Author: Christy DeSmith

“This is city girl meets country boy,” quipped Cheri Peterson, pointing a finger between herself and her husband, Kevin. However, such a coupling can work swimmingly when the pair gets to share a sophisticated yet bucolic life as owners and operators of the WineHaven Winery and Vineyard, outside Chisago City. The Peterson partnership, which manages to be simultaneously complementary and polar, works like this: Cheri, born on the East Side of St. Paul to world-traveler parents, loves art and functions as the winery’s hostess and curator; Kevin, on the other hand, is a Chisago City native and veteran beekeeper who now spends much of his time working the Peterson’s fifteen acres of six vineyards (he and son Kyle share the “winemaker” title). Cheri’s prized possessions include the painstakingly detailed, grape-patterned quilt from Pennsylvania’s Amish country; a custom-made wrought-iron trellis; a collection of wine-themed paintings on display to the public in the tasting room; and her brand-new trio of bronze deer sculptures, which were commissioned from the Napa Valley artist Miles Metzger and now welcome visitors to the Peterson’s Deer Garden vineyard. Although Kevin plenty appreciates Cheri’s art collection, his taste tends toward utilitarian and agrarian objects such as a vintage bee smoker (used to distract the workers while humans steal their honey) and especially the expensive Kubota tractor he recently picked up, but only after trading in a forklift and his ’40 Ford pickup.

If the three-minute preview we saw in late June (as part of the Fringe For All sneak peek) was a representative sample, this will be a show that typifies fringey humor—you know, jocular and yet acerbic, delivered with wit and plenty of pop-culture references. Last year, the North Dakota show’s originators, Curt Lund and Laura Bidgood, had a Fringe hit on their hands with the hilarious comedy, Two Queers and a Chubby. This time around, the NoDak natives take aim at a different, but no less susceptible target: their unglamorous home state. They’ve cooked up a script woven with childhood memories and droll observations, making light of everything from North Dakota’s plummeting population to its lack of celebrity exports. 651-209-6799; www.fringefestival.org

If the prospect of staging Jules Verne’s adventure novel seems at all daunting, consider, then, the restraints of the Fringe: All shows must wrap within sixty minutes. Yet if anyone can accomplish this feat, it’s Hardcover Theater, a Minneapolis-based company that routinely transforms novels, short stories, and even poetry into entertaining nights of theater. In adapting Verne’s whirlwind account of a trans-global voyage by boat and train (set in 1873, mind you), Hardcover has turned the expedition into sport. With the cast literally racing to beat the clock—stopping in Egypt, India, Hong Kong, and the American Wild West—this is a serious contender for fastest-paced show at the Fringe. 651-209-6799; www.fringefestival.org

One of our favorite local freelance directors, Jon Ferguson, directs a company of six teenage performers and theater-makers (from Stages Theatre Company) in the creation and performance of this original play. So far, Ferguson’s Fringe Fest track-record is unblemished; his past hits include 2005’s Please Don’t Blow Up Mr. Boban and 2006’s Kill The Robot. In the case of Deep Boy, the scenario, roughly, involves a high school-sponsored summer camping trip attended by a mix of over- and decidedly under-achievers. The kicker is this: The kids’ return to nature is led by a bully of a teacher, one whose favored tactics include intimidation and belittlement. This is fertile territory for the imagination, and Ferguson is well suited to coax every last drop of poetry from his teenage charges. 651-209-6799; www.fringefestival.org

Admit it: You think neons push the boundaries of good taste. At the very least, their shocking brightness does little to enhance so many complexions: Canary yellow can make a wide range of pigmentations look jaundiced; hot pink makes even flawless pale skin look as though tinged by rosacea. Even so, now that all other ’80s fashions have been recycled ad nauseam—leg warmers, high-waisted skinny jeans, and skinny belts, to name just a few—this was the season “neon” colors made their inevitable return. The good news with this re-introduction is that the fluorescents are employed in moderation and with common sense. We like them best when worn far from the face—belts and handbags, for instance; and particularly the radiant yellow shoes one smart lady paired with her black summer dress. In this way, a splash of neon gives a jolt to a look otherwise dominated by black or other neutrals like creams and beiges. Also on our hit list: that atomic belt over subdued trousers (at right); a chunky lime-green bracelet (below); and a blaze-orange necktie (above left), which went a long way toward sprucing up workaday khaki.

