It is one of life’s mordant ironies that Macalester art professor Rudquist, who often painted skulls, would pass away in 2001 of brain cancer. But Rudquist had a streak of mordancy himself, expressed in such comments as “Bone, of any species, is an extraordinarily beautiful material.” This overview of his career does show the more buoyant side of his creativity as well, but the centerpieces are those images of death to which he returned throughout his career. The six-by-nine-foot “Great Skull” is arresting by itself, but more interesting is his “Must We Always Expect War” series. Executed over a 40-year span, it explores the human penchant for brutality through the repeated re-imagining of a monstrous, distorted bony head, reminiscent of Francis Bacon’s screaming popes. Rudquist’s paintings are rooted in Renaissance ideas, but his bold and unexpected color choices put his personal stamp on the work. Janet Wallace Fine Art Center Gallery, (651) 696-6279, www.macalester.edu/art
Author: rakemag
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Natural Wonders— Children’s Environmental Art
We love the Bell Museum, we really do. It is old, humble, a little bit musty, and very, very quiet—those carpeted walkways through the exhibit halls are ever so effective at creating a pleasant hush. It’s the perfect antidote to the sense-jangling overload that can be the adult experience at the larger, glitzier family museums in town. Visit the Bell during the week and you may very well have the place to yourself, unless your arrival coincides with a school group. Natural Wonders, the Bell’s current exhibit, gathers environmental art from more than 180 schoolchildren across Minnesota. Large albums contain photographs of all 750 submitted works, in which students explore their views of nature and interpret the natural world through painting, drawing, printmaking, sculpture, and other media. Bell, 10 Church St. S.E., (612) 624-7083, www.bellmuseum.org
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Brilliant Corners
Can an all-night jazz club in downtown St. Paul survive on nothing more than caffeine, nicotine, and donuts? The owners of Brilliant Corners hope so. The plan is to fill this hip new space with all kinds of jazz, from the most modest local ensembles to major national acts—charging covers accordingly, and serving up nothing stronger than coffee. It’s a wonderful space. Bright orange and red walls collide above the stageless floor, the better to make jazz of all kinds more accessible at all hours (reportedly, closing time will be at 4 a.m.). The club’s gala grand opening should be exciting too. New jazz wonderboy Matt Wilson (no, not the Toolmaster of Brainerd) gigs here March 7 and 8. Serious fans of local heroes Happy Apple will know precisely what to do with this information. (651) 224-8642, brilliantcornersjazz.com
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from Canada: Rael Against the Machine
The sign said, “All life on Earth, including human beings, was originally created scientifically in laboratories by the Elohim—an advanced people from space!”
“Tell me more!” I said to the sexy French Canadian woman boasting ample cleavage. She was running the Raelian booth at “A Gathering of Light,” a new age convention. “The only person the Elohim communicate with is Rael,” she explained, with sincere conviction and a cute French accent.
Glancing at the back of his best-selling book, Message Given By Extraterrestrials, I noted that Rael himself is an older French man with a ponytail. And he used to be a racecar driver! Now Rael is the head of the Raelian religion. According to the person I took to be one of Rael’s terrestrial girlfriends, the main mission of the Raelian religion is to build a $20 million dollar space embassy so the aliens will return. It’s not clear why a $10 million dollar space embassy wouldn’t work. There was a way to find out, though: Travel through time and space to their headquarters in Montreal. I booked a flight.
Through the Raelian website, I located their headquarters on Earth, and planned to attend one of their weekly organization meetings. I pictured myself sitting in a large room filled with dozens of new Raelian recruits. I was excited to learn more about a religion that performs the minor miracle of making Scientology look reasonable.
Once I got to Montreal, an evil acquaintance of mine planted some very bad information in my head, which would not come out: He said the Raelians hold wild sex parties filled with beautiful single women. Though I might not fully believe humans were created in a laboratory by aliens, I can always appreciate French-speaking hotties who like having unattached sex. A little paranoid, I made sure others knew where I’d be for the next hour and a half.
