Month: June 2008

  • Queers, Bad Girls and Nerds

    FILM

    Queer Takes: Visibly Out



    For the third year in a row, the Walker Art Center launches Queer Takes
    an amazing film series (just in time for Pride Weekend of course!) focusing on LGBT films and filmmakers. Running through
    the 29th, this fest will include a wide variety of flicks from
    filmmakers from all over the world. Tonight Queer Takes screens Boystown (Chuecatown) , directed by Juan Flahn. Based in Madrid, this adaptation of a Spanish comic book follows bearish
    couple, Leo and Rey, who are pressured to sell their property by a
    shady real estate agent with plans to turn their neighborhood into an
    district for more trendy and upscale gays – and apparently Leo and Rey
    do not fit the bill, nor do they want to.


    7pm, Walker Art Center Cinema, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis, $8

    READINGS
    Murder at the Bad Girl’s Bar and Grill

    A murder in a south Florida retirement community would seem to be an
    event that is definitely out-of-the-ordinary. Add in a blind heiress
    loved by the town’s only cop, a former slasher film queen who runs a
    raucous Bar & Grill for the under-65, and a trio of Swedish
    circusfolk, and you’ve got yourself a good mystery. Acclaimed author N.M. Kelby offers up her fourth book, Murder at the Bad Girl’s Bar & Grill, which went on sale June 3rd. Library Journal has praised Kelby, a former Twin Cities journalist whose stories have appeared in Minnesota Monthly,
    as a cross between Carl Hiaasen and Christopher Moore, and Hiaasen
    described her as, "A natural-born storyteller who manages to be very
    funny and very wise at the same time." – Andrew Newman

    4pm, The University of Minnesota Bookstore, Coffman Union, 300 Washington Ave. SE, Dinkytown, Free

    MUSEUMS
    Star Wars: Where Science Meets Imagination

    This new exhibit at the Science Museum is a sprawling display filled with Star Wars fan drool-inspiring artifacts. Dozens of protective cases containing actual costumes, models, and mechanics from the Star Wars
    films pepper the space, filled in with interactive displays, such as an
    engineering design lab where show-goers can put together simple
    R2D2-style mini-robots step by step at mobility, programming, and
    sensor stations. Included in the exhibit is an actual hovercraft that
    attendees can try out for themselves – sort of a futuristic version of
    a bumper car. There is an interactive robotics station where you can
    control dangerous looking (and sounding) mechanical legs, along with
    plenty of other computerific games and experiments to try. All in all,
    this exhibit is definitely worth seeing, and weekdays are probably best
    to avoid the Star Wars nerd melee over the weekend.

    Read the complete article…..HERE

    The Star Wars exhibit runs through August 24th, 8:30am-11:30pm Daily, Science Museum of MN, 120 W. Kellogg Blvd., St. Paul, $19, Advance tickets recommended and available HERE.

  • Sometimes All the Time

    Jonah’s
    throat was sore, lately. It hadn’t bothered him in the last couple
    days, but Jonah still waited for the pain to resurface, so that whenever
    he swallowed it would feel like swallowing sand, like it had for the
    past month or so. This waiting made him impatient, but the painkillers
    he took somewhat tempered his anxiety. Right now he had a eucalyptus
    lozenge in his mouth, and he bit down on it – not all the way through,
    just so his molars sunk in halfway.

    There
    were eleven tables, and he placed the salt-and-pepper shakers and the
    miniature Tabasco bottles from each on his cocktail tray. Becky followed
    behind him, blowing out the tea lights (too hard: wax fanned out against
    the sides of the candleholders) and wiping the tables with a bleach-soaked
    rag. In the office – a desk and laptop behind a velveteen curtain
    – their manager settled the credit cards and listened to vintage rock
    radio, the songs muffled and heartfelt through the drape, and Jonah
    and Becky knew that really they were actually alone.

    "I’m
    coming over later, still," Becky said.

    "Yeah
    that’s cool," said Jonah. "If you want." He paused at a four-top
    by the front windows, and looked up and out over Lake Calhoun, trying
    to find one of the half dozen or so constellations he could recognize,
    but it was too cloudy, or maybe the lights from the bars and condominiums
    in Uptown Minneapolis were too bright and distracting, or the Percocets
    he’d taken dampened the stars like they did his feelings (physical,
    emotional, and otherwise), or maybe the stars tonight were dimmer than
    usual, farther away and burning out. He scribbled something on a guest
    check that later, when he tries to re-write it into his astronomy journal,
    he will be unable to read.

    "I
    want," Becky said. She slid into a booth and began to polish silverware.

    She
    had two blond streaks in her hair, interwoven with the black. Nights
    they spent together, Jonah guessed what her original color had been,
    but Becky wouldn’t tell him. Also – and this was maybe more important,
    at least to Jonah – she couldn’t come during sex, or at least not
    with him, or at least not yet; he asked her why she wanted to sleep
    with him so often, why she was so insistent, but she wouldn’t tell
    him that, either.

    "Okay,
    then," Jonah said. "I’ll call you after Jenna’s gone, I guess."

    He
    sat down next to her, making sure the outsides of their legs touched
    under the table, but Becky scooted away.

    Jenna,
    his friend, ex-girlfriend, possibly hopefully girlfriend-soon-to-be,
    was coming tonight to pick up their dog because Jonah worked longer
    hours on weekends. He did not like this arrangement: the time he spent
    away from Rabbit was confusing and remarkably un-linear. Tomorrow, Friday,
    Jonah will wake up the same time as usual, but realizing his dog is
    not there needing to be let out, he will fall back asleep, and in the
    two days after, his sleep will drift later and later into the morning,
    and the events of his day will be without the regular, nearly grammatical
    punctuation of walking Rabbit. Which is why tonight he was thinking
    about trying to convince Jenna to move back in with him.

    "What
    time will that be?" Becky asked. She wiped a pair of wet spoons with
    a black napkin.

    "The
    usual time. I don’t know. I just thought I should tell you, is all."

    "You
    shouldn’t have," Becky said.

