The Rake Magazine

Month: February 2008

  • The Three Pointer: A Thrilling Defeat

    (AP Photo/Jim Mone)

    Game #53, Home Game #28: San Antonio 100, Minnesota 99

    Season record: 11-42

    1. Crunchtime Dysfunction

    The first thing I want to do is praise these post-All Star break Timberwolves, a ballclub that embodied the cliche "plucky" by refusing to do the expected thing and roll over and die after Manu Ginobili carved them up seven ways to Sunday (how’s 44 points on 18 FGA for efficiency?) and Tim Duncan found his fundamentals long enough to nudge his team up to the game’s first and only double-digit lead with 3:29 to play in the third period. This team is quickening, accruing confidence, and starting to identify itself via ball movement and Al Jefferson’s post-up game and a steadily improving team defense. They scrabbled back in that third period to set up a taut, well-played final period in which the lead for either team was never great than 5, was tied with 3:20 to play and was a one-possession game for the last 1:31.

    The whole shebang was so much fun to watch that I want to say neither team lost it, the Spurs simply won it. Except that’s not true. Minnesota had two chances to ice a victory, coming downcourt with a one-point lead and 29 seconds to go and getting a final possession down a point with 6 seconds to go. During those two possessions neither leading scorer Jefferson nor second-leading scorer Rashad McCants touched the ball. On both possessions the crucial decision-maker was the (hopefully) still recovering Randy Foye and the final possession the shooter was Sebastian Telfair. To put it mildly, the Wolves did not have the right people doing the right things down the stretch.

    Remember "4th Quarter Foye"? Randy Foye certainly does. It’s a nifty catchphrase, with its cogent rhythm and stark alliteration, but what it stands for isn’t all good. As Wolves’ publicity has informed us on numerous occasions, Foye got more than half his points in the final period last season. Translation: The guy the ballclub would really like to transform into its starting point guard looks for his when the game is in the balance. This could rightfully be spun as a hopeful attribute when the front office was casting about for a worthy sidekick and complementary talent to go with Kevin Garnett, who liked nothing better than to make the "right basketball play" to win the game, be it an assist, steal or turnaround jumper. But on a team with Al Jefferson still spreading his offensive blossom, nurtured by contact and grit in the paint, the abiding priority for 4th Quarter Foye should be to get him the rock in the low block by any means necessary.

    Instead we got the alpha Foye in a beta situation. The first time he reprised his signature move still stencilled on last year’s scouting reports: A hard, guts-for-glory drive down the right lane that waits almost until he’s out of bounds before leaning in slightly and lofting hooky jumper that he hopes will bank in over the outstretched leap of a couple of converging defenders. Tonight it barely grazed the front iron. The second time he got the inbounds, sought to drive, got bolloxed up, ditto the double-team Jefferson, and, in mid-air, flailed the ball over to a wide-open Telfair near the top of the key. If you are San Antonio, this is a job well done: No touches for Jefferson, giving Foye’s ego enough rope to hang itself, and having the game decided on the do-or-die accuracy of Telfair’s J.It went back iron.

    Coach Randy Wittman was trying to play the role of dejected loser, but was too enthused to keep the satisfaction from creeping into his voice when describing the game. And he’s right. Wittman bitched about a flagrant foul called on Telfair, who inadvertantly slugged Ginobili in the mouth when Manu went one way and Bassy the other out on the perimeter. Ginobili, who can take a dive on little or no contact, sold it beautifully and the Spurs had two foul shots *and* the ball with 1:40 to play and a two-point lead. Again, Wittman was right: obvious foul but just as obvious no flagrant foul. But at some other point in those last 100 seconds, Ginobili got mugged on a drive with no whistle, and although he showed the ref the scratches later (you gotta hate and love the guy) he took maybe a tenth of a second to beseech the ref when the play happened and then hustled hard back down the court. So yes, the free throws he hit off the flagrant counted mightily. But the winning margin of the game came when Ginobili got the ball with 10 seconds to play–as everyone who had just seen him go for 42 points thus far to that point *knew* would happen–then, after Foye cut off his brief left handed foray toward the hoop, slid to his right via a behind-the-back dribble, rose up and canned a 16-footer, the last of his 16 points in the final period. What "4th Quarter Ginobili" lacks in alliterative rhythm is more than compensated by the truth in advertising.

    The point being, San Antonio got the ball to the guy they wanted to have it at crunchtime and the Wolves didn’t. Asked about those final two possessions, Wittman replied, "We wanted to run the clock down and then run a two-man game with Al and Foye…On the high pick and roll, Al was beating them all night…Al was our first option."

