The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • The Plague of Nerds

    In
    the last couple of years, the Twin Cities has gained a reputation as a
    hipster Mecca; the chic architecture (new Guthrie, Walker, and Central
    Library) has garnished international praise, the rocking music scene is
    hotter than ever with both indie and mainstream bands (Atmosphere on Conan! The
    Hold Steady opens for The Rolling Stones!), and a powerhouse literary
    scene has now become a screenwriting oil well thanks to Diablo Cody and
    the Cohen Bros and their shiny new Oscars. For crying out loud, Esquire Magazine even named Nye’s Bar the Best Bar in America. The
    kudos are great and all, but underneath this sparkly new façade lurks a
    part of the city that is rarely mentioned in the national media: nerds. A
    spastic biblical plague has besieged us and now the Twin Cities is so
    infested with dweebs and smarty pants douche bags that all of Prince’s
    paisley purple funk can’t cover up our dorkiness. Minneapolis-once a city so proud of its seismic punk rock and giant cherry spoon-has now become Nerdapolis.

    Everywhere I go in the Twin Cities, I’m accosted by some freak that brings the coolness down several notches. Just
    yesterday, a cashier at the super hip Calhoun Whole Foods scolded me
    for not knowing the meaning of the different colored light sabers used
    in the Star Wars movies. My four year old son had
    brought his toy light saber to the store and when we got to the
    checkout, the cashier looked down and seriously inspected his stupid
    plastic toy. The dude then gave me an exaggerated expression of relief.

    "Thanks god that light saber is green," grocery clerk Dave scoffed.

    "Excuse me?" I replied, walking straight into the nerd trap. Then
    Dave preceded to give me an in depth analysis about how in the
    legendary Sci-Fi series the evil Darth Sidious’s saber was red and Jedi
    Obi-Wan Kenobi’s was blue and that if my son’s light saber would’ve
    been a color other than green that meant he could’ve been in an alliance with some god damn thing called the "Siths". I
    don’t think grocery Dave understood that I recently bought the toy at
    Walgreens because my kid just successfully went a week without shitting
    his pants and not for some galactic rebellion.

    After
    we loaded our four bags of groceries into the car, we naturally decided
    that there was nothing to eat and went out to eat at Punch Pizza. As
    we stood in the long line waiting to order, two ladies in business
    suits stood at the cashier, where they unmercifully grilled the pizza
    cook.

    "Were the tomatoes in your sauce vine ripened? This buffalo cheese you have on the menu…how long was it aged?"

    Then several other asshole foodies joined in on the tomato inquisition. As
    they held up the entire line (at dinnertime nonetheless), a full blown
    debate broke out on the merits of Roma tomatoes versus sun dried
    tomatoes. I tried my best not to stab these culinary wonks in the eye with my son’s GREEN light saber. I mean come on… food nerds? Aren’t we the city that birthed the Replacements?

    A
    few days later at the local garden center where I work, I meet the
    grand marshal of the nerd parade that is barreling through our fair
    city. This woman came in to the store with an exotic blue parrot perched on her shoulder. She eagerly drew attention from every human within five miles and enthusiastically fielded questions about the pet. Then she approached me and asked if we carried a plant named, "Antirrhinum". Now a normal person (or non-dumbass) would come in and ask if we had any Snapdragons. Oh, but not this super smart plant nerd. She only referred to plants by their proper botanical name. When
    I showed her the table filled with flowering Snapdragons she smiled and
    asked me, "Did you see my parrot?" just in case I missed the giant blue
    jungle bird squawking two feet from my face.

    Just when I was starting to get bitter about the death of cool in Minneapolis, the city turned me on my ear. I recently went to the Southdale Movie Theater to catch a film with my wife and witnessed a massive nerd spawning in the lobby. Since
    the theater was filled with nothing but blockbusters, the nerds had
    ascended in full force to catch the latest comic book turned into film. As
    I paid for the tickets, we witnessed a gaggle of men in various shades
    of trench coats and skinny jeans gawking at all the movie posters and
    mammoth action hero advertisements in the lobby. The nerd
    herd was so stimulated by the new Batman, Speed Racer, Indiana Jones,
    Kung Fu Panda, and Iron Man advertisements that the lobby was basically
    a super hero porn shop. And when they saw the ten foot tall statue of The Hulk by the concession stand it was boner city. I
    walked by them with my wife and got a good chuckle out of these grown
    ass men bowing down before an angry green cartoon monster.

    But they were watching me as well. As Sarah and I turned the corner to go in the theater that was showing Sex and the City
    I heard them loudly snicker at me. Their disdain echoed in my head
    because I had just been called out for being the lame guy going to see
    a total chick flick. And they were completely right on. As our "date movie" began, I couldn’t help but think: If dudes who know the name of the sand pit monster in Return of the Jedi think that I’m a major loser then that makes me the biggest nerd in the whole city.

    Ouch.

  • John Hiatt: Same Old Man

    Same Old Man indeed. This is between Hiatt’s 15th and 25th release — depending on how you count best-ofs, live recordings, and groups like Little Village — and the reliability factor remains high. He’s an ersatz curmudgeon, a faux eccentric, a dilapidated Everyman with an undeniably big heart and an equally undeniable knack for songwriting. He can jangle a slant-back country blues song or ambush you emotionally by confessing for redemption. He’s got elements of a Nashville pro and a guy who’s listened to a lot of Dylan. He’s a painstaking lyricist who doesn’t try to make it all add up. This may be his most enjoyable outing since the sweet spot two-fer of Bring The Family and Slow Turning in 1987 and ’88, but it isn’t that much better than the ones in-between.

    The lead-in, "Old Days," is a string of shaggy-dog anecdotes about life on the road with real blues musicians—Sonny Terry, John Lee Hooker—set to a cloppity beat to keep the mood ragged. Then the first, and maybe the best, of the disc’s three riveting valentines, entitled "Love You Again," offering profound gratitude for a woman’s grace in favorably reconsidering their relationship. "On With You" appropriates Dylan’s "All Along The Watchtower" riff while Hiatt slips into character, singing like an old codger, a little kitschy, like a pale version of Larry Blackmon from Cameo. "Hurt My Baby" is a song about living with a woman with deep emotional, and perhaps physical, scars, made all the more harrowing if you know Hiatt’s second wife committed suicide in 1985. Four songs in, even relative newcomers to Hiatt begin to realize that while the mood and subject matter may careen, a core sensibility guides the project.

