Category: Blog Post

  • Get Sauced! A Northside Discovery

    It’s in Minneapolis, it’s the best restaurant for miles
    around, and odds are you have never even heard of it.

    Sauced, a little neighborhood bistro at 2203 44th
    Ave. N. (at Penn Ave.) isn’t just the best restaurant in north Minneapolis; it’s the only restaurant in north Minneapolis with a menu
    of contemporary cuisine and a real wine list. Chef John Conklin’s menu ranges
    from spaghetti squash cakes over a red pepper coulis ($9) and seared scallops
    with a chamomile glaze ($11) to seared salmon with saffron risotto ($18) and
    grass-fed beef tenderloin over roasted red potatoes with currant demi-glace.

    North Minneapolis has some charming little neighborhood
    cafes, like the Sunnyside, 1825 Glenwood Avenue North; and Milda’s, 1720
    Glenwood; and Emily’s F&M Café, just down the street from Sauced at 2124 44th
    Ave., but nothing nearly this ambitious.

    When Carol and I stopped by for lunch yesterday, we grazed
    across the menu, starting with a Caesar salad ($9) and the duo of spreads –
    smoked salmon with tarragon and pancetta with blue cheese and roasted walnuts,
    and then moving on to a salad of garlic roasted vegetables with goat cheese,
    served over a bed of spinach with a balsamic vinaigrette ($10), and an entrée
    of bucatini with mushrooms, asparagus and caramelized onions in a red pepper
    cream sauce. We enjoyed it all – the flavors were lively and robust, but still
    had subtlety and nuance, like the notes of fresh tarragon in the smoked salmon
    spread. We really didn’t have room for the roasted peach-strawberry tart ($8),
    but we ordered it anyway, and ate every bite.

    There is a lot more on the menu that I would like to try, including
    the shrimp ceviche ($10) and the tarragon mussels ($11), the cold soup duo of cantaloupe
    peach and tomato gazpacho ($9), and the vegetarian sandwich of avocado,
    oven-dried tomatoes, caramelized onions and cremini mushrooms, topped with Brie
    and served on rosemary kalamata bread ($10). You don’t have to eat fancy,
    though; if all you want is a burger and a beer, the menu also offers a couple
    of Angus beef burgers and a tuna melt, and the selection of tap beers includes Surly
    Bender, Fuller’s ESB, and locally brewed Finnegan’s.

    Later yesterday afternoon, I called Conklin and asked him
    about his plans for the restaurant. "We are not looking at doing anything
    fancy," he told me. "I am not Doug Flicker (chef at Mission American Kitchen),
    I am not trying to do anything that has never been done before. "I am just trying to take the traditional
    French mentality and put to good traditional rustic food."

    Conklin didn’t learn French technique in France, or even at
    a cooking school. He learned his craft on the job, starting as a dishwasher in
    small-town Minnesota at the age of 12, and working his way up. He was as a line
    cook at a Bakers Square in Saint Cloud before going to work for Michael McKay
    at Gallivan’s in Saint Paul; when McKay was hired to open the Sample Room in
    northeast, Conklin joined him as sous-chef. He credits McKay with teaching him
    everything he knows about cooking.

    Conklin and his wife Tricia Clark, and partner Susie
    Gilbertsen took over the restaurant in December, but the sign above the door
    still says Rix, the name of the burger joint that preceded it. He had hoped to
    have a new sign up by April 1, Conklin told me, but there have been some
    unanticipated expenses.

    These guys are facing an uphill climb. A lot of very good
    restaurants have failed in north Minneapolis over the years, from Skip’s
    Barbecue and Lucille’s Kitchen to Rick’s American Café and Coconut Grove. But Conklin is an optimist. He and Tricia
    bought a house nearby in the Folwell neighborhood, and he is not discouraged by
    the abundance of For Sale signs nearby. "I see this neighborhood taking off,"
    he told me He sees families starting to migrate across the river from Northeast
    and buying homes on the north side.

    Wouldn’t it have been a lot safer to open a place in south
    Minneapolis? The idea has no appeal for Conklin: "the people in south
    Minneapolis who can afford $180,000 – $220,000 homes have enough places down
    there."

     

  • Porn Again.

    (Pictured: The 1000HP Hennessy Viper. More on this one in a later
    post. Hennessy is the porn king of American cars and reportedly a real prick. E-mail him.)

