The Rake Magazine

Category: AAX

  • Country, and Republicans, First

    It was Day 2 of the Republican National Convention and The Rake
    was seated proudly in the "minor local media" section. With CityPages at
    our side, God as our witness and no actual view of the stage, the event was underway. It was quickly apparent that, in solidarity with the folks
    displaced by Hurricane Gustav, the Republicans had blown their announced agenda
    to hell and back, with only two of the originally planned speakers on tap for
    the night. The abbreviated convention also blew a sucking chest wound in the
    plans to highlight a different theme each night – forcing the party planners to
    focus instead on the Convention’s overall theme of "Country First." They
    proceeded to offer up that happily vague phrase, and variations thereof, ad
    nauseum.

    Starting off the night to set the "Country First" tone was John Boehner’s speech on the Great
    Satan that is the Democratic party, conveniently neglecting to mention that the
    pluperfect singularity of economic, diplomatic and social upheaval facing the
    country was engendered just as much by Republican as it was Democrat. Of
    course, much like at last week’s DNC, the delegations thoroughly enjoyed any
    and all mocking of the opposition, offering raucous applause and never once
    wishing they could hear a proper
    taunting as only the French can provide    .

    After Boehner’s speech, the epic notes of "Don’t Stop Believin’" by
    glam rock legends Journey filled the dead air and, as McCain’s theme song, was
    likely intended to fire up delegates and remind them that a year ago their
    presidential nominee’s campaign was dead in the water and beaten by Giuliani in
    the polls like a bad bad donkey. But judging by the choked off laughter, the
    assembled media took it as a reminder to the delegation to keep on drinking the
    Kool-Aid.

    Further compounding attempts to take the proceedings
    seriously was a short montage that truly set the tone for a night consisting of
    speeches by the Democrat who wasn’t, Joe Lieberman, and the only Minnesotan to ever
    hump the leg of a commander-in-chief     – Michelle Bachmann. Perhaps history
    will someday regard the ill-considered words announced with gravitas against
    the backdrop of a stylized Constitution as something other than a phrase taking
    us to a horrific place – "You can’t really see your country. You can’t really
    touch your country. But you can love it." However, it’s all too likely the
    robots will have assumed primacy by then, consigning us to the dark corners of
    the earth, too busy scraping for sustenance to remember the disturbing imagery
    called forth by a gathering of the old world order. And besides, there are far
    too many places in the country that would likely require a visit to Planned
    Parenthood for testing if one was touched by them.

    Sen. Norm Coleman, former mayor of St. Paul, was prevented from making his
    "really good speech" on Monday and took the opportunity to welcome the
    delegates to Pig’s Eye, confusing the hell out of the octogenarian attendees.
    He went on to give a treatise on St. Paul’s history, discussing how
    conservative values built the Xcel center, but stopping just short of launching
    into a heartfelt rendition of Starship’s, "We Built This City".
    Coleman is, of course, in a rather heated battle for one of Minnesota’s Senate seats, so grandstanding
    is to be expected. He also was the first of a long parade of speakers to wax
    rhapsodic about the many sterling qualities of John McCain, culminating in a
    story about Thomas Jefferson’s face and a vagrant on the banks of a river.
    Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t actually a euphemism for oral sex, but rather a long winded and folksy way of saying McCain would face any challenge put in front of him.

    Unfortunately, the "positive spirit of Pig’s Eye" only
    extended to those blessed with the wisdom to join the Republican party. When
    speakers weren’t praying or touting the many wonders of the McCain and Palin
    story, they were blaming the opposition for everything from the national
    deficit to Lindsay Lohan’s recent forays into girl on girl action and punditry.
    Though given how much sense she makes in her political commentary, maybe Ms.
    Lohan is on to something.

    Throughout the rest of the night, speakers took every
    opportunity to point out how John McCain has put country first. That
    conservative values are the only possible way forward for this country. That,
    by the way, John McCain was once a resident at the Hanoi Hilton, and that it’s
    okay for conservatives to love him now that he’s the only option for a Republican
    president. Michelle Bachmann, the insane light of zealotry burning brightly in
    her eyes and clad in a dress that could only be described as Cadbury Mini-Egg
    yellow, delivered her speech as if she thought she was addressing a romper room
    audience. She devoted most of her time on stage to serving as a GOP attack dog,
    telling the arena that good Christian values will guide the country, not the
    government. Sadly, any good points she
    may have made on the importance of avoiding a nanny-state paled in comparison
    to her painful pleas for delegates to come back and visit. "Because we’re nice.
    Really nice. Fucking. Unbelievably. Nice. We’re nice, goddamnit! Why won’t you
    love me?"

    Tellingly, none of the MN delegates would discuss their
    feelings about Rep. Bachmann when asked.