    She
    was wearing a pair of his soccer socks – they came up to the middle
    of her thighs, the Puma logo stretched around her kneecaps – and Jonah
    thought it was strange how easily and comfortably she’d been able
    to insinuate herself into his life. That was, actually, the most fascinating
    aspect of their now-month-long relationship: its normalcy. After only
    a couple nights together, symbiotic sleeping positions and synchronized
    wakings had been established. Jonah was impressed with himself for this
    because he considered Becky to be a little too good for him. Not because
    she was too pretty, though maybe also for that reason, but because she
    seemed so sad, and wise in her sadness, (and pretty in her sadness),
    and for him melancholy trumped beauty: it was a sort of barometer for
    how human one was. And Becky couldn’t even say why she was on the
    anti-depressants she was on – she’d tried explaining several times
    and just given up – and this intrigued Jonah and turned him on a little.

    Right
    now, he loved the way she stopped rolling silverware, and brushed crumbs
    from the booth to the floor, hair hanging forward in a way that exposed
    the sparrow she had tattooed below her left ear.

    "What’s
    wrong?" he asked.

    "Nothing."

    "What’s
    nothing?"

    "Nothing’s
    this big void in the universe. Scientists aren’t sure if it actually
    exists or not, but it does. I feel it a lot."

    Jonah
    coughed, and then spit into a beverage napkin – candy lozenge shards,
    mostly – which he folded and put in his apron.

    "Is
    your throat okay?" Becky moved closer to him. "I hope it’s not
    strep. I don’t have the energy to get sick right now."

    "I’m
    fine, I think," he said, taking a pill from his pocket.

    "I
    can get you more, if you want," she said. "It might be generic this
    time, but basically the same. I’ll ask my guy. Then I’ll bring it
    over tonight, if you’ll let me over. Whatever. I’m hot. You’re
    dumb."

    Later,
    after the chairs are all flipped over onto the tables and the lights
    turned out, after the manager unlocks the restaurant doors so they can
    leave, and Jenna come and Jenna gone and Becky and Jonah in bed together,
    the night crew will come to sweep and mop and bleach the floors.

  • A New Lorax Is Needed

    In the corner of St. Croix Antiquarian Booksellers, over by the color-coded antique maps, is a framed edict that’s actually more of a poem:

    "I, Richard Booth
    King of Hay
    Lord of all booktowns
    & their protector in perpetuity
    hereby declare that
    Stillwater Minnesota
    Is the first booktown
    In the western hemisphere.
    Let no one gainsay
    Or dare to dispute
    This is my official decree."

    I’m writing this too late: Booktown has now mostly disbanded. Gary Goodman, who owns the shop, pointed across the street. "There used to be thirty-two booksellers in that building," he said. Now, like much of historic downtown Stillwater, it’s an antique mall. Goodman then began to count in his head the number of tomes that used to fill the stores by the St. Croix. "I think there used to be five-hundred-thousand books in the Stillwater area," he tallied.

    Not anymore. The number of bookstores has dwindled down to four. There’s St. Croix Antiquarian, which is the biggest and most impressive; The Valley Bookseller, which is this town’s Wild Rumpus, with its vast childrens’ section and its cage of assorted, fluorescent birds; Chestnut Street Books, a new-and-used shop which has limited hours that coincide with likely tourist rushes (they’re closed Mondays and Tuesdays, and generally don’t open before noon); and then a theologically based bookstore that’s a bit off from the main drag, in a spot which residents refer to as, "Up the hill."

    It’s the usual story of Amazon, EBay, and AbeBooks, Goodman explained, all of which allow individuals to unload their books at better prices than stores might pay for them, and to do so more conveniently. Even Valley Booksellers – by far the most conventional of the shops – seems to be feeling the unfortunate tug of the Internet. For the local high school’s required summer reading, they’d ordered twenty copies of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. As of today, nineteen were still on the shelf. "Maybe by August, when school’s closer to starting, most of them will be gone," a blond clerk said hopefully.

    I had the idea for this blog post since last summer, but hadn’t gone back to Stillwater until this week. It was supposed to be about how their downtown had an incredibly impressive wealth of independent bookstores, their inventories unmatched by most sellers in the Twin Cities. (Hell, in terms of rare, out-of-print, and first editions, some of these places gave The Strand a run for its money. Antiquarian still does.)

    I’d wanted to focus part of the piece on a new-and-used shop that had been on the corner of Main Street and East Chestnut Street, which Goodman estimated had once held 250,000 books. Now it’s the Summit Boardshop, a place that sells skate- and snowboards, its title written on the building in faux graffiti.

    Nevertheless, those bookstores that remain, while they remain, are worth checking out. (And this is the real tragedy – they really all were worth checking out…now there’s just fewer of them.) Their stocks are varied, unique, and unpredictable. At Antiquarian, my booknerd friend found an illustrated first edition of The Little Prince author Antoine de Saint Exupery’s memoir, Wind, Sand and Stars, as well as an early translation of Kafka’s The Castle, whose introduction reads, "Franz Kafka’s name, so far as I can discover, is almost unknown to English readers."

    These are treasures, and the booksellers in Stillwater that are left are full of them. My suggestion? If you have any interest in books, which if you’ve made it this far in the post I’m guessing you do, go while you still can.

  • NBA Draft Q&A with Hoiberg

    Wolves News, NBA photo from 2005

    No great secrets were divulged in the 15-minute phone conversation I had with Fred Hoiberg this morning, nor did I expect him to spill the beans about what will happen on Thursday. But he was kind enough to give me the time during his busy schedule and what follows is as close to verbatim as my flying typing fingers would allow. If I were to handicap what he said, I’d say it is a tossup between Mayo and Love if the team stays pat, and that a trade of the #3 down to anywhere between #12-13 isn’t out of the question.

    Rake: Rather than give away any strategy or involve ourselves in the sort of guessing games and myriad scenarios that have filled your days lately, why don’t we start with you telling me who you like from this class that you’ve seen, regardless of whether the Wolves will take him at #3 or #31 or whatever. Who will you feel a little proud about if they go on and have a really good NBA career?