    This
    will be an on-going follow-up post to my "Nature Porn" comments a few
    months back. In my my previous post, I covered the world’s most obscene
    SUV for the money—the Hennessy Grand Cherokee SRT-8.

    Like all
    Hennessy cars, this Cherokee offers a compelling alternative to
    something else, such as, for example, a walk through the woods. Others
    are a satisfactory subsitute for Viagra. Or so say the older people who
    can afford them — so they say, it is said, sadly.

    As a former
    canoe camper and devotee of Sigurd OIson (although he did hoard
    electric motors and land), I have always worried that I may be leaving the wrong impression.

    So, here, for starters, are my first picks for the world’s most obscene* "on-road-or-track-only" rides:

    1) The new Mercedes AMG SL series. In their 12-cylinder variants they pump out a cool 738 ft. lbs. of torque (and that’s all that matters.)

    2)
    Yet even in this rarified territory everyone still knows that stock
    sucks. With this in mind, I suggest you call the service manager at Sears
    and ask him for the cell number of the Renntech SL owner I met this morning. I am pretty sure he’ll trade his privacy for a chance at prestigious local press.

    What? Like this blog isn’t?

    A pox on your Prius.

    (*note: what constitutes an "automotive obscenity" is hotly contested)

  • More Rain! Really?

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    End of Baseball

    Is your favorite Major League Baseball team already out
    of contention for the Pennant? Relax. Peter Schilling’s novel The End of Baseball may be entertainment for those fanatics with a long summer ahead. The End of Baseball
    covers the complete season of the 1944 Philadelphia Athletics in the
    race for the pennant. But Schilling’s novel is much more important than
    following a baseball race; it’s about equality for the human race. The
    story’s exposition follows the eccentric Bill Veeck as he purchases the
    worst franchise in the Majors and tries to make contenders out of them.
    Veeck’s plan to accomplish this lies in replacing his Caucasian players
    with some of the greatest Negro League players — this, of course, in
    the segregated professional baseball era. If you’re interested in following a maverick owner and a team for the ages, The End of Baseball may score a base hit, but it’s the way Schilling treats humility in this story that scores a grand slam. —Joshua Fischer

    Available in bookstores on Friday

    BENEFIT
    6th Annual Fundraiser for Breast Cancer

    You have to love the promotional material for this breast cancer fundraiser: "Can’t run a 5K? Do you suck at baking? Hate working garage sales? Then this is the fundraiser for you. All you have to do is raise your beer bottle and listen to the music, and you’ll be making a difference." Enjoy a candlelit acoustic evening with Trick27 on Friday. Then gear up for a full night of music and dancing on Saturday night with the Street Team from the St. Paul School of Rock, a Lucky Town reunion of Bruce Springsteen classics, and the Tim Sigler Band. All proceeds go to fight breast cancer — ALL of them. Monster Energy Drink donates the printing. The musicians donate their time. And O’Gara’s donates the space.

    Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m., O’Gara’s Shamrock Room, 164 Snelling Ave. N., St. Paul.

    FILM
    Planet of the Apes

    "Somewhere in the universe there must be something better than man. In a matter of time, an astronaut will wing through the centuries and find the answer. He may find the most terrifying one of all on the planet where apes are the rulers and man the beast." What more do you want. If you haven’t seen this 1968 Franklin J. Schaffner classic on the big screen, now is the time!

    Friday at 7:10 p.m., Saturday at 4:35, 7:10, and 9:30 p.m., and Sunday at 4:35 and 7:10 p.m., Heights Theatre, 391 Central Ave. N.E., Columbia Heights; 763-788-9079; $8.

    Then She Found Me

    Families
    comes in all shapes and sizes, but the two main ingredients are
    certainly love and trust. Helen Hunt’s directing debut, Then She Found Me, brings the life and passion of Elinor Lipman’s characters to the big screen. After
    being left by her husband (Matthew Broderick), mere months after their
    wedding, April (Helen Hunt) is tracked down by her birth mother (Bette
    Midler) in hopes of starting a relationship. At the same time, April
    begins to form a bond with the father (Colin Firth) of one of her
    kindergarten students. As she struggles to determine the meaning of
    family, she discovers something missing, driven by the burning desire to have
    a baby of her own. —Hannah Simpson

    Opens Friday at Edina Cinema, 3911 W. 50th
    St., Edina; 651-649-4416.


