The Rake Magazine

Author: Jay Gabler

  • “We Can’t Really Control it Yet.”

    “Johnson is our name, cheering is our game!” The chants of a cheerleading squad echoed faintly inside Colin Denis’s classroom one winter afternoon at John A. Johnson High School in St. Paul’s inner-city Payne-Phalen neighborhood. Denis, looking the very epitome of a high-school science teacher with his wispy hair, thick glasses, and lab coat, collected papers from two lingering students. “OK,” Denis told them, “now I’ll take you down to see the robot.” The girls giggled with excitement.

    On that afternoon in early February, the robot was sprawled, as yet unnamed and entirely immobile, on a table in the school’s basement woodshop. The robot consisted of a square metal chassis measuring about two feet per side. Casters on each corner kept the robot stable, while four wheels near the center of the chassis were powered by a battery just a bit smaller than one you’d find under the hood of a minivan. There were plans for the robot to acquire arms and other useful accoutrements, but that day—with just two weeks remaining before the completion deadline—its creators were still grappling with more fundamental design challenges. “It’s my plan to drive it around the lunch room,” said Denis, “but we can’t really control it yet. It could hurt someone.”

    Later this month, the fully mobile—and, it’s hoped, fully controllable—robot will join more than fifty others at an Upper Midwest regional event, competing with other robots to push balls around a track. If things go well, Johnson High’s robot could move on to the national FIRST (For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology) Robotics Competition. The nonprofit FIRST, founded in 1989 by Dean Kamen, the inventor best known for his Segway Personal Transporter, aims to inspire students to enter science and technology fields.

    Corporate grants pay for each team to receive a basic kit of components for a remote-controlled robot—but it’s nothing like a Snaptite model. It took weeks of work for several Johnson students to design and cut specialized aluminum parts, wire a remote-control device with two joysticks, and program the robot’s simple brain to respond to commands by spinning its wheels in the desired direction. “It’s been exciting,” said Mano Nhul, a spiky-haired senior wearing a necktie only semi-ironically. “Well, at least since we got the robot to move.”


    The FIRST program has grown quickly in recent years, so most of the teams competing at the upcoming regional competition—to be held at the University of Minnesota the last weekend in March—are first-timers. Many, including the Johnson High team, have had to reconcile themselves to the fact that they’ll be up against experienced teams with vastly more resources. “We’re trying to do metal work in a woodshop,” observed Walter Pearson, a retired 3M engineer who serves as a volunteer advisor for the team. Bob Hart, an IBM retiree who’s another volunteer, added, “In engineering, you’re supposed to determine your need and design a part to do the job. Here, we have to do it backwards—find a part and then make it fit.”

    But the Johnson students are quick studies. On that February afternoon, Hart was teaching senior Belik Pha how to use engineering software to design a cover plate for the robot. (Pearson was also able to arrange for some custom parts to be built at the 3M machine shop.) At the next terminal, Pha’s teammate Lao Vang was writing a program in the computer language C. “He’s had to learn C from scratch,” noted Denis. “That’s like telling someone to learn Urdu in two weeks.”

    In the woodshop, senior Jeremy Gould was working with Pearson to cut a part to size. “This aluminum is like butter,” Pearson muttered approvingly as Gould sawed away. Gould, a burly young man with an unflappable, plainspoken demeanor, is all too familiar with the competition his team faces: He attended the two statewide events that inaugurated this season’s competition. There, experienced teams from places like Edina and Prior Lake showed up with dozens of members in matching shirts, reminiscing fondly about chanting their team numbers in Roman numerals and raising funds by auctioning dates with team members. At one event, veterans from the Edina team told new participants that they should plan to raise several thousand dollars (“at an absolute minimum”) to fund expenses like extra parts for their robot—each team is allowed to spend up to $3,500 on parts beyond those in the basic kit, and some teams go so far as to build two robots so they have one to practice with. The nine-member Johnson High team hadn’t had time to hold any fundraisers, write chants, or print T-shirts—let alone set up a website with a news feed on their progress, as many teams have—but Gould, who made bumpers for the robot by cutting up flotation noodles, was proud nonetheless. “We can get something together,” he said with confidence. “We’ll show them that we can compete.”

    Denis was pleased that the robotics program had engaged some of Johnson’s more academically accomplished students; he had been inspired to support the founding of the team after colleagues at other schools teased him that Johnson students had a reputation for excellence in brawn rather than brain. “Belik has already completed her graduation requirements, and she’s taking classes at the U of M. Why should she stick around here at all? This gives kids like her something to come here for.”

