Category: Article

Climbers are, of course, risk-takers by definition. But they don’t have a death-wish. On the contrary, they have a life-wish. It’s a complicated thing, but basically it comes down to this: Living close to the edge has a way of sharpening your senses, of making you feel more alive. Coming out of a decade’s worth of mountaineering literature that produced some real peaks (John Krakauer’s Into Thin Air) and valleys (Anatoli Boukreev’s The Climb), this may be the first popular entertainment since The Eiger Sanction to combine the thrills of high-peak technical alpinism with the spills of international intrigue. It’s the true story of four of America’s most gifted climbers who were camped high on the walls of Mount Zhioltaya Stena. They were within spitting distance of Afghanistan when their expedition was hijacked by Islamic extremists. Marched at gunpoint to within an inch of their lives, they escaped by doing the one thing a climber would never wish on his worst enemy: They pushed their captor… well, you already know the title. Childs has written a striking book that ups the ante on your typical mountaineering apology. It’s one thing to put yourself in that kind of danger. It’s quite another to push someone else into it. Childs reads at Ruminator Books in St. Paul, May 2, (651) 699-0587. Accompany-ing the author will be John Dickey, one of the climbers.

Judith Guest, one of Minnesota’s most acclaimed authors, will read from Ice Walk and will discuss writing and publishing her works, which include Ordinary People (1976), Second Heaven (1982), Killing Time in St. Cloud (1988), and Errands (1997). Guest’s latest work was co-created with artists Michael Lizama and Jana Pullman, both of Minneapolis. Author and artists collaborated to create Ice Walk through the Minnesota Center for Book Arts (MCBA), whose mission is “to advance the book as a vital contemporary art form, preserving the traditional crafts of bookmaking and engaging people in learning, production, interpretive and collaborative experiences.” Thus, the final product, as much an original work of art as a book, was a nominee for the Fine Press category of the Minnesota Book Awards. The MCBA, established in 1983, is currently the most comprehensive independent book arts facility in the nation, serving “masters and novices, artists and students, teachers, designers, writers, families, and youth.” Arden Hills Library, 1941 W. County Rd. E-2; MCBA, (612) 215-2520

Novelist, essayist, and short story writer Jamaica Kincaid will read from her new novel, Mr. Potter. In this latest book, what is possibly her most luminous and ambitious work to date, the author breathes life into an individual consciousness emerging gloriously out of an unexamined life. Kincaid was born Elaine Potter Richardson in St. John’s, Antigua, West Indies in 1949. After emigrating to the United States and becoming a U.S. citizen, she married composer Allen Shawn and, in 1973, changed her name to Jamaica Kincaid. With the 1983 publication of her book of short stories, At the Bottom of the River, Kincaid made her arrival as an important new voice in American fiction, receiving the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters in 1983. She is the author of six novels, and she credits the United States as the place where “I did find myself and did find my voice… what I really feel about America is that it’s given me a place to be myself–but myself as I was formed somewhere else.” Kincaid’s obsession with the island of Antigua comes to life under the gaze of Mr. Potter, an illiterate taxi chauffeur who makes his living along the roads that pass the only towns he has ever seen and the graveyard where he will be buried. J. B. Davis Auditorium, Macalester College, 1600 Grand Ave., St. Paul; Ruminator Books, (651) 659-0587

