The Rake Magazine

Author: Jill Schoepf

  • A Book for Locals who Love Being Local

    With a few novels under his belt, Minneapolis literatus Bart Schneider tackles a type of local mystery fiction that swings somewhere between the present and the future…the very, very near future. Set during the National Republican Convention (coming to the Twin Cities in September), Schneider’s novel The Man in the Blizzard follows the character of Augie Boyer, an almost-to-seed private investigator dealing with a handful of personal issues alongside his fight against the right-wing hyper-conservative forces of evil. A liberal writer’s cliché? Maybe, but the story is just complex enough that there may be something for other ideologies, if one looks hard enough.

    At the outset, the reader finds out about Augie’s gluttony, his sinking testosterone, his impending divorce, and his pot addiction. Add to this a mysterious blonde violinist, some poetry-quoting cops, and a complicated neo-Nazi plot, and the narrative becomes almost laughable in its unreality. On the other hand, that might just be what Schneider intends; the tone of the narrative consistently swings somewhere between irreverence, melodrama, and emotional realism. The characters themselves seem to be extraordinarily witty, not unlike jesters and servants in Shakespearean plays that can spin double entendres with the best of them. At times, Augie invokes the spirit of a middle-aged male Juno. Incidentally, the novel references that movie anyway.

    The book is loaded with unashamedly proud references to Twin Cities perks, figures, and pop culture. A reader living in Minneapolis or St. Paul will most likely feel a warm smugness as they recognize the hip locations frequented by the characters: the Walker Sculpture Garden’s bridge, shops on Eat Street, Micawber’s, and many others. Barring the fact that not one of the characters ever visits the Mall of America, the novel could actually double as a rather excellent tourist guidebook. The fact that the characters know this much about their two cities-and all the related history and current events besides-borders on the unrealistic, and probably channels Schneider’s own educated background. Unfortunately, it might distance readers who are not used to such hyper-drive intellect shooting at them from fictional personalities.

    Then again, the characters together have good synergy. They form a sort of colorful Breakfast Club-type collective, which seems to be universally appealing to commercial audiences. Along with that, there are some moments of rather sweet emotion (e.g. a conversation between Augie and his estranged wife Nina at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts). The few conversations that actually seem natural and unpracticed are the bright spots of the novel, the places where the reader can actually relate to the characters. The Man in the Blizzard is also overtly political in nature; opinions voiced in the dialogue have very thin veils. In writing a novel that takes place in a hugely political situation, Schneider could have chosen to make the political conflict more complex in nature. Instead, he seems to perpetuate the tired stereotypes of the Christian fundamentalist right-wings and the loose, hippy liberalists, presumably to create more of the us-versus-them mentality that pervades crime fiction. Closer inspection does reveal moments of cognitive dissonance (Augie’s punk-liberal assistant regrets her past abortion), but the novel could have done much more with all the gray areas that make up true-to-life politics and true-to-life…well…life.

    This novel and genre is a venture into uncharted territory compared to Schneider’s past novels (largely historical fiction). To take that risk is commendable. The story is entertaining and full of vivid details, and the marketing tactic of releasing it slightly before its time setting is clever. Schneider does an admirable job of guessing at the near future, wrapping his hypotheses neatly into the narrative. Add these positives to the purer scenes of ordinary life, and The Man in the Blizzard could certainly be worth a read.

    The Man in the Blizzard will be released August 5.

  • Franco-American Relations, Indeed

    A smattering of bonjours and soft smiles accompanied the light, nervous energy that breezed through the Alliance Française this particular Monday morning. Huge croissants and berries lay untouched on the table as hosts and hostesses pinned tricolored nametags to their jackets and blouses. A few people wandered absently around the meeting room, grazing past the old upright piano against one brick wall, peering at French books aligned on bookshelves against each other, or craning their necks to inspect the ragged charm of the weathered cracks near the ceiling. "We are still waiting for our guest of honor," a tall woman with dark wavy hair whispered. Her nametag revealed her to be Peggy Linrud, the Alliance board president.

    After another ten minutes of waiting, in which nobody dared to venture an inch toward the food, the anticipated guest of honor walked down the cramped hallway and into the room. The small group of people moved smoothly toward his tall frame, a flutter of grays and blacks and browns settling around him like a flock of birds. It seemed quite an understated welcome for the Ambassador of France: the smallness of the room, the lack of ostentatiousness, the presence of a mere two press figures. But perhaps that is what made it so very-well-French?