    Most of this year’s team members are seniors, but Denis and his colleagues are already making plans for next year, when the team will be based at St. Paul College’s fully equipped metal shop. As for what’s to come in ’08, Gould was asked for his thoughts as he stoically extracted a screw (Pearson had advised him to re-insert it from the opposite direction). “It’ll be interesting,” he said.

  • A Taste of Springs to Come

    During a recent visit to the research and development laboratory at Dairy Queen’s international headquarters, a row of soft-serve ice cream machines stood disconcertingly silent. The waffle irons and the commercial-grade mixers were unplugged, and no syrups or candies were being tested in the refractometer, the colorometer, or the texturometer. A lone bottle of coffee flavoring—and the red DQ logos embroidered on the lab coats of the men and women who moved through the premises— provided the only hints that the pristine stainless steel counters had seen the birth of such concoctions as the Brownie Earthquake Sundae and the Yule Flip Peppermint Chip Blizzard.

    While the Dairy Queens on Lake Street and Snelling Avenue may shutter their windows for the winter months, International Dairy Queen does not sleep. These days, most Dairy Queen locations operate year-round, and the company’s South Minneapolis base is home to an R&D operation that, looking well beyond the coming summer, is currently developing menu items slated for rollout in 2010.

    International Dairy Queen’s world headquarters are tucked away in a nondescript beige edifice off Highway 100. Upon my arrival, I was treated to a Dilly Bar before being escorted to the office of R&D director Bill Barrier. Amid bookshelves where The Six Sigma Way and The Leader’s Voice shared space with Modern Food Microbiology and The Handbook of Fruits and Fruit Processing, Barrier and his colleagues, Mary Joyce, director of product innovation, explained DQ’s perpetual quest for new menu items.

    A search for the new might seem a misplaced priority for a company that for decades built its brand on such traditional fare as ice cream cones and hot dogs, but Barrier and his staff emphasized the need to be mindful of consumers’ shifting tastes. “We’ll always have the basic cone on our menu,” marketing specialist Aric Nissen told me later, “but tastes change. Preferences change. We want to give our customers what they want, sometimes before they know they want it.” Barrier described a process in which market research reveals broad areas of customer interest that in turn dictate the general priorities of the R&D team. How general? Talking with Barrier, Joyce, and Nissen, I heard several references to consumer interest in the area of “health and wellness”—though Nissen was quick to clarify that “we’re not claiming to sell healthy products.” Indications that consumers might be interested in sweet snacks with vaguely healthy associations inspired, for example, the development of a pomegranate-and-berries smoothie (antioxidants!) for the DQ-owned Orange Julius chain—as well as experiments with granola-crunch Blizzards (the lab developed a delicious product, said Nissen, but franchisees have been “a little skittish” about cereal-based menu items since a misadventure with Rice Krispies). In its darker varieties, even chocolate can be considered healthy: more antioxidants! (Chocolate was featured in another Blizzard invention that didn’t fly with franchisees, since it also involved significant quantities of cayenne pepper.)

    With a chain that has spread across multiple continents, there are local tastes to consider as well: At least one product available in DQ’s several hundred East Asian locations is not yet for sale in the United States. With respect to green-tea Blizzards, said Barrier, American consumers are just “not there yet.”

    Even in cases where consumer demand is crystal-clear, DQ R&D faces formidable technical challenges. “Inclusions” (items mixed with DQ’s signature soft-serve ice cream) must last at least four months without losing color or flavor, and also must be able to survive the violent Blizzardization process without losing their identity. Barrier and Joyce have been stymied by a certain cookie whose brand name they could not reveal but which for years has been the elusive holy grail of Blizzard development. “People always say they would love to see this cookie made into a Blizzard, but it’s too delicate,” said Joyce, shaking her head. “When you break it up, it just turns into crumbs.”
    As a trusted name in frozen treats, DQ can take risks with its cold confections—Joyce offered the example of the avant-garde Treatzza Pizza, a rousing success in the 1990s (“we took our ice cream cake and turned it inside-out”)—but it needs to tread more cautiously with its entrée offerings. “We’re still establishing our food credentials” outside of ice cream, said Joyce, although she noted that DQ is currently “pushing the salad envelope.”

    Barrier, Joyce, and Nissen were mum about future developments, but they pointed me to the nearby Normandale Boulevard location for a cutting-edge DQ experience—for example, it’s one of the first to serve new panini-like grilled sandwiches. The restaurant is also used for franchisee training, and my waffle-bowl sundae was delivered by a wildly enthusiastic man. “That looks delicious!” he boomed as he set it down. It was.