If you know anything about investing, you know about Warren Buffett and Berkshire Hathaway. Buffett, often referred to as the "World’s Greatest Investor", is the helmsman of Berkshire Hathaway, which is a holding company that owns Geico Insurance, General Re reinsurance, Dexter Shoes, The Buffalo (NY) News, See’s Candy, and several others. It also holds major stakes in American Express, The Washington Post, and Coca-Cola. Buffett has some peculiar notions that he has managed to hold onto during the Internet and Telcom boom: He doesn’t invest in anything he doesn’t understand. So, he buys insurance, brick, and shoe companies that just turn out consistent profits, while we all piss away the 401K on fiber-optic switch companies with funny names and web sites. His management philosophy is best summed up by the following quote from this year’s annual letter to shareholders. "Why, you might ask, didn’t I recognize the above facts [of terrorist risk] before September 11th? The answer, sadly, is that I did–but I didn’t convert thought into action. I violated the Noah rule: Predicting rain doesn’t count; building arks does." He takes responsibility for his own shortcomings–not a textbook character trait of American captains of industry. So, why go to the annual meeting? Because you get to listen to Buffett and his partner Charlie Munger tell you everything they know for about six hours on a Saturday. The actual business of the meeting is dispatched in five minutes, and then they both take questions. If you get tired of listening, you can go to the auditorium basement and actually buy products of Berkshire subsidiaries. Before the Saturday meeting, there is a Friday evening cocktail reception at Borsheim’s, the west Omaha jewelry store that Berkshire owns, and where everything is for sale at deep discounts for shareholders. After the Saturday meeting, Buffett appears at the Omaha Royals minor league baseball game and patiently sits for pictures and signs autographs for anyone who wants. Sunday, the sale continues at Borsheim’s and at Nebraska Furniture Mart, another Berkshire holding. One catch–admission is open only to Berkshire Hathaway shareholders. If you were a shareholder as of March 6, you have received your admission information by now. If you bought your shares after that date, you can bring a current broker’s statement for admission at the door. The price of one Berkshire "A" share is, as of this writing, $71,100. Lucky for you, they issued "B" shares a couple of years ago, which are going for only $2,362 today. You also have to pay $6 each if you want the baseball tickets, but they throw in the parking and a hot dog. Berkshire Hathaway, www.berkshirehathaway.com

Spyhouse? A house of spies? Yes, Q, they’re everywhere in this place. Spies from Africa, spies from Hong Kong, spies from behind the old iron curtain. Spies who look like Jack Kerouac, spies who wish they wrote like him, and spies who seem weathered enough that they might have hung out with him in ’54. Mostly, the spies look like they fell off a Pucci runway, hep, swankish, and charmed with life in this moment. They go nicely with the dense smoke, the Ero Saarinen decor, and the music of Montovani, Cale, or Mr. Bungle (perhaps in quick succession), typically played at a volume that is not to be ignored. Unlike most coffee bars that pretend to show art, the Spyhouse earnestly shows talent that would make Bond glance over Ursula’s shoulder. Outside, on one of Minneapolis’ most worldly streets, you and your fellow spies can enjoy a table in the May sun while the Vietnamese women make their way to the market or a mysterious shadow slips into the Mexican psychic’s place across the street. And though you can’t get your martini either shaken or stirred you can get an incredible cup of Sumatra for $1.85. The Spyhouse, (612) 871-3177

Pepito’s is the kind of festive neighborhood joint where even a bad date can turn into a good time. Big flavor is matched by big portions and plenty of hospitality that only gets better once the margaritas arrive. It seems to be a method that works. For more than 20 years this family-run restaurant has been dishing it up with verve, and its popularity shows in its regulars. Some staffers have been around for years, too. And that’s always a good sign. Likewise, take a look at the brass name plaques in the booths: Janet Jackson, Kenny Loggins, Diana Pierce, and innumerable Viking linemen. Sure, it’s hammy, but it’s fun, too. Just what a family should be, and since Pepito’s offers the best deal on kids meals in town ($1.95 buys a child-size entree, a drink with free refills, and an ice-cream sundae!), you can afford to feed your family there as often as you wish. For bigger appetites, the homemade standards are all here–huge enchiladas filled with about a pound of beans, chunky salsa, and spicy pork dishes that are hot enough to bring a trickle to your brow. Sunday brunch offers a zesty array of Mexican comfort foods at an all-you-can-eat bargain, or you can drop in later in the evening for live entertainment. Pepitos, (612) 822-2104

Beer, music, bowling, spoken word, food, cabaret. Could you ask for more? Social from breakfast to bar time, BLB is a mainstay for any trendsetter or wannabe. The mix of 40s-era paneling, dreadlocks, bowling trophies, and ahi tuna somehow comingle in an electric atmosphere for anybody looking for something different. Over the past several years Bryant-Lake’s compact, 85-seat theater has become a hot spot for good local entertainment. On nearly any night of the week you’ll find one or two shows offered, be it music, comedy, or even a little drama. If you’re not in the mood for art, don a pair of ancient suede three-tones and work on your average. Chances are you’ll have to wait for a lane–the six-year-olds on lane one are nearly finished, but the tattooed and pierced bunch on lane two is a smaller group. Brush up on your bowling etiquette, though; when Roger is “in” he takes no funny stuff. While you’re waiting you can pick from fare that ranges from a turkey, sauerkraut, Swiss, and thousand island sammy to a warm fig salad in a balsamic reduction. Bryant-Lake Bowl, (612) 825-3737

Well, because we’re different. And because we don’t always want to get along. But at Roosevelt High School, Somali and African-American students are learning that taking sides is no longer an option.

