Author: Kelli Ohrtman

Not so long ago, if you heard “wipe” used as a noun, you probably thought of a baby’s bottom. That was in the late nineties, when baby wipes made up eighty-two percent of the “wipe market.” Now, of course, you can buy disposable cloths soaked in just about any kind of fluid and stuffed into an airtight plastic container. There are wipes to clean your car’s dashboard, wipes to clean up stray dabs of paint, wipes to clean your dog’s ears. But it was the recent arrival, by mail, of a Palmolive DishWipe sample that gave me pause. I don’t think of myself as old—on a good day, I’ll get carded at the liquor store checkout—but I realized that I’d somehow missed this revolutionary wipe wave, been left, so to speak, in the dust.

When I was a child, my siblings and I had cleaning duties to fulfill every week in exchange for our allowance, and I guess the methods we used back in those pre-wipe days have stuck. We stuck our little hands into the too-big yellow rubber gloves and scrubbed, dusted, sudsed, or vacuumed according to Mom’s instructions. She seemed to know best then, and to this day I still save old T-shirts for dusting and toothbrushes for getting into nooks, and I have worn holes in the knees of my “cleaning jeans.” Housework is work.

But that kind of work is about as old-fashioned as a Chore Boy copper scrubber. Apparently, the new way to clean involves a lot of wiping, misting, Swiffing, and tossing. Sponges (like “dishrags” before them) face extinction because cleaning implements should immediately be thrown away after use. At this rate it won’t be long before good old elbow grease is eradicated with a squeal of disgust by consumers brandishing plastic cylinders of grease-cutting Mr. Clean Wipes. While manufacturers are making big bucks on these presoaked disposable cloths, one has to wonder why it took so long for them to invent cleaning products that work the same way we want everything else to work: immediately, and with as little effort as possible.

Still, there’s a contradiction brewing. While wipe culture enables a quick-and-easy approach to cleaning, at the same time it cultivates a rapid-growth disgust of bacteria, dirt, and germs. I began to look more closely at the offerings in the cleaning aisle at my local Cub Foods. Along the bottom shelves, plastered with big yellow “PRICE CUT!” labels that made them seem desperate, were the same powder cleaners my mom swears by. It’s no surprise. Using those involves a whole lot of scrubbing, and why scrub when we can wipe or, better yet, mist? On an eye-level shelf, I zeroed in on an improbable-sounding Scrub-Free Disinfectant and Bathroom Cleaner. Disinfect with no scrubbing? Tell me more! The instructions began, “Remove gross filth or heavy soil prior to application of the product.” Now, I’m no expert on what it takes to remove “gross filth” (which sounds suspiciously like a euphemism for “dirt”), but I bet it would take some scrubbing.

Okay, so a product that sounds too good to be true probably is. It turns out that wipes and many of the “scrub-free” products are meant for use between those occasions when we get in there and really scrub. But this raises another contradiction: Why put on ratty jeans and a sweatshirt and spend a whole Saturday sanitizing the house when we can take care of visible grot with a few wipes? Why scrub a floor that has that “just Swiffered” glow? If it looks clean, isn’t that good enough? Journalist Barbara Ehrenreich, in the course of writing Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by in America, took a job at Merry Maids, where she was trained in the franchise’s techniques for housecleaning. In addition to working as quickly as possible, she found, cleaning consisted of dampening a cloth with the appropriate fluid and then wiping down every surface. She felt like she was merely pushing dirt around instead of banishing it the way her mother taught her: with buckets of scalding sudsy water. After checking in with an expert who confirmed her suspicion, she came to the conclusion that “the point at The Maids, apparently, is not to clean so much as to create the appearance of having been cleaned.” And thousands of Merry Maid customers are just fine with that. But at least they’re keeping their homes presentable, even if they’re not doing the work themselves. For those of us who don’t hire Merry Maids, or even less-merry housecleaners, it’s often a different story.

