Category: Blog Post

  • Scot-Free

    NORTH, SOUTH, DOWN & OUT

    Hello everyone,
    I know it has been a while since my last post, but I have been busy
    accruing material for this one by traveling around this fair island. This blog-entry will concentrate on my recent travels outside Edinburgh. First to the capital of the UK and home to those English leeches: the
    monarchs of Britain; and secondly to Scotland’s biggest and most unsettling
    city, Glasgow.

    CHAPTER 1:
    GETTING TO LONDON

    I took a night-bus
    from Edinburgh to London to visit some friends from Macalester who are
    studying there at King’s College for a semester. A nine-hour trip
    in a tiny cramped seat is bad enough without miserable company; but
    I was unfortunate enough to get the full two-fer-one crappy bus-ride
    combo. The guy who sat next to me looked like the kind of guy
    Dilbert would refuse to be seen with in public. At first, I was
    excited because he was immediately talkative. I thought to myself
    that this was going to be fun, that my bus-partner and I were going
    to become friends like in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Then the guy decided to tell me about his job working for an open-source
    version of Google maps, and everything started to turn.

    He blathered
    on about his job in a peppy and cartoonish way that I will refrain from
    here because it would alienate you as it did me. This is
    the gist of the one-sided exchange: He and his friends decided that
    it would be neat to set out on a quest to take pictures of the entire
    world to in order to submit these images to a league of powerful amateur
    cartographers. These other participants scrutinized them and put
    them together to form a map. This noble alliance between the camera-toting
    vagrants and the mapmakers led to what my delusional companion proudly
    hailed as a "more accurate version of Google maps."

    As he gestured
    wildly trying to recreate his madcap bike-rides through the Scottish
    countryside, armed only with a Nikon and a bottle of Powerade, I tried
    to drown out his goofy voice with the power of my own thoughts.
    I started to inwardly question the veracity of his absurd claims. How could a bunch of bored would-be Vespuccis do a better job than Google
    does? Guys who mainly specialize in the field of knowing all the
    lines from Monty Python movies cannot outdo a company that has employed
    its satellites to take pictures of the surfaces of the Moon and Mars.

    Of course,
    that was only one of many questions that popped into my head, along
    with "why didn’t you just take another bus to London?" and "why
    can’t God just disintegrate somebody for me just this once?" Everything got much worse when he decided to point at the street every
    time we came across a patch of land that he and his friends needed to
    "explore more deeply" for the project. This happened very
    often — so often that eventually I forgot all civility and tersely told
    him I had to go to sleep. This was a blatant lie: nobody could
    sleep on a bus-ride as cramped and uncomfortable as this. Except
    for the map-nerd. He slept like an oversized baby, snoring loudly,
    and shuffling his legs in a way that clearly violated my prized personals
    space.

    Eventually
    I did get to London; I parted ways with my nightmare-bus-buddy, and
    we have not crossed paths again.

    CHAPTER 2:
    LONDON

    The famous
    landmarks of London are so familiar to everyone that I will not waste
    time describing the spires of Westminster Abbey or anything as mundane as
    that. Instead, I will tell you about some other stuff that happened
    to me in the UK capital.

    Being in a
    major city, the amount of options available to you can be overwhelming,
    disorientating, even paralyzing. Matt, the friend I was staying
    with in London, was kind enough to tackle this problem before I got
    there by losing his job. Now, we were free to roam the streets
    of the capital unhampered by the responsibility and indecision that
    come with that burden of burdens: money! No tours or fine dining
    for us. Instead, we had plenty of time to witness other more "idiosyncratic"
    attractions.

    One afternoon,
    when we were walking on London’s Strand we noticed some very colorful
    shapes moving about in a small alley near us. We walked towards
    the alley and the shapes came into focus. Before me, I saw what
    seemed to be the gaudy entrance of a nightclub and next to it were several
    individuals fully costumed to look like different animals. A fox
    in a policeman’s uniform cuffed a yellow rabbit in a baseball jersey. A purple wolf with robot-parts stared my friend and me down with his
    laser-eyes. Some other critters completely ignored us and went
    around taking pictures of each other in weirdly suggestive poses. My friend and I exchanged confused looks with a hint of trepidation,
    realizing that we were in the territory of some pretty wild deviance. Like lower mammals responding to a base instinct, we began to take pictures
    of these people who enthusiastically obliged us by strutting around
    in a way that can’t really be called "sexy" but which I can perhaps
    best describe as "uncanny."

    After this
    brush with perversity, I visited many other, more conventional sights. I saw Britain’s largest manmade crack in the Tate Modern and a host
    of pictures of historical luminaries with weak chins at the National
    Portrait Gallery
    . I even heard a recording of James Joyce’s
    shrill aunt of a voice at the British Library! Every day was rich
    with activity! However
    stimulated these activities kept my eyes and ears, the call of a grumbling
    tummy inevitably brings me to my next topic: food

    People often
    complain about British cuisine. They say it is unhealthy, unsavory,
    and unsatisfying (and not worth the £5.00 you pay for it). I
    like deep-fried things, though, so Scotland has been good to me. Fish ‘n’ chips, deep-fried pork rib, and analogous dishes are exactly
    what clogs my heart and arteries with joy as well as fat. London,
    on the other hand was not as delightfully greasy a romp as its Scottish
    counterpart, Edinburgh.