Stories differ as to exactly what sparked the violence at Roosevelt the night before the terrorist attacks. It started after the evening’s football practice, when a fight broke out between players—who were mostly African-American—and a group of Somali boys. At a bus stop just outside the school, the war of words quickly came to blows, and somehow in the scuffle an assistant coach was stabbed in the back as he tried to stop the fight. A 14-year-old player was stabbed in the chest. The coach recovered almost immediately. The boy, who is African-American, spent a few days in the hospital. Eventually, both healed. But the incident was far from over.

For weeks after the fight, Roosevelt’s halls were crawling with police looking out for more trouble and reporters looking out for a new angle on a story too titillating to pass up. School violence is always news. But this was even more compelling, because people just don’t get stabbed in schools in this town. And then there is our seemingly endless fascination with black-on-black violence (unless it happens in a ghetto). But this story went one better: Most Somalis are Muslim, and September 11 had just turned all Muslims into the enemy of free people everywhere.

The stabbing made local headlines in print and on television for more than a week. School administrators and teachers suddenly found themselves fielding frantic phone calls from parents wondering whether they should keep their kids at home for awhile or enroll them someplace else. Students pleaded with their parents to allow them to stay at Roosevelt. Some received permission only after proving the school’s safety by physically escorting their parents from one end of the school to the other.

Roosevelt principal Michael Huerth told the press repeatedly that the stabbing was an isolated incident. While it’s true, Huerth said, that real tensions exist between Somali and African-American students at the school, the fight and subsequent stabbing were more a reflection of the widening divide between many Americans and dark-skinned immigrants in a post-September 11 world.

More than half a year has passed since the stabbing. But many students say they still can’t stand at a city bus stop or hang out at the mall wearing a Roosevelt sweatshirt without enduring the familiar jibes. “Roosevelt, isn’t that the school where someone got stabbed? You shouldn’t go there.”

No wonder my initial requests for interviews went unanswered. Here I am, a reporter, looking to stir things up all over again. When teachers did call me back, the suspicion was clear in their voices. Students, once I finally met them, were more blunt. “We don’t think you should write this story,” most conversations began. Conflicts between Somali and African-American students were, for the most part, about miscommunication, they told me. From their point of view, reporters had only made the waters murkier.

As I listened to these young people I couldn’t help thinking how mature most of them seemed, and how easy I had it when I was in high school in suburban Arizona 20 years ago. But what’s happening at Roosevelt is not unique. American and foreign-born students are feuding all across the country in public schools that are ill-equipped to deal with what amounts to forced integration far beyond the bounds of what Brown v. Topeka Board of Education encompassed.

I visited Roosevelt 14 times for this story. I spent many hours sitting in hallways waiting for students whose promises to show up for interviews went unkept. In all that time, I never saw anything approaching violence. Instead, each time the bell rang, I saw students from countries all over the world burst out of classrooms to form a giant, moving mass of colorful clothing, body piercings, chunky heels, low-slung pants, and a loud slurry of different languages trying to make it to class before the next bell rang.

What, no violence? Not even one punch thrown? No, not one.

“Black Americans are not immigrants. They are not to be compared to immigrants. It’s like comparing apples to bicycles.”
—Mahmoud El-Kati

There are still 10 minutes before Roosevelt’s Unity Group meeting starts, but the room is already packed. “Over here, sit over here!” a Latina girl yells, waving to her friend who nimbly climbs over the back of a nearby chair to grab the only empty seat in the midst of several other Latin-American students. There are about 40 students here—a larger turnout than usual. “It’s probably because there’s pizza,” jokes one boy loudly as he points to five Domino’s boxes stacked on a table in the back of the room.

Unity Group was formed before the school day ended on September 11, says Karen Hart, Roosevelt’s Dean of Students. Hart spent her day on September 11 racing around the school with the message, “We need to unify. NOW!” Principal Huerth had tried to get the group going the year before as a way to help Somali and African-American students work out their differences. But the group floundered. The events of the last two days brought the idea back to life and with a much broader mission to unite the whole school.