Somehow we’ve raised ourselves above the indignity of unpleasant household tasks that were once commonplace. The respect that was once accorded to getting things spic-and-span with a good hard scrubbing has been replaced with squeamishness. I was struck by a scene in Jonathan Franzen’s novel The Corrections in which a son watches in disgust as his mother, raised during the Depression, scrapes bits of food from the sink trap into the garbage can. Our revulsion over such tasks translates into profits for those manufacturers who produce wipes and other gadgets that promise to virtually eliminate cleaning. At the very least, they ensure that we don’t come into direct contact with dirt, and that we can throw away anything that does.

More easily grossed-out consumers and easier profits for manufacturers of cleaning products do not necessary equate to cleaner homes. From 1999 to 2004, while sales of air fresheners went up thirty percent, the household cleaning products market declined almost nine percent. No matter how many air fresheners we spray around, light up, or plug in, we eventually have to clean up the source of our stink. And when that happens, the Clorox ToiletWand is there.

Let’s look at the evolution of no one’s favorite cleaning job. The old way to clean a toilet was to kneel down and get up close, making sure to scrub the throne in all its awkward angles, thereby developing a forced intimacy with this place where we crap. Once the toilet brush was invented, we could remain a full twelve inches or more from the worst parts. This was a great improvement, but now we had the problem of storing a brush—soaked in toilet water, possibly contaminated with flecks of feces—right there next to the commode. There are two solutions to that problem: Go back to kneeling and scrubbing, or throw away the offending brush after each use. Faced with this choice, it seems consumers are more than willing to spend extra on disposable brushes.

Of course, the cleaning revolution didn’t come without a reason. We need our cleaning problems wiped away because we’re all busier than ever and many of us, especially those in the burgeoning class of one-member households, are home less than we used to be. We stop in for a bit after being at work all day, and then go out again for the evening or park ourselves in front of the TV or computer. On top of that, houses are getting bigger (in the last thirty years, the average new one-family home has grown by 670 square feet), even as the time spent cleaning them shrinks.

In Outwitting Housework: Brilliant Tips, Tricks, and Advice on Housekeeping… and Life, much of author Nancy Rosenberg’s advice involves using stolen moments to keep up with cleaning. Wipe the bathroom mirror while brushing your teeth; straighten a closet while waiting for the shower to run hot. That all sounds fine, but should we really be using those precious extra minutes for spot cleaning? Why not sneak in a little cardio, eat some whole grains, catch up on e-mail, weed the garden, or do any of the other million things that constantly need doing? Rosenberg, however, doggedly attempts to turn our values back to the days when a sparkling home and the work to get it that way was a point of pride. “Don’t think of housekeeping as cleaning, or chores, or drudgery. Don’t think of it in negative terms,” she writes. “Instead, see this as a gift you give to yourself. See this as a tool that will make your life easier, less complicated, and more manageable.”

I’m willing to try, but I’d prefer to give myself the gift of a Roomba Floorvac, the little robot that “automatically senses, finds, and eliminates dirt!” Then I’ll never have to vacuum or even Swiffer again. I’m going to hold out until they invent a disposable Roomba that rolls itself right out to the garbage after filling up with my gross filth. Then my conversion to the new clean will be complete.

The blond woman grabbed the shiny brass pole and, with a single
athletic move, flipped her body upside down, her legs splayed—toes
pointed, mind you—on either side of the pole. As she slowly slid down,
she stared at her audience with confidence. Christina Aguilera’s
“Dirrty” blared from the sound system. Heading down to the hardwood
floor, the instructor talked over the music. “All it takes to do moves
like this is practice and being comfortable with the pole.”

Nicole Zivalach teaches “Pole Basics” at a new studio and gym for women
called Stripped. Bedecked with red velvet curtains, the studio is
situated on the delivery side of a Plymouth strip mall, behind Domino’s
Pizza, Hairtopia, and It’s a Pet’s Place.