    There, I went
    to what may well be the worst Chinese buffet currently in operation.
    It was an awful place where the bits of chicken tasted like crusty soap
    and all the desserts were cubic. Everybody at the restaurant,
    save myself and the friends who were with me, looked absolutely depressed. They ate the food with heir heads hanging in despair, as if somebody
    were making them do it. Frankly, I think that by the end of our
    meal, we also must have looked like we had just endured some especially
    cruel and ancient torture. Nevertheless, we swallowed down several
    plates of this shitty matter, because it was, after all, an all-you-can-eat
    buffet, and we jumped at the chance at finally getting
    the most bang for our quid.

    The moral of
    this story is: when in London, refuse the food. No matter how
    hungry you are, it is not worth the pain and sadness you will feel after
    your stomach is full of toxic bile. This I learned the hard way.
    Soon after my culinary travail, I had to take the bus back to Edinburgh.
    I spent the whole trip looking out the window; trying hard to fight
    back London’s take on the ol’ buffet blues.

    Now, on to
    the next stop on this tour of the Isle:

    GLASGOW

    A few of my
    friends and I decided to travel via train from Edinburgh to Glasgow
    in order to take in this city. I knew little about my destination,
    and God knows I wasn’t going to bother myself with doing research. Thankfully my flatmate, Knut, had some helpful information to provide.
    From him, I found out that Glasgow was the "knife-fight capital"
    of Scotland and that I should "definitely
    avoid needles" at all costs.

    Soon after
    I arrived at Glasgow, things took on a sinister bent. The city
    had many beautiful buildings, but the sight of encroaching urban sprawl
    was something that had become alien to me in tidy Edinburgh. As
    we ambled down the causeways and closes, I noticed cultural artifacts
    like smack-spikes and dirty shoes abandoned in strange, muddy gutters.
    Then I saw a group of chavs shout obscenities at a couple of women. The women screeched back some non-words in self-defense and gave them
    the two-finger "screw you" salute. I made it past this battle
    and came to a plaza. There, a man stood on a ladder, and hysterically
    spat passages from a big book (The
    Bible? Dianetics?
    ) at a group of onlookers. Sometimes he took
    breaks to tell us passers-by that we were "Scum!" and "Damned!" This city was obviously no place for the faint of heart.

    For some odd
    reason, we decided to go to the Glasgow Necropolis. Deep in my
    stomach, I felt this was a bad decision as it meant getting closer to
    the tombs of Scots killed in the knife-fights I was told about.
    We went, though, and I saw where John Knox was buried. After that, nothing
    else really happened. Hopefully, next time I go to Glasgow I will
    get bludgeoned by a wino with a bloody dirk and I will get the "real
    Glasgow experience" I was hoping for. Until then, cherished
    memories of rudeness and creepy fanaticism will have to do.

  • Too Sexy for Uptown

    Today is the day Uptown brings sexy back.

    Even as Calhoun Square divests itself of undesirable
    tenants, forcing men in striped shirts stumbling blindly forth from Drink to satisfy their gyro pizza cravings elsewhere, an
    ominous pink glow rises from what was once the home
    of sensibly priced polos and ringer tees
    – signaling a new order at Lake
    and Hennepin. A new order that could potentially blow the minds of Uptown
    residents and shoppers alike. A new order that, if left unchecked, could plant
    the seed of corruption in the impressionable minds looking for an intellectual
    connection
    atop the
    rooftop at Stella’s
    . For lo, the
    pink-gartered beast from Columbus
    has arrived in Uptown, entreating and
    cajoling all who pass by with promises of crotchless hedonistic delights
    within.

    Or at least, that’s what Victoria’s Secret CEO Sharen Jester
    Turney would have
    us believe
    . According to Turney, Victoria’s Secret has become far too sexy,
    instantly transforming upstanding Lunds shoppers into streetwalkers and whores and stirring men into
    testosterone fueled rampages –forcing them to don designer jeans and untucked shirts at a
    heretofore unheard of pace in order to engage in frenzied rituals involving
    Captain Morgan and the spasmodic twitching that passes for dance among males of the species. Minneapolis’ corporate sector will grind to a standstill
    as the siren song of garter belts and bustiers lures unsuspecting men and women
    into a hormone-laden trap, with the furious coupling that ensues resulting in a
    baby boom of unprecedented proportions – potentially rendering the Social
    Security system solvent again.

    In reality, the arrival of Victoria’s Secret does
    not herald the carnal apocalypse. But, it does signal a new era in the
    Uptown saga. And while it promises fiscal stability, as fellow
    blogger Christy DeSmith mentioned
    , there are significant questions
    surrounding the redesign of Calhoun Square and its surrounding environs,
    especially as pertains to the retail mix. Independent restaurants and shops
    have played a large role in Uptown’s history, but many smaller Calhoun Square
    tenants are leaving, whether because of the instability inherent to a
    significant redesign like the one the property is going through, or because
    their leases aren’t being renewed. Longtime stalwarts like The Lotus are
    getting the "morning after the one-night-stand" treatment. Sobriety has come
    crashing down and while it seemed like a great idea at the time, the cold light
    of day has revealed Dan Frischman – Arvid
    from TV sitcom "Head of the Class" – lying languidly beside you, basking in the afterglow. The door can’t hit them in the ass fast enough.

