Category: Article

Kate DiCamillo has some writing habits that we truly envy. She writes every day at the same time, and produces at least a page or two of usable material. She continues to get together regularly with the same group of writers who’ve been meeting for years now to critique one another’s work. And she “hangs around” mentally with her characters until they tell their stories clearly enough for her to capture them faithfully on paper. These habits have paid off. DiCamillo’s first novel for young adults, Because of Winn-Dixie, was named a Newbery Honor Book, and won a handful of other awards too. DiCamillo’s latest, The Tiger Rising, is darker than her debut novel, tackling the tough stuff of death and divorce, pent-up sadness and open rage, and doing so literally and figuratively through the story’s characterization and its surprising plot. She meets her subject with clarity and resists the temptations of sentimentalism and melodrama. And she crafts characters that manage to be simultaneously quirky and colorful and engaging and believable. Rob, the protagonist who’s unable to express his grief over his mother’s death through any means other than an itchy rash on his legs, hovered about near DiCamillo’s writing life for years before finally materializing in The Tiger Rising. A word of warning, however: for kids who aren’t yet equipped with the emotional resilience to survive sad endings, it may be best to save this book for later. As one 12-year-old reader put it on Amazon.com, this book was “slow, dumb and hard to understand, it would have been a lot better if the tiger hadn’t been shot.”

We have to confess we’re not familiar with Mosley’s signature series, the Easy Rawlins line of detective stories, but it’s been a sin of omission. Truth is, we’ve been putting off acquainting ourselves with those books because Mosley had ventured into more high-brow territory with a few intriguing side projects in the 90s. In 1996, he first set the mystery genre aside to focus on a cycle of stories, Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned , involving Socrates Fortlow, a disheveled and aging but righteous tenant of inner-city L.A. Then he took on his most ambitious project to date, R.L.’s Dream, a fascinating and fictional account of Robert L. Johnson, the legendary Delta bluesman who allegedly sold his soul to the devil. Actually, it’s only incidentally about Robert Johnson. Rather, it’s a long and thoughtful meditation on what, exactly, the blues is all about, set in a gritty and mostly convincing narrative. We’re told that fans of Easy Rawlins have been biding their time (the last Easy Rawlins mystery came out in 95, a few years before we got hooked), because what Mosley lacks in the way of creating complex three-dimensional characters he makes up for in his expertly constructed mysteries. We can’t wait to sample him at his best, after these years of literary aspiration. What could be easier than sitting back and listening to the man read from Bad Boy Brawly Brown, which will be available July 2? Ruminator Books, (651) 699-0587, ruminator.com

This is the guy who wrote Fight Club, which of course made him an instant millionaire because it was made into a crap movie starring Brad Pitt. But don’t let a major motion picture stand between you and a delightful new author. Palahniuk is one of those hip celebrity writers who deserves the attention, if only because he manages to write serious and satiric hardcovers that are easier to read than a cereal box. Which of course doesn’t necessarily guarantee staying power. (Calling Mark Leyner? Hello? Dude, where are you?) Easy to read, sure, but also effortlessly capturing elements of the zeitgeist in which we live. Palahniuk specializes in misanthropic young men who come up with ingenious rip-off schemes and slacker strategies, eventually careening into surreal parallel realities. After Fight Club, he penned Survivor and Choke—essentially sequels with completely different characters and situations. A unified body of work or a one-trick pony? Longterm player or a passing fad? Prolific because dangerously forgettable? Decide for yourself at this local reading—that is if you can stop laughing with this expert black humorist who operates in the style of Vonnegut, Coupland, and Easton-Ellis. Ruminator Books, (651) 699-0587, ruminator.com