    Over in the Wolves’ locker room, Jefferson was still sitting in his uni, large ice packs on both knees. A throng of nearly a dozen media did the pack-herd semicircle thing, microphones outstretched, like zoo animals reaching for food. In the adjoining locker to Jefferson’s, Randy Foye dressed in relative oblivion. He was not happy, but enough of a pro to take my questions in stride, albeit with clipped responses. What happened on the next to last possession–too much rust from the injury or did they defend it well? "It was good defense," he said. And on the last possession? "That was the play," he said, a little edgy. "They double-teamed me and Al and I kicked it over." After Foye and nearly all the media had left, I asked Jefferson if he felt he could have gotten the ball on either of the last two possessions. He gave it a second to plot the response. "Well, Bassy had a great look on that shot. If we had a chance to do it over again, he’d take that shot and he’d make it."

    And the other play with the Foye layup that came up short? "We ran the pick and roll." Short pause. "Randy took the shot and missed." Longer pause, as Big Al gathers up the starch for his classy follow-through. "If we do it over again, Randy takes that shot and he makes it."

    To put the game in perspective, Telfair came out aggressively with 6 points in the first 2:18 of the game and a team-high 8 for the period. He finished with 15 points on 7-14 FG. Jefferson was by-now typically marvelous at 11-19 FG, with many of the attempts a flat out race to see if he could get the shot off before the double team converged. He also got to the line 9 times and had 28 points (albeit just 5 rebounds). And Foye had his best game of the season thus far, with a team-high 7 assists and 13 points on 5-10 FG.

    But all three sported nothing but gooseggs in those last two possessions.

     

    2, Theo’s Return

    For those of us excited to see Jefferson back at his natural power forward position beside a legit shot-blocking center, well, it happened for all of 2:16 in the fourth quarter tonight. Wittman used the remainder of Ratliff’s 14:11 of PT having his spell Jefferson in the pivot. For what it’s worth, the Wolves were plus +3 during the brief stint with Jefferson and Ratliff both in the game; othewise, Jefferson was a net zero and Ratliff at minus -4. The first thing Theo wanted to do after a 45-game layoff was shoot a jumper, but after he got that clank out of the way, he made his only other three attempts. While not
    as striking as he was on opening day and for a week or two before he got hurt, he moved relatively well, yet needs a little more time to get his timing down. He didn’t block a shot tonight, while Jefferson and Duncan each swatted away a pair of the other’s layup attempts. VP of Personnel Kevin McHale says the front office wants to see how Jefferson and company operate with a shot-blocking big man patrolling beside them. Don’t we all, even on questionable matchups like the Dallas front line, which is likely to be Dampier-Dirk-Josh Howard. Counter with Theo-Jefferson-Brewer and let’s see what happens.

    3. Trades

    I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a player with a bigger gap between his physical talent and his strategic comprehension than Gerald Green. Both the Wolves and Green are best separated, and if the second round pick two years hence yields a shot-in-the-dark glue guy or the cash considerations Houston threw into the deal along with Kirk Snyder help pay for Corey Brewer’s weight supplements, than perhaps the trade won’t be quite as insignificant as it seems today. Snyder is not likely to stick here. As for Green, you can never say never about a performer with that much spring and such sweet mechanics on his jumper, but until the technology develops to put a chip in his ear telling him what to do next on defense, I fear Green will forever wander the hardwood–sometimes with his headband on, sometimes without.

    The Wolves may rue not getting rid of Antoine Walker (not that they didn’t try, I’ll bet), whose tenure as solid citizen and cheerleader/mentor is wearing thin for him as the playoffs approach and the trading deadline has come and gone. ‘Toine was in street clothes tonight and the body language and derisive smirk he couldn’t keep off his face may be a portent of trouble ahead.

    In the deadline day’s other swaps, the three-team merry-go-round between Chicago, Cleveland and Seattle favors the Cavs. I honestly don’t know how much Ben Wallace has left in the tank, but a proud pro on his last legs has a potent incentive helping to enable LeBron to get his first ring. More significant is the pickup of Delonte West, who has looked impressive every time I’ve seen him play and, if he plays defense, has a good shot at regular minutes at the point on this team. And Wally Szczerbiak may be due to become a sharpshooting 9th man on a legit playoff contender. Joe Smith is a gamer. As a Mike Brown fan, I think he might be able to wheedle these pieces into something decent by the first round of the playoffs. In any event, Drew Gooden is overrated and Larry Hughes, while occasionally magnificent on D, is injury-prone and grossly overpaid.

    I have no idea what the Bulls are doing. With Hughes and Gooden added to Sefalosha and Noah and Deng and Gordon likely leaving in a year or so, they are going to win and lose a lot of 88-85 games. But how bad does shipping out Tyson Chandler and bringing in Wallace look now?