    From then until the keynote speakers for the night – President
    George Bush, Sen. Fred Thompson and Sen. Joe Lieberman – were ready to go, a
    parade of heart wrenching tales and presidential retrospectives rained forth
    from the sound system. The obligatory deification of Ronald Reagan, tales of
    Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders, a crass attempt at co-opting the story of
    a Navy SEAL who threw himself on a grenade to save the rest of his team in Iraq
    and was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor – these were the most offensive
    moments of the night. Country First may be the theme of the convention, but
    when politics trump the country’s history and American heroes are used to
    strengthen a political agenda, it’s obvious the country isn’t foremost in
    anyone’s thoughts.

    Oh, and by the way, has anyone ever told you that John
    McCain was a POW?

    Following these crass examples of political opportunism, our
    fearless leader made an appearance via satellite, emphasizing the disagreements
    he’s had through the years with John McCain, conveniently neglecting to mention
    the smear campaign in 2000 that left the esteemed maverick senator from Arizona feeling like so
    much roadkill. Roadkill with an illegitimate
    black baby    .

    Fred Thompson was up next, his experience as an actor
    shining through as he flowed easily from jowl-shaking recrimination against
    liberals and their media lapdogs to holding Sen. McCain aloft on a pedestal and
    thanking him for not only serving his country, but also for forgiving the sins
    of man, starring in a Tony-award winning Broadway musical that convinced
    homosexuals that they didn’t have the right to marry after all, and was the man
    who gave the reverse
    cowgirl     to the world. The
    former New York prosecutor     owned that crowd. Not only were his words treated
    as if they were carved in stone and handed down by Moses, but whispers of "He’s
    not so cute, but I’d totally do him" drifted down like so much J.Lo-branded
    perfume from the assembled group of MILFs and Stepford Wives in the gallery
    behind the press stand.

    Which made it all the more sad that Sen. Joe Lieberman had
    to follow that act. Not only did it seem as if the Xcel Center had suddenly
    been transported into an alternate dimension in which Lieberman wasn’t the VP
    nominee for one of the Republican party’s
    ultimate evils     back in 2000, the senator from CT has never displayed a
    knack for oratory, and being the only Democrat on the speaking agenda brought
    him nothing but wary stares and baffled looks as he proceeded to name check
    Clinton and not curse Obama’s name to the heavens while lavishing praise upon
    his good friend John McCain. Sen. McCain certainly wouldn’t think of providing Sen. Lieberman with
    a cabinet position, thus providing a method to his madness, right?

    And throughout the show, while speaker after speaker
    thundered and railed against "the angry left" and positioned the GOP ticket as
    the second coming of Buddha, Christ, and P.T. Barnum in one neat little package
    with a moose-hunting cherry on top, they failed to note one interesting fact –
    they somehow managed to take the Xcel Energy Center, a nearly brand new arena
    with some of the best acoustics in the nation, and make it sound stunningly
    crappy. If that’s not an intriguing metaphor for the events of the last eight
    years, I’m not sure what is.

  • Mayhem at Mickey's Diner

    Let me start off by saying, I’m not a particularly political person. I care, don’t get me wrong, but I just prefer to do what I do best, staying in the pretty bubble of art, music and what-have-you. I am an A+E Editor, after all, not a political commentator! I rarely watch TV, but when I do I often assume it’s an extra-violent news day, even though deep down I know that’s the way the world is, and I subsequently shut it out of my mind. It might be ignorant of me, but hell, my brain can only hold so much information, and the battle I’ve personally chosen is one of making sure you know exactly where to go to see the coolest art, music, and performance – and trust me, it’s not that easy of a job!

    However, I do appreciate passionate people; people who are so into whatever they are doing that it basically takes over their life and becomes their identity. I think it’s impressive and endearing (and only once in a while, creepy). My decision to cover the scene in Downtown St. Paul was fairly innocent – I not only wanted to see a massive throng of people coming together to stand up for something they believed in, but I also wanted to see what they were wearing. Yes, it’s true. After watching the Liberty Parade this past weekend, I had a feeling plenty of sassy nut jobs in outrageous get-ups would be out in full force. I was definitely right, but what I didn’t really bank on was getting tear-gassed by the end of the night.

    It was my definitely own fault for insisting on staying with the unruly masses when they came to a halt in front of Mickey’s Diner on West 7th, after a generally peaceful 4-mile march through the city to the foot of the RNC. I just couldn’t help it though. The photo ops were just too good.

    After following the some 5,000 or so protesters up from the RNC gates to the street, I was at the tail end of things, having stuck behind to snap pics of some guy who looked like Jesus swaying in front of a line of cops with a miniature rainbow flag on a stick. The scene up at Mickey’s Diner was pretty ridiculous. About 150 cops in full riot gear flanked all sides of the street, trying to herd the protesters all in one direction. One cop sat perched on the top of Mickey’s, others stood on squad cars in bad-ass RoboCop poses.