It’s hard to compress Gary Hallman’s fruitful three-decade career into a single gallery show. Though he’s honored here with a one-person show spanning both floors—the sum of all the PARTs, as it were, and only the fourth time they’ve done this—we found ourselves wanting to see more. The show begins circa 1971, with Hallman’s outdoor shots focusing on interplay between light and shadow. In the 1980s, the U of M art professor moved away from pure photography into deliberately manipulated images like “Rayos de Luz y Calor,” a self-portrait shot through with hand drawn beams of light. Unlike most fine-art photogs we know, Hallman has embraced technology over the years. His 1990s experiments with computer-altered self-portraits obscured his face behind deep green and red fans. They’re perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most colorful in his portfolio. Hallman’s not afraid to reinvent his methods, nor to go back to classical photography when there’s still something to discover. Other work moves in a surreal direction: Pompeiian frescoes share space (and fate?) with bland suburban house-scapes, and a swarm of nudes streams between the heads of two men like a thought they share but can’t shake off. His most recent work changes course yet again, this time returning to formalism for a set of industrial still-lifes that coolly observe the sterile kitchens and computer rooms at Wells Fargo’s downtown operations center. PARTS, (612) 824-5500, partsphoto.org

People sometimes say that if a meteor struck Uptown, the Twin Cities would lose half its artistic community. While we’re still waiting for NASA to get back to us on the scientific accuracy of that metaphor, it’s certainly true that Intermedia Arts’ annual celebration of the Hennepin & Lake ZIP code’s creative set has no shortage of participants. Curators Peter Haakon Thompson, Lisa Ganser, and Malichansouk Kouanchao have gathered more than 100 artists in disciplines from painting to web art to video. Thompson’s also giving out large scarlet letter A’s to folks who live in the area. They’re for hanging on your window to show your support for local art, but if you’re looking to spice up your reputation we suppose you could always flounce around Calhoun Square pretending you’re Hester Prynne. On July 5, the gallery’s Films First Fridays series will feature work by filmmakers from the area. After that, you can see those works in a video installation. Perhaps the best day to check out the exhibit, though, would be July 4, when you can honor your country’s independence at Intermedia’s always-groovy Art Car Parade. Opening reception June 30, 1 p.m., free. Intermedia Arts, (612) 871-4444, intermediaarts.org

We set out on our expedition to scale Everest in a rusty Toyota loaded with five famished explorers and a trunkful of climbing rope. I could not help but feel underequipped, since weeks of fruitless searching had turned up no Sherpa guides anywhere in the metro area, not even in the yellow pages. St. Paul can be harsh, unfamiliar terrain, and I think it unwise to travel there without experienced direction. My navigator suggested that I instead find Grand Avenue on a road map “like normal people do,” and after careful consideration, I complied. Our gamble paid off. Everest on Grand turned out to be a cozy Nepali and Tibetan eatery across from Kowalski’s Market. Though our servers were a bit slow, they were attentive, friendly, and willing to answer that most uncomfortable of menu-related questions—“and how do you pronounce this?” Half our party ordered momo, a meat-filled dumpling, but only one went for new gustatory territory and got the yak momo. It is perhaps the only exotic meat we’ve tasted that does not taste like chicken. It’s like beef, but sweeter, and well complemented (concealed?) by a spicy tomato-herb sauce. The rest of our team, a motley assemblage of architects and teenage vegetarians, found satisfaction in the many tasty no-meat dishes such as aaloo-dam (potatoes, onions and tomato in gravy) and jogi-tarkari, a vegetable curry. For desert, booniya and lal mohan—small, light confections so sugary sweet we could already feel the sting of the dentistry bills. Everest on Grand, (651) 696-1666, hotmomo.com

If you’ve never felt safe going to one of those imposing stand-alone sushi shops downtown, here’s a place to finally try it with the training wheels of a mall surrounding you. Despite its location on Calhoun Square’s second floor, the Bermuda Triangle of Hennepin & Lake, Sushi Tango is constantly full of the kind of Uptown crowd who all look like they work in graphic design. It’s the sushi spot for the MTV generation, from the grinning manga mascot to the olive-toned interior geometry that cries out “death to boring 90-degree angles!” Experienced eaters head straight for the maki. Beginners try the sushi tango, which gets you 10 types of nigiri plus cucumber and tuna rolls. There’s a similar platter of sashimi, but you only get five varieties. The salmon and halibut were especially tasty. And be not afraid of the octopus, mild in both taste and texture. Sushi Tango, (612) 822-7787

The great polar explorers Ann Bancroft and Liv Arnesen
go where they’ve never gone before—your backyard. So this
is the Next Frontier: the web, schoolkids, and Lake Superior

I’m shivering uncontrollably and I think I might puke. Gray waves roll and swell on Lake Superior, a stiff cold wind blows from the east, it looks like rain—or maybe snow. Even in late May, the North Shore doesn’t want to warm up.

