The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • Minnesota Noir

    It’s about a year old already, but just in case you missed it, the economist explores the Twin Cities’ obsession with literary gore.

  • MPR & Taxpayer Dough

    (UPDATED WITH RESPONSE FROM MPR)
    As certain as the cycle of the sun and stars is the question of how much money Minnesota Public Radio gets in state subsidies … and why.

    The issue bobbed up again in the context of Joel Kramer’s to-be-announced on-line news site. Thanks to Julie Dinger in the Minnesota Legislative Reference Library at the Capitol I can offer this
    for those of you interested in how much Bill Kling receives/snookered the Capitol Hill turnips out of this past year:

    Subd. 6.Public Broadcasting
    (a) $6,650,000 is for grants to noncommercial
    television stations to assist with the continued
    conversion to a digital broadcast signal as
    mandated by the federal government. This
    appropriation must be used to assist each
    station to complete its digital production
    facilities and interconnect with other
    Minnesota public television stations. In
    order to qualify for these grants, a station
    must meet the criteria established for grants
    in Minnesota Statutes, section 129D.12,
    subdivision 2.


    (b) $2,000,000 is for grants to Minnesota
    Public Radio to assist with conversion to a
    digital broadcast signal.

    (c) $2,461,000 the first year and $1,161,000
    the second year are for matching grants for
    public television.
    (d) $200,000 the first year and $200,000
    the second year are for public television
    equipment grants. Equipment or matching
    grant allocations shall be made after
    considering the recommendations of the
    Minnesota Public Television Association.
    (e) $17,000 the first year and $17,000 the
    second year are for grants to the Twin Cities
    regional cable channel.
    (f) $413,000 in fiscal year 2008 and $287,000
    in fiscal year 2009 are for community service
    grants to public educational radio stations.
    (g) $400,000 in fiscal year 2008 and $100,000
    in fiscal year 2009 are for equipment grants
    to public educational radio stations.
    (h) The grants in paragraphs (f) and (g)
    must be allocated after considering the
    recommendations of the Association of
    Minnesota Public Educational Radio Stations
    under Minnesota Statutes, section 129D.14.

    (i) $830,000 the first year and $190,000
    the second year are for equipment grants to
    Minnesota Public Radio, Inc.

    (j) Any unencumbered balance remaining the
    first year for grants to public television or
    radio stations does not cancel and is available
    for the second

    As it is explained to me, the one-time $2 million is for upgrading MPR to all-digital transmission, which, as you can see is something that state has been assisting all public broadcasters in doing. The $830,000 figure is another one-time grant, this time for equipment, and the $190,000 figure is more or less MPR’s normal annual equipment subsidy.

    (I’ve asked MPR for a breakdown of what exactly costs $2 million and how that is different from a one-time $830K for new equipment? When they respond, I’ll add it to this post.)

    So, MPR’s take looks pretty fat this biennium. $3.02 million. Or, spun a different way, something like … 28 cents … for every man, woman and child in Minnesota … EVERY DAMNED YEAR!!!!! Well this year and next, I mean. But never mind! I am outraged, dammit! This is beyond Halliburton! Where’s the special prosecutor?

    After that it drops back into single pennies.

    [For those lacking an ear for facetiousness, I’m making a joke here. 28 cents … a year … come on. Would you even stop to pick that up if you saw it on the ground?]

    Good lobbying help is one way that you keep your hand in the mix when the state starts doling out cash and I admit I missed the part where former Senate Majority Leader Dean Johnson has now registered as an MPR lobbyist.

    As I’ve been saying in the “comments” section, in an ideal world the State would consider funding credible start-up news ventures like those proposed by Joel Kramer and former City Pages editor, Steve Perry. Likewise, considering MPR’s extraordinary financial success you might think someone would be making a more effective argument to fund non-MPR public radio operations more and MPR less.

    But the reality is that no matter how much its blood enemies and frequent consumers, like myself, kvetch and squall about what they don’t do and how precious an attitude they take toward provocative stories, the public at large regards MPR as … well worth the comparatively modest money they get out of our pockets.

    I mean, a couple months ago I blew the equivalent of almost 15 years of my share of MPR subsidies on one copy of the National Review. And that thing burst into flames right in my hand.

    MPR spokeswoman, Christina Schmitt, replied Thursday morning, saying:

    Hi Brian,

    Thank you for being patient. State funding to MPR is used for capital purposes only; to extend, improve and maintain service outside the Twin Cities area, where the population is less dense and capital fundraising is more difficult. For example, MPR used recently appropriated State funding to install new signals in Hinckley and infrastructure improvements in Duluth, St Peter, Rochester, Worthington, Bemidji and Brainerd. The most recent appropriation will be used entirely for capital projects in greater Minnesota, including the construction of a new station to serve the Roseau / Warroad area of the state.