    From this perspective, the Alliance Française seemed to be the natural stop for Monsieur Vimont. Although it is simply a small space tucked into the Warehouse District next to Theatre de la Jeune Lune, it is perhaps a dominant hub for the French community of Minneapolis. Native and nonnative speakers gather for language classes and cultural events. A few of the Alliance’s French instructors were among those present at the intimate breakfast.

    Monsieur Pierre Vimont has been traveling around the country since President Nicolas Sarkozy appointed him to the Ambassadorship last August. Refusing to stay cloistered in Washington, DC, he has been speaking at university and public functions, generally about Franco-American relations. "I try to get a little bit away from Washington…to get a complete picture of the country," Vimont smiled warmly, craning his neck and leaning inward, barely heard above the buzzing conversation around him. "I travel to visit the country, but also the French community, wherever it is. I meet the people. I also meet with the business community." He states that France’s relationship with the United States is "improving" and that he is working to enhance it—especially the interaction of our economic policies.

    Mayor R.T. Rybak    , who escorted the Ambassador to the Alliance, chimed in more loudly in his agreement. "Minnesota has always had a strong connection to France," he declared. "French explorers were the first ones to come to Minnesota. Culturally, we have Theatre de la Jeune Lune." He gestured in a vaguely southward direction. "I like to think that Washington Avenue could be the Champs d’Elysées of Minneapolis."

    The mayor’s and ambassador’s ensuing conversation, punctuated by the obligatory PR photos, was genial and optimistic, marked by comments about public transportation and sustainable initiatives, including the recent Northwest-Delta merger (NWA currently offers non-stop flights from the Twin Cities to Paris). Vimont nodded and smiled, his unflinching posture only broken by occasionally tapping the table with the tips of his fingernails—whether a nervous gesture or just plain habit, it was difficult to tell. Consul-general Alain Frécon beamed nearby, accepting congratulations for the French Legion of Honor he was about to receive that afternoon (for "exemplary service," Vimont explained). The other attendees gradually broke off, their glow of meeting a national figure a bit dimmed by now. They ventured toward the croissants.

    One of the older women defied the otherwise muted garb of the bustle, smiling broadly through her bright, shimmery blue and fuschia makeup. She turned out to be Marie-Rose Adams, a language teacher at the Alliance. Sweeping two younger instructors to her, one in each arm, she declared, "She is a teacher. She is a teacher… and I am the grandma of them all." As they laughed and squirmed slightly, she wryly announced, "I started the school, if you wanted to know."

    Adams proceeded to educate me about the history of the Alliance, then moved on to French food; with my croissant in hand, I made a faux pas by reaching for the butter and the marmalade. "Oh, non, non, that is not done in Paris," Adams yelped. She explained how much butter there already is in a true croissant. "But you Americans always have to have your butter!" Later on, I truthfully admitted to myself this might have been the most notable thing I learned about Franco-American relations that morning.

    After lunch, I walked into my supervisor’s office at my day occupation, who knew where I had been earlier that day. "Hey, I think I saw your ambassador on the street," he said.

    "You did?" I was confused and mildly impressed. "How do you know what he looks like?"

    My boss shrugged matter-of-factly. "He looked French."

    Ah, Franco-American relations, indeed.

  • “Open-Source Christianity”

    The place was mostly filled up by five o’clock, with solemn-eyed hipsters, middle-schoolers, and graying seniors seated on a motley assortment of older sofas arranged in rings. Wine bottles and plump bread loaves sat on scattered coffee tables, which, along with antique rugs and lamps, contributed to the overall feel of a living room (albeit a sizable one). A man with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair half-shouted greetings to a gangly youngster. Chatting the boy up, he intoned, “What can I conquer next, now that I have this human interaction thing down?” The boy held out his fist as if gallantly challenging his master to a duel. “Rock, paper, scissors.”

    As stragglers trickled in, the band started. The salt-and-pepper man gave a bold vocal accompaniment to the guitarist’s heady vibrato: “The thinnest spots of you … gradually wear through. The circumstance of something true … touches both the old and new.” Others watched the words projected on screens or watched each other hesitantly following along. Afterward, one of the band members chuckled, “That’s what a new song feels like around here: a little like a train wreck.”