I’m with Ann Bancroft and Liv Arnesen, who are paddling along in sea kayaks, making their way from Grand Portage, which they left 10 days ago, down to the port of Duluth, which they’ll reach in about two hours. There is a heavy swell on the lake, it’s true. But with the wind at their backs, Bancroft and Arnesen are actually surfing the four-foot waves, their kayaks carving the crests and their paddles barely dipping for balance. They make it look fun and easy. Frankly, I’m having a hard time keeping up with them, even though I’m in a 30-foot fishing boat. I’ve asked the captain to stop talking about the various colorful episodes of seasickness he has witnessed.

Bancroft and Arnesen are toiling like this because they’re on a new expedition, hoping to kayak most of the way from Lake Superior to the St. Lawrence Seaway. I’m toiling like this because it’s a rare opportunity to accompany the world-famous explorers in action. For the first time in their professional careers, they’ve decided to undertake an adventure through well-known, well-charted, and fully settled territory. In fact, for the next six weeks, they’re going to have a hard time finding a place to camp that isn’t someone’s front yard, and one of the more serious dangers they’ll face is the possibility that too many people will approach them with coffee and donuts. How did two of the world’s most accomplished polar explorers end up in this absurd situation? There’s only one way to find out—ask them.

Later, I’m waiting in Duluth’s stunning Great Lakes Aquarium, under a 50-foot glass-encased waterfall. (We parted ways earlier; I found a cheap, warm place to have a little breakfast and settle my stomach. They paddled.) Ann and Liv have a scheduled appearance here, where they’ll meet a group of fans—eco-groupies, I guess you’d call them—who have gathered in the lobby in little huddles of polar fleece and hiking boots. When Bancroft and Arnesen stroll in, there’s a round of applause. In person, the great explorers strike me as precisely what they are: gym teachers who have given up coffee and gone on permanent sabbatical. Even at the age of 46, Ann Bancroft practically vibrates with nervous energy. She is short (around 5’5”) and solid and looks like she prefers her oatmeal straight. Undoubtedly when she was a young turk working the climbing counter at Midwest Mountaineering on the West Bank, she was perceived as an adrenaline junkie—someone not really happy until she’s logged a dozen miles on the trail, maybe put up a new line on the climbing walls of Taylor’s Falls. With age and experience, she has become a person with zen-like focus and unseen reservoirs of energy. Like the great cyclist Greg LeMond, she has used maturity to her advantage, recognizing the value of pacing yourself for the long haul. Patience is an acquired skill, and it’s one of Bancroft’s secret weapons that put her beyond the reach of most world-class endurance athletes. She’s incredibly centered, like a small, powerful catapault waiting to be triggered.

Liv Arnesen is the perfect professional complement to Bancroft. She’s a tall, slightly stooped, 48-year-old Norwegian, with weathered skin that betrays the fact that she’s spent far more time outside than in. She has long arms and fingers, and looks a bit trollish. Paradoxically she seems less high-strung than her American partner, but at the same time less patient. It suits her personality that she was the first woman to ski solo to the South Pole. She carries herself with stoic self-assurance, she has the air of a woman who would prefer not to talk but to do—and involving anyone else in the doing is an automatic liability.