    While the majority of the march had shuffled off so as not to aggravate the cops, a core group of about 200 or so stayed behind and basically just stood there, chanting and talking smack to the lines of police. Honestly, I think both sides were looking for a fight of sorts. The cops were practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of getting to kick the crowd’s ass, and the protesters seemed to want them to do it, and were basically asking them to do it by not moving after the three warnings police gave, ordering everyone to disperse via bullhorn.

    Dumb as I am, I stayed right up at the front of the police line somehow thinking they wouldn’t actually do it, I mean, no one was threatening them, maybe they would just pepper spray a few rowdy punks and everyone else would walk quickly away, virtually unscathed. Not so much. I heard a loud pop and saw billows of tear gas start rising up in the middle of the crowd. Numerous more pops and the streets were filled with screaming protesters running aimlessly as lines of police advanced on us. I turned tail and began booking up the street, veering away from the thick line of cops liberally dousing retreating protesters with huge arcs of pepper spray as flash grenades and tear gas canisters fell all around us. People were writhing on the ground crying and screaming for medics, and while everyone ran, the police seemed to be shooting things directly at our backs. A tear gas canister whizzed by about a foot away from me, bounced off an electrical box right into my line of retreat and started seething smoke. I jumped over it with my scarf covering my face and kept on running. At some point a boy that looked to be about 16 or 17 asked me to please help him and I just yelled at him to keep running and yanked at his sleeve, dragging him on. I saw a crying girl stumble too close to the police line, which was met by a douse of pepper spray that was so extreme that it literally splashed off her face, downing her instantly. Another young kid was balled up by the doorway to an office building, clawing at his eyes and bawling while other protesters screamed for someone to help him. I’d never seen such a thing. It was like a war zone, minus the actual killing of course. Eventually I ducked around a corner and got out of the fray, coughing and rubbing my eyes until I found a bus stop bench to sit down on, regroup, and let my panic meter go down.

    I had lost my friends Stephen, Dylan and Paul, and upon calling them I found they were locked in a freezer at the Dominos Pizza place across from Mickey’s, where they had gone to get a bite to eat after the main protest dispersed. When the mayhem broke out, tear gas had apparently begun to seep in through the closed door of the place to the point that all the employees and customers had retreated to the freezer until the smoke cleared out. I think they got free pizza out of it, so that’s at least one positive.

    After about an hour of trying to cross multiple police lines that had positioned themselves all around the area, I was finally reunited with my posse, who had been on the opposite side of the line. We were forced by the police to take the long way around to the Capitol and up to Paul’s car, which was parked on University. Along the way we passed by at least 500 cops in full riot gear, traveling in menacing packs all over downtown and at the Capitol. It was quite intimidating, and a little bit shocking, considering the sheer numbers. As the protesters had been chanting all night, "This is what a police state looks like!"

    At any rate, you probably won’t be getting any more play-by-play coverage of police riots from me. I’m still jumping at loud noises, and have had enough of the smell of hippies and crust-punks to last me for quite awhile. Here’s my advice for future protesters: start running before they start shooting tear gas – it does not feel as awesome as you’d think!

    Click HERE to see even more pics snapped by both myself and Stephen from the protest and our day Downtown. We don’t have anything from the actual confrontation, as we were busy running/ hiding in freezers. Strangely enough, videos of the melee taken by Kare 11, that were up on their website just last night, are now down; however, they do have some good still shots HERE.

  • Protest Music for the New Millenium

    (Todd Smith already wrote this article)

    On stage, Steve Earle led the crowd in a sing-a-long of "Steve’s Hammer (for Pete)" – a song that picks up on that parenthetical Pete (Seeger)’s "If I Had a Hammer," from 1949.

    "I’m gonna say a line, and you’re gonna repeat it back to me," Earle said. "And none of the just-mouthin’-the-words stuff. I grew up in a Methodist church, and I know all about that shit."

    The audience, in attendance for the 1st Annual Take Back Labor Day Festival at Harriet Island, acquiesced to Earle’s demands. Hippies and hipsters, whole families and lone children, organizers in support of workers’ rights and apolitical groupies who came just to see their favorite bands – everyone yelled the musician’s lyrics back at him. Though there were fourteen-year-olds in the front row who’ve probably never even had a job yet, everyone was eager to add their own energy to the day’s momentum.

    Later, just across the Mississippi River, more than 280 protestors would be arrested for varying degrees of felonies, and a faint stench of tear gas would linger in the city’s grass. There would be a bomb threat on the Roberts Street Bridge. A man in the center of downtown St. Paul’s labyrinth-like riot gates would stand in a spotlight, preaching salvation, though no one would listen. Hidden speakers would blare "Danger Zone" throughout the metropolis.