    Seattle is still tearing down for the future. Can you believe Kurt Thomas has brought them three top draft picks? Meanwhile, Steve Kerr has to hope the Suns don’t face the Spurs early in the playoffs, because it could be Kurt Thomas demonstrating how foolish it was to get Shaq when they could have gotten better defense and a more simpatico style player for much less money. The Spurs are smart; Thomas fits better than Francisco Elson, Brent Barry is slipping fast and that 2009 pick won’t be worth much unless the inevitable happens quickly and this team gets old and hurt in an epidemic hurry.

  • In Which I Take Umbrage

    I opened my electronic correspondence this morning to discover that, scattered among the many missives from such devoted readers as Floyd Whopping Cock, there were a number of notes from acquaintances calling my attention to the fact that in the pages of the Southwest Journal local media rascal David Brauer was weighing in on the future of my employer, Rake Media Worldwide.

    Make no mistake, Mr. Brauer deserves great respect as an endangered species, one of those veteran, hard-living, ursine warriors of The Fifth Estate. The man is, in fact, a veritable pillar down at the local branch closet of that storied institution. He has held a dizzying number of positions in our local journalism community –not unlike (in the interests of full disclosure) yours truly. He has worn many hats, and has often wielded his pen like a sword of righteousness. That said, it would be tempting to opine that Mr. Brauer has grown too big for his britches, were his britches not so undeniably commodious.

    What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that when a fellow of Mr. Brauer’s stature has something to say, folks all over the Twin Cities and even out into the dark rural outposts where people still give a horse’s patoot about the Big Ideas and ideals on which this great nation was founded…well, dammit, folks can’t help but sit up and listen. They damn well should, at any rate.

    I have to confess that Mr. Brauer is one of these increasingly rare characters that can make a man sick with rumination. The miserable wretch toiling in obscurity would pay dearly for a critique from a writer with Mr. Brauer’s bona fides. And when Mr. Brauer deigns to offer his critique for free, his audience would be wise to pay careful attention, even when what the man is offering is transparently equivocal disdain, much of which he has offered before.

    In Mr. Brauer’s piece in this week’s Journal he jabs his rapier squarely at the heart of The Rake, and as a proud and devoted employee I feel compelled to engage the old warrior –at, I fully realize, my considerable peril.

    It is apparently Mr. Brauer’s opinion that The Rake has a bit too much attitude and not nearly enough relevance for his refined taste. To which I can only counter: Show me the attitude, you wonky prick. And at the very least please be so kind as to tell me what ‘relevance’ means in such a degraded and increasingly irrelevant marketplace of ideas.

    I’ll insist to my dying day –which is likely any day now– that I am fiercely proud of much of the work we have done and continue to do at The Rake, and I will argue with my last breath that that work has been and continues to be relevant to a fault. For instance: our popular "Hum’s Hot-Button Hot Tub" feature brought together some of the keenest political minds and social critics in the Twin Cities (and, yes, they were in a hot tub provided by Watson’s Pool and Spa, and, yes, they were sipping wine courtesy of a fine Lyndale Avenue purveyor of spirits) to hash over such important and timely issues (or so we perhaps foolishly believed) as teen pregnancy, crime and punishment, the scourge of methamphetamine, and the 35 Most Romantic Weekend Getaways. I like to think people –readers and participants alike– learned something and were entertained.

    Or tell me if you would, Mr. Brauer, what exactly wasn’t relevant about our three-part "Hunger Sucks" series, written by a fasting liberal Lutheran minister, a series we promoted by having the entire staff march the half mile down Washington Avenue to Cafe Brenda, where we simply stood with our faces pressed to the windows for fifteen minutes in mute solidarity with those who cannot afford to dine in the Warehouse District, or even to dine at all.

    I could give you examples all day. We’ve written about orphans, for crying out loud –hell, probably dozens of times. We’ve written about foreign countries and the people who live in them. We (ok, I) have written about clowns, but I honestly believe it was a respectful piece, and entirely deficient in attitude. We’ve even published fiction, which I will insist on considering a brave gesture even if journalists like Mr. Brauer choose to regard such work as irrelevant.

    And, sure, we’ve had our fun. I’m not going to apologize for the fact that we’re a fun bunch. Every once in awhile it’s nice to do a little something to turn those frowns upside down.

    We haven’t, of course, always succeeded at squaring the product with what we’d like it to be, and like everybody else in a struggling business we’ve had to contend with all manner of the usual challenges, disappointments, and occasional (sometimes frequent) bland compromises. But when push has come to shove –as it so often has– we’ve always at least tried to tackle subjects that we find interesting, provocative, and worth caring about.