    "What Love Can Do" is a dead ringer for a Nick Lowe tune. Given that Lowe himself isn’t listed in the credits, that’s apparently Hiatt singing with Lowe’s highly enunciated croon, and aping his old friend and colleague’s wizened-parable approach to songwriting. "Ride My Pony" benefits from ex-North Mississippi All Star Luther Dickinson’s slide guitar, which rustles the mix like your hand rustles the water when you drape it over the side of a slow-moving rowboat. "Cherry Red" rocks harder than the others in its own shambling way, and may be the most accessible tune on the record.

    "Our Time" is the second gorgeous valentine, raw memories of a old flame, and Hiatt’s typically croaky, phlegmy voice seems further strained by the emotion, as he recounts vivid details ("now you’re feeding me fabulous Chinese takeout on the dampened bed sheets) in a talk-sung blues narrative while Dickinson’s adds great mandolin garnish. That begins a run of love songs that close out the album, including the title track ("a few less brain cells and a lot less hair/Honey, tell me, do you still care?") and "Let’s Give Love A Try" ("I’m a long shot baby/But they do come in"), the latter juxtaposing pristine guitar with raconteur irreverence.

    Some Hiatt fans will probably wince at the preponderance of unabashed romance here, while others wonder if his voice has officially crossed over into Tom Waits/Bob Dylan "acquired taste" territory. In either case, I don’t think Hiatt has much of a choice in the matter. I’m partial to the new stuff and look forward to seeing how the fresh material gets conveyed and folded into the massive Hiatt catalogue when he and a new band he’s dubbing the Ageless Beauties come to the Pantages on June 28.

    John Hiatt
    Same Old Man
    New West

    **** (four stars) 

  • I Swear to Tell the Truth

    BENEFIT EVENT
    In Vino Veritas

    Traffic Zone Center for Visual Art plans to bring artist Robert Shetterly’s Americans Who Tell the Truth exhibit to Minneapolis in September, and tonight you’re invited to enjoy a decadent and insightful sneak-peek benefit event.
    Three years ago, Shetterly began painting realistic portraits of
    influential American leaders, past and present, who have personally
    inspired him. These "Americans Who Tell the Truth" are clear statements
    of political and social change — and Shetterly’s masterful artistry
    isn’t too shabby either. Join the artist tonight at Traffic
    Zone for an evening of conversation, wine samplings, delicious food
    from Toast Wine Bar, and a selection of work for sale from Traffic Zone resident artists — with all proceeds going to support this can’t-miss upcoming exhibition.

    6-9pm, Traffic Zone Center for Visual Art, 250 3rd Avenue N, Minneapolis, $75


    DINING
    World Flavors Dinner Party

    Join The Rake this evening for a sumptuous foodie-friendly dinner party at Solera.
    Not only will you get to sip fancy wines and nosh on gourmet samplings
    such as Serrano-Wrapped Rainbow Trout with Asparagus, Warm
    Cherry-Tomato Confit with Manchego cheese, and Yogurt Red Pepper Flan
    (trust me, I’ve had this — definitely delish), you’ll also get a
    bird’s-eye view of Downtown from Solera’s breezy second-floor patio,
    overlooking Hennepin Avenue. Reservations are required, so visit our promotions page to snap yours up a.s.a.p.

    6-8pm, Solera, 900 Hennepin Ave., Downtown Minneapolis, $40


    READINGS
    Emergence: Intimate Evenings of Poetry and Prose

    Ten
    of the Twin Cities’ most amazingly talented up-and-coming writers will
    put their creativity where their mouths are tonight at Intermedia Arts. Hosts and writers themselves, Anya Achtenberg and Sherry Quan Lee lead this evening of readings from passionate scribes who have been mentored throughout the spring season as part of the Writer-to Writer program in which close relationships are forged and nurtured between artists, mentors, and their craft.

    7:30pm, Intermedia Arts, 2822 Lyndale Ave. S, Minneapolis, $5 suggested donation

  • Tomfoolery

    Everyone
    knows:     Wally’s Pet World sells the sickest, the oldest, and the mangiest
    animals. But that doesn’t stop George from heading nine counties and
    eleven hours toward some strip mall into Graysville. He drums a folded
    bag on his lap with his fingers. The car deviates toward the right side
    of the crooked road.

    "Look,
    Honey, can you believe this? A five percent discount on anything you
    can fit into this bag."

    "Well,
    George, I don’t think that they mean that," Laura, George’s wife,
    says as she runs ger fingers over the cross hanging from her neck.

    "Hey,
    Honey, I think I know about budgets and figures. I am, after all, head
    Honcho. Comprende?"

    "If
    we can’t find a dog that will fit into the bag, we can always save money
    by going to the rescue shelter."

    "Don’t
    start in with this again."

    "It’s
    just that, since the hurricane, there are a lot of special, desperate,
    and needy—"

    "Aren’t
    all dogs, just dogs, Laura?"

    "I
    don’t like what you’re suggesting, George."

    Feeding his tendency to fly over important moments and situations of great
    concern, George chooses not to respond and simply parks in the furthest
    spot. The car appears alone, abandoned by everyone,
    stationed opposite and to the left.

    Inside
    Wally’s Pet World, George and Laura survey the aisles. Animals sound off, crying for attention, help, or anything.

    George
    stops and yawns.

    As
    he turns his back, his eyes fix on a golden retriever. The dog mirrors George in many more ways than can be imagined. His
    eyes seem mischievous; the dark oily pupils dart to and fro, while the
    whites of the eyes are a golden bubbling brew, not bloodshot, yet still
    mischievous. The dog’s eyes hold George’s attention, romancing him
    like a cheap whore. To cement the sale, the dog tilts his head and winks
    at George.

    "We’ll take him!"

    "Now,
    George, let’s not be hasty. He’s so big. Will he get along with
    Trooper?"

    "Don’t
    get snippy. Golden retrievers are the most popular, well-behaved, and
    mild mannered of dogs."

