The Rake Magazine

Year: 2007

  • McClatchy Chlamydia Strikes Strib!

    With only five days to go before the McClatchy newspaper corporation flips the keys to its’ once flagship property, the Star Tribune, to the Avista immediate-return-on-investment corporation, a terrible virus has infected the newspaper’s connections to the internet. Something wormed into the Strib system Wednesday cutting off access to the net, and by Thursday it still hadn’t been completely knocked back. “Its still running really slow, kind of like being connected to AOL,” said one Stribber.

    The thought of some nasty cyber toxin prowling the tubes of the Stribs’ internets goosed the already high levels of profane gallows humor affecting the building. (The imagery of The Strib infected with an STD, as a result of a quick, tawdry union of McClatchy and Avista was amusing.) As noted here several times earlier, since no one has a clue what Avista is really all about, every professional skeptic in the place presumes the worst. And with good reason. There simply is no available precedent that encourages high hopes in the current situation. Private equity companies typically want to mine their downward-trending old media companies for profits, usually by rigorous cost-cutting … I mean, “localizing”.

    Comments over the weekend by new top editor, Nancy Barnes, essentially confirming the prevailing view that Avista is a strip-and-flip squad intent on getting acceptable profits out of the Star Tribune in “three to six years”, wasn’t anyone’s idea of a comforting bedside manner.

    Point being that next week will be a big one in the lives of dozens of Strib employees, who have seven days, until March 12, to decide to take the contractual voluntary buy-out, or hang on and hope they aren’t reassigned to covering feral cats in Woodbury stories. (A rumor working the Strib today was that Avista was planning to summarily whack all merit pay, sending veteran employees back to union scale salaries they haven’t seen in decades. By the end of the day consensus was that there was language in the current contract prohibiting such an action, or at least most of it.)

    One other move of interest, the Star Tribune’s D.C.-based reporters, Rob Hotakainen and Kevin Diaz, were formally reassigned away from the Star Tribune, Hotakainen to the Kansas City Star and Diaz to McClatchy papers serving Alaska and Idaho. Both will remain in D.C. Among a host of mysteries is whether Avista plans to build its’ own D.C. bureau. The presumption is they won’t.

  • Children, Get Thee To The Library!

    This weekend, Deb Girdwood and Isabelle Harder’s throwing a little movie party at the Central Library downtown. Deb and Isabelle could be called the Queen of Children’s Films in the Twin Cities, responsible for the Childish Film Fest at the forthcoming Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival. Harder believes, quite rightly, that there’s a dearth of good children’s films available on the big screen. There’s virtually nothing better than watching a bunch of kids howling with glee at their favorite film, although what they can choose from at the Cineplexes is simply awful.

    So where do they go? As adults we get to decide between violence and special effects, stadium seating at the malls, costume dramas at the Edina or German Oscar winners at the Uptown. Children aren’t so lucky, and neither are their parents. I wince just thinking about having to take kids to see the upcoming Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

    Well, to heck with that. What could be a better Saturday morning treat than to pull on those moon boots, ignore the cheap cartoons, and head down to the library to watch perhaps the greatest children’s film ever made, The Red Balloon? There’ll be dancing to a DJ, and then the classic Iranian film Children of Heaven.

    And you know what? Afterwards, the kids will find themselves… in a library! Where they can check out that delightful story Minn of the Mississippi, also recommended by the river-loving Harder!

    The Red Balloon shows at 10:15 in the morning; Children of Heaven at 1:00 pm in Pohlad Hall. Red Balloon is appropriate for kids 3 and up; Children is for 8 and older (due to subtitles).

    This series will continue through the 24th, and feature some awesome films. Look here for more information each Thursday!

  • Fear to Trudge

    In the cards for tonight, so long as I’m not buried: The Stephen Petronio [dance] Company at the Walker Art Center. Don’t know much about ’em, I’m afraid. But they come recommended by my friend, the very knowledgeable and talented Ms. Linda Shapiro.

    Looking on the bright side of all this powder and slop: I guess this means we’re in like a lion, at the very least. But it couldn’t be a worse weekend, in terms of happenings, to get snowed out. For now, I plan to strap on my snowshoes and trudge to the DIVA MN fashion event (wouldn’t that be something?) as well as to opening weekend of Don Juan Giovanni.

  • Another One Bites the Dust

    My apologies for the paucity of posts. I’ve been out of town since Saturday. But I’ve returned with a head full of savagely deep thoughts. Until one bites me there is this …

    I am not pretending that many will notice or care, but my alma mater, KTLK, (noted in previous posts for its’ gruesome ratings performance to date), has terminated morning host, Andrew Colton, as of this morning, Feb. 28. No further details at this time other than a comment from a KTLK insider describing, “a dramatic scaleback of news operations”. Odd,I wasn’t aware there was a news operation at KTLK. Don’t you need reporters for that? Maybe the source means KTLK missed a payment for access to all those Fox News rip ‘n reads.