    So the issue, Mr. Brauer, is not whether or not The Rake is for sale; the issue is what, precisely, is for sale, and not what that thing costs, but what it’s worth in a sense larger than the crass realities of economics. And I can assure you that what is for sale in this instance –if, in fact, anything is for sale– is a proud magazine staffed by hard-working people who care passionately, are broadly curious about the world we all live in, and strive mightily every month to capture some of that passion and that curiosity in a relevant context. I love the people I work with, and I know that what is for sale –if, in fact, anything is for sale– is a constellation of hopes and dreams. Individual dreams and communal dreams. Good dreams, decent dreams, dreams of at least one more tomorrow brighter than today. A dream that a group of increasingly beleaguered people can create something meaningful and entertaining and worth more than any price tag can ever reflect.

    Such dreams can be tough things. They are tough things, and they can make a man bitter. You all know that. David Brauer obviously knows that.

    I hope that you will understand me. I hope that my intentions are clear. And I bid you good day. I bid you good night.

  • Above Zero

    SHOPPING & STYLE
    Local Clothes

    If you’ve been waiting for the
    perfect time to support

    Minnesota ‘s burgeoning fashion community (with
    actual dollars, that is), it could be that
    your moment has finally come. A twofer of sales this weekend might
    finally put those hand-made
    wears within reach. First stop: Cliché, which carries local designers such
    as Amanda Christine, Red Shoe Clothing Co., and Kjurek Couture and just happens to be
    hosting an artist reception this Friday evening (shoppers get ten-perfect off
    during the party). Over at the Design Collective, which carries
    all manner of Minnesota-based accessory and clothing designers,
    they’re kicking off a "Goodbye,
    Winter" clearance this evening. —Christy DeSmith

    Friday at Cliché, 2403 Lyndale Ave. S.,
    Minneapolis; 612-870-0420. Design Collective, 311 26th St. W., Minneapolis; 612-377-1000.

    FILM
    Be Kind, Rewind

    Jack Black and Mos Def team with director Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Science of Sleep)
    to give us this oddball comedy about a man who becomes magnetized and
    erases the entire inventory of videotapes in his pal’s rental store.
    (The movie takes place in the ’80s.) They end up having to “swede” all
    the movies. What’s sweding, you ask? “Remaking something from scratch,
    using whatever you can get your hands on,” explains Black. Natch. So
    the boys take whatever junk they can find, grab a video recorder, and
    remake everything from RoboCop (with Black in tinfoil) to The Lion King to 2001: A Space Odyseey to Boyz n the Hood. Black even asserts: “Our version is better!” Undoubtedly. —Peter Schilling

    Opens Friday

    MUSIC
    Irvin Mayfield and the New Orleans Orchestra

    The
    co-founder of Los Hombres Calientes, young Irvin Mayfield has over the years
    abetted the impeccable precision of his trumpet lines with increasingly
    emotional long-form compositions. How Passion Falls in 2001 was his personal
    response to the first time his heart was broken, and Strange Fruit, recorded
    four years later, is an incendiary tale of a lynching arising out of an
    interracial romance. For the latter, Mayfield assembled a seventeen-piece orchestra
    of New Orleans-based musicians. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, they have
    become an ongoing nonprofit organization and are currently on tour playing
    Mayfield’s latest opus, the as-yet unrecorded Rising Tide, about that epic
    storm that flooded New Orleans and took the life of Mayfield’s father and
    dozens of others. —Britt Robson

    Friday at 8 p.m., Orchestra Hall,
    1111 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-371-5656.

    ART
    RE: Generations, Legacy & Tradition

    Don’t
    let the title fool you. This exhibit showcases innovative, contemporary takes
    on traditional American Indian art forms. It’s a chance to see work by Kevin
    Pourier     and Dwayne Wilcox, whose horn carvings and ledger drawings garnered
    attention at two earlier, similarly themed exhibits, Impacted Nations and
    Changing Hands II: Art Without Reservation    ; included as well are newer names
    like beadwork artists Douglas Limon and Todd Bordeaux, quilter Gwen Griffin,
    and hide painter Alaina Buffalo Spirit. —Julie Caniglia

    Closes Saturday, 12 p.m.-6 p.m., Ancient Traders Gallery, 1113 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis;
    612-870-7555.


    Arts of Japan: The John C. Weber Collection

    This
    show was organized by the National Museums in Berlin, and comes to Minneapolis
    via Boston. Weber, for his part, is a New Yorker-a doctor who’s no doubt made a
    splash among collectors of Japanese art, having assembled what we’re told is a
    world-class collection of objects-ranging from the twelfth century to the
    twentieth-in just ten years. Ninety-five of those works make up this show:
    scrolls and painted screens, lacquered bottles and ceramics, kimonos and
    Buddhist calligraphies. In other words, pace yourself for this one. —Julie Caniglia

    Opens Sunday, Minneapolis Institute of Arts, 2400 Third Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-870-3131.