    Big Ideas for a Small Planet

    Back in June, Rake staff and friends had our own little parking squat in honor of green space in the city. Yes, we took a couple of video cameras — and we even got some pretty amusing footage — but oevrall, it was far too uneventful to merit a video for your pleasure. Apparently, somebody else must have had en entirely different experience, because they even made a film about it. This Sunday, you can enjoy a screening of the Sundance Channel award-winning eco-series Big Ideas for a Small Planet, featuring Twin Cities’ National Park(ing) Day. I have to be honest, when The Rake did its parking squat, most of us lacked a clear idea as to why we were there. We simply set up our plants and our chairs in the street by a parking meter, and spouted out something about preserving our green spaces. (And then we played a peanut game.) The screening is sure to far better than that — far more educational and far more amusing. One episode, “Big Ideas for a Small Planet: Food” explores environmentally friendly food and wine.

    Sunday at 2 p.m., F.K. Weyerhauser Auditorium, Landmark Center, 75 W. 5th St., Downtown St. Paul; RSVP.

    ART
    The Figure and the Landscape

    Figure and landscape. Sculpture and photography — black and white landscape photography. What’s the connection? Go see a beautiful exploration by recognized Minnesota sculptors and photographers at the Vine Art Center. Experience "the powerful and sensual nature of landscape and figurative work." The exhibition, which runs from May 2nd to June 24th, features work by Will Agar, Doug Beasley, Chris Faust, Roger Junk, Brant Kingman, Jeff Korte, and Nick Legeros. There will be an opening reception this Friday, and an artist discussion panel on Thursday, May 22nd.

    Friday from 6-10 p.m., Vine Arts Center, 2637 27th Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-728-5745.

    Ben Garthus & Greg Priglmeier

    Life is no movie. We have no soundtrack. (Ok. Sometimes we do.) But we sure have plenty of background noise — background noise and visual noise, which somehow play off each other in a most fascinating way. Local artists Ben Garthus and Greg Priglmeier have joined forces to bring us Background Noise, an attempt to capture the cultural, political, and environmental conditions of city life — "traffic patterns, animal behavior, artificial environments and cultural changes." While Garthus focuses more on consumption and by-products, Priglmeier explores unseen connections to our environment.

    Saturday from 7-10 p.m. (show runs through May 31st), Rosalux Gallery, 1011 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-803-6400; free.


    Portraits of Mental Illness

    Ok. I don’t usually promote art exhibits at hospitals and coffee shops, but sometimes you just gotta do what you don’t do. May is Mental Health Month, and HCMC — actually, Spectrum Community Mental Health and Inspire Arts — is doing their part by hosting Living Beyond Poster Project: The Portrait Show, featuring portraits of 20 famous and historic figures — ranging from Ernest Hemingway to Jean-Claude Van Damme — who live or lived with a mental illness. Did you even know that Jean-Claude Van Damme has mental illness? (How inappropriate would it be for me to say that explains a lot?) Three of the portraits will be made into posters to raise funds and awareness: Virginia Woolf, Kurt Cobain, and Leo Tolstoy.

    Friday from 4-6 p.m., Inspire Galleries, HCMC Red Building, second level skyway, 730 S. Eighth St., Minneapolis.

    MUSIC
    Greg Brown and the World of Dosh

    Blues, folk, and acustic guitar lovers, check out Greg Brown at the Fitzgerald Theater on Friday. The man has about the sexiest voice imaginable. And on Saturday night, check out avant-rock luminary Martin Dosh at the Walker. They’ve even added an extra performance at 11 p.m. Special guests include Andrew Bird, Jel, Jeremy Ylvisaker, Andrew Broder, and Mike Lewis.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Long Day’s Journey into Night

    After having to postpone the opening for a week, due to illness in the company, the Theatre in the Round Players are finally commencing their production of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night. Considered by many to be O’Neill’s masterpiece (it won a Pultizer in 1957), Long Day’s Journey narrates a fateful, heart-rendering day in O’Neill’s own life, in August of 1912. Directed by Lynn Musgrave,
    this Theatre in the Round production features Maggie Bearmon Pistner,
    Rachel Finch, Rob Frankel, Tom Sonnek, and Wade Vaughn. Expect a lot of
    alcohol and a little bit of morphine.

    Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m., Theatre in the Round, 45 Cedar Ave., Minneapolis; 612-333-3010; $20.