    The whole setup might seem awkward as church services go, but that is precisely what the congregation of Solomon’s Porch intends. Booklets handed out to newcomers affirm that the seating in-the-round is meant “to help us engage with one another during the music, prayer, and discussion … give it a chance for a while and see how it grows on you.”

    Some few hundred people are doing just that, attending this self-described “holistic, missional Christian community” and attempting to “live the dreams and love of God in the way of Jesus.”

    Standing well over six feet, Doug Pagitt is the hulking, winsome frontman of Solomon’s Porch, whose stately stone edifice and vaulted sanctuary once served Methodists, before it went up for rent on Craigslist. “We want to participate in what God’s doing in the world. We don’t have everything figured out,” Pagitt didn’t hesistate to admit, with a surprisingly elfin grin. Pagitt became a Christian at sixteen, but had no religious background before that. “I’d never been to church. I didn’t know anything—it was all new,” he said later. Pagitt and some of his teenage pals developed an experimental approach, living out a relational kind of “open-source Christianity,” as he calls it. Sixteen years later, in 1999, he and a group of friends and acquaintances fashioned a church model patterned after his experiences. “We believe in ‘life agreement,’ ” he said during an interview. “We really don’t do ‘doctrinal agreement.’”

    Pagitt uses humor, friendly ribbing, and probably even his blue jeans to fuel the casual-authentic environment of Solomon’s Porch. He believes spiritual life flourishes in community; even sermons are shaped by several volunteers every Tuesday. During a recent service, Pagitt explained the process with sweeping gestures. “We collectively create the sermon,” he told worshippers. “It’s not a one-man or one-woman operation. It’s a holistic gathering of thoughts.” On this particular Sunday, Pagitt was serving as the “chief collaborator.” He sat down on the lone stool encircled by all the sofas and asked one family to introduce their baby. The new congregant first had to be located, turning up in a friend’s arms across the room. “Wait, Amy’s not the mother!” Pagitt laughed, his voice booming easily without the use of a microphone. “And by the way, I’m not the father.”

    As he initiated the Bible discussion portion of the service, Pagitt began swiveling on his stool—slowly at first, but then quickly, as though paddling in a pitching canoe. “We always think of the word Jesus with the word Christ,” he pointed out as he crossed his legs, swiveled, and shifted in one seamless motion. “Jesus and Christ go together like peanut butter and jelly. It’s a good ‘last name’ … the quintessential swear word.” Cross, swivel, shift. A young couple in the inner ring smiled, scratching notes to each other on their booklets. “The Jews had the story of Jesus make sense to the Gentiles,” Pagitt quipped at one point. His talk was sprinkled with pop culture references: Journeyman, ZEN MP3 players, Back to the Future, LOST. (Jesus’s parables could have seemed dull in comparison.) Pagitt eventually paused and his stool came to rest. “Questions? Thoughts? Better interpretations?” The baby started crying. “There is no singular right way of thinking,” he reiterated.

    After an appropriately contemplative silence, one guy piped up. “It’s fascinating what’s different between the Jews and Gentiles, and what’s the same.” Pagitt ran with the comment like an eager college professor as a few kids scampered around the room. Later, a young man introduced Communion, proclaiming it “a political act that liberates us.” Congregants began mingling, breaking bread, and pouring wine for each other. Eventually Pagitt’s booming voice returned, asking everybody to gather for one last communal response. As people grabbed hands and circled up once more to chant verses from Jude, it seemed as though the joyous Whos of Who-ville had relocated to South Minneapolis. The only thing missing was the giant Christmas tree—and any traditionalist-minded Grinches to pooh-pooh the scene.

  • Word Factory

    [Aquarium bubbling] … [chairs squeaking] … [computer keys clicking] … These sounds are indications of productivity at CaptionMax, Inc., the Midwest’s only closed-captioning company. 

    Long before CaptionMax moved into their capacious digs in Minneapolis’s Warehouse District, founder and president Max Duckler earned his first entrepreneurial dollar (in 1993), just months after installing captioning software onto a computer in his five-year-old son’s bedroom.