     

     

     

  • Letters From Eurydice V

    Another op’nin, another play

    In Shakopee or at Dor’thy Day

    But usually it’s the VOA…

    Most
    professional theatres have opening nights. There is glamour, maybe just
    a faint whiff, but it’s in the air nevertheless: press and theatre
    cognoscenti are out front along with family, friends and scores of
    "hope you’re great" or "hope you die" colleagues. The buzz of the
    audience before the show has a special electricity that’s infectious.
    When the cast arrives at the theatre there are often bouquets of
    flowers, notes, chocolates and other giftie goodness waiting for you in
    your dressing room. The show goes on and it’s great or it’s not and
    then afterwards, there’s some kind of party or reception, either in the
    theatre lobby or a nearby restaurant, where some of the best
    unrecognized acting in the Twin Cities happens. People come up to you,
    eyes a little too bright, smiles a little too wide and enthusiastically
    embrace you so you can’t see their faces: "Darling, you took great risks!" "You should have been where I was sitting!" "Only YOU could have given such a performance!" "Your makeup was fan-tastic!"
    are just a few of the memorable comments lobbed in my direction over
    the years. I think there should be an Ivey Award for best post-show
    performance by an audience member. And bless our actor hearts, we fall
    and feed greedily on each stinking lie. Hearts are made to be broken,
    but please, just not tonight.

    That’s most professional theatres. TTT has an opening day.
    Almost always at the Volunteers of America Women’s Correctional
    Facility. Located in Roseville, the VOA is set well back from the road
    and if you weren’t looking for it, other than a discreet sign at the
    drive you’d never know it was there. It resembles a suburban
    high-school, albeit with a lot more locks. TTT always performs in the
    common room adjacent to the cafeteria.

    Our
    first performance is scheduled for 1pm on Feb 14 (Valentine’s Day) and
    the company is supposed to arrive at noon to give us time to unload the
    set, props and musical instruments off the van, set up and otherwise
    prepare for the performance. Driving east from Mpls on I-94 I am a
    little nervous still about my lines and start mumbling my way through
    the play. I’m relieved to learn that I still remember everything but
    alarmed to learn that I’ve missed my exit. I call Nancy Waldoch,
    our amazing stage manager, effusively apologize and promise that I’ll
    only be ten minutes late. "That’s OK, glad you’re all right!" she
    chirps brightly but I can decode the reproach: "Guess you’ll miss the load-in, Hendrickson. How conveeeeen-ient!"

    My
    battered Subaru roars into the parking lot to see that the van is
    indeed empty and parked. Shit! I grab my costume garment bag and stride
    across the icy pavement as briskly as I can. I am met at the door by a
    stern uniformed matron with a clipboard and a "just where do you think you’re
    going?" expression. But after I announce I’m with the band her face
    brightens, she says hi and I sign in. After passing through three sets
    of locked being held open by staff, I’m in the common room, where all
    is motion and controlled chaos. The inmates are still finishing their
    lunch in the open adjacent cafeteria The set is in a jumble in one
    corner and the rest of the company are pushing sofas and chairs into
    the next room to clear our playing space. I’ve played the VOA six or
    seven times now so I know the drill. Our dressing room is a tiny
    library off the common room. The doorway has been festooned with a
    homemade banner welcoming us and inside, plates of cookies and bottled
    water await. I cross the common room borne on a non-stop round of
    apologies for my lateness, drop my bag in the library and, without even
    pausing for a cookie, go out to lend an extra-big hand in setting up.

    After
    putting the room more or less into performance shape, the actors
    re-group in the library to get into costume. It is said (by me, at
    least) that actors have no modesty and TTT actors even less. The
    library is maybe 10X10 feet with two tables. One large table holds the
    cookies, water and Valentine goodies brought by some of the cast,
    another, smaller table is piled high with garment bags dumped there
    when each actor arrived. No mirrors, no hooks or hangers and absolutely
    no privacy. There we are, three men, three women, stripping down to our
    scanties and back into costume with nary a shrug of uneasiness. The
    room is bright with anxious chatter about pending Valentine’s Day
    observances (or lack thereof), complaints about the cold weather and
    last minute blocking adjustments to accommodate the new space. Our
    director Larissa Kokernot arrives, still in the fearful grip of La Grippe, but looking cheerful and bearing lovely cards for each of us. Michelle Hensley
    pops in to let us know we’re on in five and we scurry to finish
    dressing and take our places. The audience have seated themselves and
    the room is packed- not an empty seat to be had and people scurry to
    find a few more chairs. Michelle always makes a short speech to the
    audience, giving them a bit of background about the Orpheus and
    Eurydice legend and playwright Sarah Ruhl’s conceit of having the land
    of the living and land of the dead sometimes occupy the same space at
    the same time. She finishes up, there is a polite round of applause,
    and we’re off…