On the shelf in my fourth grade classroom—north wall, near the front—there sat the obligatory set of junior encyclopedias. Now and again during lulls in study time, either Brenda S. or I would go and retrieve the R volume. Then, hunched conspiratorially near the back of the room, we would inspect at length the cross-sectioned diagrams of the human reproductive anatomy. The details of interior plumbing were of no great interest to us, but we always lingered over the sketched male and female forms that surrounded them like sausage casings—the ample, pendulous breasts on one side, the dejected-looking penis on the other—while exchanging fraught, knowing looks. Proust had his madeleines; I have Brenda, the book, and the occasional glimpse of her training bra straps. Without question it was one of the most enlightening experiences of my elementary school years. Nowadays, alas, it would be grounds for throwing one or both of us in the kiddie calaboose and tattooing Sex Offender on our foreheads.

Do I exaggerate? Not by much. Judith Levine’s endlessly reviled Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Kids From Sex contains numerous stories of youngsters branded sexual predators and forced into humiliating regimens of “counseling” for behavior no less benign. Surely by now you have heard of Levine’s book, published a couple months ago by the University of Minnesota Press after being declined by a string of commercial publishers. Before the ink was dry, pols and shrinks were rising as one to condemn it. The charge? Soft on child sex abuse, which in the present climate is as good as being soft on communism (and lord, how we miss communism) or brown-skinned terrorists.

Levine’s book is a fine, brave, doomed effort at putting into perspective various matters concerning children, adolescents, sex, sex abuse, and sex education. It’s true that Levine starts by debunking the child sex-abuse hysteria that has caused convulsions all round the U.S. since the spate of day care sex abuse scandals in Jordan, Minnesota, and across the country in the 1980s. Despite the fact those cases proved to be fictions promulgated by zealous interrogators and small children anxious to please them, the stranger with candy—the adult predator seeking children to sodomize, or worse—has become one of our more durable icons and useful political props.

Levine commits two principal heresies against right-thinking. First, she asserts that the stranger with candy is not really the problem we make him out to be. (On the special matter of priests with candy—who, call them what you will, can scarcely be termed strangers—more in a second.) She notes that a great many incidents of extra-familial “sex abuse” involve consensual liaisons between adolescents a little below the age of consent and boyfriends or girlfriends a little above it. As regards the great bogeyman in all this, the pedophile moving with stealth through Internet chat rooms, she makes two interesting points: first, that the manufacture and distribution of kiddie porn through the Internet is controlled almost exclusively by police agencies running sting operations (an LAPD detective is quoted boasting as much); and second, that the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children places the total number of reported adult/adolescent assignations arranged through the Internet from 1994-96 at a whopping 23. The Internet was young then; if you assume the number has tripled or quadrupled with the growth of online households since then, you come to 50 or so cases a year across the entire country. Hardly the epidemic we’re led to believe, particularly when you bear in mind that a high proportion of these involve nerdy guys not much over the age of consent and lonely girls not much under.

The terrible irony is that it’s not the stranger with candy putting kids at risk. The vast majority of such abuse occurs in or near the home at the hands of male adults in positions of authority and trust—the father, the uncle, and to a far greater extent than even the most cynical supposed, the parish priest. Interesting factoid from the May 11 Star Tribune: In 1989, at the time of Jacob Wetterling’s disappearance, there were no fewer than 11 priests cooling their heels after sex abuse allegations at St. John’s in nearby Collegeville, news that surely must have astounded all those Church officials now pleading ignorance to the scope and duration of the problem.

Levine’s second and more radical heresy rests in her belief that post-pubescent teens are bound to explore sex, entitled to do so, and perfectly capable of having constructive sexual experiences. In these abstinence-only days, parents do not like the idea that their kids are sexual beings for many reasons, some practical and worthy, some selfish and narrow. The abstinence movement, notes Levine, is partly about “reversing, or at least holding back, the coming of age, which for parents is a story of loss, as their children establish passionate connections with people and values outside the family.” This being America, we should also ask how many parents do not feel a pin-prick of resentment over their kids’ newfound power to explore pleasures unsanctioned by the parent. So it’s hardly surprising they’d rather tell their kids not to think of it. But in the age of AIDS and of dwindling abortion rights, “child protection” of this sort comes at a terrific cost.

Steve Perry is a contributing editor to The Rake. He can be reached at steve@rakemag.com.