    "But
    Trooper is just a child," Laura says as her fingers touch her cross once more.

    The
    dog drops his head, slouching. Then, he makes eye contact with Laura. Finally,
    the golden retriever stands on his hind legs and places his paws together.

    "See,
    Laura, he’s a nice dog. Man’s best friend. It’s a sign from God.
    He winked at me and prayed to you."

    "By,
    God!" Laura clasps her cross. "We’ll take him."


    Back at
    the manor, all seems well     — a Pleasantville. George and
    Laura enter, past the front door, with the dog. The golden retriever wears
    a red bow on his head, a white handkerchief around his neck,
    and the five percent discount bag ripped around his torso.

    "Mom,
    Dad, is the dog ours?"

    "Yes, he’s all yours, Trooper," George and Laura tell their son.

    Trooper
    runs and rambles down the staircase.

    "Trooper,
    slow down. Safety first." George reaches for an electric
    knife.

    Pausing to collect himself, George sticks his sluggish tongue out
    the left side of his mouth before wildly cutting, swooping, and hacking the budget bag away from the dog with the electric
    knife. A thousand scraps lie on the floor. Trooper slips across the pieces, nearly falling on his rump. George ignores the domestic
    dangers and pushes an unimportant side topic.

    "Hey,
    Trooper, what’s your vote on a name for him?"

    "I
    know! Al!"

    The
    dog shakes his head left and right. George firmly slaps and rubs the dog’s
    belly.

    "Trooper,
    I don’t think the dog likes that name. How about tossing another name
    into the hat?"

    "Dad,
    since the dog’s hairy, how about Kerry?"

    "How
    about, Tomfoolery? That’s a clever name," George says.

    The
    dog nods. Trooper tries embracing the dog but the dog growls.

    "I
    don’t want any Tomfoolery! I want Al or Kerry."

    "Oh
    Trooper, listen. If you want to call the dog Al, you can." Laura tries
    reaching her son for a condolence from her hug machine.

    "But
    that wouldn’t be fair, Laura. Trooper already had his vote. In fact,
    he had two. No, he had his say."

    Trooper
    stomps upstairs, slamming his bedroom door. Laura touches and holds
    her cross.

    "George,
    maybe we should—"

    "The
    dog is already like a member of the family. We could always make arrangements."

    "Arrangements?
    Nonsense. Doesn’t it take time for a child and a dog to grow accustomed to each other?
    Can’t we please try again in the morning?"

    "It
    will all turn out for the best, with faith." George bows his head as he says a soft prayer. Then he slams the front door before chaining the dog to a willow tree.

    The
    sun lights the living room.     Trooper sits underneath a safe, secure blanket.
    Strong string completes the makeshift tent. The TV broadcasts Saturday
    morning cartoons on one end of the fort. Trooper watches, mesmerized,
    inches away from the glowing light. The dog busts into the room.

    "Hi,
    Al!" Trooper peeks out from his fort and beams.

    The
    dog bares his razor sharp cuspids at Trooper. Trooper’s smile fades.
    Quickly, he holds down the fort by retreating, folding himself in tight.
    A high yelp sounds.

    "Dad!
    Help! The dog!"

    In
    the master bedroom, George rolls over in bed, rubbing his eyes. Rising
    erect, once coherent enough, George manages to stutter with concern,
    "Trooper, are you okay?"

    The
    dog bolts up the stairway with the agenda of concealing all incriminating
    evidence. He scats like a rabid rat down the hallway toward the master bedroom. A shredded blanket dangles from
    his hind paw. Before the dog staggers into the room, the blanket jars
    on the door’s greasy hinge. George calls out again. There is
    no answer. Free to run amok, the dog hustles to his master’s side
    of the bed, with George’s rubbery slippers.

    "Hey,
    Honey. Look at the dog." George nudges Laura next to him.

    "Oh,
    how cute."

    The
    dog flips the slippers to George. He leaps and crashes
    atop the bed. George and Laura pet the dog. Trooper emerges, noticing
    a hole in his blanket.

    "Oh,
    Trooper. Do you want breakfast? Are you hungry for some eggs?" asks George.

    Trooper
    holds up the blanket and looks through the hole, saying in an upset
    voice, "I’ve had enough of eggs from you. I’m sick of being fed
    eggs."

    George furrows his brow. Distinct lines blend with bushy eyebrows.

    "Don’t
    question what you are served." George shakes his finger at Trooper.

    "But,
    Dad."

    "No
    buts about it. Remember, we’ve been through this conflict before."

    "I
    insist on fixing eggs for everyone." Laura reaches for her cross.
    "So Trooper, wait downstairs and watch cartoons."

    "Okay,
    Mom. Bye Al."

    The
    dog leaps out of bed, pouncing on Trooper. Trooper collapses to the
    floor from the ambush. The dog fights, rapidly jumping onto Trooper’s
    curled up body.

    "Tomfoolery!"
    George commands.

    The
    dog halts. Trooper rolls over. On his back, he strikes the dog with
    a kick. The dog whimpers toward George. Trooper busts a beeline to his
    bedroom and slams his door. Laura takes the pillow
    away from her eyes.

    "Honey,
    we need to talk."

    "I
    know, Laura. He’s such a nice dog around us, but to Trooper the name
    Tomfoolery doesn’t exist."

    "One
    of them could have been killed."

    "For
    now, we’ll keep Tomfoolery locked in our room. Tonight
    we’ll try one last time, or by the grace of God—"

    "And,
    what do you mean by this, George? Are you already thinking about arrangements
    with Grandpa?"

    "Yes."

    "Well,
    I disagree."

    "Just
    let me call Grandpa this afternoon. He may side with you.
    Don’t you agree that this is the prudent thing to do?"

    "You
    know he’ll bring up past conflicts with Trooper."

    "I
    promise I won’t bring that up."

    "Promise?"

    "Promise."

    "Good
    afternoon. Dad?"

    "George,
    is that you?"

    "George?"

    "George."

    "Yeah,
    it’s me, Dad."

    "George.
    Son, how’s life. Did you buy that dog?"

    "Dad,
    I bought the dog, but there’s a problem."

    "You
    got the discount, right?"

    "It’s
    not that; it’s about Trooper and the dog."