    The plans put forth by the new owners of Calhoun Square call
    for a "mix of national retailers, local
    boutiques, and engaging restaurant concepts, including a mix of new and current
    tenants…" but that promise is eerily similar to the initial proposals for the
    urban nightmare that is Block E and doesn’t hold much water given the exodus of
    current tenants, though some, like Kitchen Window, have had their leases
    extended. And with American Apparel, Victoria’s Secret and North Face
    all setting up shop near the already well-established Urban Outfitters, Uptown
    residents have every right to be suspicious.

    In fact, residents are already reverting to the
    slavering attack dogs who so handily helped scuttle plans for a high-rise condo
    above the Lagoon Theater.In an example of either the craven cowardice of the
    Minneapolis Planning Commission, or the strident power of community activism,
    neighborhood residents have already sent the Minneapolis Planning Commission
    scrambling for cover as they bombard the developer with demands for "more public
    space" in the Calhoun Square redesign, as well as concerns over the possibility
    of large "anchor" tenants at the redesigned mall. Despite the support of city planners, communit concerns have caused approval of the project to be delayed till the Planning Commission’s next meeting on March 31st.

    Luckily, amid the rancor and disquiet, we have the
    comforting pink glow of Victoria’s Secret to remind us that even if a Chili’s
    takes the place of our beloved Figlio, we can always give in to the
    overpowering carnality emanating from 3000 Hennepin Ave. and embrace the
    hedonistic lifestyle proffered by Gisele’s cleavage, at least until Sharen
    Turney introduces the all new Very Sexy Chastity Belt and reveals the company’s latest spokesmodel.

     

  • Do the Irish Train Their Spouses Like Animals, too?

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Tunes, Tales, and Ale

    Start your St. Paddy’s Day celebration early with an evening of Irish food, drink, and entertainment. I’m not talking hornpipes and polka here (though, by Jove, you seem to love them). I’m talking Van Morrison! Ok. Ok. Not quite, but at least his music. Music will be provided by the St. Dominic’s Trio, the acclaimed Van Morrison tribute band led by local rock veteran Terry Walsh. Enjoy complimentary hors d’oeuvres from The Local, cocktails and Irish beers from the cash bar, and tales of Ireland and the Irish in Minnesota by Kieran Folliard (owner of Kieran’s Irish Pub, The Local, and The Liffey). Plus, learn how to bake Irish soda bread from Mary Healy of Saint Honore Gluten-Free Bakery.

    6 to 11 p.m., Mill City Museum, 704 S. 2nd St., Minneapolis; 612-341-7555; $24 members $20; reservations required.

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Using Animal Training on Your Spouse

    A couple years ago, when Amy Sutherland wrote about using animal-training techniques on her husband to improve their marriage, her "Modern Love" column became The New York Times’ most emailed article of the year. And of course, as is the way of the world, she got a book deal out of it, with a movie now in the works. Fresh off an appearance on The Today Show and a feature in the current issue of Newsweek, Sutherland joins us in Minneapolis to share her new book, What Shamu Taught Me about Life, Love, and Marriage: Lessons for People from Animals and Their Trainers. Don’t miss out on the invaluable life lessons.

    7 p.m., Borders, 800 W. 78th St, Richfield; 612-869-6245; free.

    ART
    Revision, Reiteration, Recombination: Process and the Contemporary Print

    Printmaking has a history as a medium that renowned painters and sculptors turn to when they want to experiment; locally, our own Highpoint Center for Printmaking and the erstwhile Vermillion Editions have hosted artists from around the world as they explored etching, monotyping, and lithography. This show is curated by Leslie Wayne, a New York painter whose work is currently on exhibit at the Jack Shainman Gallery in New York; she brings together a motley assortment of noteworthy figures whose work in printmaking we’re excited to see, in particular Polly Apfelbaum, Louise Bourgeois, Nicola López (who just had a show locally at Franklin Art Works), Thomas Nozkowski, Martin Puryear, and James Siena. Fans of the medium will want to attend a roundtable discussion on opening night at 6 p.m., just before the reception. —Julie Caniglia

    6 p.m., College of Visual Arts Gallery, 173 Western Ave., St. Paul; 651-290-9379.

    A "Peace" of War

    War…Huh! What is it good for? At least one thing: art. A new exhibit on war, titled Booby Trap, opens today at the Larson Art Gallery. The war being fought on the walls of the Larson may not, however, be the kind of war you might expect. This group of work concentrates on war during the medieval era, a time when war was considered sport. How much has actually changed since that time? Go to the exhibit and find out. Additionally, if you haven’t paid the Larson a visit recently, you should stop by to see the newly remodeled space. Don’t "fight" the urge; stop on by! —Kate Liebfried

    10 a.m. to 5 p.m., Paul Whitney Larson Art Gallery, 2017 Buford Ave., University of Minnesota, Saint Paul; 612-625-0214; free.

    MUSIC
    Ravi Coltrane and Roy Haynes

    Two substantial (as in deep and dense) jazz bands for the price of one are on the docket when both Ravi Coltrane and Roy Haynes front ensembles at Northrop Auditorium tonight (7:30 p.m.).