According to experts who keep track of these sorts of things, pole
dancing is a popular new fitness trend for women, both in this country
and in Britain. In Plymouth, at least, the classes are outwardly
chaste—think chakras instead of skank. The dance style is supposed to
be “exotic” and “sensual” rather than sexual, and is aimed at women
“from 18-98,” according to Stripped’s brochure. Elsewhere, Bally’s
Total Fitness is offering “Cardio Striptease” and the Learning Annex
has a class on “The Art of Exotic Dancing.”

Back at Stripped, Zivalach righted herself and explained that this
brand of dance is “a way to get fit and enjoy our bodies.” It does not
involve getting naked. Sensual dance is “not to share with strangers,”
she said, “because that squashes our soul.” She is adamantly opposed to
women stripping for money, and there is absolutely no male ogling of
her students as they attempt to get sensual. Men are barred from
classes; however, Zivalach smiled as she whispered that students don’t
seem to mind the opposite sex shopping in the “Goddess Lounge”
boutique. It’s a good thing to have “a little male energy swirling
around occasionally,” she said. The rest of the studio is a comfy,
supportive women’s-only enclave. With stripper poles.

A chime tinkled when I opened the glass door to the Goddess Lounge for
my first “Pole Basics” session. Nine women stood around the room, their
arms stretched out, fingers nearly touching. “It’s okay if you touch;
it’s all about connection!” Zivalach said. Next, it was all about hip
circles. The class pushed its collective pelvis front, right, back,
then left, following the movement of Zivalach’s slim hips, which were
wrapped in tight black shorts that said “Stripped” across the butt. She
told students to pretend they were spatulas scraping a mixing bowl. As
they scraped, Aguilera sang, “You are beautiful, no matter what they
say … .” Then they were snakes, slithering and undulating from down low
to up high. They were almost ready for the pole.

The students started with a hip-swinging walk, and by the end each was
grabbing at her pole and swirling to the ground. Here, it was all about
the chest, butt, or hips: “One of these leads every move,” said
Zivalach. Walking around to check on each student, she was met with
looks of intense concentration. “Come on!” she remonstrated. “You’re
sexy kittens!” But learning to be free is hard work, and it did seem
strange to be dry-humping a brass pole in a well-lit studio and
receiving encouragements like, “Wow, you’re a natural at ‘the
waterfall.’”

Zivalach said, “What we’re suggesting to women is that they can reclaim
their sensuality and their feminine spirit in American sensual dance,
and they can bring it back out and dance in their homes and dance in
the streets just like they do in other cultures.” Plymouth may not be
ready for pole dancing in the streets. Yet.

After class, I became curious about how the pros do it. During a
relatively off-peak weeknight happy hour, I visited a local strip
joint, whose stage was outfitted with a red velvet curtain and two
poles. A handful of men sat around the bar, played pool, and generally
stared at the performers; their male energy was not just swirling
around the place, it was stifling. One performer ventured nowhere near
either pole, but instead squirmed on the floor, almost face to face
with patrons seated around the bar. “Super Freak” blared from every
speaker. Her name was Paige, she told me after her performance.

Paige is a single mom, a student, and a saleswoman at an upscale
clothing store. She spoke in a caffeinated, rapid-fire manner, and
everything she said ended with, “Okay, what next?” She was adamant that
stripping is not her profession. She does it for quick cash. “Men will
pay a hundred bucks for a lap dance,” she said. She wrinkled her nose
in disgust when she was asked about the pole. “I used to use it, but
never again, not after I realized how dirty they are.” (Let’s just say
that the typical stripper pole is less hygienic than your average bus
seat or subway strap.) Paige did confirm that the secret to success is
“confidence,” but suggested that this is often achieved by way of a
stiff drink or two, rather than an awareness of one’s inner sensuality.

