Author: rakemag

One of the problems with seeing films like Pedro Almodóvar’s latest, Talk To Her, is that it inspires a profound guilt for all the time we’ve wasted on the latest Hollywood drivel. It’s doubly regrettable that this marvelous film will make its way to town during the holiday release frenzy and will probably get lost among the explosion fests. So, please let the brats off at the multiplex to see Bond or Potter, and bring a friend with whom you can share something deeper than a box of popcorn. Almodóvar, whose All About My Mother won the 1999 foreign film Oscar, has again plumbed the depths of sorrow, loneliness and difficult loves—but this time from the men’s point of view. Benigno and Marco befriend each other when they are both caring for lovers who have been put into comas as a result of trauma. But while Marco has known his Lydia for a long time, Benigno’s only spoken with Alicia once before her accident. During their time together at the private clinic where the two women are cared for, Almodóvar tells their stories via the men’s monologues with the comatose women and through effortless movement through the past and present. All this is not to say that the director abandons his infatuation with bizarre behavior—in this case it’s an act so out of bounds that one can’t help but be intellectually repulsed. At the same time, Almodóvar leaves us enchanted by the humanity and sympathy of the character who perpetrates the outrage. Allegories abound here, and you’ll have to pay close attention to get everything Almodóvar throws at you, but that’s an effort that will be rewarded with something more than the regret you’ll have at wasting another $15 on something you can see on cable in six months.

Everyone knows Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, but did you know that it’s merely the best known among dozens of Victor-ian ghost stories traditionally told in the context of Christmas? Here, our old friend Steve Schroer—who gave up his gig as The Rake’s theater expert to get back up on the stage himself—and his Hardcover Theater Company have adapted three lesser-known spooks from the same era. By the way, this a great alternative to the Guthrie’s classic offering, especially for kids; we’re told there is nothing quite as scary here as the Dickens adaptation, and there are quite a few laughs to keep mom and dad chuckling too. Playwrights’ Center, (612) 332-7481, www.pwcenter.org

You hear it on the streets. On the news. In the halls of Congress. There’s no agreement on the issue, except this: “Iraq” is a problem. There are at least four common ways English speakers say the word “Iraq,” including “Ee-RACK,” “Ih-ROCK,” “Eye-ROCK,” and “Uh-RACK.” Which is correct? Technically, none. The Q at the end of the word is, in Arabic, a back-of-the-throat sound that doesn’t exist in English. Linguists call it a “voiceless plosive” (don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz on this later). The R is a little rougher as well, so a native Arabic-speaker would say something like “Ihhhr-RAHCH.” It doesn’t roll easily off an American tongue. The closest we can come is probably “Ih-ROCK.” But is that officially correct? “There isn’t any reason why there should be one single standard way of pronouncing it, because it isn’t obvious from the spelling whether there’s one way,” says Bruce Paulson, a sensible professor of linguistics at the University of Minnesota. And while there’s a strong argument for staying faithful to the original Arabic, there’s also a natural American tendency to alter foreign words to sound less, well, foreign. You might have noticed: “Paris,” not “Paree.” So what happens when Middle Eastern voiceless plosives meet the tough Midwestern palate? To find out, The Rake went in search of the Minnesota accent in its native habitat, by which we mean we called a bunch of our friends and relatives at dinnertime and asked.

HOW DO MINNESOTANS SAY IT?
Eye-RACK 42 percent
Ih-RACK 20
Ih-ROCK 17.5*
Ee-ROCK 10
Ee-RACK 5
IH-rack 3.5
Eye-ROCK 2
Axis of Evil 0 *The right way

I’ve been a waitress for seventeen years. That’s pre-pepper grinder, fusion cuisine, touch screen, and “Sparkling, still, or tap?” If you look me up on the chronology of food-service evolution, I’m right there close to the beginning, walking upright and sporting thumbs, but with a hump on my back and a heavy, weighted brow indicating a double shift on all-you-can-eat brunch Sunday. This month, this very year, I mark an anniversary. And I’ll tell you something about that. No one ever starts out thinking they’ll be a waitress for 17 years; it’s just something that sort of sneaks up on you. You start out that first year thinking to yourself, “Hey! This’ll be fun… for a summer! After that I’ll figure out what it is that I really like to do!” The next thing you know, you’re 34 years old, discussing the obvious merits of catfish “fingers” over chicken “fingers,” while wearing a nametag.

Please, don’t get me wrong. I’ll come clean—I like it. I like people, I like bustling around, and I really really really like to snack. If I had an office job, I’d be forced to stuff coins into a vending machine in order to snack on hard, dry kibble like a dog. Where I work, hors d’oeuvres fall like manna from heaven… fresh, hot, and plentiful. Mostly, I forgo the three squares in favor of a constant stream of tidbits. As far as I can see it, this profile leaves me with two career choices: socialite or waitress.

The other thing I like about working in restaurants is the people-watching. A café is the perfect place to see a demonstration of all kinds of mating rituals. On a Friday night, it can be like Wild Kingdom with high heels and hair gel. (Look how the double-breasted braggart preens and stomps to dominate the attention of the hollow-eyed Uptown warbler. Uh oh! Their plates are empty, let’s send my wait assistant Jim in there to clear the debris so we can get a better look. Be careful, Jim! They still look hungry!)

I like the theory that anyone can do restaurant work. It’s democratic. People re-entering society often get placed in food-service jobs because of this. Anyone can try. Three restaurants ago, I worked with a woman I’ll call Baby. Baby was in an outpatient treatment program after touring with several odd heavy-metal bands in a county fair circuit. Hey, it could happen to anybody. Baby, although beautiful, was unaccustomed to flirting while sober. During one shift, Baby asked a 40ish man in her section, “Sir, what would you like for lunch today?”

The man eyed her form filling out the snug uniform, and leered. “Oh, don’t call me sir.” He began laughing at his own joke. Baby laughed too, but with a hint of fear to it, not understanding what the hell the guy meant. I could smell Baby’s confusion from all the way across the dining room. After several tense seconds, Baby hit on an answer. “Um, okay, what would you like for lunch today, dude?” I was so happy for her I could have cried. Unlike an office, where someone else’s failure might mean your success, in a restaurant, you have to watch each others backs, because if the guy next to you goes down, you’re next. This creates kind of a pirate-ship mentality that all food-service workers past and present share.

Of course, there aren’t many lifer buccaneers. What about folks like me, who are working on their 20-year pin? I recall the words of an early career food-service mentor, Paul, a slight man who watched my back at Mickey’s Diner off and on in between writing western novels. “You know, Colleen, how people on the highway slow down to look at an accident while they are passing by? People slow down and stay in this business because they just have to see how it turns out!” I’ll keep you posted.