  • What's in a Handbag?

    photos by Tom Weiss

    Well, it’s snowing AGAIN, and I am sure you’ve reached the point where you just want to take a break and be done with winter. I am right there with you. 🙂

    So, how about taking a little mini vacation for a few hours and getting together with some good friends (and CARLOS FALCHI!) at PUMPZ & Company this Friday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. at Galleria in Edina?

    Yes, I have work as well, but this purse and accessory designer makes it well worth sneaking away for a quick break just to see the beautiful handbags and accessories he creates.

    By the way, I really want to stress that I DON’T get paid to promote any designer; but I do enjoy promoting a designer who creates unique handbags that have been seen on the arms of — oh, what the heck, I am going to name drop here for a second — Nancy Reagan, Madonna, Kim Cattrall, Jessica Simpson, and the forever fashion icon Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

    I would love to give you more tidbits. Maybe tell your boss you have a terrible headache and come in person to shake Mr. Falchi’s hand, get an autograph, or simply enjoy seeing up close the "It" bags that have been featured in Sex and the City, The Devil Wears Prada, and the new favorite chocolate treat: Lipstick Jungle.

    What is the worst thing that can happen? Your boss follows you and ends up thanking you for the good tip? 🙂

    If you want any more information, or if you could be kind enough to RSVP, call Lola Red PR at 612-333-1723 or email pumpz@lolaredpr.com.

    FYI: I recently had a buddy in town who just happens to be a major movie star, and she asked me to take her to the best place in MN to get shoes. You guessed it: We went to PUMPZ & Company at the Galleria — with her lame disguise on — and she fell in love with the store. Maybe next time she comes back and buys some shoes there I will tell her that she should never wear the same pair of shoes twice on the red carpet and make her feel better by having her donate her "Pumpz" purchases to charity.

    Now it’s back to reality and time for me to go and shovel my driveway. Yes, I do shovel, people. 🙂

    Happy Wednesday! 🙂

    —Melly

  • Gypsy Jazz, Caviar, and a Wailer Sighting

     

    About a dozen Rake readers and friends showed up last
    Wednesday – at my invitation – for dinner and a show at T’s Place. You can find
    better Malaysian dishes elsewhere, (like at Peninsula Malaysian Cuisine) but the Ethiopian dishes
    were hearty and flavorful, prices extremely reasonable, and the contemporary
    jazz by Ethiopian-born bass guitarist Yohannes Tona and his band was
    first-rate.

    Toma’s a musician of
    the the caliber you expect to hear at the Dakota, where he sometimes performs.
    But for aging hipsters, the real musical highlight came late in the
    evening, when a grey-bearded guy got up on stage with the band and sang No
    Woman No Cry, followed by an a capella rendition of Redemption Song, a capella.
    It turns out he’s Devon Evans, who used
    to play percussion with Bob Marley and the Wailers. A memorable moment.

    Looking for things to do this week?:

    If you can’t get a table at Cafe Maude, check in at nearby Cave Vin, 5555 Xerxes Ave.S., where Rhonda Laurie (that’s her, above) and her trio play every Wednesday, performing jazz standards and gypsy swing in the keys of mellow and romantic.
    No cover charge. Best bets from the menu include the steak tartare and the
    steamed mussels – order them with the frites for a light supper. And Yohannes Toma will be back at T’s place, starting at 9 p.m.

    This Thursday only, Morton’s of Chicago in downtown Minneapolis will host a
    vodka and caviar event from 6 to 7:30 – Petrossian caviar, sliced smoked
    salmon, tuna tartare canapés and sliced tenderloin on crostini, accompanied by
    assorted vodka "mortinis." Cost is $45 per person, plus tax and tip; call 612-673-9700 for reservations.

  • Faking It

    It seems every time you pick up a newspaper, someone new is issuing a mea culpa for having written, published, or promoted a completely fake memoir. Starting with Rigoberta Menchu, back in the ’90s, then continuing through James Frey and his Million Little Pieces to the middle-aged woman who wrote about being a male teen prostitute named JT LeRoy.

    This week, we have Margaret Seltzer, who wrote under the pen name Margaret [Peggy] B. Jones and sold a true-to-life book called Love & Consequences. It took her three years to pen this memoir about her young life as a girl gang banger in south Los Angeles and her subsequent salvation at the hands of an African-American foster mother she called Big Mom. Only upon publication, it turned out Seltzer actually grew up in tony Sherman Oaks, CA, and she lived with her own biological parents (and the sister who ratted her out) until leaving for an expensive private school.

    What’s interesting about this story — to me, at least — is that Seltzer/Jones editor, Sarah McGrath, was MY editor, back when she was at Scribner and I was at work on my first novel, which we nicknamed Wild Ride. Sarah was a marvelous editor: dedicated, respectful, a real champion. There were times I thought she believed in my book more than I did. And I can easily see how a woman so enthusiastic about the art of the written word could get taken in.

    But what does this have to do with food, you’re asking? Well, funny thing. . . .

    Around the same time Love & Consequences was being recalled, a chef named Robert Irvine, host of the Food Network’s Dinner Impossible, was busted as well.