    "What’s
    the problem? You voted on a name, right?"

    "The
    dog’s name is Tomfoolery."

    "Tomfoolery.
    Now that’s a clever name."

    "Listen,
    Dad. The reason I called you is because Trooper and Tomfoolery don’t
    get along. It’s like they’re at war."

    "I
    recall the same exact conflict I had with Trooper in the past."

    "Dad,
    I promised Laura that I wouldn’t start in on the past with you and Trooper."

    "It
    wasn’t a simple issue, George. That was some serious war between Trooper
    and my dog. And you know
    what came out of that arrangement, don’t you?"

    "Please,
    Dad. Don’t start in on the past."

    "Well,
    I’ll tell you. Arrangements came out of that arrangement."

    "Dad,
    it’s not the same issue."

    "Have
    chemicals or weapons of any sorts come into fruition?"

    "No."

    "How
    about any physical fights?"

    "Dad,
    I know where this is heading."

    "Once
    there’s any sign of weapons, then it’s the same thing."

    "Well,
    of course, Dad. If there is any weaponry or any suspicious activity,
    but so far—"

    "Well,
    you know what my answer is already. It is never prudent at this juncture
    to wait."

    "No,
    sirree."

    "No,
    sirree indeed. If you ever need to arrange something, then look no further."

    "Before
    I go, are you sure you have enough supplies."

    "George, you know money is no object. Bye."

    "Bye,
    Dad."

     

    That
    night, in the kitchen,     Trooper wolfs down his dinner of eggs. Laura
    watches as he devours every morsel. Yolks and whites are splattered on his face. Laura places her hand over her mouth
    when George enters with the dog on a leash. Trooper shoots up on top
    of his chair. He shakes, with snot dribbling from his nose and mouth.

    "Dad,
    I hate that stupid dog."

    "Trooper,
    cool it. The dog may be nicer to you if you call him ‘Tomfoolery!’
    Come down from the chair. The dog senses fear. Put your hand up to Tomfoolery.
    He needs to smell you; then he’ll behave," George commands.

    The
    dog softly pants.

    "No,
    he’ll just bite me."

    "Don’t
    fear. I have him contained on a leash. He won’t dare attack you."

    "Well,
    what if he does?"

    "Then
    you won’t have to live with Tomfoolery anymore. Arrangements have
    been made."

    "Promise?"

    "Promise."

    Trooper
    bends his quaking knees. He climbs down from the chair slowly. Trooper
    inches toward the dog. Laura hides her eyes, cupping her warm, wet palms over her eyelids.

    "Stop,
    Trooper. Say, ‘I love you, Tomfoolery.’ The dog needs to get acquainted with your voice," George says.

    "I
    l-l-love you, Tomfoolery."

    "I
    wove u," the dog responds.

    The
    parents celebrate their victory.

    "Trooper,
    go up to the doggy. Tomfoolery is a friend and needs to smell you,"
    Laura says, crossing and swaying her fingers.

    Trooper
    lollygags to Tomfoolery. Trooper snuggles the dog and receives warm
    slobber with the egg on his face. Secretly, George motions to Laura.
    They walk out, swinging the kitchen door softly. Outside the kitchen,
    George and Laura eavesdrop, leaning on the flimsy door.

    "See,
    time cures all struggles and conflicts." George taps Laura’s shoulder.

    "Shh!
    I want to hear them, George."

    Both
    parents are smitten when Trooper says, "Tomfoolery. Good-boy. Stay."

    Laura
    embraces George. "I don’t believe it. We get to keep him after all."
    George carries Laura off onto the love sofa in the next room.

    Deep
    heavy barking sounds. A cling echoes. Next, a "Ruff, ruff, ruff."
    Finally, Trooper calls for help. By the time the parents reach the conflict
    in the kitchen, Trooper stands on the counter top with a humongous cleaver
    knife. His pants have a hole in his backside.

    "Laura,
    this is the second time that devil has attacked! Never again! In the name
    of God, he has to go!" George says while grabbing Trooper.

    "You’re
    right! Violent!" Laura nods and throws up both her arms.

    George
    places Trooper in his bedroom and tucks him in for the night. Laura
    waits in the kitchen for the resolution. After some time, George swings
    open the door. It freezes at a right angle.

    "I
    don’t know what else to do?" George says.

    "We’ve
    tried everything. Now, all we can do is pray for the best," responds Laura.

    Two
    days later,     Tomfoolery sleeps on the front porch. Grandpa’s gray Rolls
    Royce pulls up with two gray poles on the hood. On each pole, two tiny
    flags dance in the disturbing wind. Grandpa waits for the driver to
    open the car door. George opens the front door to the manor.

    "Hey,
    Dad. Step inside the house. I need a moment alone with Tomfoolery,"
    George says.

    "Yeah,
    sure. I understand."

    The
    door slams shut on the world. George caresses the dog’s belly.

    Tomfoolery
    awakes.

    "Well,
    this is it boy. You know it’s for your own good," George sobs.

    The
    door busts down. Grandpa drags Trooper out by his ankles. Trooper struggles, throwing a tantrum.

    "Dad! Why?" Trooper calls out.

    George
    squints and turns. Tomfoolery wags his tongue out at Trooper. Grandpa
    hurls Trooper into the back seat. As the ignition fires, Trooper presses
    his face against the rear door window. His voice cannot
    be heard through the thick, glossy surface.

  • Yes … She Is among Us

    I walked outside The Cedar to wait for my ride after the Wendy Rule show last Wednesday night, when a group of passing guys stopped and one said, “I ‘aint neva’ seen no ass like that on a white girl befo’.” I expected them to break out into song and dance around me like Chris Brown in his music videos, but luck wasn’t with me, as it hadn’t been earlier that night. Holding back my laughter, and any possible sass-backs, I tried to conjure up some kind of protective force, and my brother soon rounded the corner. “Yeah, well, I bet you neva’ seen no witch in a tutu befo’, either.”

    There had been nothing at all typical about my experience that evening. I had stood at the wrong bus stop for 30 minutes. I had unknowingly gotten directions from a deaf man. And I had ended up in St. Paul—the wrong city—on a bus with a driver at the end of his shift.

