits — gorgeous,
    intimate, and playful — are informed by their answers and reveal the
    passions and personalities of the most respected names in the business.
    Lastly, one recipe from each landmark meal is included in the back of
    the book. With     My Last Supper, Dunea found a way into the
    typically harried, hidden minds of the people who have turned preparing
    food into an art. Who wouldn’t want to know where Alain Ducasse would
    like his supper to be? And who would prepare Daniel Boulud’s final
    meal? What would Anthony Bourdain’s guest list look like? As the clock
    ticked, what album would Gordon Ramsay be listening to? And just what
    would Mario Batali eat for the last time?

    Curious, I looked up the menu for the actual last supper — which was, of course, a Passover seder meal. No one knows for sure, but it probably included unleavened bread, lamb with bitter herbs, saltwater, and wine. This was a supper at which the shared cup symbolized a "new and eternal covenant," an era in which everyone would be redeemed, heart, mind, and soul.

    Now, this sounds far loftier to me than the truffles, foie gras, blowfish, and (believe it or not) hotdogs the celebrity chefs of Dunea’s book listed among their desires. But in the absence of bread and wine consecrated by a prophet, I think I’d have to go with either the Salade Chinoise from Vincent A Restaurant followed by Alex Roberts‘ roasted duck with Brussels sprouts, or carryout from Pizza Lucé with a really nice Côtes du Rhône.

    Anyone else care to contribute a recommendation for last-day-of-life dining in the Twin Cities metro?