    Now, though, at the concert, people sat cross-legged in the sun, and others kicked around a hackey-sack, and Steve Earle alternately played songs and lamented Woody Guthrie’s absence.

    The quietest presences were those backstage. During Earle’s set, a number of Iraq Veterans Against the War milled about, partaking of the festival’s various fried foods and texting friends on their cell phones. Some listened to the music, but none sang along. Certainly they seemed to be enjoying themselves, but they were distanced somehow from the celebration.

    "We came as part of a group of veterans to the DNC and RNC, to address issues affecting vets," said Eddie Falcon, who served four tours – two in Iraq, two in Afghanistan – as well as helping out in post-Katrina New Orleans. He was dressed in a black tank top, silver dog tags hanging loosely over the cloth. "We want all occupying forces out of Iraq and Afghanistan – you know, just, ‘troops home now’ – and we want full benefits for veterans. There are a lot of things that happen back home: PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), suicide, depression, alcoholism…and a lot of veterans aren’t getting the help they need."

    It’s strange and disturbing to think that of all the people gathered under the aegis of Taking Back Labor Day, the people enlisted by our government to protect our country are some of the most mistreated by their employers.

    In about forty-five minutes, when Tom Morello would be finishing his set with a rendition of Woody Guthrie’s "This Land is Your Land" (subversive lyrics reinstated), Falcon and his twenty or so peers on stage would pump their fists during the chorus and jump like they were listening to Kris Kross. Backstage, though, they were subdued, maybe accustomed to explaining their difficult positions to the media. Low-key as they seemed, though, they were very aware that they were under threat of arrest.

    Last week at the DNC in Denver, the group – then reportedly comprised of more than sixty vets – enacted Operation First Casualty, which, Falcon explained, was a piece of guerrilla-style theater.

    "With that we were bringing the war home," he said. "We dressed in our full fatigues, and had planted allies throughout the city, and we would detain them, handcuffing them and masking them in the middle of the crowd, to simulate what happens every day in Iraq."

    Then a group of veterans composed a letter listing demands they wanted to present to Obama’s campaign. They marched, Morello explained during his set, through the streets of Denver, and as they got closer and closer to the convention’s headquarters, a group of policemen in full riot gear began to block their path.

    That’s the absurd thing, isn’t it? That war veterans could get arrested during what really was a peaceful, even pacifist event – back home in the U.S.

    But the vets were undeterred. Eventually their letter was delivered and, Morello said, the dialogue with the Democratic Party will continue.
    In St. Paul the vets drafted a similar missive for the McCain camp. "Our First Sergeant got an escort through St. Paul to see McCain and bring him the letter," Falcon said. "But McCain declined to come out."

    During the latter half of the show, when the music shifted from Steve Earle-style folk rock to rap, the veterans began congregating on the wings of the stage. They danced along to Atmosphere, Mos Def, and The Pharcyde. The terms ‘PTSD’ and depression resounded in the mind – diseases that by definition set one apart form larger society. The vets had backstage passes, were touring with the musicians, and jamming on the set, but one wonders when, if ever, they’ll be able to re-join the larger crowd.

  • Politics Lite: Inside the Xcel

    After popping into PetSmart for a new dog tag and Home Depot for some new levelers, I head right next door to the Doubletree Park Place in St. Louis Park. How convenient! My plan is to catch a ride to the Xcel Energy Center with whatever delegation happens to be staying there. It turns out to be the Georgians, and they’ve taken to referring to their quarters as "The Georgia Hotel." I like their sense of claimstaking.

    A friendly man in a neon vest asks where I’m looking to go. Thinking I’m busted, despite my legitimate credentials and earlier phone inquiries, I play it cool but slightly miffed. I’ve already had to change my outfit in the parking lot after realizing how underdressed I was. Grateful for the bag of preppy teacher clothes waiting to be dropped off for donation, I throw a sweater over my polo shirt (instant fancy!) and change out of my summer sandals. These Georgians aren’t messing around: high-high heels, slinky dresses, snazzy sportcoats with zippers on the pockets.

    Now comfortably playing the role of dowdy journalist, I engage the friendly fellow in neon, who appears to be running the show. He turns out to be the brother of Debbie Woodward, the woman who turned around the Northrup King Building which houses our office. Well acquainted with The Rake, he takes a shine to me and lets me in on how things with the visiting delegates are going. "They’re dumb," he emphatically spits out. "I’m sorry?" I think I must have misheard him. "They’re just dumb," he repeats. "Did you grow up here? Be thankful you got a DFL education." He doesn’t utter these remarks in a mean-spirited way, rather he’s just surprised at how logistically difficult they’ve been to coordinate. I tell him something non-committal like, That’s always the way with big groups.