    Next: The First Performance

  • Local FOOD and Fun

    Come and check out some of the things we are having fun putting together with what we have that is local! We will be at the Food and Wine show with Heartland check out the Minnesota Pavillion with so many local producers, farmers and wineries!! I am looking forward to it and am going to be serving several things ala tiny buffet including; Thousand Hills 100% Grass fed Beef stew with Aji Panca,our own infused vermouth and winter vegetables, Dragsmith Greens with roasted farm beets and more. I hope the weather this year is better for all, most famers have run out of winter veg and we are just waiting for spring. I just got off the phone with Chad from Footjoy farms over in WI and look forward to what he will have this summer! I’ll let you know how it all goes.

  • Sake 101

    Saturday, March 1st at 6:30 p.m. we will be hosting a sake educational tasting, a Sake 101 of sorts. We will have three sakes and possibly a namazaki. The three sakes that will be available have a deep and long history, along with taste. Shichihon yari is Japan’s oldest brewery, founded in 1540 — before Tokyo was even a city! To date, it is still run by the same family members and with only a staff of four producing the sake in small batches.

    Watari Bune is amazing because we shouldn’t even be drinking this sake! The reason for this is that the watari bune rice was grown in 1868-1912 and early showa. Because this rice grows tall it is harvested late, and most of the crops were damaged by typhoons. The war caused it to fall out of use even further due to crop difficulties and food shortages.

    After learning about this extinct rice, Yamauchi-san, the seventh generation director of the Huchu brewery, started his hunt. His hunt for the rice ended when it was discovered that the Ministry of Agriculture had this strand of rice in criovac storage. From there he returned with fourteen grams of rice and went to the old farmers to help him grow the rice. Eventually, the process was perfected and watari bune sake was born!

    Yuki No Bosha was founded in 1903 by Yataro Saito and is now managed by the fifth generation president, Kotaro Saito. Located in the Akita region, rustic and tranquil with harder water than southern Japan, this sake is lively with bold rich aromas balanced by a crisp, white pepper finish.

    Namazake: Nama is a word you should know! Trust me. Nama is just unpasteurized sake. It must be constantly refrigerated, consumed within a day or two of opening and is only available seasonally. The trade off for all this is that nama is known for it’s fresh, young, bombastic taste!! This sake is currently on its way from Japan, and if it makes it here on time we will soon be tasting this rare sake not normally found in the United States.

    This is a free event, so please pass the word!

    Cheers,
    Henry

  • Monster

    Benjamin Blake is a freak. He is part of the new freshman class of Adelphus & Smyth Financial. He is also absolutely out of his mind. He likes to walk around his apartment with his dress socks over his hands, making his fists talk to each other. The left is always his supervisor TJ Anderson and the right is the sock version of himself—or Monster Ben, which is what he likes to call it. The hands bicker back and forth, always ending in an argument where Monster Ben seizes TJ Anderson’s neck in a death bite, punctuated by his left hand’s fading scream. Monster Ben holds TJ Anderson’s neck until pins and needles let him know it is time to stop.

    Benjamin is an award-winning triathlete who has never been beaten in an amateur sprint triathlon. He likes to ride his speed bike around Lake Calhoun until the creases of his pelvis bleed. He likes to rub Vaseline between his toes, under his groin, and over his nipples before he goes for blistering fifteen-kilometer runs at two in the morning. He likes to swim the butterfly stroke at full speed, until rolling waves seep over the lane lines and swamp the lungs of lap swimmers. After exercising, he likes to stand naked in front of the mirror and call himself a stupid, fat motherfucker until he wants to beat his reflection into bloody glass. He lies awake in bed at night, fantasizing about college girls in tight pink leather tying him in a monkey knot, facedown on his Ikea dining table. They pound the muscles in his back with Wiffle bats and plastic hockey sticks until the chinks in his spine finally set. Each time they hit him, he gives in more and more, until he can no longer hold back from touching himself.

    Benjamin remembers his first day at Adelphus & Smyth Financial. He had been on time, but the rest of the class showed up late—some in wrinkled business wear, some in business casual. TJ Anderson, their new supervisor, stood at the front of the room frowning. Every time a freshman straggled in, his frown deepened. The information Benjamin had read on TJ Anderson said that he was a third-year team lead, two steps away from junior partner and invincibility. TJ Anderson had climbed the corporate ladder quickly, and it showed, because when he cleared his throat the freshmen immediately quieted. Benjamin closed his mouth and breathed through his nose. The slender girls pressed their legs together.