    Fred Hoiberg: Well after the first two guys-it is pretty clear Rose and Beasley are one-two. But in that next group there are a lot of guys we like-Mayo, Love, Lopez, Gallinari. We just saw Bayliss and Gordon, two guys who get to the free throw line better than anybody in the country, which is something we need to get better at, so those two guys make some sense. There are strengths and weaknesses in all their games, so what you do is try and find who fits best with your team and what you are trying to do. We feel it is a very deep draft and all will be solid NBA players. You can go all the way to 12 or 13 and get a very good player who can possibly start.

    R: Which brings up the possibility of a trade, if you can leverage one of those 12 or 13 guys you like and still add another piece.

    FH: Yeah as Kevin [McHale] has been saying all week, teams won’t really come out with their best offer until the last minute. Right now nobody has offered anything that is jumping out at us and we have the pick of the litter after the top two so we’re happy with where we are.

    R: What areas of the game are you looking to bolster beyond the improvement of the guys on your roster, and how likely can those areas be addressed in this draft?

    FH: I think shooting is a priority. Just so the defender is not always sitting in Al Jefferson’s lap. O.J. Mayo will be as good a shooter as anyone in this draft. We saw him in Chicago and he was filling it up. Kevin Love is a legitimate three point shooter as a big and is a great passer. Bayliss is a good shooter. Gordon has a great shot. Gallinari made 23 out of 25 college threes in the workout we saw. It was against a chair, but he missed the first one and then hit 23 of his next 24 and he’s a legitimate 6-10, just a quarter inch shorter than McHale.

    Otherwise you just get somebody who is going to fit into your group. Lopez fits our needs because of his size and his wide shoulders. Love does because of his savvy and smarts–he fills gaps defensively and immediately helps our fast break because of his outlet passing and just does so many little things. Mayo averaged 21 points in the toughest league in country last year and has had the spotlight on him since he was growing up in Kentucky.

    R: You’ve already done this to some extrent, but let me throw four names out at you and have you respond as if the Wolves just drafted this guy. Describe why you picked him and why he fits in with your ballclub. The first one is Mayo.

    FH: I think OJ Mayo when we look back in 5 years we’ll say he was the best shooter in this draft. He has very good range, he is very consistent and he is a guy I don’t think the moment will ever be too big for him because the spotlight has been on him for so long. He defends well and you can play him at both [guard] spots-he’s not a pure point but he can get you into your basic sets.

    R: What about Love?

    FH: Looking at this draft class I think he is the smartest player. He is a skilled big which is something we need and there are not many in the league right now. His passing ability is just unbelievable–he sees things before they happen and already knows where the ball is going to go before it hits his hands. He is a great rebounder and shoots the ball well, with legit three-point range, so we’d be able to space him around Al.

    R: Lopez?

    FH: Lopez probably fills one of our biggest needs which is a legitimate center. He averages almost 20 points per game and did that although he got double-teamed almost every night. We saw him have a big game against Texas. He runs pretty well for his size and is a legitimate 7-1.

    R: Finally, Gallinari.

    FH: Gallinari grew up as a point guard–two years ago he was a 6-5 point guard and then he shot up 5 inches, so now he’s a small forward with point guard skills. He can go right or left and has great shooting skills. He has the potential to be a star in our league.

    R: If you were to make a trade, would it likely involve a more established player and/or a better draft pick?

    FH: I think both those scenarios will be there. I don’t think we’ll see the best offers on the table until Thursday. But [then] we’ll probably see different scenarios with draft picks or getting rid of a contract or a [established] player who makes sense for us or all of the above. But if it doesn’t make sense for us we don’t need to do it, we’ll just go out and get the player we want.

    R: Because you’re already a young team is it important for the players you pick to be NBA-ready? Is it possible you guys would take a project?

    FH: I think the guys we are looking at are all NBA-ready guys, considering that all could step in and play next year.

    R: Do all the workouts you guys schedule change your mind ever or just reinforce opinions you had?

    FH: More reinforce opinions. You try and put guys in spots where they are uncomfortable to see how they handle it. And if they don’t handle it well, you don’t cross them off but you go back and look at the film and see how they handled those situations [then]. And you do your thorough background checks and you have your sit down interview, which is a very important part of process.

    R: Without naming any names, did anyone dramatically screw themselves or improve as a result of this process?

    FH: I don’t think so. You’ve got to remember that these guys are flying across the country and doing five or six workouts in six days, and that this is only one performance that you are seeing. But you do get a look and you want to get a look. It is part of the process but not the most important part.

    R: I’m figuring that if you don’t land a big man with your first pick, that, given the depth of bigs later in the draft, you will probably get a big with one of your two later picks. Is that a fair assumption?

    FH: I would think so unless somebody drops who we feel can’t pass on at 31 or 34. But you’re right [about the depth], there should be somebody there for us.

  • The 98 Pound Restaurant: Cheap Sushi and More!

     Header photo by Denis Jeong 

    I’ve been told that the whole Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet phenomenom has run its course, and that the next big trend for Chinese restaurateurs is sushi — the profit margins are better. A lot of Chinese buffets already offer a few varieties of sushi, but the new 98 Pounds Restaurant at 98th and 35W in Bloomington actually combines the concepts.

    The steam tables offer a big selection of the usual Chinese buffet
    staples – General Tso’s chicken, shrimp in coconut sauce, stir-fried beef with
    mushrooms, teriyaki chicken, fried rice, egg rolls, potstickers, hot and sour
    soup, tempura shrimp, etc. etc. etc. There’s plenty of fried food, and the
    fried shrimp and tempura shrimp are heavy on breading light on shrimp, but
    overall, I’d rate the hot buffet items as better-than-average.

    But the real novelty here is the cold buffet of
    all-you-can-eat sushi.

    sushi plate

    There were about 15 different varieties of sushi on offer,
    nearly all of the maki (roll) variety: spicy tuna roll, crab roll, cream cheese
    roll, California roll. Real sushi lovers will not be impressed – there’s very
    little raw fish, or any other costly ingredients, in the sushi, but plenty of
    imitation crab. Still, the sushi actually was tasty, and you can’t beat the
    price – $7.99 for lunch, $11.49 for dinner. I’m told that the dinner buffet
    offers a bigger selection of seafood items, including crab legs and mussels.