    A genuinely fancy lady approaches and asks about getting on the shuttle. She doesn’t have her credentials, but assures us both they’re simply awaiting her pick-up at the Xcel. "You oughtta work for The Rake," he points at me. "They get their folks full credentials." "I work for myself," she replies, and thanks us for our help.

    I hop on the trolley destined for Brit’s in Minneapolis. AT&T is hosting a party there for the Georgians and I’ll try to get in. On the way one of the cuter delegates talks about having eaten a cookie today. For about ten minutes she laughs about this. I am happy to see the out-of-towners making the most of our fair cities. We tour past the Sculpture Gardens, Walker Art Center and Loring Park. I take in the sights and make believe I’m viewing them with out-of-town eyes. I’m impressed by the city’s history as our trolley driver tries to be heard over the cookie laughs.

    As you may have guessed, I am not allowed into the private Brit’s party, not being from Georgia and not being a delegate. I walk a block and catch one of the fleet of tour busses headed to St. Paul. Upon crossing the river, one rider announces loudly, "Uh oh! We’re going over a bridge!" It is apparent he is looking for laughs, but the joke doesn’t land.

    To get into the Xcel I have to walk through the "FOX Experience." What you "experience" is an onslaught of Hannity and Colmes close-ups and volunteers thrusting geeky hats at you.

    Inside I immediately take in the prevalence of these geeky hats and other kitschy wears. Blinky lapel pins, red-white-and-blue everything, cowboy hats galore. Is democracy supposed to be this tacky? Is this why we alternately hate/ envy the French? Would they be caught dead in any of this garb?

    One woman in the Florida delegation catches my eye. She’s wearing a gold silk kimono-type dress with exaggerated sleeves. She’s wearing gold stilettos, big gold hoop earrings. She’s primed for Myth Nightclub. I like how she shakes her assets in time with the elevator jazz tunes blaring over the speakers. I also like the guy up high in the NBC skybox/ makeshift studio. He’s up against the glass, butt to the entire convention, shaking just like the Florida gal. I can’t tell if he’s sincerely getting down, or if he’s mocking the whole show. Whatever the motivation, he doesn’t stop for nearly ten minutes.

    In keeping with my recent State Fair binge eating, I stop by the concessions area. Two women walk by me, "They got the food thing open today!" "Well somebody got a brain!" Yes, brain indeed. The concessionaires can’t slop condiments on fast enough. They’re almost out of sweet tea. Two bratty kids wearing Dorothy red slippers cry out, "Just bread and meat! Bread and meat!" They are unimpressed with the array of cheeseburger toppings. Not surprisingly, the line for vegetarian wraps and chef salads is non-existent. These are red meat eating delegates.

    I feel like I’m in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. Everyone’s potentially suspicious: that woman in the spotless chef’s jacket; that "priest." Two very serious men walk by, one holding some kind of device, the other holding an appendage of the device. I figure it’s a bomb-sniffing metal-detector of sorts. The guy holding the device keeps looking at the dials saying, "louder, louder," as they creep slowly past.

    The speakers:

    Jo Ann Davidson, co-chair of the RNC, keeps pronouncing it "NAY-tional, NAY-tional." I’m unsure what that accent is, but it also leads her to proclaim the VP nominee’s name as "Sarah Paw-linty."

    Norm Coleman amps his East Coast tenor with several sprinkles of "haaaaahd" work, and other such classic JFK-isms. He tries a joke with the punchline of, "I’m not indecisive, am I? That coulda been an Obama campaign slogan!" The reporter beside me leans in and points out, "He used to be a Democrat, you know? Talk about indecisive."

    Rake favorite Michele Bachman takes the stage and makes Minnesotans look like a pack of idiots. "It’s not just a saying," her crazy-eyes open wider than could be healthy. "We really ARE nice here. We’re FRIENDLY, HAPPY PEOPLE! And we do have a lot of liberals in Minnesota, but they’re HAPPY liberals." How many times she repeats the words "happy" and "nice," she sounds like a foreign language learner who stopped trying after chapter one.

    Big cheers all around with any mention or jumbo-tron photo montage of Lincoln, Babs, Reagan, the usual. Babs and George Sr. do show up about halfway through the night, almost too much of a surprise for the giddy delegates to handle.

    Current President George W. Bush is introduced by his wife (in person) and speaks to the convention (via satellite). It’s only slightly awkward when he’s unsure how long to wait for laughs after cracking a joke. (Laura’s wearing a spicier outfit tonight, possibly in response to Cindy McCain’s hot number the night before. And it’s cute how she says the word "muh-skituh" when mentioning the pesky insect.) The scary stay-the-course steadfastness makes an appearance in Bush’s remarks when he proclaims, "To protect America we must stay on the OFFENSIVE."