    Triangle Fire Project

    The Minnesota Jewish Theater Company ends a strong 2007-2008 season with another regional premiere. The Triangle Factory Fire Project
    — directed by Carolyn Levy— tells the story of a fatal fire in the
    Triangle Waist Factory, in 1911, that took 146 lives. Author
    Christopher Piehler (in collaboration with Scott Alan Evans) offers a
    play-by-play of the events, followed by an unappeasing murder trial,
    and a round up of the numerous social and political changes that took
    place as a result.

    Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 2 & 7 p.m.,
    Hillcrest Center Theater
    , 1978 Ford Pkwy.; Saint Paul; $20-$24.

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Wilder Center – Grand Opening Celebration

    Celebrate the grand opening of the new Wilder Center with family fun, entertainment, food, and a community services fair. What is family fun? Well, the fun includes a family photo booth, picture frame decorating, a children’s climbing wall, video games (Dance Dance Revolution and Guitar Hero III), and entertainment provided by Larry Yazzie, American Indian Dance, the East Side Dance Group, and the Walker West Music Academy Jazz Ensemble. Construction was completed earlier this year on the new 99,953 square-foot, four-story Wilder Center. The grand opening celebration will mark the official building dedication and allow community members to learn more about Wilder and its services.

    Saturday from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., Wilder Center, 451 Lexington Parkway N., Saint Paul; free.

  • A+B=WTF

    On Wednesday, April 30, 2008, Sen. John McCain jumped the
    shark.

    Now, I’ve got a lot of respect for the man. He’s always been
    something of a straight shooter. And when a man spends time in a POW camp and
    can’t raise his arms above his shoulders as a result, I’m inclined to cut the
    guy some slack. But in a campaign stop in Pennsylvania yesterday, McCain claimed that pork
    barrel spending caused the 35W bridge to fall down go boom
    . Pork barrel
    spending didn’t cause the bridge to fall. All reports up until now point to
    trade school engineers from the 60s who were likely too baked to carry the
    damn one. And given how commonly politicians have taken the "If I say it, it
    must be true" approach this campaign season, I would’ve much rather watched the
    GOP’s candidate for president actually jump the Mississippi on a
    motorcycle
    than listen to a man formerly known for candid statements trying to score political points by holding court whilst spewing
    forth a toxic slurry of obfuscating crap that would rival the noxious sludge at
    the bottom of the Mississippi itself.

    But why do candidates feel so comfortable hocking these
    juicy loogies of misinformation at us? They know that the words
    tumbling forth from their forked tongues are simply a devious combo of smoke,
    mirrors, and sweet pandering nothings that smoothly caress the genitalia of
    their base constituencies, thus lulling them deeper into a bullshit-induced
    trance, right? Most blame television for forcing politicians to compress complicated
    issues into easy to digest bites. TV conditioned people to want
    their news spoon-fed – meaning whoever screams the loudest with the most glib
    sound bite generally is regarded as the prophet of truth. This applies even when the person screaming the loudest is the crazy fucker having a dance
    party in his underwear in front of Block E.

    But the honest truth is that the blame for the sorry state
    of affairs that is the American political system falls squarely on the eagerly
    nodding culture whores known as American citizens. It’s us. We’re the reason Jeremiah
    Wright’s sermons make such effective weapons in a campaign. It’s our fault John
    McCain feels justified in using the deaths of 13 Minnesotans to make an
    unrelated point about earmarks. And it’s my own damn fault I’m wondering why Al Franken
    couldn’t find a nice Jewish uncle to keep his books. We’ve become a
    society of listless zombies who claim to be too busy to understand the issues
    at hand, but also refuse to devote any of that precious time to information
    that may contradict opinions or worldviews developed by listening to the chorus of malformed mewling
    creatures
    polluting the public dialogue.

    Make no mistake, it is pollution. Yes, Rev. Jeremiah Wright
    said "God damn America."
    In fact, he danced on the altar while a chorus of seraphim drifted down from
    the heavens to sing those very words in a bawdy sea chanty written by the
    Archangel Gabriel himself. It doesn’t matter all that much though, since Wright isn’t
    running for president. Plus, it’s highly unlikely that, should Sen. Obama be
    elected the next president, he’ll take punitive steps against white America.
    Steps like outlawing rugby, New Balance sneakers, Volvos, Joe Mauer and his thrice-damned sideburns or any of the other ridiculous crap we fetishize. But because we’ve spent the
    last two months with politicians and pundits alike regurgitating bile and
    chunky bits of flag-waving rhetoric, Sen. McCain’s health care proposal hasn’t
    gotten the coverage, or scrutiny, it deserves. The lack of details in Sen.
    Obama’s plan hasn’t exactly been called out as a particular failing either. And
    because we’ve been too busy obsessing over what appears to be an innocuous
    accounting mistake on Al Franken’s part, no one has taken the time to marvel at
    the profound stupidity of Hillary Clinton staging
    a press event at a gas station
    to demonstrate just how in touch with the
    plight of the common man she truly is while advocating for a gas tax
    holiday
    that would save the average American about $30 over three months.