    Duckler is a soft-spoken but self-assured man who started out as a video editor in the 1980s. He read an article in an obscure periodical about closed-captioning and proposed the idea to his superior, who said Duckler could work on it independently if he wished. Closed-captioning became a requirement for new broadcast programs after congress mandated it in 1996, and demand for his services multiplied.

    “After a while I bought my own equipment, and within a few years CaptionMax was earning about five times the revenue that the editing place was,” Duckler recalled. “Never underestimate a small idea.”

    At CaptionMax headquarters, editor Jonathan Quijano, his curly hair jutting haphazardly around his headphones, stopped typing to stretch in his low-slung chair. “I prefer the laid-back approach,” he said with an off-kilter grin. Quijano’s computer screen was split into areas with a column of captions trailing down the left side, a video window on the bottom right, and a frame-by-frame view across the top. Although Quijano sported a yellow button-down over his slacks, the dress code around the office is casual. “I tell people what I do is something like postproduction,” he said, “and they always go, ‘Postproduction? Oh. Ooooh.’”

    Most of the twenty or so captioners at CaptionMax are, like Quijano, eclectic, youngish adults, with English or journalism degrees, who transcribe and edit closed-captions for various television networks. Programs range from televangelist broadcasts and classic westerns to experimental films and quilting shows. Employee Amanda Johansen, who sits behind Quijano, expounded on a Star Wars documentary she had just proofread. “It was such a weird show, especially the part where scientists were analyzing Darth Vader’s gastronomy. They were speculating on what his poop looked like. It was really bizarre.”

    CaptionMax workers adorn the facility with lighthearted odds and ends. In the kitchen, a plastic ostrich stood on the fridge. Next to the coffeepot, an illustrated CPR instructional poster from the 1990s showed two plastic-looking individuals giving mouth-to-mouth. A printout taped above the poster proclaimed, “Let David Hasselhoff And Leona Helmsley Show You How To Save Lives!” And as an unabashed tribute to the nerdiness of wordiness, Magnetic Poetry captions were scattered across the side of the fridge, arranged in such profundities as “tiny weak man spank sad monkey,” and “do not eat the girl jelly.”

    The CaptionMax team would argue that their casual approach doesn’t leak over into the captions. When it comes to business, word generation is painstakingly thorough. “The first thing people want to know about my job is if I’m one of those ‘live-typers’,” Quijano said, referring to what are called “real-time captioners.” Another coworker chimed in, “They want to know if we’re the ones who make all the mistakes on-screen.”

    The editors that work in-house actually are not real-time, but instead, offline captioners; they transcribe shows that have not yet aired. Consequently, they have time to formulate precise captions complete with character identifications and juiced-up sound-effect descriptions. A well-placed “[spooky foreboding music]” adds atmosphere to the cult ’80s drama series “The Equalizer.” A timely “[thud]” emphasizes one of Evander Holyfield’s classic knockouts.

    The captioners don’t always generate words quietly. Oftentimes they battle over them. Should it be “awhile” or “a while”? “Above ground” or “aboveground”? Should a comma follow the word “so”? Should “Frisbee” be capitalized?

    “We can definitely get into arguments about grammar,” Johansen confessed. A handful of designated proofers, including Johansen, advanced through the editorial ranks while building up a plethora of punctuation and style rules. They oversee final episode files and decide what rules to add to the CaptionMax “Manual of Bling.”

    Near the end of their shift, caption editors exchanged playful ribbing and grabbed mini Snickers bars from the candy bowl. One guy wheeled his bike into the elevator as noises of [drawers clicking shut] and [footsteps thumping] peppered the air. Eventually there would be [no audio] until the next morning at Minneapolis’s one and only word factory.

  • Feist

    Over the past three years, this Canadian punk rocker has metamorphosed into an indie-folk-rock darling, collaborating along the way with Peaches, Broken Social Scene, and the Norwegian folk duo Kings of Convenience. Following a soulful Parisian solo debut (Let It Die in 2004), Leslie Feist’s talent is now firmly cemented with her latest, The Reminder, a combination of alternately buzzy, sultry, brash, and wistful songs. While her music is notably kaleidoscopic in genre, a well-worn gossamer voice is the link that winds throughout Feist’s repertoire; and her songwriting’s poetic approachability has helped her elbow past those run-of-the-mill indie rockers to make it into mainstream stardom. 612-339-7007; www.hennepintheatredistrict.org