    Luckily, before going home, the driver gave me a ride to my stop. I walked some blocks in my five-inch tall boots, stopping into two bars to ask for directions, and finally arrived at The Cedar an hour and a half late.

    I was sitting by the door, listening to the opening act, when a lady beside me threw me a smile. This was the coolest looking chick in the house — wearing a black tutu, boots, bustier, and a red blouse. It was bewitching sensation Wendy Rule.

    Having started her career in music many years ago, as a jazz vocalist, Rule has since gained notoriety for her amazingly broad vocal range, her visionary lyrics, and her use of ritual in her performances.

    As I waited for Rule to go on, I noticed a wide variety of audience members: a man resembling a lumberjack, a suburban housewife, geeky Goth kids who reminded me of a distant generation from The Smith days. Everyone was present — eager and excited.

    The presenter finally came on, with his plastic hair, kilt, and boots, and aptly introduced Australia’s own ubiquitous witch: “Yes … she is among us.” Everyone applauded and roared while Rule took the stage. With all eyes on her, she dusted a thick powder into the air with a fan while singing melodies and calling out to the East. She even evoked the energies of Earth, Air, Water, and Fire; and I waited for Captain Planet to fly in.

    As she grabbed her acoustic guitar and began to sing, Rule embodied the ideal witch with all her power, seductiveness, sex appeal, articulation, intelligence, and musical capabilities. With cute stories of kangaroo chasing, songs for ex-lovers, and references to the Australian Wolf Sky — topped off with charm and charisma — this was definitely the sweetest witch ever.

    To top off the evening — and cement her good-witch status — Rule ended her performance with a spell to help audience members move forward in life. She asked we consider this for a moment and seek help from the four energies. The crowd eagerly responded with foot stomping, which further excited Rule and extended her ritual. She said she felt a great heart connection to the Americas and loved coming here, and this reaction from the audience confirmed her feelings. Of course, I — having irresponsibly evoked a recent lot of misfortune — tried hard to deny my skepticism and avail myself of the moment. I almost walked up to the stage and asked her to lay hands on me.

    Despite how my night had unraveled, the show did not let me down. Rule’s voice sounded beautiful, and the performance was great. The audience awarded her with a standing ovation and zealous applause. Some left wanting to dress like her, be like her, or sleep with her, but everyone definitely left loving her — the siren-songed witch in the tutu.

  • Le Petit Mort

    All the ingredients for an experimental disaster are there: six characters on a non-elevated platform of white cardboard — a sterile space carved out in the corner of a dingy art gallery — all dressed in white, speaking in seemingly disjointed sentences, hugging the wall behind them, twisting, writhing, gasping. But Socktesting, however experimental, is no disaster. Somehow, creators Mark Abel Garcia and Megan Mayer — with the help of six very able actors — have pulled it off masterfully.

    In truth, it’s a simple story. Yes, there is a story. Thank goodness — for one of the dangers (my own frustration, perhaps) of experimental art is the lack of story. Socktesting has a story, and it’s about a baby. A baby. A baby, perhaps. More like a paper clip. I couldn’t see exactly. But a baby is a baby is a baby. And our projects are our babies. Our ideas are our babies. And we can care for them as such, or we can toss them away, neglected step-children, like dropping a load.

    I am only thinking about this now, as I write. As I sat and watched Socktesting, I thought only of masturbation, of life, of pregnancy. And while I knew there was a deeper level of meaning (layers, even), what moved me, what held me, was this. I am almost 40. I have no children. I have tried. Clearly, I may have been inordinately moved by the story. But I was indeed moved.

    The protagonists of this play are Lydia and Rupert. Lydia has a baby. She has a baby — something, anyhow — but she does not know if she can keep the baby. No one should know about the baby — not yet. And they must not get attached to the baby — or name it — because they may lose the baby. Everything is lost, isn’t it? Perhaps "it has a curiosity aspect we must dispose of."

    Another character, Darnelle, has lost her lover — perhaps her lover. Perhaps her baby. Bill. She cannot accept it, though. And she pretends he is still alive. Is Is Is. Bill Bill Bill. Baby.

    There is a rhythm in the writing. In the delivery. In every element of this play. An attention to rhythm. An attention to sound. A unusual and beautiful willingness to not just accept, but use, all the organic by-products of performance. Just as Garcia and Mayer compose their symphony of meaning, they conduct the actors in a symphony of sound and movement. The sound of feet dragging on cardboard. Steps. Coughing, snoring, hiccuping, releasing air. Perfect silence. There are no coincidences here. (Even when a band playing outside the Soap Factory invades the silence, they make it work. It simply joins the symphony.)

     

    The play is divided into four parts, four days over which the six characters asphyxiate. In between, they sleep. In between, they cough. In between, they lose air. They struggle. They die. Le petit mort, dropping the load. Unrealized potential.

    When three white-clad figures lift Lydia — the protagonist — into the air, prostrate, with back arched, flying, and bring her down to the ground, wresting from her the baby she has hidden in her womb, however, it’s the audience that experiences the asphyxiation. It’s the audience who gasp.

    Each of the four sections includes several scenes — interactions between Rupert and Mimi (the couple), interactions between Mimi and Darnelle (friends). Interactions between Rupert and Ethan (an over-sexed, under-satisfied co-worker of sorts), interactions with the doctor (who performs tests on the baby and determines whether it shall live or die). And the Shadow. The Shadow is always there, because even the Shadow plays it part. Nothing is left to chance.

    And each of the scenes includes a coming together of all of the characters — walking, ranting, clustering into a moving circle, chaos, shouting, screaming, bitching, moaning. And the most impressive thing about these scenes is, again, the symphony. Only in music (and perhaps in nature) have I heard sounds come together in perfect unison, to create an entirely new sound. It’s not easy to turn six voices into one indistinguishable sound — clearly composed of multiple elements. Somehow, they pull it off. You hear the chaos. You hear the shouting. You know it comes from multiple sources — though it sounds like many more than it is. But you hear no one voice over the others. They are using words, and you hear none, only chaos, shouting. Perhaps I make too much of this, but I am impressed.