    98 Pounds Restaurant, 824 W. 98th St., Bloomington, 952-881-1088.

  • Wilde, Wilde Life

    THEATER
    Constance Wilde Play & Pre-Show Happy Hour

    One can only assume that the wife of Oscar Wilde would be driven to drink, and considering tonight’s play The Secret Fall of Constance Wilde
    is about her life, you might as well try to relate. Stop into the
    Guthrie’s Target Lounge for a pre-show happy hour from 6 to 7:30pm with
    your bff’s at The Rake and DJ Eric Lovold, of The Alarmists.
    We’ll be hosting the party so come say hello, and tip one back for Miz
    Constance. The best part? Tonight’s special ticket price is a mere $20!
    Staged in the Guthrie’s McGuire proscenium theater, this story travels
    and shifts in time and perspective, bringing the humanity of a
    forgotten woman to life. The production impresses with more than just
    an interesting story; it also boasts exquisite lighting, a versatile
    set, intricate and artsy steampunk-style
    costuming and an engaging cast. Tonight is the perfect opportunity to
    catch a deal on this wonderful play and have drinks with us!

    6pm Happy Hour, 7:30pm Show, Guthrie Theater, 818 2nd St. N, Minneapolis, $20


    READINGS
    Talk of the Stacks: Lynne Rossetto Kasper

    This tasty edition of Talk of the Stacks features writer and radio personality Lynne Rossetto Kasper, perhaps best known for her national foodie radio show The Splendid Table. Kasper will discuss her third book, How to Eat Supper,
    which goes above and beyond your traditional recipe book with
    refreshing commentary on food and America’s changing sense of it, as
    well as how breaking bread together plays a role in society. Tom Crann,
    host of All Things Considered, and Sally
    Swift, co-author and managing producer of
    The Splendid Table, join Kasper on stage for some delicious banter.

    7pm, Minneapolis Central Library,
    Pohlad Hall, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis, Free

    More into art than recipes? Modern Marvels is a series of discussions on graphic novels by Jewish artists at the Highland Park Library, 7pm.


    THEATER
    The Joans

    Twin Cities dynamo Annie Enneking presents her latest work, The Joans,
    at the Open Eye Theatre tonight through June 30th. Raucous as hell with
    a dash of thoughtful blasphemy, this production has Enneking taking on
    the the roles of three women, all loosely based on the history
    (embellished or otherwise) of Joan of Arc.
    The three Joans, "a rock n’ roll ghost, a marauding virgin, and a
    wanton chanteuse", concoct a cheeky blend of sex, religion, and rock n’
    roll for this delightfully rebellious little piece of theater.

    8pm, Open Eye Theatre, 506 East 24th Street, South Minneapolis, $10

  • Rock the Garden

    A small army of bicycles standing
    guard outside the Walker Art Center glints like miniature sunbursts
    while lines stretch like anxious snakes down the sidewalk. The sold
    out crowd of 7,500 brave hour long entry waits, sunburns, and sweat for
    Rock The Garden and a chance to see indie pop’s brightest talents.

    As Bon Iver opens the afternoon
    with his mellow orchestrations and hushed melodies, onlookers pack the
    closed street allowing only inches of legroom. On the hill overlooking
    the stage, a man relives childhood revelry by rolling down the grass
    carpet in shoeless, summer bliss. Squinting eyes are shielded by Wayfarer
    sunglasses. A speckle of straw hats and a gaggle of patchwork quilts
    break up the patches of sunbathers. A small gathering on the Walker’s
    roof looks out with a bird’s eye view. And as Bon Iver’s band ring
    out the last echoing trumpets, bony arms raise to clap, creating their
    own grateful windstorms, then return to wiping brows.

    Minnesota’s own Cloud Cult
    takes the stage next. Singer Craig Minowa greets the throng with a cheerful
    "Hi ya!" before launching into the band’s emotional and raw set.
    As a group focused on ecoconsciousness, Cloud Cult no doubt appreciates
    the festivals "zero waste" policy. Crushed beer cups and litter
    are noticeably missing, as is moshing and the general raucousness accustomed
    to outdoor concerts. A beach ball quietly bounces on top of the crowd,
    as they stand intently watching Minowa hop around the stage, pounding
    his feet and acting in stark contrast to his lyrics steeped in struggle
    and loss. His vocals are fragile. If you could reach out and touch them,
    they would turn to dust and dreams. Embellishing the band’s already
    lush sound, is violist Shannon Frid. She raises her bow in the air,
    like a lightning rod or a rain stick. The audience applauds at the end
    of Cloud Cult’s cover of Neil Young’s "Hey Hey, My My," equally
    for the band and for a brief moment of shade provided by a passing cloud.

    Then comes The New Pornographers.
    There’s something about their rich harmonies that make it feel like
    summer. Maybe it’s memories of the Beach Boys with their sandy, tight
    harmonies and stories of ocean waves that feel like they could drench
    even the center of this city. This is The New Pornographers’ feel:
    bouncy, upbeat guitar pop. Most of their tunes include heavy doses of
    harmonious la-la-las, ba-da-das, no-no-nos and a sprinkling of enthusiastic
    aaaaahhhhhs. This is OK. Save those wallowing songs of heartbreak or
    spoutings about social causes for the dreary winter-or at least the
    riots outside the Republican National Convention later this year. Summer
    is the season of joyous pop music, and The New Pornographers deliver
    with their trademark boppy, poppy controlled spazz.

    As the sun sets on Rock The
    Garden, the Walker’s silver sheen looks like a melted orange popsicle.
    Smoke from food stands rise in wisps, joining threatening gray clouds.
    When Andrew Bird steps onstage to close the event, cool breezes storm
    through the audience, smacking like full kisses on the lips. Bird’s
    music, laden with whistling and tender-sounding violins, sounds like
    an intricately wound toy. Camera flashes match bolts of far away lightning
    in their intensity. In turn, a light rain grows fiercer as die-hard
    Bird fans brave the weather to see the evening’s star. A group at
    the bottom of the hill cowers under a red blanket in an attempt to keep
    dry. As the wind whips the blanket, it looks like a super hero’s cape,
    readying them to take flight.