    “The alpha male is the leader of the wolves,” said TJ Anderson. “So, if you kill a deer, you go out of your way to bring me a bite. And not just any bite. You bring me the prime rib. You bring me the filet mignon.” He paused. “Ladies, ignore this next part… Guys, if you pick up some hot ass in a bar, you let me hit it first. Understood? You are my little insignificant omega bitches. You do what I want, when I want. Okay, ladies, you can listen now.”

    He pointed to the door at the back of conference room 2B. Their heads followed his fingers. “That is the cat door back there. If you can’t handle this, feel free to walk out. Understand, though, no man or woman walks out the cat door—only pussies.”

    When Benjamin laughed, TJ Anderson asked him, “And what is your name, tons-of-fun?”

    Benjamin told him.

    “That’s refreshing to hear you laugh, 7,” said TJ Anderson. “I’m glad to see such positivity. You know, it’s that type of attitude that moves employees ahead, laughing at alpha wolf’s jokes. But, you have to realize, 7, I wasn’t joking with you. I was being quite serious. If I were telling a joke, I would say that you would get out of here before midnight on Friday. Now that’s a joke.”

    The List of Rules for incoming Adelphus & Smyth freshmen:

    1. First-year employees of Adelphus & Smyth will make an annual salary of $65,000 and a silver-level benefit package. There are no set hours of work per week and first-year employees are not eligible for overtime or comprehensive return time.

    2. First-year employees are required to pass the five parts of the Certified Public Accountant (CPA) examination by their third year of employment or face termination.

    3. First-year employees must carry their Adelphus & Smyth cell phone at all times. At night, first-year employees must tuck their Adelphus & Smyth cell phone into the covers of their bed or sleeping area.

    4. First-year employees will have three goals in life: pass the CPA examination, become an Adelphus & Smyth partner, and run a marathon in more than four hours but less than five hours.

    5. First-year employees will spend their free time either: studying in groups or individually for the CPA examination, eating or consuming alcohol with other Adelphus & Smyth employees, fantasizing about becoming an Adelphus & Smyth partner, sleeping, pursuing a life partner, or running on a treadmill between speeds of four to six miles per hour.

    6. If the first-year employee is male, he will consider the Dave Matthews Band his favorite musical group. If the first-year employee is female, she will consider Kelly Clarkson her favorite musical group. If the first-year employee is not of European descent, he or she will consider Ben Harper his or her favorite musical group. Other musical varieties may be appreciated as long as they are on the playlist of an Adelphus & Smyth-sponsored varietal station.

    7. First-year employees will not exceed their physician-recommended body mass index.

    8. First-year employees will not say the word “fuck” in any of its versions or tenses more than five times a day if they are male and five times a month if they are female.

    9. First-year employees will wear nothing less expensive than a $400 suit (not including tie, shoes, and undershirt) if they are male, and a total outfit worth no less than $550 if they are female (the price of shoes, bras, and panties may be included, but all bras and panties must be purchased from a Victoria’s Secret lingerie store and must be generally acknowledged as at least “kind of sexy”).

    10. First-year employees will submit to all senior members of Adelphus & Smyth without question.

    “And in case you’re wondering,” said TJ Anderson. “That means me.”

  • Pharma Chameleon

    I have it all, from common afflictions (rashes, allergies, Sasquatch-like body hair) to those seldom mentioned in polite company (other types of rashes, irritable bowels, acid reflux, nighttime hog snore) to the just plain gross (dog breath, compacted sinuses). Thanks to modern medicine, I am generally successful in masking or suppressing the worst symptoms of these conditions—from public view, at least.

    That changed last month, however. In a perfect storm of embarrassment, my wide-ranging array of personal hygiene supplies and prescriptions all ran out at the same time. I was forced to go to the pharmacy at the newly remodeled Edina Super Target on a Saturday. It was buzzing with action. I took small comfort in hiding behind my oversized Bono-ish sunglasses, worn partly in an attempt at coolness, but mainly because one eye has a growth that eventually will blind me. (Sweet! I’m bringing back the eye patch!)