I went to the second floor of a warehouse off St. Laurent Street that also housed a discount futon outlet. A door with a picture of a large alien head swung invitingly open. The turnout for the informational meeting was less than I expected. Inside, two sad men on couches looked surprised at the appearance of a willing human being for the 7:30 weekly meeting. So, where were the hot French chicks?
One of them appeared to be the leader. He had a mullet a lot like Michael Bolton’s, and he was wearing a vest with no shirt (maybe the Raelian uniform?). He signaled for me to sit down. I made my way to the farthest couch. Michael Bolton signaled for me to sit snuggly next to him. I got the uneasy feeling he might try to touch me. I tightly held onto my Dr. Pepper can, in case I needed it as a makeshift weapon.
The other Raelian looked like an elf-alien hybrid. He remained silent, staring straight ahead. Then began the heavy talk, the unblinking eye contact. “Did you come all the way to Montreal to meet with the Raelians?” Michael Bolton asked. He too had a thick French accent. I mentioned that I’d seen a few UFOs, had a few encounters. “This is not a group for spotting UFOs,” Michael Bolton explained. In Montreal, he said, the organization is 5,000 strong.
Both he and the elf wore a symbol around their necks that resembled a Star of David, with outer space stuff in the middle.“It’s the Symbol of Infinity,” Bolton said. It once had a swastika in the middle, but for some reason, people didn’t respond favorably to that. “In 1975, Rael was taken back to the Elohim planet,” Michael Bolton said in a way that invaded my personal space.
“Wow, how long did it take to do that?” I said.
“Two hours!”
“That’s amazing!” I said. I decided to improvise: “When aliens took me back to their home planet, it took over three days.” Michael Bolton was unimpressed by this. The elf stared straight ahead.
“In all religions, there’s one prophet who returns to earth. We believe it is Rael.”
“So what you’re saying is, all the prophets of each religion have been agents of the Elohim?”
“Yes!”
“And the reason Rael was visited by UFOs is because he is a prophet?”
“YES!”Now, I turned the tables. “Maybe I had an encounter with a UFO because they came special to see me!” I puffed out my chest, insinuating that I, too, might be a prophet—perhaps their new Messiah. Michael Bolton looked aghast. Even the elf looked over. “NO! Rael is the only prophet on Earth. Rael is the last prophet!”
“You never know,” I said, giving my best I-might-be-your-new-Messiah smile. With distaste, Michael Bolton quickly wrapped things up. But not before inviting me, in a perfunctory way, to their weekly Raelian bowling night. “You’ll have fun,” Bolton said. “We’re a little crazy.” He made little circles with his finger at his temple. That was the understatement of the millennium.
I was excited about the prospect of bowling with Raelians. I went to a place called Jillian’s, which turned out to be the coolest bowling alley I’ve ever seen, with large music video screens at the end of each alley, and multi-colored balls under disco lights. French-speaking people can even make bowling seem chic. There were a few groups of happy bowlers. None of them wore the Symbol of Infinity. “Raelians?!” I yelled, to see if this would get anyone’s attention.
Gathering courage, I approached an attractive woman just lining up her sights for an easy spare.“Excuse me, but are you a Raelian?” She looked at me like I had poohed in my pants. I went to the payphones and dialed. “You have reached the Raelian religion. Stay on the line. Someone will answer to you.” Moments later, someone picked up. It was a French Canadian woman who couldn’t speak English very well. I told her Michael Bolton and the elf told me to be here for Raelian bowling night; I was wondering where everyone was. She said the Raelians should be there. “I don’t see the Symbol of Infinity.” She told me to call back in ten minutes. In the background, I thought I heard giggling. I called back in ten minutes. No one answered. Suddenly, I realized they must be having a wild sex orgy for the recruits who had made the cut.