    A well-informed populace is vital to the operation of a
    democracy, according to our slave-owning, and banging, founding father Thomas
    Jefferson. And sad to say, we’re not well-informed. We’re well-indoctrinated. So we debate over whether Obama is,
    in fact, an Islamo-fascist for not wearing a flag lapel pin. We fight over whether McCain’s
    "senior moments" are the result of campaign trail exhaustion or a sign that
    he’ll be in Depends
    before his second term. And we shiver in fear as we wonder whether Hillary Clinton is a creature risen from the
    grave by sheer force of will, determined to win the presidency in order to
    secure access to the delicious babies necessary to sustain her unholy semblance
    of life. And all of that pointless noise pollution goes a long way toward explaining why, in the midst of this
    interminable, abominable election season, our status as one of the greatest and most influential superpowers
    this world has ever known can now be summarized in just under two minutes by Grand Theft Auto IV’s Serbian protagonist –
    Nico Bellic.

  • May Book Releases

  • The Wisdom of the Car Buying Masses

    Just when I thought it was safe to cancel my Strib subscription, they surprise me and put something on the front page that actually 1) contains information that I care about; 2) contains information that elucidates a larger story; and 3) nudges at least one piece of television-like spot news dreck out of the paper. (Actually, I’m only guessing about point number 3.)

    Today, there was a good piece by Dee DePass about the slump in car buying in the Twin Cities. It seems new car and truck buying was down 14.5 percent last year. Used car sales were also down—by 12 percent.

    Of course, these were sales by dealers, and if there’s one thing we should have learned over the past few years is that we don’t need dealers anymore of almost any type. We have the internet, and sites like Carsoup and Craig’s List, make it a lot easier to sell your car yourself and cut out the dealer’s commission.

    So, perhaps the numbers are a little skewed, but a table accompanying the story gives some detail that is relevant. (Sorry if you read the story online. The table wasn’t attached to the online version of the story. Is there a worse web site in the world than the Strib’s?)

    The table showed basically that the sales of American brands are down, for the most part, 15 to 20 percent. On the other hand, Toyotas, Hondas, Volkswagens, and other efficient foreign models were up. Not down less than Americans. Their sales were actually higher.

    Is there anything to be inferred from this? I’m going to go out on a limb and say Americans have wised up way faster than their automobile company executives and noticed that gas prices are rising and are making adjustments such as buying smaller more efficient cars.

    This is a roundabout way of getting to presidential politics. Recently, both Hillary Clinton and John McCain have called for a temporary reduction of the gas tax. Because of course, we want to do everything we can to encourage Americans to drive more, take no responsibility either on the personal or political front for the idiocy of our national energy policy, and just keep paying out to our pals in Saudi Arabia and Venezuela.

    This at the same time as they laughingly call for a reduction of greenhouse gas emissions. It just gets funnier.

  • Himalayan. . . .Just Go Already!

    Over the weekend, John and I went to a new restaurant on Franklin and 24th called simply Himalayan. To be honest, we didn’t have great expectations going in.

    Our experience with Tibetan and Nepali food in town has been lukewarm at best. There’s Everest on Grand, which is. . . .fine. And there used to be a place on Hennepin Avenue called Tibet’s Corner that had wonderful, haunting music but food that tasted strange, Americanized, ketchup-y, and bland. (It was no surprise to us when it closed.)

    Last month — while in Madison, WI, with our son — I ate at a modest but terrific little Nepali cafe called Himal Chuli and mourned the fact that such simple, clean, authentic ethnic fare had not found its way to the Twin Cities.

    Well, now it has!

    Himalayan is, perhaps, the most Spartan restaurant I’ve been inside in my adult life. There was zero investment in creating ambiance: no beaded curtains or pewter elephants or colored lights. This is a small, white box of a room with windows on only one side. There is a buffet table next to the cash register, a smattering of booths and tables, and a single photo of Mt. Everest on the wall.