Read Christy DeSmith’s fashion blog at www.rakemag.com/style

Nigerian sensation Femi Kuti didn’t merely ride the coattails of his late, great father, Afro-beat legend Fela Kuti. The progeny did, after all, play sax in his dad’s band for nearly two decades—right up until Fela’s death in 1997—and Femi’s solo projects have not only impressed critics, but even managed to legitimize him in the eyes of his father’s fanatical fans. Like father, like son: Femi’s sound continues the Kuti family tradition of fusing traditional chant with re-Africanized pop, jazz, funk, and soul as well as, of course, ardent political commentaries. And Femi has also expanded the Afro-beat idiom by incorporating elements of hip-hop. Fittingly enough, Femi has invited Bob Marley’s old band, The Wailers, to play backup at this concert. If that combination isn’t perfect for booty shaking in the summer sun, then we don’t know what is. 651-989-5151; www.suemclean.com

On the waterfront patio of the Harbor Restaurant and Bar, while all manner of yachts floated by, diners in swimsuits chatted happily and passed around a live parrot. Reggae music wafted from the restaurant’s outdoor tiki bar, and when the dreadlocked barkeep took an order (“two caipirinhas, please”), he answered with a Jamaican accent: “Nine dollars.” A little boy sprinted along the docks of a nearby marina and a family of ducks waddled by, their placid presence disrupted only when a waitress dropped two plates of jerk chicken.

This is no Caribbean postcard, nor does the Harbor resemble a pedestrian theme restaurant. The watering hole is sandwiched between campgrounds and situated in an unkempt suburban-style tract house on the edge of the Mississippi River’s Trenton Island—technically in Hager City, Wisconsin, but just across the river from Red Wing, Minnesota. One can spot the Harbor while standing on Red Wing’s historic downtown strip. On clear summer days, an unexpectedly festive scene peeks out between brick buildings. A multi-colored mess of people fans out across the island’s lawn, flanked by Trenton’s most visible feature—a huge and fairly ugly yellow and black sign that reads “Harbor Bar.”

Even from a distant vantage, it’s obvious that the island is the antithesis of manicured Red Wing. Trenton has long been a lightning-rod for area crime and other bad behavior. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, it was a noted haven for hookers and moonshiners. Legendary thugs such as Jesse James, Al Capone, and John Dillinger are said to have frequented the locale. “These streets on the island here were some of the most notorious streets in the country—worse than the streets of Chicago,” said Brad Smith, the bar’s scruffy, forty-eight-year-old owner, patting the shellacked surface of his tiki bar.

Indeed, a stranger’s first impression of the Harbor Bar is not of an island paradise, but of a scrappy roadhouse. Passing through the Harbor’s main entrance, one enters a dark, cavernous room populated by biker dudes and throbbing with classic rock. A visitor must hike across the vast dance floor, past the pool tables, then through a sliding screen door if she is to find the charming outdoor patio. Smith courts the island’s blemished reputation; no doubt it’s good for business. Printed on the menu—next to a description of a tasty-sounding, Jamaican-style, steam-roasted red snapper with garlic, jalapeños, and thyme—is a vintage Red Wing Republican Eagle account of a notorious 1908 vigilante raid of Trenton’s seedier establishments. The Harbor regularly hosts bikini contests and sweaty, late-night dance parties, to boot. “It might be a restaurant, but it’s still the Harbor Meat Market,” laughed Smith. “You can’t have a fun place without being a little wild-ass rock ’n’ roll.”

Smith maintains this fast and loose atmosphere with the considerable assistance of his staff, some of whom travel each summer from Jamaica (where, incidentally, Smith keeps a winter home). The dozen or so guest workers, who began making the trek in 1999, have significantly boosted the quality, or at least the perceived quality, of the menu, especially when it comes to longstanding offerings like jerk rubs, “rasta pasta,” and even the breaded cheese curds. Furthermore, Smith explained that these hard-working employees spare him the burden of hiring flaky college students during the busy summer bar and restaurant season. Students, he said, tend to skip out when the weather turns nice.

In turn, the Harbor Bar’s waterfront views seem to ease the Jamaicans’ longing for home. On the patio, beyond the reach of the formidable interior sound system, toy toucans and tropical murals mimic a serene, unrushed Jamaican landscape. As Sandra, one of the Jamaican waitresses put it, “I take one look at this place and say ‘Let’s pretend we’re hanging out under a coconut tree and drinking a Red Stripe.’”

On one particular evening, a group of four Jamaicans—a cook and three servers—socialized at the tiki bar while the aforementioned dreadlocked bartender steadily poured caipirinhas, margaritas, and blue Hawaiians. Another ambled up and down the staircase leading to the seasonal workers’ living quarters, situated in an apartment just above the dance floor. A team of Jamaican and Wisconsinite waitresses worked a circuit of picnic tables, hammock swings, and plastic lounge chairs scattered along a tiny, shaded promontory. It felt like a cozy, family-owned resort, one that came together only after Smith accumulated enough cast-off patio furniture. Being there induced an inner calm that could only be broken by a trip to the restroom inside, where Jon Bon Jovi was blaring.