Paige’s successor on stage did work the pole eventually, using some of
the moves that Nicole taught. But after about thirty seconds, she was
back on the floor. I took another chug from my beer and felt like I was
a million miles from Stripped’s Goddess Lounge. Even though I wasn’t
sharing my sensuality with strangers for cash, Nicole’s words echoed in
my head and clashed with the garish eighties rock. My soul did feel a
little squashed.—Kelli Ohrtman

So who is that guy who’s seemingly been hogging the karaoke machine for four hours straight in the Hunan Garden bar? He is Ray Evangelista, and he has been offering evening entertainment at this downtown St. Paul restaurant three nights a week, six hours each night, for the past sixteen years. Hunan Garden owner Joe Chang said, “Sometimes people still call and ask, ‘What time is he gonna play?’”

The other night, the crowd was sparse and a little sluggish, but it was still early. The fat Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling swayed slightly, and neon Corona and Miller signs buzzed in the windows looking out onto Sixth Street. Ray stood on the little stage at one end of the room and belted out Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo” while a large-screen TV flickered at the other end. Behind his head, a splashy sign read “Ray Evangelista, One-Man Band.” Between sets, he told the story of how he came to log nearly fourteen thousand hours as the only live entertainment at Hunan Garden.

Ray grew up in the Philippines and got his first gig on the radio when he was six years old. By age fourteen, he was the reigning champion on the Philippine version of Star Search. Later, he had a stint with the USO, where he entertained soldiers with his musical stylings. He eventually landed in Minnesota. Here, Ray flirted with bona fide rock stardom.

In the dining room at Hunan Garden, he sipped water to stay hydrated for his next set, and said, “I used to play at the Glam Slam in Minneapolis. I played with New Nation.” He smiled, took another shot of water and said, “These girls would say, ‘Can I have your autograph?’ and you know, backstage … Because we’d open up with Chaka Khan, and you know … ” He made a star-struck girlish face, rolling his eyes and clapping his hands to his cheeks. Then he folded his hands on the table again and said, “So I’ve felt that before, but that was twenty years ago.” Thus, he wasn’t always a one-man show. It turns out he went solo only to combat his arch nemesis—the karaoke machine.

Ray found his band’s gigs began drying up when bar owners replaced them with cheaper entertainment on most nights of the week. That’s when he decided to go it alone, but there were limits to what he could do. Patrons at Hunan Garden clamored for R&B, soul, and other modern stuff that required more than an acoustic guitar. So Ray followed a time-honored tradition: He co-opted the enemy. He said, “When I first started, I recorded the drums at home and then put in a cassette at Hunan to use as the background music.” He knew he was onto something, but sometimes his new technology cramped his stage presence. He recalled, “Somebody would request ‘New York, New York’ and I said, ‘Just a minute sir, I gotta rewind this.’” Though he eventually worked out those bugs, he still kept his day job at J.C. Penney.

A decade and a half later, Ray is still at Penney’s by day, as a maintenance supervisor, but by night—Tuesday through Thursdays, anyway—he’s “Ray Evangelista, One-Man Band.” Well, except for Thursdays. In fact, on a recent Thursday, Ray and his one-man band sign were nearly obscured by the small army of people jamming with him. He explained the crowded stage. “It’s a one-man show, but I told them, ‘Every Thursday night you guys can just jam with me. Everybody can sing anything and bring any instrument you want.’” So they came.

The previous week, a regular named Stephanie had asked Ray to do “Fever,” a song he didn’t know. He went home and learned it, but now Stephanie was on the verge of chickening out. Alyce, the other female vocalist that evening, was having none of it. “That’s the deal,” she said. “If Ray learns a song, you’ve gotta sing it.” So Stephanie sang. Ray backed her up with electric guitar, occasionally adjusting little knobs and dials on the equipment next to him. When they finished, he took the microphone back and said, “Give it up for Stephanie!”