April is, among many other things, a time for fools and taxes. Not coincidentally, it’s also the time of year when we’re forced by law to take a break from fishing. Your Minnesota angling license expired just in time for you to get your ice shack off the lake, and you can’t renew until May.

A little mandatory distance from rod and reel is a good thing. It’s like a secular Lent: Giving it up for a little while allows us to reflect on how important fishing is to the Minnesota soul. Confronted with increasingly brazen terrorist attacks and health insurance premiums, we find nothing soothes the spirit like staring into the waters of Cedar Lake, say, or Lake of the Isles. As you know, Minneapolis got its awkward name thanks to the 12 highly fishable lakes within city limits. (Whoever proposed combining the Greek polis with the Lakotah minne remains a mystery. Apparently they weren’t too proud of the silly word.) Still, few people have taken the time to plumb the depths of this metaphor. Fishing is all about revelation. Sometimes you send down your worm, and up comes a thing of beauty. Other times, well… the less said the better.

Witness the recent flap over Jackie Cherryhomes. After being chased out of office last December, the former city council president made fish meal out of most of her files from the Brian Herron years. We’re assured this kind of vandalism often happens when bullheaded incumbents lose their jobs. Still, we can’t help feeling like a fishing expedition onto Cherryhomes’ former hard drive might have pulled up some real whoppers.

Although the Star Tribune chose not to run their fishfinder through Cherryhomes’ waters, they have discovered something else. A March 3, 2002 story claims that “Every day, untold thousands of people fire up their computers and log on” to something called “the internet” where self-publishing mavericks create an astonishing array of “web logs.” Apparently they caught wind of this trend because one of their own—the redoubtable Mr. James Lileks—is one of the nation’s most prolix bloggers, and other newspapers around the country have noticed. We’ve long wondered why the Strib chooses to isolate their columnists in the remote backwaters of the Metro section. But it hadn’t crossed our minds that no one at the paper was actually reading their best-paid staffers. It occurs to us now that www.Lileks.com may actually be a cry for help.

Also noted: KARE-11 news was recently awarded the National Press Photographers Association top honors. In reporting this happy news, Strib reporter Darlene Pfister captures KARE-11 photojournalist Gary Knox in action, on the scene last year where two boys were feared to have been swept away in an icy river: “Over the rush of the water and the scraping of a backhoe,” writes Pfister, “Knox’s earphone caught a softer sound. It was the voice of Olivia’s police chief, consoling the father of one of the boys… He zoomed in as the chief stood close to the grieving father. ‘If you want to be with your wife, that’ s a good idea,’ the chief said gently, his words captured by the wireless microphone Knox had attached to his uniform hours earlier… In living rooms across the Twin Cities, that scene made the news report personal. It’s typical of the intimate, storytelling moments that metro-area viewers have become accustomed to in their broadcast news.”

We’d call that a typical case of eavesdropping, but who’s complaining? The Rake itself was recently the subject of a KARE-11 mini-documentary and a Strib investigation, which certainly stroked our egos in the right direction. We storytellers run in packs, and we know that sometimes a carefully placed eavesdropper is precisely what’s needed. You might call it poaching for good publicity, but these lunkers pretty much jumped right into our boat.

Thanks mostly to the Walt Disney Corporation, Hans Christian Andersen is generally remembered as a kindly composer of innocent entertainments for children. But the real Andersen was far more interesting. He was a tormented soul who larded his tales with his own psychic misery, apparently in the belief that what kids want from a story is a stew of self-pity and repressed eroticism. Needless to say, the CTC’s new adaptation of The Snow Queen favors the Disney Andersen over the real one; the casting, for example, pretty much rules out any thought of a future romance between the two central characters. Nevertheless this production does manage to capture much of the story’s inherent spookiness. Scenic designer Michael Sommers turns the rather flimsy script into a parade of strikingly beautiful and weird images. Ruth MacKenzie’s pastiche of Scandinavian folk music—the same stuff that made her recent show Kalevala so popular—provides another layer of eerie atmosphere. Co-directors Sommers and Peter Brosius keep the images and songs moving energetically along. And if the show’s message about friendship seems a little tame, well…the CTC is a theater for children.