    Miles McPherson, former San Diego Charger, current pastor, underscores that "Character is doing what’s right even when nobody’s looking." This was one of our core Army Values when I was in, although we used his phrasing as the definition for "integrity." There’s a lot of riling up the troops here that’s reminding me of past Army leaders’ attempts at the same.

    Each speaker is framed by bucolic, digitized, small-town backdrops. Sometimes they morph into wheat fields. Sometimes they’re stars and stripes. Always they are undeniably iconic Americana. And so is Miss Florida. And the brat kids wanting a plain burger. And even Norm Coleman’s gigantic teeth.

    I head back to the busses forgoing the media open bar. I’ve imbibed enough spirit here
    to keep me tipsy for a good long while.

  • Sept 3, 2008: Government Jam!

  • Why Party Like a Rock Star When You Can Party Like a Delegate?

    Not yet near the doors of the Minneapolis Convention Center Sunday night and I am already handed Republican swag, in the form of a DVD. This DVD "as seen on CNN and FOX News" depicts on its cover the iconic image of a radical Islam toddler wielding a rifle. I politely put it in my purse as if I sincerely plan on watching.

    My guest and I are already out of sorts and being ushered in the doors through a Notre-Dame-like tunnel of earnest outcries. "Welcome to Minnesota!!" they shout. "Thank you, thank you, lovely place," we reflexively reply. We’re traipsing down a gawdy red carpet alongside thousands of genuine Republican delegates just thrilled about their Welcome Party. Having scored tickets, we’re thrilled too.

    Guests don the costume-y gear you might expect: patriotic scarves; gigantic elephant jewelry; nametags with lasso designs around the edges. There are cute elephant ears (worn on headbands), but I’d rather have the pastry. Billed as a "Red Carpet Affair," I didn’t know what to wear. Nor did, apparently, several of the delegates. But who is there to care? What with the free food and booze (as Kate Iverson so kindly mentioned I dig), most guests were quite contented. I heard one happy delegate urge his friend to move along from the meat carving station, "You can’t DRINK roast beef!"

    A few non-food or booze highlights (although the Bud Light Limes were surprisingly tasty):

    Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln. These Republicans just can’t get enough of the guy. Naturally my guest brings up the Phil Hartman "History as it Really Happened" sketch in which Lincoln is shot for being so damn annoying and raunchy while watching that fateful play. And so, I can’t give the guy dressed as Lincoln any serious attention. Nor am I all that wowed by the semi-trailer-cum-Lincoln-museum parked along one wall of the auditorium. I do like the souvenir penny/ lapel pin they give me upon exit.

    Other vehicles on display include a 1986 prototype of Reagan’s Cadillac limousine. An excited volunteer points out that Reagan made a special request to have the roof raised three inches thereby accommodating his wearing a cowboy hat inside. What a diva.

    "FDR’s limo" is also there, but it isn’t really a limo, just an old car. Delegates checking it out joke, "I bet the Democrats were giving him crap about driving this thing around! His carbon footprint, HA!"

    Party-goers wait in a long line to walk through a replica of Air Force One. I wait awhile, then get antsy for more action and head to CNN’s mobile studio. In the doors of the bus and almost out again, the guide finally asks if we have any questions. "Yeah," I say, annoyed that he needs prompting to do his job, "So what goes on here?" The answer is actually well-delivered, once elicited (all their on-the-trail coverage is filmed and edited within the bus, and we’re allowed to see the control room).

    Norm Coleman’s teeth are maybe the greatest highlight of all. One really can’t appreciate their Chicklet-like quality without seeing them up close. Rent There’s Something about Mary to remind you what Matt Dillion’s teeth look like after he gets them "done" for her. And Coleman’s tiny head only makes those capped chompers more prominent. Norm’s L.A. wife waits glassily on his arm while my co-hort makes Beetlejuice remarks about his shrunken skull, surely loud enough to be heard.

    The think tank in charge of this operation spared no expense when it came to cultivating patriotism. The frequency and volume of Lee Greenwood’s "Proud to be an American" hearkens back to my Basic Training days in South Carolina. The loon calls piped into the restrooms are something altogether new.

    Perhaps most patriotic of all is Harriet, the 27-year old bald eagle on display. We could have gotten our picture taken with the elderly Harriet, but it was more fun watching others, imagining them the would-be victims when Harriet finally snaps. I bemoan the fact she’s kept in a poorly-disguised dog crate when traveling. "But that’s an eagle crate," my friend corrects me, and then asks if I think Harriet gives autographs. My American pride is at its all-time apex.

    Overheard:

    Big guy flanked for photo op by two Miss Teen Minnesota contestants proclaims: "This makes my whole [dag-gum] trip!! [Coo-coo!]"

    "Caramelized onions?! What WILL they think of NEXT?!"