    See the Rock the Garden Flickr Pool.

  • Star Wars, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Sci-Fi

    Growing up, my world was a whirlwind of arts, culture, and strangely
    enough, Sci-Fi. My Dad was my hero, a man of constant humor, kindness,
    and creative influence, who also just so happened to be a world-class
    science fiction and fantasy nerd. One of the first movies I can
    remember him taking me to as a child was a matinée of Hercules in New York at the Riverview Theater, starring a pre-Terminator/governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Shades of Doctor Who, Robbie the Robot, and of course, Star Wars
    followed, defining my childhood, which was also smoothed over with my
    mother’s more cultured influence of books, art, theater, and fashion.
    My Halloween costumes always featured some conglomeration of LED lights
    and internal wiring. I developed a fascination with robots, and
    alternately, an intense horror of aliens and alien abduction early on.
    Even lovable ’80s icon E.T. was on my top ten list of things to be
    terrified of, which of course my Dad thought was hilarious. So much so,
    that he proceeded to buy me E.T.-related memorabilia, which I would
    subsequently break or lose. One item specifically, a metal TV tray with
    E.T.’s hideous face emblazoned on it, was a thing of particular
    disdain. So when I intentionally dented it up beyond usability, instead
    of throwing it out, my dad placed it directly at the bottom of the
    basement stairs, just to fuck with me. Idiotically enough, to this day,
    I still run up the basement stairs, envisioning large-eyed aliens
    camped out in dark corners, ready to pounce. But despite all this, and
    also the forced Danish dancing lessons (another story), I still thought
    my Dad was the coolest — and I still do.

    While I was merely a diaper-clad babe when the original Star Wars movie came out, and still pretty much a deer in the headlights when The Empire Strikes Back was released, I was sentient enough to get the gist by the time Return of the Jedi
    hit screens — the first Star Wars film to introduce the Ewoks. Somehow,
    my deeply infused hatred of all aliens morphed into mild nervousness
    and curiosity in regards to the Ewoks. There was something feral about
    them that rubbed me the wrong way, though. Chewy’s grating bray and
    Yoda’s generally creepiness were disconcerting factors for me as well,
    but somehow less offensive than the scores of other characters and
    imaginary creatures I’d been so taken aback by in the past. My first
    exposure to the epic horror film, E.T., had come the
    previous year, and my reputation for being an irrationally and randomly
    alarmed child had already cemented itself by this point, so I think my
    parents must have been pleasantly surprised when I didn’t need to sleep
    with the lights on for the next three weeks.

    Into my early teen years (basically, before the internet boom hit) I became obsessed with BBSing,
    which, for those of you who only got into computers post-AOL, was an
    early form of online communication that allowed users to dial up via
    phone line and log in to a private server with a very simple,
    text-based program that allowed you to post on message boards, play
    text-games, leave messages for other users, or, say, download the Anarchist’s Cookbook.
    BBS’s were usually run out of someone’s mother’s basement, if you catch
    my drift. The kind of kids who were BBSers were usually total nerds –
    not only computer nerds, but Dungeons and Dragons nerds, sci-fi nerds,
    and in one particular case, a samurai sword-collecting nerd. One kid I
    met, Jeff, was a stereotypical, pretentious, 16-year-old computer geek
    with a long black trench coat and a penchant for blowing things up. As
    an already-been-to-juvie 14-year-old, I, of course, found this
    incredibly charming. One of my clearest memories of him includes us
    being run out of his grandmother’s house for melting a Luke Skywalker
    action figure over a candle in his bedroom. We then walked to the mall,
    watched Doc Hollywood, and made out, which aside from
    the making out part, didn’t seem nearly as cool. At any rate, my
    attraction to angsty, self-important geeks was born. The list of dudes
    I’ve hitched my train to who would give their first born to meet C3PO
    is embarrassingly long.

    These days, I
    still have a soft spot for all things Science Fiction related, and
    usually, if I haven’t had too much wine or fallen asleep with my
    computer on my lap, I read myself to sleep with some sort of paperback
    space odyssey. I am easily coaxed on the bandwagon for a sci-fi series
    like Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Firefly.
    I’ve even held a Star Wars Trilogy brunch. (I’ve also had a House Party
    Trilogy brunch, so don’t be too impressed.) So naturally, when I heard
    the Star Wars exhibit was coming to the Science Museum I was excited to
    cover it. Going to a press preview for something like this, something
    that hundreds of wannabe Jedis have paid $100 each to get the first
    glimpse of later that night, was prrretty damn cool for a girl like me.

    The exhibit itself is a sprawling display filled with Star Wars fan drool-inspiring artifacts. Dozens of protective cases containing actual costumes, models, and mechanics from the Star Wars
    films pepper the space, filled in with interactive displays, such as an
    engineering design lab where show-goers can put together simple
    R2D2-style mini-robots step by step at mobility, programming, and
    sensor stations. Included in the exhibit is an actual hovercraft that
    attendees can try out for themselves – sort of a futuristic version of
    a bumper car. There is an interactive robotics station where you can
    control dangerous looking (and sounding) mechanical legs, along with
    plenty of other computerific games and experiments to try. There’s even
    a large-scale model of a Jawa sandcrawler, where visitors are treated
    to a video hosted by C3PO and real-world robotics Engineer Cynthia
    Breazeal, director of the Robotic Life Group at the MIT Media Lab.