    Yet, it is comfortable. We chose a booth and settled in. There was a lovely, light scent of lamb and spices coming from the kitchen. We ordered two cups of Masala Chiya (spiced tea with milk) and appetizers.

    We liked the Kathmandu Momo with meat ($6 for half a dozen), which were soft and savory. But even better were the Wo: lentil pancakes with ginger and fresh cilantro (a steal at four for $4.50). These reminded me of latkes — only meatier, with flavors from the mountains rather than the steppes.

    For our main course, we shared a platter of Choyala with chicken ($11.95), a platter of grilled-to-nearly-blackened meat with peppers, onions, and herbs, and an extra-spicy order of Aaloo Cauli ($9.95): stir-fried potatoes with cauliflower and peas in a rich red sauce. Both were served steaming — which improves a spicy meal ten-fold for me — with white rice. It was a cold, rainy night and this meal was filling and satisfying and hot.

    Ours, however, was the only table in the place. And this is tragic.

    While Himalayan won’t win any David Shea design awards, it’s exactly what we need in this town to diversify our ethnic food offerings. It’s inexpensive and family-owned, serving the simple, traditional food of a region that gets short shrift. But it’s also in a location (2401 E. Franklin Avenue) that has some sort of curse over it: restaurant after restaurant has failed to make a go in that spot. Don’t let this one be another casualty on the list.

    Just go. Now. Shake off that Chipotle habit. Whatever you’re doing, stop, put on your shoes, pick up your wallet, and drive over to Seward with a mind to eat something more interesting and support a local businessman who wants nothing more than to make you a great meal.

    Or, you can call: 612-332-0880. Himalayan also does takeout.

  • Porn Again

    (Pictured: The 1000HP Hennessy Viper. More on this one in a later post. Hennessy is the porn king of American cars and a real prick.)

    This will be an on-going follow-up post to my "Nature Porn" comments a few months back. In my my previous post, I covered the world’s most obscene SUV for the money–the Hennessy Grand Cherokee SRT-8.

    Like all Hennessy cars, this Cherokee offers a compelling alternative to somehting else, such as, for example, a walk through the woods. Others are a satisfactory subsitute for Viagra. Or so say the older people who can afford them, so they say, it is said, sadly.

    As a former canoe camper and devotee’ of Sigurd OIson (although he did hoard electric motors and land) however, I have always worried that I may be leaving the wrong impression.

    So here, for starters, is my first pick for the world’s most obscene* on-road-at-all-times rides:

    1) The new Mercedes AMG SL series. In their 12-cylidner variants they pump out a cool 738 ft. lbs. of torque (and that’s all that matters.)

    2) Yet even in this rarified territory everyone still knows that stock sucks. With this mind, I suggest you call the service manager at Sears and ask him for the cell number of the Renntech SL owner I met this morning. I am pretty sure he’ll trade his privacy for a chance at presitgious local press.

    What, like this blog isn’t?

    A pox on your Prius.

    (*note: what constitutes an "automotive obscenity" is hotly contested)

  • Mean Business

    The Minnesota Twins mean business in their new commercial. Morneau, Cuddyer, and Mauer wear ultra-cool Twins fan gear. They begin strolling to the soundtrack of Led Zeppelin’s "Dazed and Confused." In slow motion, the camera catches each individual, like a shot out of Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs. On location, at the under-construction open stadium, it’s spring. Air gusts ripple Cuddyer’s ringer t-shirt with the "TC" logo. He tosses a ball into the air playfully; then he sticks that tobacco rock ball into his mouth, suggesting the Twins will be outdoors and reckless, without restraints.

    Morneau, the heavy hitter, walks with his bat resting on the back of his neck. His two hands grasp each bat end, as though bound to some ancient torture device, illustration the persecution of playing inside the big-topped circus atmosphere of the Dome. Mauer holds his bat like a cane, until he laughs. In one quick swoop, he kicks the barrel and catches the bat — no more crutches to endure for the Minnesota Twins. The franchise will be outdoors soon, and Hell will break loose.

    With a fierce glare and clenched teeth, Morneau orders Pete to lay something into him. No one knows anyone by the name of Pete, meaning Morneau screwed his line in the commercial. They air it anyway to convey his tough-guy, testicular fortitude is what the fans have been hankering for.

    Each player takes turns knocking home-runs.