    Several of the not-found-anywhere-else exhibits mentioned here (plus actual First Ladies’ gowns, a replica of the Oval Office, and a scale model of the White House) are still on display and open to the public during the Minneapolis Convention Center’s CivicFest. See "The Rake’s Secrets to Surviving the RNC" for more info. I can not guarantee they’ll give you caramelized onions if you go.

    Click HERE to read about my misadventures inside the Xcel.

  • There's More Than One Bristol

    So, one of my fellow bloggers called my keen political insights "garbage" and asked me to go back to writing about cars.

    I will gladly fulfill your wish. In fact, how about if I write about both?

    I will even perfume my words to make sure the wind that passes when I write about politics will not offend your hope and passion for change.

    (Trying my hand here at Obama-speak. Such crap, I know.)

    (The other Bristol? courtesy of Perez Hilton and the Cap’n)

    No, here’s the deal-e-oh-my-god. As any car guy knows, there is a great British firm that has remained in business for a half-century by the Burgermeisterish name of "Bristol."

    They got their start when they acquired the tooling for the very fine BMW 328 as a WWII war reparation and constructed their first car–the Bristol 400 in the 1947.

    This proud old firm was very hot in the automotive world last year when they claimed to have turned their current Supercar–the extremely expensive and akward-looking Bristol fighter into the fastest front-engined production car in the world (Jalopnik says 1000 plus HP).

    I am about as certain they have accomplished this as I am that Ms. Palin the Sexy Librarian (in look) will last till Thursday.*

    Its a fast moving story, still.

    And this one really doesn’t stink.

    * 11:00 PM Wednesday Night. Well, well, I am wrong again. Sexy Librarian makes me look stupider than ever. She is is going to stay. Hockey Moms, however, are still no match for Ski Moms–check out this incredible true blog.

  • A Sventabulous Time!

    What is it about Sven Sundgaard?

    All the other news anchors are just news anchors; chipper, vaguely good looking, with the ability to pull off a solid color pantsuit. But Sven, there’s just something about him. Is it his frighteningly tan skin, regardless of season? His petite faux-hawk, nice pec muscles, and suspicious gayness? What is it that makes a bizarre number of men and women in the Twin Cities extremely excited by this Kare 11 weatherman? Lured by him, drawn to him. There are innumerable blogs devoted to him…his likeness to an Oompa Loompa…questions about his sexuality. One person said he wished he could put Sven in his pocket and carry him around.

    Yesterday in the Kare 11 building at the State Fair, I got my picture taken with Sven. Hoards of excited people, myself included, had shown up to gawk at the pint sized weatherman while he predicted the forecast, live at five. He kissed babies, chatted on his cell phone, waved to the crowd. A burly, middle age man in the audience shouted, "Sven you’re hot!" The woman behind me turned excitedly to her husband and said, "He’s almost as tall as me!"

    In person, Sven comes in at maybe 5’4", and he looks startling like a troll doll. He’s a good-looking guy, don’t get me wrong. An orange, short, stubby, chipper, good looking guy. And I don’t know why, but I loves me some Sven Sundgaard. I wasn’t expecting to have my photo taken with Sven; I also wasn’t expecting to win the lottery, or hear an experimental classical music troupe perform on the U of M stage outside the food building. A band that sounded, honestly, like the worst time anyone could have tripping on mushrooms. But so it goes at the Fair!

    Yesterday, I was too tired to care. I knew it would be my last day at the Fair; I knew I wanted a malt at some point, but it was really hot and crowded. I was also playing third-wheel, and was kind of hungover. My husband has been out of town, and when he goes away, I don’t sleep well. I watch too much TV, drink too much alone, and google late, late into the night. That’s how I found this gem.

    It was my friend and her boyfriend’s first day at the Fair, and when we walked through the gates and looked out on the sea of sweaty Minnesotans, my friend turned to me and said, "I’m lost already." I am an expert at finding my way around at this point, so I became their unofficial Fair compass. Fried Green Tomatoes? Right this way. Modern Living building? Follow me.

    We had a good time puttering the afternoon away, munching on cheese curds, chocolate malts, stopping at the MPR building, the Faces of Meth booth. "I think that chick got hotter after the meth." "Meth made that guy look a lot like Daniel Day-Lewis." And then we hit the Midway.

    I’ve been intrigued by the Magnum, the sexy-shake ‘em ride at the Midway, since day one. The backsplash is a mural of Hawaiian Tropics looking girls in bikinis and it just doesn’t seem Fair appropriate. My friends wanted to ride it, so we went. The woman who tore my ticket said, "You’re going to want to tie your hair back." I didn’t, and my hair looked like spun, cotton candy afterwards.