    In the 2007 legislative session, MPR received a one-time appropriation of $2 million for its digital conversion project. During the 2002-2003 biennium, the State of Minnesota provided a special appropriation of $7.8 million to public television for digital conversion. Though on a station-by-station basis, digital conversion for radio is less expensive than that for television, there are more public radio stations. We estimate the total cost of digital conversion for MPR stations alone will be about $6.9 million.

    MPR provides important public services to Minnesota in addition to offering multiple channels of public radio service to almost all residents. MPR is the backbone to the State’s Emergency Alert System (EAS), providing the EAS signal to all other broadcasters, including radio, television and cable stations in Minnesota. MPR also serves as the backbone to the State’s AMBER Alert System, the child abduction warning system. In addition, MPR provides the Radio Talking Book to the blind and visually impaired across all of Minnesota on subcarriers of MPR stations, which is produced by Minnesota State Services for the Blind.

  • To Shop (and Sigh) Without a Wallet

    Two great events to be aware of this week:

    dress.jpg
    Soo Visual Arts hosts +/- (or “plusminus”) Thursday evening, an event at which locally hand-made clothing, jewelry, and household items will be available for sale and show. My picks of the lot are Labrador, a collective of local clothes-makers, and Milkypop, the pseudonym of a brilliant jewelry and clothing designer named Megan. This is the girl who stitched the white dress at left, which I own; and I am forever thankful to her for it. Although, uh, remember when I said I overcooked my Glamorama getup? I cropped out as much of the atrocity as I could. Sorry to have ruined your dress, if only for one evening, Megan …

    Second: Stephanie Lake of the Minneapolis-based Bonnie Cashin Foundation just emailed to announce a weekend rummage sale by her and her well-heeled friends Coco Iverson and Pam Mondale (that’s Ted’s wifey, I believe.) Will there be a selection of vintage Cashin, preferably that long, lime-green coat with toggle enclosures? Ms. Lake promises clothing, accessories, and decor with price tags ranging between $5 and $500. Here’s the address: 3800 France Avenue. The sale is open Friday, August 24 from 9 a.m. to noon and then 4 to 7 p.m.; on Saturday August 25, check in between 9 a.m. and noon.

    Oh, and p.s. To the chump who stole my wallet yesterday and thereby made it difficult to shop at the aforementioned events: May the commerce gods (and the fraud alert on my credit report) strike down upon thee. May bad karma pour from the heavens and land atop your kepi. May your finger get severed by the industrial zipper of my go-go-gadget CK wallet, circa 1993. Jerk!

  • Hairspray: A Strange Little Ray of Hope

    by Ann Bauer

    HairsprayLaundry.jpg

    There are hundreds of movies that have informed, moved, touched, piqued, or entertained me, but only a handful that have filled me with unmitigated joy: Bringing Up Baby, an off-the-wall 1938 Katharine Hepburn/Cary Grant comedy; Bagdad Cafe, a film from 1988 that got mixed reviews but has one of the most haunting soundtracks I’ve ever heard; and strangely, last year’s biopic about Leonard Cohen, I’m Your Man, which caused me to leave the theater weeping and grateful for reasons I couldn’t even name.

    Add to these the current release of Hairspray.

    I’ll admit, I haven’t seen the original John Waters version. (I know, I know, this is an egregious omission in my own personal film education.) But I’ve been told that it’s “campy.” Come to think of it, that’s the only adjective I’ve heard applied to it. And the truth is that I’m not a big fan of camp. In my experience, life is odd and dissonant and colorful and wonderfully inconsistent all on its own; you don’t need to heighten these elements in order to make a point.

    The 2007 release of Hairspray, still in theaters today, is not particularly campy. It’s remarkably sweet — so sweet, in fact, that I was leery at first. When the film opened with a robust, stiff-haired teenager bounding out of bed and dashing into the streets of Kennedy-era Baltimore to sing, I steeled myself for treacle. Somehow, though, despite scads of bouffy-haired young people crooning ballads, the film managed to avoid this. And halfway through, I realized it had become a tract on everything that is wholesome, righteous, moral, and good, while raising real issues about human dignity and cultural standards of beauty.

    I’m not saying Hairspray is realistic — it isn’t. But that’s what’s so great about it. Sit down to watch this movie and you get to enter a world where black and white DO become equal, where the fat girl dances to wild applause, and where family means everything.

    Also, there’s Queen Latifah, without a doubt that most fabulous female icon since Mae West, walking with golden hair and a flickering candle, singing in that scorching voice. And the tenderest, most romantic scene of the last decade played out between Christopher Walken and John Travolta — proving, at least to this mostly jaded viewer, that a great movie can open up and show you something new and unexpected. What a joy that is.