    It seems Irvine lied on his official resume, saying he’d cooked for President Bush and Princess Diana and somewhere along the line been knighted by the queen. He did none of these things. Nor did he graduate from the University of Leeds.

    What he did was star in a successful television show for more than a year — a program that one reviewer said was like James Bond meets MacGyver — serving impromptu gourmet meals to hundreds of people. He was entertaining and the food was good.

    So what, I ask, does his past have to do with it?

    Did he lie? Well, of course he did. Let’s take a look at YOUR official resume, check the grade point average you listed, the dates of employment for that managerial job you actually held for only two and a half months while your boss was out dead.

    And, to come full circle, I’m not sure why readers are so terribly upset about the memoir, either. (McGrath’s publishing house, Penguin, has not only recalled all copies in bookstores, they’ve even offered a refund to anyone who bought the book.) Jones apparently wrote a fabulous book, one that New York Times reviewer Michiko Kakutani called "humane and deeply affecting." Well, isn’t it still. . . .true to life or not?

    I’m puzzled, you see, by the point of all these recriminations. It would appear to me that Seltzer was being paid to tell a good story and Irvine to cook great meals. Each did exactly as she or he was assigned. And, yes, greased their reputations along the way. But given they showed real talent — producing work that other people benefited from and enjoyed — I would ask: What’s the real harm?

  • A Slew of Overachievers

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    The Cult of Perfection

    Is your life ruled by a “to do” list of goals? When you get an idea, do you act upon it immediately, not resting until you have achieved a result? Do you always complete your work before the deadline? Do you often feel overwhelmed? Are you restless even on vacation? Then you’re probably an overachiever. But don’t worry—Cooper Lawrence is here to help. Join the acclaimed psychology expert and media personality tonight as she discusses her new book and gives you the necessary tools to make peace with your inner overachiever. "Packed with practical exercises and real-life stories of overachieving women past and present, The Cult of Perfection helps you harness your incredible energy, focus, and determination, to bring joy and success to your life."

    2 p.m.,
    Magers & Quinn Booksellers, 3038 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-822-4611.

    MUSIC
    Bob Mould

    "When Bob Mould visits First Avenue, the paint on the walls heats up and starts to become liquid again. Stalactites of tobacco exhalations loosen their grip and drop from the ceiling. And the eardrums of people in the audience begin to ring in a way that will never completely go away, but it won’t hurt until they file out into the street, so they stay put, rapt in the presence of this former local boy and one of punk rock’s living legends." Tonight, he hits his old stomping grounds with a resplendent new disc, District Line, that mixes an occasional electronic dance tune with the molten pop-rock.

    8 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Avenue North, Minneapolis; 612-338-8388; $15.

    ART
    Printer’s Pick

    Last year, staffers from the Highpoint Center for Printmaking combed through hundreds of portfolios to put together the invitational Printers’ Picks exhibit, which unfortunately ends today. Don’t miss your last chance to see this collection of diverse and engaging work from 20 North American printmakers: Adriane Atha, Sherry Black, Christopher Cannon, Caitlin Cowger, Maritza Dávila, Angellina Earley, Wanda Ewing, Jenni Freidman, Sharon Heitzenroder, Drew Iwaniw, Lê H. Khánh, Jessica Mills, Jewel Noll, Kristin Powers Nowlin, Laura Pharis, Matthew Rangel, Omar Richardson, Blake Sanders, Ruth Snyder, and Lauren van Wyke.

    10 a.m. to 5 p.m., Highpoint Center for Printmaking, 2638 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-871-1326.

  • The Three Pointer: Flat

    Copyright 2008 NBAE (Photo by David Sherman/NBAE via Getty Images)

    Game #59, Home Game #32: Charlotte 109, Minnesota 89

    Season Record: 12-47

    1. Getting the Message

    It is just early March, with more than a fourth of the season’s games still to play, but the Minnesota Timberwolves are counting ping pong balls a lot more assiduously than they are counting victories.

    Is the team "tanking"? No, not in the blatant, Mark Madsen will chuck up three pointers, or Kevin Garnett will suffer an injury sort of way. But the situation feels uncomfortably similar to this stretch of the season last year, when it became pretty obvious that the best five-man team the Wolves could put on the floor was KG and a bunch of young kids, yet Randy Wittman and the front office stubbornly played the stinking vets like Mark Blount and Ricky Davis with Garnett, all the while trying to convince would-be ticket-buyers that there was a "Blueprint" in the offing that would spell wins down the road. It just so happened that part of that blueprint was losing enough games to keep the draft pick instead of sending it to the Clippers.

    Flash forward to this season. The Wolves have just lost consecutive home games to a Seattle squad that had won just 15 games all season, and now a Charlotte team that had lost nine in a row on the road and triumphed only once–in overtime, yet–in the entire month of February. In both games, Minnesota played quarter-assed defense (half assed is too much praise) and didn’t step up when it mattered most. In the postgame press conference Wittman stated the obvious: "Tonight we tried to have a nonaggression pact with the other team…it was happening from the first play of the game to the last play of the game…I think we are worrying too much about what is happening at the offensive end and not enough about what is happening on defnese…we had 3 free throws and 2 offensive rebounds in the second half–that’s nonaggression.