    Morneuo’s blast lands upside First Avenue, proving the team will rock with legendary force in their new ballpark. Never, ever will the Twins be constrained by a demeaning domed novelty garbage pile. Cuddyer cranks one. The ball soars like a missile and decapitates Mary Tyler-Moore’s statue, showing the world the franchise will not put up with junk, nor be treated as a bunch of nobodies. The Twins will turn heads or heads will be rolling, or we will be heads and shoulders above the rest and so on. Using both hands, Mauer hurls a damn boulder into the air.

    It tumbles awkwardly. He grips his bat while the stone is in the air, and sends the rock out beyond to Mary Jo Copeland’s shelter for the homeless. As suspected, Mary Jo is outside Sharing and Caring Hands, and, in the middle of the day, hustling a crack deal to a fiend.

    Splat!

    The homeless addict is rubbed out of existence by the powerful blast, symbolizing the Twins mean business in their new commercial.

  • Rising Down

    Originally published on Realbuzz.com

    In 1999, The Roots came out
    with a double-disc live album, The Roots Come Alive, with songs
    culled from performances in Switzerland, New York, and various other
    locations. Rising Down, the group’s tenth album — second
    since Jay-Z brought them over to Def Jam Records — is in many ways
    more live than that release. Throughout, we are treated to a number
    of interludes, speeches, and instrumental shifts reminiscent of a Roots
    concert. A somewhat grungy tone pervades, as if the band went in, played
    their instruments, and the tracks made it to the album without too much
    tinkering (that’s what it sounds like, though I doubt it’s true…).
    The result is something somehow personal, as if we are witnessing the
    album, instead of just listening to it.

    The usual cast of cameos makes
    its appearances — Common, Dice Raw, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, among others.
    But really, as all Roots fans know, Black Thought emerges as the most
    impressive. The only other rapper I can think of that has a flow as
    natural and entertaining as Black Thought’s is Ghostface Killah. I’m
    not sure if it’s a function of their having been MCs for so long,
    or if they’ve always been able to rap this way, but it really seems
    as if they’re just talking, and what they’re saying happens to rhyme.
    Nowhere is Black Thought more impressive than on "75 Bars (Black’s
    Reconstruction)": "Show me a puppet without a puppeteer/I’m in
    the fields with a shield and a spear/I’m in your girl with her heels
    in the air." It’s a free-association track on African American
    identity that rivals Beck for Rorschach-like complexity.

    Because The Roots play their
    own instruments, instead of relying on samples and looped beats, their
    sound is often much fuller and more organic than most other rap music.
    It’s not without its jarring qualities – sometimes it’s strange
    to hear that rock-style electric guitar cutting through a rhythm. But
    the band members, led by visionary drummer ?uestlove, by now have developed
    such chemistry that at times it really seems they can do anything with
    their respective instruments. (Last time I saw them in concert, they
    reproduced Mims’ "This Is Why I’m Hot.")

    Though much of their ouvre
    is phenomenal, very little of it is actually marketable. Usually, though,
    The Roots will deign to reserve four minutes of each album for a radio-friendly
    song. On Phrenology we got "Break You Off"; The Tipping
    Point
    gave us "Star" and "Don’t Say Nuthin’"; and
    Game Theory
    brought the shoulda-been-huge "Don’t Feel Right."
    (And of course, "You Got Me" from Things Fall Apart sort
    of defined their careers- but that entire album is so classic I prefer
    not to single out any song as better than the others.) Likewise, on
    Rising Down
    , The Roots have given us "Rising Up."

    It begins with some soft female
    vocals:

    "Yesterday I saw a B-Girl
    crying, and I walked up and asked ‘what’s wrong?’

    She said the radio’s been
    playing the same song all day long.

    I told her I got something
    you been waiting for

    I got something you been waiting
    for!"

    Then Black Thought jumps in
    with his non-stop spit-fire lyrics, delivering exactly what the song
    promises – something different from anything else out there, but still
    incredibly exciting. Beneath the vocals, there’s an ocean of drums
    that sounds like the guys in Washington Square Park banging on upside-down
    paint cans — a sound that, for whatever reason, never fails to elicit
    adrenaline.

    By no means is Rising Down
    the easiest or prettiest album to listen to. The Roots demand some attention,
    and even some thought, from their fans. But they have a mission, namely
    to make music that they want to make, unadulterated by others’ interests,
    and the craftsmanship they put into their tunes is visceral, and worthy
    of our time.