  • Norm Coleman Fundraiser Video

    Aaron’s Hotlinks led us to a MinneaPolitics video on the results of last night’s Norm Coleman Fundraiser.

  • Music — Seen and Unseen

    MUSIC & FILM
    See the Unseen, Listen to the Sound

    398731216_m.jpgIt’s not much of a secret by now, but the Sound Unseen Festival opens this evening. The 8th annual film and music festival brings together live music with music documentaries, rare concert footage, and music videos. Explore Minnesota’s rich music history. Tonight’s opening event includes a screening of 7 Nights in the Entry — a 1981 concert film with performances by The Replacements, Husker Du, Fine Arts, The Dads, Things Fall Down, Hypstrz, The Neglectors, Rusty Jones & The Generals, The Situation, Wilma & The Wilburs, Stagger Lee, and Peer Group — and the 2nd Annual Artist of Distinction Awards — honoring Trinidadian music master Tony Paul, rapper and poet Dessa (of Doomtree), and ConRad Sverkerson of First Avenue — with live music and tributes.

    FILM: 7 p.m., Riverview Theater, 3800 42nd Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-729-7369; $7. LIVE PERFORMANCES: 9:30 p.m., 7th Street Entry, 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612-332-1775; $5.

    MUSIC
    Mexican Jazz

    sacbebg.jpgWhen we think of Mexican music, we tend to think of mariachis, rancheras, and norteño. Truth be told, like most other Latin American countries, Mexico also had a solid jazz core — however hidden. And this evening, you have a rare opportunity to explore and enjoy it. Mexico City’s seminal jazz group Sacbé, featuring Twin Cities bassist Enrique Toussaint and brothers Eugenio and Fernando, will be performing with guest artists for a triple celebration: the 30th anniversary of Sacbé, the release of Enrique’s latest CD Communidad, and Fernando’s 50th birthday. And if I know my Latino brothers at all, this will be quite a celebration! Special guests will include original Sacbé reed man Jon Crosse, percussionist Marc Anderson, Liz Kuivinen Toussaint, singer Stokley Williams, pianist Peter Schimke, Shai Hayo, Kathleen Johnson, guitarist Billy McLaughlin, Dirk Freymouth, Erick Toussaint, Chuck Smith, David Iwataki, and Kirk Johnson.

    7:30 p.m., The Cedar, 416 Cedar Ave. South, Minneapolis; 612-338-2674; $12.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Puppets, Music, Spoken Word

    99_SAINT POST FRONT2.jpgStill falling under the umbrella of today’s major music theme, is tonight’s opening of The Saint Plays. Written by Erik Ehn, and adapted and directed by Alison Heimstead, The Saint Plays uses puppets, masks, live music, and spoken word to explore the lives of five saints through vignettes that begin as modern human stories and burst out into ecstatic truths inspired by the saints’ rebellious and transcendent acts.

    7:30 p.m., Open Eye Figure Theater, 506 E. 24th St., Minneapolis; tonight only — pay what you can.

  • Sweet Dreams, Always, Dog Of My Soul

     

     

    You were born thirteen years and seven months ago, in the middle of a January night so cold the defroster in my old pickup truck wouldn’t work on the drive to the emergency clinic. You were the last pup born, the runt of the litter, and I watched in exhausted wonder as you were delivered and held aloft like one more beautiful wish that had been granted, a dream made flesh, at a time when so many beautiful wishes were being granted and dreams being made flesh that I thought my life was charmed beyond measure.

    It was. And in a way that no one who has not shared their life with a dog can ever understand you were inextricably tangled up with every one of my dreams and blessings. You spent your first days in a box in my little attic apartment on Pleasant Avenue. You were the first of the litter to figure out how to scale the sides of the box and make your way to my bed, and that was when I knew you were mine.

    Throughout our life together, you went everywhere I went. You traveled, swam, ran, hiked, and rambled with me all over the country and up into Canada. You were always nothing but at home, whether in the backseat of a car or at a five-star hotel.

    You spent a lot of time in the backseat of cars.

    When you weren’t in the backseat of a car, you were right by my side, or moving with your calm curiosity somewhere in front of me, connected either by the tether of your leash or simply by your unflagging connection to me, and to us.

    You were our guide dog. You took us places we otherwise would never have gone, compelled us to pull aside in out-of-the-way towns to investigate and allow you to nose around. You forced us to seek lodging in places interesting enough to welcome you as a guest. You were our ambassador, our introduction to all manner of oddballs and genuinely wonderful people.

    At home you would settle into your green chair while I sat on the floor beneath you, rummaging through books and listening to music and trying to tell stories. We kept that vigil together, night after night, too often into the early hours of the morning, and eventually you, too, learned to live on Hong Kong time. You learned to sit patiently through some of the thorniest, most bracing music ever committed to tape, and in time I honestly believe you grew to enjoy Roscoe Mitchell and Albert Ayler and Sun Ra and Cecil Taylor. They, and countless others like them, were the soundtrack to our long nights together in that room crowded with records and books.