The secret to keeping things fresh, said Ray, is to do “a lot of recording and try and learn new material so that people don’t get tired of the same things.” And as far as retaining his status as the only live entertainment at Hunan Garden, he said he’ll keep it up for “probably another ten years—who knows, twenty years. I don’t have any contract with Joe. I just keep going and going.”

By eleven, there was more of a crowd, things were getting raucous, and Ray was in the zone. He launched into Santana’s “Oye Como Va,” and his friends jammed along on the bongos and congas. When they hit a feverish crescendo, Ray flipped a switch and colored lights blinked and swirled around the room. A few people cheered and Ray gave a quick smile, then looked down to concentrate on his guitar. When pressed as to whether he still meets women as a one-man band, he said, “Yeah, but I’ve got my girlfriend at home, so …” So he can’t live the true rocker lifestyle? “Well, maybe just a little,” he allowed.—Kelli Ohrtman

On a recent international flight aboard Northwest Airlines, a reporter was pleased to learn that the movie would be Sideways, the popular Alexander Payne film that has uncorked a million bottles of pinot noir. Of course, in-flight entertainment is notoriously prudish about dirty words. Sideways is a film that has a full nose and thick legs when it comes to rough language, so it posed a challenge to airline entertainment directors. By tradition, this sort of thing is covered with clumsy overdubs—“fudge,” “shoot,” “darn,” that kind of thing. But for some reason in Sideways, the frequently uttered word “asshole” was overdubbed “Ashcroft.” That was a new one, as far as anyone could say. It seemed a rather bold move for Northwest.

Kurt Ebenhoch, the airline’s spokesman, said, “We simply asked for an edited version of the movie because the unedited version contains some sexual content.” When those are the only two choices, it becomes obvious why airlines would settle for a few “Ashcrofts” in place of the full-frontal that occurs in the earthbound version. But that still didn’t answer who decided that “Ashcroft” should be a synonym for the unmentionable. The reporter called Sideways’ distributor, Fox Searchlight Pictures, and asked to speak with the people in charge of dubbing films for airlines.

The call was put through to the department in charge of desalinating the naughty films Hollywood gives us. Mr. Blakeley is the man in charge, and he is ninety years old, so the caller was urged to “be patient.” Well, it turns out that Mr. Blakeley wasn’t available at the moment, but his assistant, Rudolph “call me Rudy” Freeman was. Rudy was glad to give the lowdown on the cleanup process that turns “ass” to “butt,” “bastard” to “bad guy” and, in Sideways, “asshole” to “Ashcroft.”

For airlines in particular, Freeman said, “Most don’t want to have anything that has to do with airplane crashes, too much blood, profanity and killings.” Fair enough. But surely showing a few good crash scenes could up the alcohol sales a mite. Anyway, enough with the small talk. What about the dirty stuff? Freeman referred to The List. Circulating the office at Fox Searchlight is a master list of all the most common bad words and racial no-no’s that they have authority to modify. Freeman was kind enough to fax over this master list, and to give several artful examples of their best dubbing work. “For instance the four-letter word. Instead of using that, they’ll say ‘frigid’ or ‘phooey.’ Like for instance ‘g-damn.’ We can’t have ‘God,’ and we can’t have, ‘Oh Jesus,’ or anything like that …” Rudy went on for a while, swearing and cleaning up, so the reporter really got the hang of it. So when did “Ashcroft” get worked into the repertoire alongside “animal, officer, turkey, rascal, airhead” as an acceptable substitution? As it turns out, it didn’t.

Rudy explained that directors will sometimes supply alternative dialogue to be dubbed in for edited versions of their films. For Ashcroft, he said, “Well, it just so happens they gave us that word. It was a director’s choice. We would not have used that.”

A true aficionado of his craft, Rudy agreed that Ashcroft was a “unique” substitution. He said, “Not only that, it didn’t fit the mouth too well. You can tell the difference between the syllables.” What was Payne thinking?—Kelli Ohrtman