    All true. But the part that perked up my ears was when Wittman mentioned, twice, at different points in his harangue, that Ryan Gomes was doing a noble job of fronting power forward Emeka Okafor, denying him the ball, and then–and here Wittman said it, twice–he went to his "big lineup" and the person on Okafor guarded him from behind and let him shoot. And that’s when it hit me: The "big lineup" Wittman was criticizing to the inferred plaudits of Gomes and the "small lineup" consisted of Al Jefferson at center and Craig Smith at power forward. But that "big lineup" was the front line I was criticizing as a "small lineujp" earlier in the season before Wittman went smaller still with Jefferson at center and Gomes at power forward. And the reason it is now the de facto "big lineup" is because the Timberwolves braintrust thought it would be a good idea to cut Theo Ratliff loose.

    If your idea is to be as competitive as possible and win as many games as possible, buying out the remainder of Ratliff’s contract made absolutely no sense. If your idea is to groom Al Jefferson at his natural power forward position and get him used to playing with a defensive-oriented, shot-blocking man in the pivot who would be the perfect complement to Jefferson’s skill set, than buying Ratliff out makes no sense. If your idea is to see how the existing centers who are either young and unproven (Chris Richard) or signed relatively long term (Mark Madsen) do paired with Jefferson, the buying out of Ratliff does have some logic–but obviously that is not the Wolves’ intent. Richard got a whole 5:53 worth of burn tonight, bringing him up to 29:38 over the past six games–he played 25:17 in the December 14 game against Seattle alone. But even when the coaches deign to play Richard, it is almost always *replacing Jefferson at center*; the two rarely if ever play together. Meanwhile, Madsen hasn’t played since a token appearance against Toronto February 10, which was ten games ago. And Michael Doleac has logged a grand 2:25 in the last six games.

    If Wittman wanted this ballclub to care more about defense than offense, he should have kept Ratliff, who I daresay would have made Okafor think about turning and shooting even playing behind him. Ditto Doleac, and probably Madsen. Richard and Okafor were on the floor at the same time for less than two minutes tonight.

    At the end of the exhibition season, I was genuinely looking forward to the time when the Wolves could trot out a front line of Ratliff, Jefferson and Corey Brewer; I remember writing at the time that it had the potential to be a very good defensive trio. I was also looking forward to a shared backcourt of Foye and McCants with that front line. Yes, Ratliff would have been gone next year anyway, but he would have provided some defensive stability and attention to that side of the ball this year; he would have hopefully helped develop a habit of talking to each other and taking pride in one’s defense. I saw a team with Ratliff, Foye and Jefferson winning between 20 and 30 games. Now injuries certainly intervened. But it’s funny; just when that unit had a chance to finally get together, the Wolves’ braintrust pulled the plug and let Theo walk, saving owner Glen Taylor perhaps $3 or $4 million–and, not incidentally, putting them in a better position to let the likes of Seattle and Charlotte convert more than half their shots en route to road wins at Target Center.

    "Let’s build it together," is the new "Blueprint For the Future." It feels very familiar: A hard, aggressive public relations campaign while Theo gets his buyout and Antoine Walker–another vet who is highly respected in the locker room and has been a solid citizen up until the trade deadline, and is still straining to be a solid citizen now–sits in street clothes, spared the indignity of not having DNP-CD next to his name. But who’s to say ‘Toine couldn’t have provided a spark tonight, spread the floor a little bit?

    Don’t think the players on the roster don’t notice these things. The talk around the league is how the Lakers got Pau and the Mavs Kidd and the Suns Shaq. Then there are teams that are positioning themselves for next year. Minnesota is in the latter batch–for the third straight year. And for the third straight year, losing games means more to this squad than to most, because the difference is not just a better position in the ping-pong ball chase, it is the difference perhaps between having a pick and forking it over to the Clips.

    Every year about this time, I get into long involved discussions with people who think it best to inadvertantly tank, by "playing the young kids," or simply figuring out ways to move up in the draft. I understand the logic of the argument. But I hew to a simpler logic: Fans who pay good money to watch a pro NBA team deserve to see a team that is doing whatever possible to win now and win later with the personnel they have. And everyone in the Wolves locker room knows that the personnel moves made in recent days–be it the dumping of Ratliff or the mothballing of Walker–are not about winning now or later with the current personnel. It is about making sure another high draft pick comes to this ballclub. That’s not exactly a motivating force.

    There is no doubt in my mind that if Theo Ratliff were still around and Antoine Walker was still getting some rotations that overall morale would be higher, and the defensive effort would be more rugged. I get the math of the draft picks. I get the "we’ll see who really wants to step up and play these last few weeks of the season," speech. But when Glen Taylor goes on television and talks about how much more fun this season has been than the last two, because you can really see how the young kids are coming together and ho
    w there is a plan in place and how the future is brighter–well, some of that is true and some of that is fairly intolerable bullshit. This team is currently playing uninspired, demoralized basketball–they just handed a game to the pathetic Sonics and got impudently spanked by a team that couldn’t beat anybody in regulation during the entire month of February–you know, the month that ended four days ago. It’s not fun. It feels a hell of a lot like the previous two years, when it was hard to tell which was worse: If the front office knew what it was doing or if it didn’t. It’s a Twilight Zone, and that’s exactly how the players are responding to it.