     

    The
    most fun to me, however, was inspecting the costumes. Eight foot tall
    Chewbakka suits with impressive detailing and perfectly coiffed fur
    stand at attention. Scuffed up Darth Vader helmets, gleaming
    light-saber hilts, and assorted futuristic weaponry shine from behind
    plexiglass. My favorite was a somewhat mangy Storm Trooper uniform from
    The Empire Strikes Back that looked like it was made
    out of parts from Ax-Man Surplus and a pair of cut up, dirty,
    inside-out white sweatpants cleverly patched together — so much for big
    budgets! These were no replicas, these were the real deal. To think
    that I was separated merely by a thin sheet of glass from the bonafide
    Yoda puppet actually put a few more stars in my eyes than I expected it
    to.

    Although I did wish I could have
    been around to witness the most definite spectacle that must have been
    the public preview party later that night, I relished the fact that I
    got to lay eyes on it first, just like any proper Star Wars
    nerd would. Not to mention, I got to meet the guy who played C3PO, who,
    by the way, really sounds exactly like C3PO…and actually looks like
    him too, minus all the bling.

    And in case you’re wondering, I am
    single, and currently accepting applications from angsty nerds of all
    varieties. Aliens that have taken over human bodies need not apply.


    The Star Wars exhibit runs through August 24th, 8:30am-11:30pm Daily, Science Museum of MN, 120 W. Kellogg Blvd., St. Paul, $19, Advance tickets recommended and available HERE.

  • A Day at the Dome

    (AP Photo/Tom Olmscheid)

    Completely in the clutches of pro basketball withdrawal, I made my way down to the Dome on Sunday to watch what has become a confoundingly enjoyable 2008 edition of the Minnesota Twins. Actually the prime motivation was catching the galaxy of rising stars on the Arizona Diamondbacks, and receiving what is likely to be my only in-person experience watching 2006 Cy Young Award winner Brandon Webb on the mound. But I walked out of the ballpark remembering why I retain such fondness for the Twins organization, especially their front office (formerly Terry Ryan and now Billy Smith and Mike Radcliffe) and manager Ron Gardenhire and the coaching staff.

    The Twins won’t be playing ball deep into October. If they are still contending in August, it will substantially expand upon what has already been the pleasant surprise of their play thus far. Forty wins in 76 games from this crew? How is that possible?

    Beats me. The name of the game has always been pitching and defense, yet you might as well draw lots trying to determine the ace of their starting rotation: The vet Livan Hernandez has an ERA over 5, and Scott Baker and Nick Blackburn are generally regarded (by the Twins scouts themselves, if they could be honest with you) as, at best, middle-of-the-rotation pitchers. Slowey? Perkins? Bonser? You see why the Twins rank 10th in the 14-team American League (and 19th out of 30 in all the majors) in earned run average.

    And the defense hasn’t helped. Only Arizona, Houston and Texas have yielded as many unearned runs as Minnesota thus far this year. In terms of both errors and fielding percentage, they are among the bottom seven teams in all of baseball.

    Ah, so it’s the hitting, eh? Nope, not really. Minnesota ranks 21st among the 30 teams in OPS, due to being 21st in slugging percentage and 18th in on-base percentage. (While we’re at it, here’s a head-scratcher: Even with the pitcher hitting instead of the DH, National League teams are generally the same as their AL counterparts in OPS. The Washington Nats have the worst offense in the majors, but the Blue Jays, Mariners and A’s are right behind them. Ditto, the Rangers and Red Sox are the game’s best mashers, but the Marlins, Cubs and Phillies hit better than the other dozen AL ballclubs.)

    So why is this team 40-36?

    I’m sorely tempted to wax rhapsodically about how the Twins always "play the game the right way" and thus steal more could-go-either-way contests than they forfeit. And I believe this to be true. The organizational philosophy of this franchise is cautious and conservative. They don’t eat their seed corn by trading cheap young talent for proven commodities and, to get whatever edge their lack of gambles sacrifice, they maximize their available talent and seasoning enough that they rarely unexpectedly beat themselves.

    Sunday’s game isn’t a perfect example, but it will do as a fresh and a handy reference. Opposing Webb was Livan Hernandez, who is at least 33 (Cuban defectors frequently shave a few years off their age), has thrown 200 innings every year since 2000, and has watched his WHIP (number of walks and hits yielded per inning pitched) rise each year since 2001, including this season, where he sports an ugly 1.61 WHIP to go with his 5.23 ERA. Put simply, he’s a crafty, durable hurler in the twilight of his career. And it was a hell of a lot of fun watching him go up against the bevy of very talented but mostly callow hitters in the D-backs batting order.

    Over and over again, Hernandez would perfectly spot the location of his cutter, rarely varying from its 83-87 miles per hour speed, but almost always appearing as if it was going to land outside the plate to right handed hitters, only to suddenly veer in and catch the outside corner for a back-door strike, a pitch the home plate ump was generous about calling for both hurlers. Two D-backs who were especially vexed by this were Chris Young and Justin Upton, a pair of prodigiously talented outfielders who still have a long way to go to seize their potential. The 25-year old Young, who blasted 27 homers last season yet struck out 141 times and hit just .237 (and batted leadoff for most of the year!), stared at three straight strikes without lifting the bat off his shoulder with two on and one out in the 2nd inning, with strike three being of the back-door vintage just described. Leading off the third inning, the 20-year old Upton (who started his rookie season with a bang but has just 5 hits and 21 strikeouts in his last 18 games) likewise stared at three straight called strikes, the final two via the back door. And in the 4th, again with two on base and only one out, Young again stared at three straight strikes, the final two on the back door. Got that? In their first three plate appearances, Young and Upton had nine straight called strikes. That is a veteran pitcher schoolin’ the young’uns.

    By the way, the Twins are paying Hernandez $5 million this season. With his 8 wins, it is already a pretty good deal, and removes some of the stain of the Twins horrible signings of broken-down vets Ramon Ortiz and Sidney Ponson last year (although like a bad penny Ponson keeps showing up and making trouble for himself and whatever ballclub he is with–currently the Yankees, a match made is Hades). By contrast, last year’s younger, and then-better, version of Hernandez, Carlos Silva, parlayed a slightly-above-mediocre season of innings-eating ground balls and pinpoint control into a whopping 4-year, $48 million signing with the Seattle Mariners. This is the sort of colossal mistake the cautious, conservative Twins never make (well, except for Joe Mays). As Hernandez was scattering nine hits and allowing Arizona only one earned run (and three overall) in 7 innings, Silva was getting shellacked versus Atlanta, yielding three homers among nine hits in only four innings work and suffering his 9th loss in 12 decisions (Hernandez is 8-4).