  • WATCH THIS SPACE!

    Beginning Sunday night, Britt Robson, late of City Pages, will be bringing his Timberwolves blog to The Rake. Check back here for the latest, and best, Wolves coverage after every game.

  • Cho-Down pt.2

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    Just a quick and dirty update on the Chodorow vs. Bruni saga …

    Apparently, Jeffrey has banned Bruni from all of his restaurants. Not only that, but he’s going to post a picture of Bruni on his website and offer a free vacation for anyone who spots Bruni in a Chodorow joint.

    What did I say yesterday about believing your own press?

  • Buca Big House

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    the pope’s table

    Joe Micatrotto was sentenced yesterday to 13 months in prison for his illegal actions as head honcho at Buca di Beppo.

    I have such odd feelings about this.

    As a young something, I believed in the crazy fun and cool world of Buca. I was the first Training Coordinator and running around the country opening restaurants and learning how to grow a national concept.

    It was the hardest work I’d ever done and the most fun I’d ever had. We were Una Famiglia and it was great to spread the Buca love to a bunch of fresh and wide-eyed innocents. I talked about humility and having fun and working together as a team, and I believed in every word I spoke. For a while.

    The restaurant world is a counter culture, normal rules of “office etiquette” usually don’t apply. So you don’t bat an eye when the dirty jokes flow from all levels, it’s really not that big of a deal. But sometimes, when you’re the only female traveling with an all-male executive team, it wears a little thin.

    And when you grow a company, things change, that’s a given. Systems are refined and streamlined to be more efficient. Shorten training to save money? ok. Stick the trainers in the cheapest, rattiest furnished apartments to save money? Uh, ok. Cut a day of learning and add a training party so the Big Cheese can feed all his friends for free? Huh?

    The day I truly lost my religion, the day I realized that every word from my mouth was fluff was a sweet day in Pasadena. For over a week I had spent countless hours in front of the trainees talking about how we were there to support them, giving them everything they would need to be successful and confident in their jobs. That night the training party was meant to be a training exercise: we invite people in and buy their food in exchange for their patience and understanding as we practice on them. The number of people invited is held to a manageable amount, so that each server is well paced but never slammed. That way they have the chance to focus on the smaller things that improve service.

    But Micatrotto lived near Pasadena, and the invite list grew to an absurd amount. By prime time, the entire restaurant was full and there was a two hour wait. The service staff and trainers were overwhelmed and just trying to survive. I knew that Micatrotto’s son Justin was holding court at a booth in the bar (the tables were supposed to be no more than 4 people, his held 8 or more) and that the server happened to be one of the weaker ones. But instead of having the chance to learn from her mistakes and become a stronger server, she was crushed by the pressure and the disdainful glare of the King of the Company.

    Of course she screwed up, that’s what they are supposed to do at training parties. Isn’t it better to mess up on someone who isn’t paying anyway? I went into the kitchen to plead her case with Joe, when I saw him in a fury at the front line. He was checking up on her ticket and realized she had forgotten to order something for Justin’s table. He then started kicking the kitchen equipment and shouting “that f**king c*nt!”. Over meatballs or pasta. Una Famiglia.

    I wanted to walk right out the door, but I didn’t. In fact it took me a few more years to realize that I couldn’t save the crazy cool and fun culture I’d loved. The company I’d believed in and helped grow was rotting from the head down.

    But I feel sorry for the guy. Prison is a high price to pay for a big ego. And yet … choices were made.

    I still crave the lemon chicken and could eat many wheels of the aromatic garlic bread. Under the new management Buca is again a happy place, I am told. In a way I have to appreciate my time under the Micatrotto regime, if only for the lesson I learned: Don’t believe your own press.

  • Best Documentary, in Fragments

    More on movies: the film that, in my humble opinion, should’ve won for best documentary is playing at the Bell–through tomorrow only! Not that I disliked An Inconvenient Truth. But let’s face it, folks; it was, essentially, a PowerPoint presentation, whereas Iraq In Fragments took some very bold, and quite poetic, snapshots of three different Iraqi subsets: the neglected Sunni schoolboy; the rambled and radicalized Shiite south; and finally, the seemingly quiet life of a rural Kurdish schoolboy. Rich in hot reds and cool blues, the pictures are beautiful to boot–and considering how difficult the content was to gather, that must’ve been the filmmaker’s happy accident.

  • Gone to the Gowns

    If there was one resolution made during last night’s Academy Awards viewing, it was this: I resolve to go see The Queen. I missed it, thinking it looked tearfully boring at the time of its release. Plus, I generally try to avoid biopics–unless, that is, they have something to do with Truman Capote. But in an evening wrought with political handouts and unflattering eveningwear, Helen Mirren was the class-act standout. For one, she wore her dress, by Christian Lacroix, better than anyone else wore theirs–kudos to her to her for daring to wear something so low cut. And at her age!!