    Though I am initially disturbed by the seemingly disjointed dialog between Lydia and Rupert — expecting them to begin hopping on one leg, repeating "fish sandwich, fish sandwich, fish sandwich" — this is not dada. Schizopolis, in fact, is what it brings to mind (and if you haven’t seen this Steven Soderbergh masterpiece, you must). It’s the perfect lack of affect in Mats Sexton’s delivery to which I am reacting. It’s the meaningless, stale interaction of day-to-day life, empty relations — a Stepford couple placed in an ascetic, sterile universe — a lab almost, where we can examine life through a microscope, an autopsy of sorts. It’s Andy Warhol’s version of Pleasantville, without the commodification.

    Lydia, played by Mimi Holland, is perfection, sweet. She is the mother. She is possibility. She is life, affect, genuine engagement — and entirely nonexistent in masturbation. Holland pulls off a superb performance, drawing you in with a childlike smile in the beginning, and paving the way for a most powerful ending with nothing but her silence and her gasps. While her face is turned away from me, I notice the streak of tears upon her cheek.

    Heather Stone, as Darnelle, is extraordinary, truly disturbed, jumping effortlessly from one emotional reaction to another without missing a beat. And Samuel Van Wyk, as Ethan, plays the perfect sex-crazed boy — who shines when he’s getting his dick sucked.

    Somewhere between metaphor and reality, Socktesting delivers a powerful commentary on… well… I could say masturbation (which the title alone declares the interpretive lens); but I’m going to say life, affect, potential, latency, even waste. What turns us on? What makes us engage, move forward? What breathes life into us and gets us out of the inherent inertia of day-to-day existence? Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But any work of art that makes me think this much (while remaining entertaining), I say, is a success.

    Socktesting runs at the Soap Factory, June 5-8, 12, 13, and 15, 2008.

  • Rum, Sodomy, & No Cash

    (This the car from its most umistakable angle. It looks even more like a nameless Japanese car from the rear and side.)

    The Pax Britannica that led to a relatively peaceful 1800s (unless you were Irish) was imposed primarily by the glorious Royal Navy.

    While it is politic to assert this prestige came from good government, passive politicians and the daring of former pirates made good, realists claim it was built on rum, sodomy and the lash.

    Which immediately brings the new Jaguar XF to mind.

    I drove this smallish land-yatch yesterday and I came away sore as hell. Because Jaguar has pretty much sunk its last hope for reiventing its once sexy (if unreliable) brand. (Think neutered–like this Lexus.)

    So how bad are things? Let me count the ways:

    a) While more trees were harmed in the manufacture of its exquisite interior this side of a Daimler, it still has too much Ford switchgear and soon-to-fail gizmodics.

    Pictured: This gives you some feeling for the amount of wood lavished upon the new Jag interior. Real stuff. Rich. And far more modern that this picture.

    b) The exterior.

    c) The exterior.

    d) The exterior.

    e) The ext…what? I almost missed it because it looked like the Lexus E350 which is itself modeled on the Camry, for chrissake…erior. The most important new car in Jaguar’s history (apart from the XJ) must be the new paradigm for sex on wheels, not a paen to sonambulism.

    f) The performance is "comfortably numb" compared to its peers. Another dumb move from a brand once vaunted for pace and grace.

    The buzz in the business is that Ford put all the money into the interior, then ran out of funds to adapt the hot XF show concept to production.

    Poor Jag. While they are no longer drunk on their past elegance, someone still has this brand over a barrel, and this time I think it’s finally going to sink.

  • Not actually an actual poem, per se

    The introduction to this week’s Poem Worth Reading is taken from Bart Schneider’s forthcoming novel, the highly Minneapolized The Man in the Blizzard:

    "Sometimes I wonder why Americans are as afraid of poetry as they are of al-Qaeda. Screw the ones who’ve decided that poetry’s an effete enterprise. Let ‘em party with the homophobes. It’s the others who concern me, the folks who claim they don’t get it, who think they’re too dumb to read poetry. Thing is, they’re not willing to be dumb enough. That’s their problem. If you want to get inside a poem, you need to dumb down your senses. That’s where the receptors are. You need to accept that you don’t know. Why should you know? What’s the matter with a little mystery? They think the poem’s a theorem. If they can’t solve it, if they can’t control it, then they’re afraid of it. It’s so American to want it all or nothing. If you can’t conquer it, what good is it? Americans have become so frozen with fear, they’ve lost their sense of play. It’s time to lighten up and lower our expectations. It’s time to rediscover our basic fluency. If a man’s not fluent, if he ain’t got flow, what chance does he have to converse with his soul?"

    Isn’t that kind of great?

    And now the actual poem. Or actually, this week it’s not an actual poem. Rather, this is a segment from the beginning of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, whose language and progression I found to be somewhat poetic. Originally it was in paragraph form, but it broke down fairly easily into stanzas.

    "The Seniors in St. Jude"

    Nobody laughed at seniors in St. Jude.

    Whole economies, whole cohorts, depended on them.
    The installers and maintainers of home security systems,
    The wielders of feather dusters and complicated vacuums,
    The actuaries and fund managers, the brokers and tellers
    The sellers of sphagnum moss and nonfat cottage cheese and nonalcoholic beer
    And aluminum stools for sitting in the bathtub with

    The suppliers of chicken cordon bleu or veal Parmesan
    And salad and dessert in a fluorescently lit function room at $13.95 a head for Saturday night bridge clubs

    The sitters who knitted while their charges dozed under afghans,
    The muscular LPNs who changed diapers in the night,
    The social workers who recommended the hiring of the LPNs,
    The statisticians who collated data on prostate cancer and memory and aging,
    The orthopedists and cardiologists and oncologists and their nurses
    Receptionists and bloodworkers,
    The pharmacists and opticians,
    The performers of routine maintenance on American-made sedans with inconceivably low odometer readings

    The blue-uniformed carriers of Colonial-handicrafts catalogues and pension checks,
    The bookers of tours and cruises and flights to Florida,
    The projectionists of PG-rated movies at theaters with Twilight Specials,
    The drafters of wills and the executors of irrevocable trusts,
    The radio patrolmen who responded to home-security false alarms and wrote tickets for violating minimum-speed postings on expressways,

    The elected state officials who resisted property-tax reassessment,
    The elected national representatives who kept the entitlements flowing

    The clergy who moved down corridors saying prayers at bedsides,
    The embalmers and cremators,
    The organists and florists,
    The drivers of ambulances and hearses,
    The engravers of marble markers

    and the operators of gas-powered Weed Whackers who swept across the cemeteries in their pollen masks and protective goggles and who once in a long while suffered third degree burns over half their bodies when the motors strapped to their backs caught fire.