    2. Muddied Waters

    Meanwhile, the jury is out on exactly how meaningful these last six weeks are going to be. Let me offer a few examples.

    Point guard: The competition is between Randy Foye and Sebastian Telfair. The recent plan has been to start them both in the same undersized backcourt and then go "big" by swapping Bassy out for a bigger player than kicks Foye over to the point. Management obviously would prefer that Foye blossom into a quality point guard and settle the matter, consigning Telfair to back-up point status and enabling Rashad McCants to glide in as sixth man and shooting guard, or bump Corey Brewer back to the 2 when the Wolves really do want to go "big."

    If this really is about players stepping up and making claims for their time, no favorites considered, then Telfair is doing his part. Wolves fans don’t even blink twice when they read a line like Bassy’s 9/1 assist to turnover ratio tonight. He’s got 141 assists versus just 33 turnovers in his last 22 games. The knock, of course, is that he is an unreliable shooter.

    But Telfair is ever so slowly but surely improving that facet of his game. Tonight he sank 6-11 FG for 12 points, the 7th time in 10 games he’s cracked double figures, despite having his minutes cut some since Foye’s return. More significantly, he’s begun stroking the j without mentally checking himself, a crucial confidence threshold that he needs to maintain to have any shot at becoming a bona fide point guard in this league. Tonight in the second quarter he clanked a wide open look from about 13 feet, and had the ball bounce right back out to him. The Bassy of earlier this season would have looked around for a pass and, if not seeing one, brought the ball back out to set up a play. Tonight he got the rebound and realized he was in the exact same position as before–wide open for a 13 footer. After the quickest of glances to see if anyone was cutting for the hoop, he rose up and stuck the jumper. In the third quarter, a double-teamed Jefferson dished it out to him and Telfair nailed the jumper (inexplicably, no assist for Jefferson). Then there was the play where Bassy came down, did a quick dribble between his legs, faded right and sank a long two-pointer. And the play where Telfair sped down the court looking for a fast break, only to have no one keeping up. Finally, he hit the trailer Smith, who promptly dished it right back to him. Open again, Telfair let it fly–swish. All of which led to a play in the fourth where the ball went out to Telfair and Charlotte’s perimeter D started to close out on him. Telfair promptly zipped a pass to Smith beneath the hoop for a layup.

    As has been true for the past couple weeks, Foye was more inconsistent, alternately better and worse than his competitor. Tonight he came out smokin’ with 9 points and 4 assists in the first quarter, including some midrange penetration that often yields his running banker on the right lane. He followed that up with 1-1 FG but two turnovers in 5:59 of the second period, then a gruesome second half in which he went 2-5 FG but produced zero assists and two more turnovers, plus 5 personal fouls, in 14:39. The Randy Foye of the 1st quarter deserves the starting point guard position. The Randy Foye who has a 0/4 assist to turnover ratio and 5 fouls in the last three periods must be given the "injuries take time to heal" waiver because the Wolves invested a lot in him both in terms of his draft position and his being acquired for the reigning rookie and the year and current All Star, Brandon Roy. It also of no small concern that both Telfair and Foye were just awful on defense, along with just about every member of the ballclub.

    Power forward not named Jefferson. With Walker bumped aside, the meaningful competitors are Craig Smith and Ryan Gomes. I’ve always felt like the Rhino is easy to overestimate because he’s the archtypal gritty underdog people love to root for as an undersized second-round draft pick with an uncanny knack for scoring in the paint. Consequently, I’ve probably underestimated him this season. He and Gomes share a proclivity for occasional breakout games–they are two of three Wolves to have scored 35 or more this season–and more frequent disappearances. But lately he’s had another boomlet, and what’s especially pleasant to see is how much he is moving without the ball, making him an excellent partner for Telfair–and, increasingly, Jefferson, who is looking for him near the hoop as often as he looks to the perimeter when the double coverage comes. The other things that distinguish Smith are superb hands–that aforementioned bullet pass from Telfair was partially screened by defenders and not an easy catch–and a knack for footwork and body control that create space versus taller opponents, which, along with a nice touch with the arc, gets him hoops that are improbable to say the least.

    Smith is not a very good defender, however, with an admirable frequency but low success rate at attempting to draw charges, and a ‘tweener curse that makes him too short versus large power forwards and too slow versus quick power forwards.

    Gomes is a more versatile glue guy, and not just because he can play the 3 too. He has more range on his jumper (but is less accurate than Smith overall), and is a better passer (‘tho Smith is improving), dribbler, and defender. Wittman’s comments about the defensing of Okafor tonight notwithstanding, however, Smith generally is better able to guard low-post oriented players, and so if Minnesota truly wants Jefferson to be the center in their future, Smith’s odds of being resigned in Minnesota go up. Another relative plus for Smith: He will be cheaper than Gomes.