    (Here’s my parenthetic thoughts on last night’s dresses: Penelope Cruz’s Versace was the best dress, in my humble opinion. I also liked Nicole Kidman’s red Balenciaga number with the big shoulder bow, although her plasticized forehead did nothing for the overall look. Cameron Diaz’s white, origami-inspired Valentino was also nice; this is something I’d actually want to wear! But aside from that, I’m not diggin’ the futuristic metallics, which can make even a starlet look paunchy. Jennifer Hudson, I love you ‘n all, but get rid of that Oscar de la Renta rag–and fast!!)

    In any case, for those, like me, who still haven’t seen The Queen, it’s playing at The Heights this evening through Thursday.

  • Conversations Real and Imagined: Scorsese's Acceptance Speech

    At the mention of his name, and with a look of profound relief and that usual squirrel-spark in his eyes, Martin Scorsese nods to himself, rises from his chair and makes his way to the stage. Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Francis Ford Coppola and that tall brunette, whose presence speaks of sold souls, waits to hand Martin his Oscar. Hugs are exchanged. Martin admires the little gold fellow. He steps to the mike, and begins.

    Thank you, thank you everybody. Academy members, Steven, Francis, George, boy, this is an honor, thank you so much. I have so many people to thank, I barely know where to begin.

    I guess I’ll begin by offering my gratitude to Paul Greengrass, Alfonso Cuaron, Pedro Almodovar, Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, Guillermo del Toro, and any other director this year who made powerful and original films, much better than my own. It feels strange being up here, looking down at these directors, remembering when I was beaten by films like Rocky and Ordinary People and Dances With Wolves, a trio of perhaps the most embarrassing Oscar wins in its admittedly weak history. I know what it feels like, boys, to think about the little masterpiece you made and watch that big-budget, heavily-marketed, lugubrious film pass you by. Or the award for the guy who gets it just because he’s paid his dues.

    See, I paid my dues. I know The Departed is far from my best, ignores so many of the things that made my other films great, and is such a bald-faced attempt at winning the little gold man that it’s nearly embarrassing. But it worked. Now I can move on and make the movies you want me to make.

    See, for the longest time I did exactly what I wanted to do, and look at my success–money, popularity, films that are not only acclaimed by critics but the public as well. Good god, you’d be surprised how many people will see me on the streets and go, “You lookin’ at me?” or “You think I’m funny? Funny how? Funny like a clown?” or even that guy at the deli who calls himself Rupert Pupkin, claims that he even had his name changed legally. Well that’s great. It’s wonderful. People know me, they love me. But my best work–just like the best work of the directors I just thanked–didn’t get me one of these.

    Now you may ask yourself: why the heck do I care if I get an Oscar, when so many great directors never won the gold? Good question. In fact, a friend of mine–he’s a sommelier at this great little restaurant in wine country–pointed out how similar my career was to Hitchcock’s. Critical and popular. Thrillers that meant more, so much more. Old Hitch’s immortal, just as I will be regardless of whether I ever win one of these. Well, my friend’s right. I don’t know what to say except that these little gold statues are an addiction, I think. I don’t know.

    A girl no longer in my employ also pointed out that, for a man who directed the life of the Dalai Lama, I sure seem to have jettisoned my Buddhist belief in rejecting attachment. Again, I have to say she’s right.

    The Oscars are a funny thing, aren’t they? I mean, so many people watch them, and tomorrow the sales for The Departed are going to skyrocket. And that’s great. If you’re going to make it in Hollywood, really you have to sell your soul at least a little bit, and if you want one of these, you have to sell your soul a lot. The statue is a way of showing, to a world of people who might want to live a good and decent life, the sacrifices we make when we want to give you Taxi Driver or GoodFellas. I mean, I try to have it both ways, making those little PBS movies about Dylan and the Blues, but really I can’t. I had to hurt or kill a very important part of myself to win an Academy Award, and I did it because… well, I’m still not sure. Right now I’m just giddy to be up here, spilling my guts.

    The thing that scares me is this: that same woman who wondered about my Buddhist beliefs also wondered, once I’ve given myself over to making the kind of movies that will win me an Oscar, if I can ever go back. If I can ever be edgy again. Pure. Or if I’m stuck casting guys like DiCaprio and Nicholson, instead of talented, hungry newcomers. If I’ll be able to make the cinema charged with electricity, the way guys like Cuaron and Lynch and Tarantino still do. Guys who don’t give a shit about Oscars.

    The answer is that I don’t know.

    Well, at least I’ve got my Oscar. That’s out of the way. Francis, you’ve got yours. Stephen, you’ve got yours. Hmm. But I remember, Francis, looking at the your Godfather statuettes, behind that thick glass at your vineyard. I was surprised: yours were almost black. They tarnish so easily, don’t they?