  • Renaissance Man

    A tall man in his mid-forties with long wavy hair, a full beard, and round glasses, Richard Griffith has something of a troubadour’s air about him, which is appropriate given his status as a full-time lutenist. Since live lute music is no longer the draw it was five hundred years ago, Griffith has added a few extras to his act: poetry, prose, and prestidigitation. To the extent that the Upper Midwest has a market niche for a lute-playing illusionist, Richard Griffith owns that niche.

    On a crisp evening a few weeks ago, the musician/magician was at the Mad Hatter Tea House in St. Paul for one of his usual gigs. As he sat tuning his lute—a plump, bent-neck instrument that Griffith has heard described as “a broken guitar”—his wife Ann walked around arranging chairs. A grandmotherly soul named Fran Gray was pouring tea, and the dozen or so middle-aged patrons conversed amiably. “This is good tea.” “I like tea.” “Oh, I do too!” Shortly after seven o’clock, Griffith launched into one of the greatest hits of 1611. His audience sat in rapt silence; later, they ooohed appreciatively when he introduced a twelfth-century story about a werewolf.

    After several more lute pieces, Griffith asked, “Now, would you indulge me by letting me abuse your eyes and judgments?” A giggling volunteer chose a card from a deck he presented. The audience burst into applause when, after some theatrical maneuvers, Griffith produced a red cloth bearing the image of the card his volunteer had chosen. Then it was time for musical requests. “You know what I want to hear!” one fan exclaimed. “Yes, I do,” nodded Griffith as he played the first notes of “Kemp’s Jig.” Listeners’ desires aren’t always so transparent. “Beat My Wife” was a shouted request at one show. “Um,” Griffith ventured, “do you mean ‘Whip My Toady’?” The fan shrugged. “I knew whipping was in there somewhere.”

    Griffith’s skill in working a crowd dates to the early ’90s, when he worked at Treasure Island Casino as a sleight-of-hand artist—one who performed in a sequined pirate costume. “There’d be days when someone was losing big, and they’d come over and yell at the guy in the sequined suit,” he recalls. “Definitely not wanting a card trick at that time.” A guitarist since childhood, he acquired a lute on a whim in 2001, and within a few years was playing Renaissance fairs. Initially he didn’t get quite the reception he expected—he recalls that it was as if he were sitting there teaching algebra. “You would think playing Renaissance music at a Renaissance festival would be a no-brainer, but I have not found that to be so. A group out at the Fest last year was playing Jethro Tull covers, and I thought, OK, no room for the lute guy here.”

    Still, over time, Griffith has cultivated a base of devoted fans who appreciate both his proficiency on an obscure instrument and his willingness to indulge in just a little of the old razzle-dazzle. A year ago, he left his longtime desk job at an HMO to make a go of it as a full-time lutenist on the coffee-shop circuit, doing the occasional wedding gig on the side. His income from tips is sufficient to make the performances worth his while, and his wife is enthusiastically supportive. “It’s been good for him,” she says with an affectionate smile.

    Griffith’s most dedicated followers proudly refer to themselves as “the Usual Suspects.” There’s Steve Lelchuk, who sat with a book at the Mad Hatter performance, having attended another the night before. When Griffith mentioned his CDs for sale, Dan and Brandy Gergen joked that having one in every room of their house was sufficient. They discovered Griffith one day at the Olde World Renaissance Faire in Twig, Minnesota, where they were impressed enough to listen through several of his sets.

    Other Usual Suspects have done serious time in the mead-and-wenches milieu. Janet Davis, the ebullient card-trick volunteer, attends every single day of the Minnesota Renaissance Festival—in period costume. Indeed, a performance by Griffith is something of a mellow little Renaissance festival unto itself. He brought magic tricks into his act in part as a hook for crowds, but his ultimate goal is to complement the music with illusions incorporating mentalism, alchemy, and other supernatural preoccupations from the golden age of the lute.

    After Griffith closed with a sprightly dance number, several fans stayed to chat and rearrange the chairs. “Once you’ve been to a few shows,” explained Griffith as he packed up, “you’re one of the Usual Suspects and you’re going to get a hug when you leave.” With an instrument whose heyday is ye olde, Griffith appreciates his avid following. “Honestly, can the Rolling Stones say they’ve got that one guy who comes to see them play every time?” He paused. “Of course,” he acknowledged, “I don’t charge three hundred dollars for tickets.”