  • The Three Pointer: Celts Draw First Blood

    (AP Photo/Winslow Townson)
     

    Los Angeles 88, Boston 98

    Series thus far: Boston 1-0

    1. The Buck Stops With Pierce

    I firmly believe that Boston’s postseason prospects took a dramatic leap forward when Paul Pierce went off for a monster performance in Game 7 of the Eastern semis versus Cleveland. Up to that point, the Celtics unbelievably still hadn’t sorted out a pecking order for their offense.

    I’ve generally been contemptuous of the way ex-players who do color commentary on NBA games, especially in the playoffs, constantly focus on pushing the alpha status of the stars, or, conversely, blaming those same stars when they aren’t expanding that alpha profile to (in my view) too lopsided and thus predictable levels. But the greater point they are trying to emphasize is legitimate, and particularly acute on the Celts: There needs to be a consensus on the crunchtime assassin, the player considered first as you sort through your options. That doesn’t mean the assassin takes the shot: He might be the decision-maker, or merely the effective decoy. But as things get increasingly tight and emotionally chaotic, you don’t want three or four players thinking they are The Man, and, perhaps worse, all the role players unsure about how they prioritize their trustworthy options on offense.

    I don’t tend to watch a lot of coverage directly before or after games, so it is fortunate that I was able to catch what became for me a revealing interview with the Celts’ "Big 3" right before the Atlanta series. The best question was simultaneously put to all three at once: If the game is on the line, who takes the last shot? Garnett and Pierce both said Ray Allen at precisely the same time–and at the same time Allen himself was saying Whoever has the best look. But then Allen went through his wretched shooting slump, and besides, as longtime go-to guys on their respective teams, Pierce and KG themselves didn’t seem totally certain about how they pecking order lay. But then Pierce, despite the enormously taxing assignment of guarding LeBron, went off for 41 in a series clincher that blatantly carried the Celts to victory, the kind of performance that turns a player who is a crunchtime contender into the crunchtime assassin in the eyes of his teammates and, hopefully, himself. It was huge for Pierce, and huge for the Celts.

    In retrospect, Boston was lucky to be able to survive in the postseason for so long before this role-defining performance. Part of it was that Atlanta and to some extent Cleveland just wasn’t capable enough to capitalize. But let’s give the bulk of the credit where it is due: Boston’s defense covers for a multitude of their offensive sins. In fact, I’d argue that the phenomenal democracy, teamwork and ego-less trust in each other required to play the sort of suffocating D Boston deploys probably was a factor in their inability to create a pecking order at the other end of the court. Great defenses have no pecking order–they are, as the mostly accurate cliche goes, only as strong as their weakest link.

    Now this alpha-dog thing can also get overblown, which is why I get impatient with Magic Johnson and Charles Barkley leaning on it for so much of their analysis. I’d argue that Kobe Bryant’s ability to ratchet back his alpha tendencies played a huge role in the Lakers’ revitalization this season, for example. But I don’t think it can be overlooked that the Celts are a much more dangerous team now that it is clear that Pierce is the straw that stirs the drink for them on offense. We saw it in the clinching Game Six against Detroit, and we saw it last night in the all-important (for the underdog Celts, anyway) Game One of the NBA Finals.

    By now, many of you are wondering how I’m overlooking Kevin Garnett. Granted, KG’s break the gates in an aggressive and highly efficient and effective manner on offense gave Boston a great boost and launched their Finals with noteworthy confidence. And to clarify, I’m hardly knocking KG–I picked him as the league MVP (it was a mental tie with Kobe; you can go back in my archives and read the tortuous prose). But that’s because Garnett was the league’s greatest difference-maker on the most important end of the court–the defensive side. As a career 20 ppg scorer, KG is no slouch on offense, obviously–for one thing, he is a criminally underrated midrange jumpshooter. But, as has been said many times, whether in criticism, confusion, exasperation or resignation, Garnett does not have the natural temperament to be the assassin on offense–he’s too selfiless, too legitimately team-oriented, and, by now, both too inexperienced for someone of his NBA tread (I think Bill Simmons initially made that point) and too laden with controversy (a la T-Mac) about his ability or lack of ability to handle the role. Bottom line, when Garnett missed eight shots in a row down the stretch last night, it wasn’t a psychological buzz-kill for the Celts. But if Pierce had been missing those relatively open looks? Yeah, I think the concern would have been heightened.

    At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man, I also chafe at the melodramatization of merely piquant or poignant moments. Thus the Pierce-LeBron shootout had to be anointed as a Bird-Dominique redux and Pierce’s return to the court after his unfounded fears that he had seriously injured his knee was hailed in terms only slightly less hyped than the great Willis Reed legend. So let’s remember two facts: Pierce was sidelined with the knee injury for a grand total of 1:45–just 105 seconds–during which time the Celts outscored the Lakers 6-0. So, yes, losing Pierce for the rest of the game, let alone the series, would have been a steep challenge for Boston to overcome, but the net effect of the whole thing was great bonus to the Celts–players have sat because of foul trouble a lot longer than Pierce was in the locker room, so his actual absence was negligible in terms of court time, yet the psychological advantage of first facing the prospect of going into crunchtime without your assassin, and then having that daunting prospect suddenly vanish was all mental gravy. Cap that with Pierce bookending his injury with the mini-explosion to start the second half and the pair of treys that, to me, permanently shifted the momentum of the game over to Boston. For the third quarter, it rang up as 15 points on 5-5 FGs, two dimes, a rebound, steal and turnover in 9:27. It was Kobe-esque.

    (Update: For those of you who usually don’t read the comments, I urge you to scroll down at least this once and check out the rebuttal from reader drza44–at 3:19 on 6/6–who argues that if anyone is the Celts’ crunchtime alpha scorer, it is Garnett, not Pierce. It’s an argument more grounded in factual reality than the one I just offered.)