There’s nothing lonelier in the world than being stood up at a bowling alley by Raelians. Couldn’t they have cloned some attractive, low-ranking members and gotten their asses down here and into bowling shoes? Would Jesus or Muhammad abandon one of their disciples, crushed, with pins still in formation and shoes unrented, on their prospective bowling nights? I looked toward the heavens, unto the next solar system, and I spit with disgust.—Harmon Leon
Harmon Leon is a comedian, actor, and writer living in San Francisco. He recently published “The Harmon Chronicles” (ECW Press).
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The Sous Chef of Baghdad
Every rogue state on the planet would love to get its hands on my grandmother’s recipe. I would not like to think what would happen if Saddam got the chocolate sauce. If I have anything to say about it, he’s not getting squat.
If that makes me seem arrogant, or like the chocolate-sauce-police of the globe, I’m sorry. But the fact is, I have the recipe and you don’t. Be reasonable. If you really think about it, none of us wants to live in a world where anybody with enough pluck can go ahead and make my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. That would be highly destabilizing, and additionally, would suck.
I’m not definitively saying there’s evaporated milk in it, but Iraq appears to be trying to get their hands on this unique ingredient. There is no other known use for canned, evaporated milk than my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. Can you name another use for it? No. Who else buys it except me? No one. Until now. Iraq’s apparent interest in evaporated milk is very troubling indeed.
A similar product, sweetened condensed milk, is innocuous. I’m not giving away any state secrets here when I say it has no application in the making of my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. Lots of delicious, though conventional, recipes call for it. A tablespoon mixed into a hot cup of tea is delightful, and no cause for alarm whatsoever.
It would be ridiculous to deny that sugar, cocoa, and butter are in my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. They are. And they are easily obtained everywhere, though not necessarily in the correct proportions or of the required quality. This is one of the tradeoffs of a free society. I would not like to eat dry toast just to make sure no one else got my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. For better or worse, our current laws allow just about anyone to buy these ingredients over the counter, as long as they look like credible shoppers.
Thanks to unscrupulous relationships in the past with Russia and the CIA, Saddam already has access to cheesecake and sherbet. We’d have to be pretty naive to believe that he doesn’t have a cupboard full of sauces, glazes, chutneys, and nut-toppings as well. Confetti sprinkles, for example, are distributed evenly throughout the globe, as they should be.
But this chocolate sauce stays in the family. It is not Iraq’s fault that it didn’t develop this chocolate sauce, and I don’t blame them for wanting it. It is a terrible responsibility, and one that I do not take lightly at all. With a heavy heart, I reflect on the awesome fact that my grandmother’s chocolate sauce exists at all. It would be so much easier if we could turn back the clock, and pretend she never created it.
Don’t get any ideas about raiding my recipe box. I have committed it to memory, and destroyed the original. Also, I must urge you not to try to duplicate my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. It has evolved into a very exacting science which cannot be easily transferred. For example, if the sauce has just a dash of vanilla extract in it—and I’m not saying it does—well, what the hell kind of measurement is a “dash” anyway? Let’s just say that disaster has so far been averted. But when you get a hundred million Iraqis mucking around with double boilers (which, by the way, are NOT used in making the sauce), it would only be a matter of time. Is it worth the risk?
People of Iraq: Do not fear me or hate me because of my grandmother’s chocolate sauce. Be grateful that it’s in such good hands. If it’s any consolation to you, Turkey has been trying to duplicate my wife’s cranberry sauce for decades, and Chile—let’s not even go there.