    Sweet lord, that ride doesn’t fuck around. It spins you around, while it pulls and pushes you on a twirling circular track. It’s basically like being dizzy from every possible angle. And it is not fun. It would be fun, if it lasted for thirty-seconds. But it lasts for three minutes. I sort of had to burp at one point, while being flipped upside down, and sucked backwards, which is a sensation I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

    Then we rode the Tilt-A-Whirl because evidently, my friends like being extraordinarily dizzy. I think there are people who like roller coasters, and people who like spin-me-around rides. Yesterday, I learned I’m a coaster girl.

    I have this memory of going to the State Fair and getting a ton of free food. I’m not just talking water handouts at WCCO, and eating the rest of someone’s cheese curds. I mean: I asked the vendor – I received – no money changed hands. Pickles, cookies, pork chops. That’s my memory. Sounds too good to be true, I know. And the thing is, no one else remembers this. I’ve asked dozens of people: "Nope." "I wasn’t there." "Must have been someone else." "That sounds like you made it up."

    You can imagine my excitement when halfway though the afternoon, my friend turned to me and said, "Hey, remember that year we came to the Fair, and we got drunk off rum and Frutopia, and you got a bunch of free food?"

    "Yes!" I said, overjoyed. I’ve been dying to share this memory with someone since I was sixteen and a bunch of us did in fact, sneak as-awful-tasting-as-it-sounds rum and Frutopia into the Fair, got drunk, hung out, and I scored us a bunch of free food. "How’d you get all that free food, anyway?" She asked me, biting into her gargantuan corn dog. (I stand corrected, corn dogs are not the same as Pronto Pups, they are much, much tastier.) "I don’t know, I think I was just drunk, and annoying, and sixteen. I guess I asked."

    "Hey," we heard a group of teenage boys behind us say, "Want to see if any of the animals have afterbirth hanging out?" referring to the miraculously gross innards that accompany the cute little animals in the Miracle of Birth building. Ah, to be young again.

    "You guys want to ride the gondola?" friend’s boyfriend asks us.
    "I need more cheese curds, first," friend says.
    "Maybe a brat." I chime in.
    "With Kraut?" he asks.
    "Of course," I reply.
    "That’s a good Midwestern girl for ya," he muses, approval ringing in his voice.

    And off we went.

  • Downtown Militarized Zone

    Photos by India Bell

    Hard to believe that as recently as Sunday, downtown Saint
    Paul was a bucolic paradise ringed in chain link, the peace kept by strapping
    young men with plastic handcuffs. Sadly, the photos below didn’t jibe with the
    reality of yesterday’s protests.

    While Minnesota’s, and the nation’s, eyes should’ve been
    turned to the potential for yet another
    biblical disaster visited upon New Orleans    , and somewhere between 8,000 and
    10,000 people marched in peaceful protest against the war in Iraq, various
    social injustices, and the lack of proper bagels in the Midwest, a small group
    of asshats were doing all they could to ensure all eyes were on them. And
    sadly, they didn’t feel they could accomplish this by word or crappy bohemian
    performance art, so instead they reportedly lobbed homemade explosives, smashed windows, overturned dumpsters, attacked delegates,
    and generally demonstrated their complete lack of understanding of what free speech
    entails.

    Ignoring, for a moment, the larger issue of how this group
    of irredeemable twats makes it virtually impossible for any of the protestors
    to be taken seriously, they’ve created a significant public safety issue for
    the rest of the convention. The police, having seen what lengths immature
    Marxist wanna-be’s will go to "get their message across to the Capitalist
    pigs," are far more willing to deploy the more unpleasant countermeasures
    available to them. This has already been in ample
    evidence    , with pepper spray used like so much Binaca
    and canisters of caustic gasses that some claim contain tear gas, but are more
    likely to have released Axe body spray into the air – a sure way to disperse a
    crowd. Law enforcement is already being accused of being overzealous, and it’s
    sad that so many well-intentioned and peaceful activists are being caught up in
    the mess that the demonstrations have become – but it’s hard to blame the
    police when they’re forced to deal with hordes of protesters, any one of whom
    may want to cause harm in a variety of ways.

    But on a larger scale, while no one could’ve possibly
    expected protests at the RNC to remain completely peaceful, there seems to be
    precious little thought actually devoted to these demonstrations. Perhaps if
    they were facing down tanks in Tiananmen Square, violence could be understood.
    But marching the virtually deserted streets of St. Paul, it does nothing to
    advance their cause, obscuring it with sensational headlines and stories rather
    than providing an opportunity for public conversation, debate and discourse.
    It’s telling that the protesters engaged in the vandalism and violence wouldn’t
    show their faces or grant an interview. Frankly, it’s profoundly disgusting
    that anyone could consider this an effective, or even acceptable, form of
    political activism.

    The only consolation I can find in this is how
    unlikely it is any of the asshats in question are fellow Minneapolitans, since
    precious few of us can actually find our way to downtown St. Paul.

  • Sept 2, 2008: Rudy At The RNC