    Meanwhile, Webb didn’t have his best stuff–after winning his first nine decisions, yesterday’s 5-to-3 loss put him at 11-4–but it seemed sufficient as he faced just two hitters over the minimum in four shutout innings. Webb is very much the type of pitcher the Twins organization prefers; someone with great command of location who puts the ball in play but, like Greg Maddux, rarely allows hitters to get comfortable or put the fat part of the bat on the ball. He’s never struck out 200 in a season despite eclipsing 200 innings each of the last four seasons, and yielded just 12 homers in 236 innings last year. What makes him particularly effective is that his hardest stuff breaks as sharply as the rest of his arsenal–when he’s on his game, his sinker seems to weigh a ton, creating a surfeit of routine ground balls.

    Yesterday he was undone by one inning, when the Twins pounced and scored 5 in the 5th. After a sharp single to left by Jason Kubel, Delmon Young lofted a routine fly ball into left…except that nothing is ever routine in the blasphemy that is Metrodome baseball, especially fly balls up in that off-white roof during a day game. D-backs manager Bob Melvin pulled the sort of dumb manuver that I (perhaps too charitably) don’t imagine Gardenhire ever doing, which is putting first baseman Conor Jackson–who had played the outfield just five times this season, or one-tenth what he’s logged at first–out in the vast expanse of the Dome’s left field acreage in conditions that were optimal for even seasoned outfielders to lose a ball in the roof. If Melvin wanted Jackson’s bat in the lineup (and the steady youngster, who is light years more mature at the plate than Young or Upton, went 3-for-4), he had the rare luxury (for an NL manager) of the DH in this interleague contest in an AL ballpark. In any event, Jackson raced back to the left field fence and had no idea the ball would land harmlessly 25 ya
    rds in front of him, giving Young a gift double and putting runners on second and third with no out. That brought up Brian Buscher, a 27-year old scrub described by the 2008 Baseball Prospectus this way: "He’s not a prospect, and even a bench role is unlikely after the Twins’ winter additions." But with one of those additions, Mike Lamb from Houston, being a early-season bust, Buscher was getting his licks, and stroked a single to center to knock in two. Another winter addition, Brendan Harris from Tampa Bay, singled to left to put runners on first and second with still nobody out. Another winter addition, Carlos Gomez from the Mets as the key piece in the Johan Santana deal, then laid down a beautiful bunt even as the D-backs were expecting it and defending it well, sacrificing the runners over to second and third with one down. And that’s when Alexi Casilla, who inexplicably found himself in Gardy’s doghouse last year but has been a marvelous spark in the lineup as part of a go-go tandem with the fleet Gomez at the top of the order, stroked the inning’s second two-run single. And that was the ballgame. A little luck off Melvin’s dumb strategizing, and then a pair of unheralded Twins practicing what the organization preaches; not trying to do too much at the plate (which is what currently bedevils both Young and Upton), just getting good wood on Webb’s veering pitches, providing great at-bats sandwiched around Gomez’s superb bunt, which was highlighted in Gardy’s postgame comments.

    That kind of steady approach to hitting is why the Twins are 6th in runs despite being 21st in OPS. But even more enjoyable for me has been the team’s fielding prowess over the years. Yes, the last couple have been an aberration in that regard, and have pissed Gardenhire off more than once, but yesterday, except for Delmon Young in left field, they were a team of beauty, never moreso than two back-to-back plays in the top of the 5th, when Arizona was already up 3-0 and threatening to expand their lead. The inning began with another of Arizona’s solid prospects, shortstop Stephen Drew, singling to right, a result echoed by 2b-utility man Augie Ojeda, putting two runners on with nobody out. Two pitches later, the inning was over. The first was a missed bunt by Orlando Hudson, followed by catcher Joe Mauer alertly firing what Gardenhire described as a "pellet" down to second base to pick off Drew, who strayed too far assuming the bunt would happen. The next pitch was a grounder to Justin Morneau at first and the big slugger and vastly underrated fielder turned in what remains one of the prettiest plays in all of baseball, the 3-6-3 double play.

    I mentioned Delmon Young, the prize in the atypically gutsy trade Smith made shortly after taking over for Ryan in the off-season, shipping hot pitching prospect Matt Garza to Tampa to secure the services of the 22-year old Young, an equally hot, and in fact slightly more proven, prospect. But Young has gotten off to a shaky start. For one thing he has one measly home run, disappointing those who, based on his track record in pro ball, felt he would increase, perhaps even double, the 13 homers he hit in his first full season in the majors last year. As Young has struggled, Gardy has occasionally sat him down, probably to get a breather, but for someone who played literally every day for Tampa last year, the time off may have psychologically done more harm than good. Whatever the case, Young had a miserable day in the field on Sunday. In the second inning he got a lousy jump on a ball Jackson hit, turning a flyout into a single. Two batters later, he again moved like his feet were in cement, this time on a foul fly that fell harmlessly on the turf instead of his glove, presaging a second single. Instead of being out of the inning, Hernandez had only one out and two on, thanks to what looked like Young’s lack of hustle. Certainly the normally affable Twins fans have not embraced him–after he allowed a single to go under his glove in the fourth, a two-base error that essentially cost the team two runs, Young received a smattering of boos. In the clubhouse after the game, Gardy minimized the gaping error and defended the two indolent flies in the second, properly noting that the ball came off the end of the bat on a full swing on the first.

    In today’s Strib, columnist Jim Souhan–who, like his colleague Pat Reusse, loves baseball foremost, is very knowledeable about the intricacies of the game and is well sourced in the Twins organization–wrote a provocative piece claiming that in lieu of Minnesota’s surprising performance thus far (which finds them just a game and a half out of first place less than two weeks before the 4th of July), they need to rely more on the homegrown talent and deemphasize the players they acquired via trade during the off-season. Unquestionably the two most controversial suggestions Souhan made were giving Denard Span some of Young’s innings in the outfield, and likewise installing utility guy Nick Punto as the shortstop more often at the expense of Brendan Harris.