    You had a lot of names: Willis. The Cheetah. Cheetah Boy. Buddy Klunk. Buddha. The Boy. Good Boy.

     

    cheetah baby.jpg

     

    You had seven original Sweet Dreamers who slept by your side: Hairy Man, Snowman, Bumble, Pork Chop, Monkey, Alf, and Creature. Dozens more piled up next to your bed over the years, and each one was assigned a name. You remembered each of those names and could keep them straight, which was one of your many peculiar gifts.

    You had many peculiar gifts. You had many gifts, period.

    You could run like no dog I’d ever seen, and had an extra gear which could be exhausting. But you knew when gentle was called for, and would instinctively attach yourself to the most vulnerable person in a room.

    Time after time you demonstrated conclusively that you were a dog who was most at home in the country, where you could ramble freely, but you never raised a fuss. You never strayed. You couldn’t stand a mess, and couldn’t bring yourself to destroy even things that were made for dogs to destroy. Or eat. You would carry a rawhide pretzel around, but you would never get around to untangling it.

    You were patient. You were calm. You laughed and sang. You would sprawl with your head in my lap for hours at a time, and the smell behind your ears became one of my favorite smells in the world. You gave me birthday cards and Christmas presents, and every day during the month of December you would go and sit beneath the advent calendar in the kitchen to see what wonders waited behind that day’s window.

    Honest to God, you did. I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it every year.

    We had a secret place –Dog World: like all the best places not quite imaginary, not quite real– that we explored together.

    I routinely wrote things on my hand that I wanted to tell you, places that I wanted to take you. One such note is written there now.

    I often told you that I was together as long as you breathed.

    I often told you that evolution could mean nothing to me when I looked into your blue eyes.

    There were times –many, many, many times– when you were my only lamp in the darkness. At the bottom of every day we prayed together to the God of the Seven Sweet Dreamers, and every time at the conclusion of our prayer you gave me two kisses. Always two kisses. Even tonight, as I held you in my arms in the wet grass and you prepared, with your characteristic patience and dignity, to die.

    Even tonight, when I had finished with my prayer to the God of the Seven Sweet Dreamers, you raised your head one last time and gave me my two kisses.

    And then you left another hole in my world.

    I know how weak and hungry you were at the end, so I put food and water out for you when I got home tonight, just in case.

    And now I’m not sure I know how to go about the world without a dog at the end of my arm.

    I wish you peace, my boy. I wish you nothing but sweet dreams. I desperately want to believe that you will live forever.

    I don’t much care if there’s an afterlife for humans, but this morning, just as every other morning, I will throw my head back, show my teeth to the God of All Sweet Dreamers, and pray that there’s a heaven for dogs, and that you are running there now, and remembering us.

     

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  • No Dylan

    Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello join forces for their tours, but Costello will come alone to Minneapolis.

  • Eddie Griffin runs SUV into a train, dead at 25

    As the blues tune laments, some folks are born under a bad sign, and Eddie Griffin was one. Despite all the stupid, wrong-headed things Griffin did to sabotage his basketball career, not to mention his life, over and over again, I never heard one of his teammates or basketball bosses speak of him in anger, only sadness and concern, or, when he was really going well a couple years back, guarded optimism and a sense of quiet but fierce protection. In the locker room, Griffin spoke in a shy monotone, almost never smiled nor grimaced, even when KG was singing his praises from the adjoining locker.

    And yet the demons obviously ran deep. On the court, regardless of the advice given him, you could see that Griffin lived to block shots and shoot three-pointers, dedicating himself to those tasks–he was masterful at one, miserable at the other–with an almost autistic focus. He did inexplicable things, like fail to get eye surgery that could have–or at least should have–dramatically improved his game. He was an inscrutable dude. Off the court, the mystery darkened. Griffin’s rap sheet was tragicomically long and sordid. After getting himself booted off his college team as a freshman and bounced off his first, and then second, NBA squad, for various incidents related to drug use, violence and depression, Griffin landed with the Timberwolves. And for a few blissful months it seemed like a mutually beneficial relationship.

    But Griffin justifiably endured his share of bad jokes after the incident last off-season, when he was allegedly masturbating at the time of his car accident and, confronted with the damage, offered to replace the damaged car with anything but a Bentley. It is amazing to think that little more than a year later, having pissed away at least three distinct second-chances, Griffin would ignore a railroad intersection warning and crash through the barrier into a moving train at 1:30 in the morning last Friday, creating a conflagration that required dental records to identify the body. The blessing is that he apparently took no one with him on the final ride down.

  • Hybrid News, Culture, and Conversation Website

    Former City Pages editor Steve Perry has something up his sleeve.