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Tanks for the Memories
As a former Twin Citizen now working for Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Seafood Watch program, I was delighted to see some of our recommendations in January’s Gastronomer (“Go Fish,” by Dan Gilchrist). Sushi is no longer a coastal phenomenon. Gilchrist got it right with our “bad news” about the bluefin tuna and farmed salmon: we suggest you avoid them; bluefin (called toro at sushi bars) are severely overfished, and salmon farms may pollute coastal waters. But, as a sushi lover, I was pained that you left out our “good news”: Many sushi choices, including yellowfin tuna (maguro), albacore tuna (shiro maguro), squid (ika), crab (kani), and even that imitation crab in your California roll (made from pollock fish) all earn our environmental go-ahead. We support sustainable fishing—personally, I want my favorite sushi fish to be around now and in the future. We urge consumers to ask where their fish comes from and how it was caught; our program publishes a handy consumer guide you can carry in your wallet, if you want a little extra help on “eating green.” You can download the card off our website at http://www.mbayaq.org/cr/seafoodwatch.asp
Alice Cascorbi
Fisheries Research Biologist
Seafood Watch Program
Monterey Bay Aquarium
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Remembering Duluth
I read “Life in a Northern Town,” [January] and sat and thought about the many good times I’ve had in Duluth. The town is so filled with memories. And the beauty of the old houses. If they could only get a museum together for all the history of that old place, and the people who help make Duluth the place it is. We usually visit Duluth once a year, I wish it was more often. The town is a very romantic place—looking out on the lake and seeing ships coming in, the city all lit up in the evening. It’s like a little town from our past.
Donna Miller-Gohman, St. Cloud
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The reason the Duluth Aquarium is having financial difficulty is not solely due to the price of admission. The cost of parking is $9! (I would expect this in Minneapolis, but not in Duluth) So the failure of this museum is simply the outrageous price for parking and admission.
Nancy Toth, Brooklyn Park
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I just wanted to take a brief moment to compliment you on your delightful story. So well written, so thoughtful, so respectful of the city and its’ residents (past and present). It is first class. Truly a delightful read. I look forward to more. How about a series? One every month on a different city in Minnesota. Thanks again for the joy it brought to me and many others I expect!
Patricia Floyd, Plymouth
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Star Spangled Manners
I was very glad to read “Patriot Act” [Good Intentions, January]. I’m so sick of seeing the American flag plastered all over the place like a cheap advertisement, as if that proves anything except a person’s paranoia about being seen as un-American. True patriots would be doing something for the country, whatever that might be—working in the armed services, or volunteering at a charity, or teaching children the meaning of the constitution. The flag is a great symbol, but people are just using it to let themselves off the hook. Look, I’m patriotic, everybody. Look! Look at me! It’s shameless and it’s against the law. Or at least against the Flag Code. You have to wonder how deeply their patriotism really runs, if the most they can do is trot out the bumperstickers.
Jim Warner, St. Paul
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Blowing Smoke
I am responding to Dianne Rowe’s letter in the December 2002 issue. I too am offended by cigarette smoke, but I disagree that there are no entertainment options for nonsmokers. Here are a few places which welcome nonsmokers: The Guthrie, Hopkins Center for the Arts, the Ordway, Chanhassen Dinner Theaters, Old Log Theater. If she can’t find a place with nonsmoking entertainment, she hasn’t treid very hard. If she’s referring only to bars, the I would agree that few cater to nonsmokers.
Steven Steuck, St. Louis Park
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Lost Civilizations
The longstanding appeal of the Atlantis myth is a sort of historical rubbernecking. Everyone loves a good disaster story, especially when it’s real. But lurking underneath it is a more haunting thought—one day, like maybe next Tuesday, we could go the same way as the Pompeiians. That’s one argument for the practicality of archaeological research—if we can figure out why, say, the Anasazi died out, it’s less likely we’ll follow them into the grave of history. Atkinson, a British journalist and scriptwriter, tackled asteroid and meteor strikes in the critically well-received Impact Earth. In Lost Civilizations: Rediscovering Ancient Sites Through New Technology, he brings the scale down a notch, albeit still a world-spanning one, to catch us up on the state of the science. Taking 20 vanished societies from across the globe, Atkinson uses satellite photography and computer-aided design to recreate what their cities and cultures must have looked like in their prime—some likely familiar, like the monumental temples of Angkor Wat and the giant Mayan pyramids, and also more obscure locales like the Arabian Peninsula cities of Mahram Bilqis and the Ubar. Many of these sites are only accessible thanks to space-age technology, which allows the easy scan of a remote jungle site from 300 miles up and reduces complaints from locals who understandably don’t want sacred places disturbed—nicely ironic, that the past is more illuminated only as we move further into the future.