    First, I hoisted a keg of Metamucil into my cart, where it sat like a giant orange beacon signaling “middle age.” Next up: Tums (I keep them in a pretty dish and eat them like holiday mints), Imodium Plus (now with Gas-X!), Prilosec (for the heartburn), and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. Then it was time for my “wookie” products: new razors (my wife feels she’s married to Chaka from Land of the Lost), ingrown hair treatment (that’s a don’t ask/don’t tell situation), and smoothing gel for my hair (which otherwise resembles a Chia Pet). Moving on, I went for my dog-breath eliminator, a mouthwash strong enough to double as paint stripper; Secret women’s deodorant (my armpits break out like a hornet’s nest if I wear men’s); a jug of Purell hand sanitizer; Alavert decongestant (otherwise I sound like Snuffleupagus), and eucalyptus mint bathroom spray (a nice gesture for my wife, since I had used so much “gingerbread spice” the previous week; she now hates Christmas).

    Hanging around the pharmacy counter was the usual gathering of wintry ghouls: Minnesotans of all ages burdened with hacking coughs, honking noses, and general snot-encrusted misery. Retrieving my order, a cranky pharmacist noticed that the entire plastic tub for “S” names was filled with my prescriptions. She plunked it down at the cash register, sighed dramatically, and proceeded to loudly name-check each item as she rang it up: “Anti-inflammatory for the colon, anti-fungal powder, allergy nasal spray, asthma inhaler, steroid cream for eczema …”

    When I got home, I set out all my purchases on the kitchen table and wondered, When did I become Beetlejuice?

    My wife walked in, took one look at the bounty, and spotting an opportunity, seized it. “Murphy is constipated and he needs an enema!” she announced, referring to our three-year-old son. “I’m too embarrassed to buy the kit. Can you do it?” It was as if she were summoning some bastard superhero.

    “No problem,” I replied. I have become immune to humiliation. In fact, my myriad ailments have given me great strength. My son’s overfull bowels only filled me with compassion. I drove back to the pharmacy beaming with pride. For the first time in my life, I felt healthy as a horse.

  • Dvorak and Rachmaninoff

    Dvorak’s Cello Concerto is a romantic work of unabashed grandeur, with a lush and lyrical first movement, a pensive and ethereal middle, and a swelling, pile-driving, rondo-form finale that briefly pauses to dredge up elements of the first two movements before coalescing into a passionate crescendo. Sommerfest artistic director Andrew Litton will conduct Scandinavian cellist Truls Mork, who recorded the work with the Oslo Philharmonic for Virgin two years ago. Rachmaninoff’s Symphonic Dances is the perfect after-intermission refresher, a neat mixture of romance, rhythm, and modernism. Like the Cello Concerto, it benefits from being one of the later works of its composer. Walton’s fun, quirky and deceptively difficult Scapino Overture leads the program. 612-371-5656; www.minnesotaorchestra.org

  • Why do people think you’re strange?

    Editor Julie Caniglia Apparently I ask rhetorical questions unrhetorically.
    Senior Editor Brad Zellar You tell me and we’ll both know.
    Assistant Editor Christy DeSmith I don’t dress my age.
    Online Editor Cristina Córdova Oya wima wima, Yansa wima wima oko to bembe aseni.
    Art Director Evangeline Johnson I sing silly made-up songs—poorly.
    Production Manager Lisa Pahl I think I’m smart.

    Contributors
    Ann Bauer Probably because I don’t care what people think.
    Jeremy Iggers They do?
    Colleen Kruse Faces get ugly when I’m alone.
    Stephanie March I love peanut butter and mustard sandwiches.
    Oliver Nicholson I am English.
    Britt Robson I don’t leave home without my trademark penny loafers.
    Peter Schilling, Jr. Because they’re meanies.
    Copy Editor Katherine Lewis I watch TV in a union suit, pitch helmet, and snorkle.
    Proofreader Judy Arginteanu I do the Tinklenberg dance.

    Interns
    Haily Gostas I don fake moustaches at whim.
    Christopher Hontos I’m not very good at eye contact, that’s probably why.
    Tyler Jensen I can sing Salt-n-Pepa’s “Shoop,” in it’s entirety, at a drop of a hat.
    Tricia Towey Because I look at them strangely.

    Publisher Tom Bartel Because I read Batman comics.
    Associate Publisher Kristin Henning I can’t imagine; maybe my double entendres?
    Controller Cindi Barthel Don’t know. Don’t care. Guess that’s why.
    Circulation Manager Joe Kvam Freakish features?

    SALES AND MARKETING GROUP
    Kela Caldwell Turkey dancing face!! Haaaaa ha ha!!!
    A.J. Kiefer What? I’m sorry. I’m busy eating toenail clippings.
    Elton Langland Elton=mirror. People see only themselves in me.

    Sales Coordinator     Mary Olson I put the “ass” in “assertive.”
    Online Sales Administrator Matt Bartel Because I’m my mother’s child.
    Online Coordinator Jennifer Havrish ‘Cause I am.
    Systems Admin/Network Guru Kristopher Wilson Was a hobbit the year after I was a dinosaur.