    2. In Praise of Celtic Defense

    Of the 15 players who attempted more than one field goal, 12 missed over half their shots. The accurate players? Pierce, who was incredibly efficient with 22 points on only ten shots (7-10 FG). But the other two, at 6-11 FG apiece, were Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom. That’s because the Celtics were determined to pressure the perimeter and the midrange between the arc and paint, a strategy that worked beautifully. I frankly don’t know if Tom Thibodeau is the defensive genius he’s reputed to be or whether Doc Rivers is unfairly shortchanged, but it is obvious that having a veteran team that hasn’t won very often–an experienced, yet hungry team, in other words–is a great recipe for being to execute supple, seemingly complicated defensive sets and rotations with a minimum of blown assignments. I mean, Ray Allen is nobody’s idea of a quality defender, but I counted at least three times when Kobe was spinning away from his man and turned right into a rotating Allen on the double team–twice it caused him to alter his shot. The Celti
    cs defended the perimeter with dogged help for each other and they anticipated rather than reacted to Kobe off the dribble–kudos to whoever logged the film time to divine his tendencies and figure out ways to deter it. Kobe shot 9-26 FG and no more than a handful of those attempts were easy. It was a rugged night for the MVP, and I’d wager that in the next game or two he is going to be a lot more aggressive at drawing the foul rather than trying to get clear. When it comes to disarming assassins, how does a pair of free throws in the final 11:48 of this ballgame sound in terms of shutting Kobe down? Two points. Zero field goals after twelve seconds were gone in the fourth period.

    Meanwhile, even without Kobe’s 0-3 from behind the arc, the rest of the Lakers went 3-11 3pt FG. Contrast that with the Celts’ 6-19 and the free throw disparity (28-35 versus 21-28) and that’s the ballgame in a contest where the overall field goal percentage was a virtual tie (32-76 for the Celts, 32-77 for the Lakers).

    Boston’s luxury of not having to double either Gasol or Odom also has something to do with their superb perimeter and midrange defensive activity–the personnel is there. But the schemes were likewise very impressive. In fact, after watching Detroit miss a bevy of open looks in the previous series, I’d figured the Lakers’ ball movement to be a huge advantage for this series. And it still may work out that way as the teams inevitably keep adjusting to each other. But Boston’s team defense–I’ll hand out an individual kudo or two in the next point–was simply marvelous in its forethought and coordination.

    3. Kudos and Brickbats

    How good was PJ Brown on Gasol after Kendrick Perkins got dinged and in foul trouble in the second half? The best bench guys deepen the personification of their team’s identity and Brown, as well as Posey, definitely qualify: They are fundamentally rock-solid, defense-first, emotionally intense yet relatively unflappable players.

    On the other end, what idiot was lauding the backcourt depth of this Lakers team just the other day? I didn’t like the decision-making of Vujacic and Farmar in the previous postseason series but couldn’t argue with the overall results. But watching Sasha bomb away, and clank, while a frustrated Kobe called for the ball with the Celts up just 90-85 with 2:34 to play, crystallized a game’s worth of bad backup play from the gold and purple.

    Actually there wasn’t much backup guard out of the Lakers yesterday, was there? I guess I understand why Phil Jackson flipped Kobe over on to Sam Cassell after Sammy got hot on Derek Fisher in the first half–a temporary solution for a temporary brushfire–but why was Kobe picking up Cassell during Cassell’s second-half rotation? Why not use Jordan Farmar for more than 7:11–at least let Cassell post Farmar up once or twice and see what happens. Because meanwhile, if Farmar could pick up where he left off offensively in the San Antonio series, Cassell would have been in a heap of trouble. Personally, I think the law of averages says that at this point in his career Cassell will follow a boon with a drought, which happened, as we saw, and would have with Fisher or Vujacic or probably even Farmar on him.

  • 11 Things I Wish I Didn't Know about Petey P. Cup

    In an attempt to one-up United Health for most ridiculous Minnesota-based health insurance company, HealthPartners (relatively) recently announced its new Mascot, Petey P. Cup. He’s a giant urine specimen container with arms, legs, feelings, and no shame. Since then I’ve learned quite a bit about Petey P. Cup and his sidekick Pokey the Syringe. Here are eleven things I’ve learned about HealthPartners’ new campaign.

     

     

    1. In order to promote Petey P. Cup HealthPartners employees were given urine specimen containers with yellow M&Ms inside. Why do I get the feeling that someone at HealthPartners originally wanted to serve lemonade in the cups but had the idea quashed by higher-ups?
    2. Petey P. Cup is part of a larger campaign by local agency Kerker that involves placing, among other things, giant tongue depressors, syringes and pill capsules around town.
    3. According to MPR, The first person to don the Petey P. Cup outfit also played Santa Claus at several HealthPartner’s parties. I certainly hope he received a significant bonus.
    4. The idea came from Greg Klugherz, vice president finance, planning and improvement for the HealthPartners Medical Group is the person who came up with the idea for Petey P. Cup (also from MPR). Yes, planning and improvement.
    5. According to a HealthPartner’s profile about Petey P. Cup. His favorite songs are (and I’m not making this up):"Yellow" by Coldplay, "Splish Splash", "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and Don Ho’s "Tiny Bubbles". Although, it Pokey’s favorite tunes have not been made known, I’d place James Brown’s "King Heroin" and "Sister Morphine" by the Rolling Stones near the top of the list.
    6. That same profile says that Petey P. Cup is 6’11 and his weight "depends".
    7. In the pipeline for HealthPartners’ dental division is a tooth named Pearly White. I’m sure she has a cousin named Denny Denture in the works as well.
    8. Petey P. Cup can be your facebook friend. Currently, he has 408 "friends" and I am not one of them.
    9. You can purchase Petey and Pokey merchandise including a Pokey baseball jersey for your kids, a $15 Petey P. Cup yard sign, and a Petey P. Cup clock that, at $11, is cheaper than the yard sign.
    10. Petey P. Cup and friends are supposed to make the health care process more "fun" and "memorable" for HealthPartners members, according to MPR. Apparently, suggestions like "become more affordable" and "cover treatment for my ailment", failed to leave a positive impression during focus group testing.
    11. Petey P. Cup has a YouTube video!

    Good grief.