    Those are just two thumbnail comparison sketches, and what they dramatize for me is that the sample size remains incredibly small and there are so many contingencies that folks–probably including the front office–don’t even know what the parmaters of comparison or the needs of the ballclub are going to be. A part of me yearns to see the same kind of decisive handicapping that had the Wolves not offer an extension to Gerald Green and then unload him at the trading deadline. They saved time by deciding that he was never going to be an answer. Rather than give Kirk Snyder all kinds of burn, or continue to fiddle with McCants/Foye/Telfair without a clear sense of what you are looking for(due top draft uncertainty, I understand), it would be nice to know what each player needs to accomplish or resolve in order to raise his stock. Hopefully, an emphasis on improving defensive prowess is on everyone’s criteria list.

    3. Sign of Progress

    Let the record show that Jefferson had two assists to night–as I mentioned earlier, I saw three, perhaps even four. But for the first time this season I also saw something equally exciting for Wolves fans. When Jefferson was being double teamed in the fourth quater and the Wolves ran their bread and butter play with a baseline cutter going past Jefferson on the left block, he was able to create space for himself by feinting the pass, then spinning for a relatively uncontested layup. The better he can dish, the easier he can score. It was a rare optimistic moment.

  • One More Cup of Coffee for the Road: In Another Lifetime

    Long, long ago, in the sweltering twilight of an August night
    roaring with cicadas and the vacuum hum of a lazy small town in retreat
    from the heat and the falling darkness, the yards and sidewalks
    abandoned for living rooms and television sets (the wobbling blue
    screens of which we could see through the dark, otherwise blank window
    frames and the gauzy, fluttering filter of curtains), I bucked you
    across town through the empty streets on my stingray bike.

    We were hunched together on my sparkling blue banana seat; I was
    pedaling furiously and you were clinging to the sissy bar. I wished you
    had been clinging to me, wished you would put your arms around my
    chest, but it was nice to feel you there behind me all the same, nice
    to hear your laughter (all the wonderful variations of your wonderful
    laugh) ringing out over the silent neighborhoods and your voice at my
    ear and your breath in my hair.

    I don’t know, can’t remember, where we were going. We weren’t,
    though, going to the Dairy Queen, where everyone else always seemed to be going and where the moths were in full swirling
    frenzy around the streetlamps in the parking lot. We were headed, I’m
    sure, elsewhere.

    We were in search of what you called a grassy horizontal, and we had darkness in mind, I think, and so we’d ride out to where the futile
    over-light of that shitty little town gave way suddenly to a great
    stretch of emptiness, where the pavement turned to gravel, where there
    were fields rolling away into the distance, and where there was a muddy
    creek and there were railroad tracks and trains (which sounded, you
    said, like iron waterfalls, and which I’ve always said sound like
    something heavy being carried away) crawling off into the night, out
    into an America we could only then imagine.

    But which we did imagine, together, breathlessly, with ridiculous
    hope and optimism. That place was where we knew we would eventually
    have to go to make our escape, to complete the process of becoming, to
    find ourselves even as we lost each other.

    That was also the place, the place beyond our close little world
    whose secrets and sadnesses we felt certain we had already divined,
    where we would one day, through exactly the sort of occasional miracle
    this world is still capable of delivering, find each other again.

    I am still, every day, my sister, my old friend, stunned by this
    miracle, still gratefully puzzled by my bounty of blessings entirely
    undeserved. And now it always seems to be that same magic dusk I
    remember, and I find myself once again in the position of trying to
    talk you onto the back of my stingray bike, trying to convince you to
    ride with me out beyond the false, feeble light of that low town, away
    from and out from under the people we have allowed ourselves to become;
    trying to get you to slow down and to listen again to the roaring
    silence and the moving water and the watch-winding racket of insects
    throbbing from the ditches, and to lie on your back with me marveling
    at the stars and the heat lightning trembling down the dark sky across
    the fields.

  • "Edina Mom" above Mammaries

    Look, I deeply understand that trenchant matters of importance are upon us. Hillary is imploding, the silver haired wren is the latest casualty of climate change (speaking as an amateur orthonologist, it matters), sticky sidewalks in downtown Minneapolis are about to be re-introduced due to the flaccid governance of a weak Mayor system in spite of the fervor of one Raymond Thomas.

    And yet.

    From my little corner of the online world, I keep getting comments from suburban daughters protesting what they consider a creepy commentary on an Edina female sending her kids off to "camp."

    While the page views are not about to unseat the Chocolate Rapper or Austin Hall’s hands any time soon, the personal attacks on me have crossed from online to the check-out line at Lunds. I was cornered by a soccer mom last night as I discussed cars with the check-out dude and started talking about the Road Rake. Apparently, her daugther and a friend have been dissing my exposure of a Ferrari-clad mom in the lobby of Colonial Church last summer.

    Note the derision in the daughter’s voice:

    "yah so what she wears a ferrari jacket…. OMG thats outrageous who
    cares like you took the time out of your day to make some video about
    some lady for edina… what i want to know is why are you looking at
    this womens chest reading her shirts when you are sending your kids off
    to camp who cares what shes wearing say goodbye to your kid and then go
    you think your kid is proud that you spend your time making jealous
    videos…"

    The Road Rake will not stoop to answer a coddled cake-eater at YouTube.

    On the other hand, I would like to point out to my blog readers that the chest footage has nothing to do with my observation that a woman, wearing a Ferarri jacket, who sends her kids off to a three-day "camp" with care packages the size of a Marshall Plan drop probably could not tell a real car from real kid.

    George Marshall (pictured) could.