    I respectfully think Souhan is off his rocker. Span at his best is just the third coming of Gomez and Casilla–he has no pop and no real prospect for acquiring any. Whatever his current doldrums, Delmon Young is almost universally regarded by a plethora of fine scouts–including the ace crew that culls talent for the Twins–as a potentially potent superstar at the plate. At the age of 22, with less than 80 games under his belt for the Twins, the last thing they want to do is cut his time and further prey on his confidence. Remember, there were whispers about Young’s lack of cordiality in Tampa Bay’s clubhouse last year, something Young did a great job of deflecting as the subject arose during spring training. But now that Tampa Bay has enjoyed a resurgence (surgence? they’ve never surged before) and seem to play as a happy tight-knit unit, and now that Garza has begun to pitch very well after his own dicey start, Young is going to be putting more and more pressure on himself to produce. What is required now is a long long long rope. It is not as if the Twins really are going anywhere important this season–and if you seriously think they outlast not only the White Sox but both the underproducing Tigers and Indians, you’re drinking tainted kool aid. No, regardless of what the standings say, this is a rebuilding year, and the way to rebuild is to make sure your future cornerstones are properly planted. Delmon Young is supposed to be a cornerstone. If he isn’t, then Bill Smith may be in over his head trying to replace Ryan. But the only way we’ll find out is if we let Young settle in and not poison his confidence with the specter of Denard Span, of all people. And as for the Nick Punto infatuation, we’ve all been there and done that, haven’t we? Remember the piranhas? Nick Punto is a great late-inning defensive replacement and good to get the guys at second, short and third a needed day off on occasion. But he is not a major league hitter–or, better put, not a hitter for a legit major league ballclub. Brendan Harris made a nice over the shoulder grab on a pop up in short left on Sunday and seems more comfortable at short, where he played for Tampa Bay last year, than at second, where he started the season and where Casilla has now put down a formidable marker.

    Besides, anyone stupid enough to dive into first base–as Punto is wont to do to "impress" us with his little-ball hustle (ask Matt Tolbert and his damaged thumb how that works out)–deserves to stay out of the batter’s box as much as possible. Punto’s dreadful career OPS of .629 is just icing on the cake.

     

  • The Idiots at My Work, Part II

    On
    the loading dock of my work, a truck driver named Tater takes a seat in
    the shade and fans his sweat soaked crotch with a celebrity gossip
    magazine. Under the broiling summer sun, the tubby
    trucker is quickly roasted like a luau pig; his fleshy face turns heart-attack red and his sleeveless t-shirt stinks to high heaven. As
    I unload pallets of topsoil off his truck with a forklift, we chit-chat
    and have a rather high-brow discussion about how awesome barbeque
    flavored Corn Nuts taste. When we’re finished talking, Tater stands up and eloquently says, "Y’all got a toilet? I need to take a dump."

    When Tater waddles back from the bathroom all sweaty and winded, I’m knee deep in the stank of my daily working class grind.

    "This
    Jennifer Lopez is something, huh," Tater boasts and jabs a chubby
    finger at a picture of the pop star in his soiled gossip magazine. "I’d wear her ass for a hat."

    Mere
    seconds after Tater departs, a group of my coworkers run out of the
    store like terrified villagers frantically fleeing a foreign invader.

    "It smells like the zoo in there," a young cashier chokes, a cupped hand protecting her nose and mouth. After I perform an exorcism on the bathroom, an unholy odor festers in the store and clings to my clothes. Good times.

    At 8 a.m. the garden center opens and once again becomes the Ellis Island of labor. We hire the wretched, the stupid, the gimpy, the soused, and put them to work for the summer.

    A college kid named Hafner shows up to work with only one shoe on. He gives me no explanation for the blunder. Hafner is majoring in aerospace engineering, making him an actual rocket scientist. But it appears that putting two shoes on this morning was too difficult a task. I send him home to find the other shoe and he comes back wearing lime green flip flops. I send him home a second time because labor regulations prohibit the wearing of "kick ass beach wear" on a job site.

    Just as I finish watering a section of evergreen shrubs, a rusted out Buick slows down at the back gate. The Rooney Brothers fall out while the jalopy is still moving. They are a half hour late and wear matching purple welts under their eyes

    "Hey boss man," Tommy Rooney greets me nonchalantly. They both are eating hard shell tacos for breakfast and a dirty red sauce rings their lips. Tommy finishes his taco in two bites and then puts a chunk of chewing tobacco into his lip for dessert. Danny Rooney rocks nervously back and forth, holding his taco to the side.

    "We lost the remote for our TV!" Tommy blurts out randomly.

    "Is that why you two are late?" I ask.

    "No, it’s got nothin’ to do with the remote control," Tommy says and shoots me a stupid look. "We’re late because there are bats in our apartment that kept us up all night. And we each drank a case of beer."

    "But dude, check this out: We lost our remote control and hated having to get up off the couch to turn the channel. It was an issue who’d get up."

    That explains their fresh black eyes.

    "O.K."

    "So we went out and bought a wheelchair. Now we can drink and watch TV and no one has to get up. We just roll on over, change the channel, and roll back. Isn’t that awesome?"

    "Actually, it is…" I begin to say just as Danny drops to a knee and dry heaves onto the asphalt.

    Tommy takes out his cell phone and takes a couple of snapshots. "I’m soooo Facebookin’ this."

    In my mind, I’ve fired these two idiots four hundred times a piece. But who am I going to hire that is eager to shovel dirt for eight straight hours? I’m
    so desperate for workers these days that if an applicant wrote on his
    application that his previous work experience was "Al Qaeda," I’d still
    hire them.

    "Didn’t
    spill a drop of my taco, bro," Danny says proudly, as he rises off the
    pavement and washes his mouth out with Mountain Dew.

    Now that’s a skill you can’t put on a resume.