The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • Fugaise: Have You Forgotten?

    Tons of successful restaurants are hidden in obscure buildings or out-of-the-way places: duplex, cafe Levain, 112 eatery. In these cases, the humble, back-door, sidestreet locations seem only to make them hotter. . . .more desirable. So I can never figure out what, exactly, is going on with Fugaise.

    The two-and-a-half year old enterprise of wunderkind Don Saunders (formerly of La Belle Vie and A Rebours), Fugaise consistently gets excellent reviews. Saunders serves a classy short menu of contemporary French cuisine with a beautifully-tailored wine list to match. And while his restaurant is a cool, windowless cave without a real storefront presence — sandwiched between Pizza Nea and a high-end baby store called Pacifier — it’s located on Hennepin Avenue North, just to the east of Surdyk’s. Not bad in terms of demographics: a great many well-heeled, wine-drinking people move through here.

    Yet, despite a nearly pathological precision in the kitchen, and heaps of raw talent, Saunders and his Fugaise have never quite hit the big time.

    This is the restaurant everyone means to visit, but they don’t. On the Friday night I was there, my friend and I occupied one of four full tables at 7 p.m. And I have to admit, I was offended on Saunders behalf: at two of the other tables sat people in scruffy jeans and weekend sweatshirts. I’m all for casual dress. But c’mon people: This is a really nice place and it deserves better than your Green Bay Packers gear.

    We drank a bottle of the Bouchard Pere & Fils Bourgogne Rouge, a light, cherry Burgundy made entirely of pinot noir. Then we started with a butternut squash soup, which was nutmeg-laced and creamy, scattered with pecorino and drizzled with pumpkinseed oil. It was more delicate than most pumpkin and squash soups, which was nice, and a little sweet for my taste. But my friend loved it, and I am generally less inclined toward sweet than salty.

    The second course, however, was perfect all the way around: Foie gras with carmelized apple and parsnip couscous on a bed of braised Swiss chard. The dish was finished with a Moroccan vinaigrette and full of those marketplace flavors such as pepper, mace, and allspice. The serving of chard was hefty, enough to get a forkful, and like the couscous, it was ideally cooked. Soft leaves under firm grains. The foie gras, from Hudson Valley, was tender and crustily seared.

    With food this diligent in its marriage of color, nutrients, and taste, I find it’s easy to feel satisfied with only a small amount. This is the paradigm on which Fugaise operates: carefully prepared medium-sized meals with a basket of crusty, wholesome bread on the side.

    Which brings me full circle.

    Now, I don’t want to set off alarms. Other critics once sounded a "death watch," saying Fugaise was so slow it had to be on the way out. Not so. It turns out Saunders has a cadre of dedicated fans who keep the restaurant alive by booking it for private parties. He’s stopped serving lunch because, he says, it simply wasn’t worth it, given the overhead. In other words, Fugaise is getting by. But the dining public’s tepid response does, frankly, have me perplexed.

    It is true that the decor is not for everyone: While other, more popular neo-French bistros go for the cozy, candlelit look, Fugaise is stark and silvery, with slashes of colorful modern art hanging on the walls. The name, too, is odd. People say it’s slang for a lot of things; Saunders claims it stems from a childhood nickname. Whatever the case, it’s not as approachable as, say, The Beautiful Life (La Belle Vie) or simply, Vincent.

    Whatever the reason, people haven’t flocked to Fugaise the way one might expect. And time may be running out (remember, you heard it here). No, the restaurant is not closing for lack of business. But it may be closing because its chef — 31 years old and a brand-new dad — says he’s thinking about switching careers. After more than ten years of cooking, Saunders is going back to school to pursue his education degree.

    The man wants to be a high school social studies teacher, in part so he can be home in the evening for Henry John, his now two-month-old son.

    "Having a baby is awesome," Saunders says with a grin. "It’s definitely changed my life. It’s crazy how much Henry changes on a day-to-day basis. If I have a long day at Fugaise and go home, I feel like I’ve been gone a week."

    Barring a fire in the kitchen, Saunders says he’ll probably stay open for the next two years while he earns his degree. After that, if the restaurant is doing well, he’ll stay on as owner and weekend chef. If not, no hard feelings, he’ll close the doors.

    So in a way, the decision is up to you.

  • The Wasteland

    This month marks the third anniversary of Yo Ivanhoe, and considering the similarly wasted years I spent shoveling words in a similar hole (Open All Night) at City Pages, I’m not much in the mood to celebrate five years of futility.

    When I first started doing this nonsense I was nothing but a clueless conscript to an online enterprise that meant absolutely nothing to me. Blogging? Seriously, what the fuck?

    I still don’t understand it, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t blogged. And I’ve discovered that in five years a guy can shovel a serious shitload of words in a mighty big hole that just seems to get deeper and darker all the time.

    Originally I decided to just approach this monkey business as an illogical extension of my usual pointless routines; every night for the last fifteen years I have sat down at the bottom of the day –usually in the wee hours– and written at least 300 words in a series of uniform, lined black books that now fill an entire small bookcase next to my desk. Most of those words are utter nonsense, and a small fraction of that nonsense has found its way here.

    I never wanted the black books to resemble a diary, but I did want to be able to look back at those words and find enough recognizable clues –however small– that I would be able to remember the exact day and circumstances that I wrote them. Little things like snippets of conversation I might have overheard or engaged in that day, a quote from something I’d read, or details from someplace I’d stumbled into while traveling would work their way into each entry, usually as little more than launching points for something entirely else, but from these fragments –and this never ceases to astonish me– I can now piece together days and weeks and months of my life, often with such clarity that the black books really have come to function as diaries of a sort.

    At some point I decided that this project (and at some point I did start to think of it as a project –I haven’t missed a single night since I violated that first page all those years ago) was a personal version of The Thousand and One Nights, with me playing the roles of both Scheherazade and King Dunyazad. I really believed those words and stories and stretches of impenetrable automatic writing were keeping me alive. Night after night they provided a bridge to another day, and somewhat to my surprise the days and nights did keep coming, and the words kept coming right along with them.

    This part of that project has eaten up a lot of my time and energy, and there have been times when I’ve tried to wean myself, but I always seem to creep back. I’m not sure why, to be honest with you (and to be honest with you, I’ve seldom been honest with you, just as I’ve steadfastly refused to believe in your existence).

    I guess, though, that there’s some sort of challenge to it. In the earliest days, and for a long time, actually, I would just move the words from the black books directly into cyberspace. As time went on, though, I started spending a bit more time fiddling with them, and trying to become a better writer. On many occasions over the last couple years by the time I finished fiddling and hit ‘post,’ the words that appeared here barely resembled the words I had originally written in one of the black books. I don’t know that they were truly improved, but the effort, and the time spent looking at them and thinking about them and moving them around felt like some sort of progress.

    It still, though, doesn’t feel like real writing to me, and for the most part it still feels like a waste of time. But if I’ve learned one thing about myself over the last five years, it is that I am a Titan of wasted time –mine, and yours.

    This is my life, more or less. This is who I am. This is what I do, and all I know how to do. I read books, look at photographs, listen to music, talk to my dog, ramble with my dog, literally stop breathing whenever I try to sleep, and get the hell out of town every chance I get.

    I am trying to write a story about a bullfrog who falls in love with a cow, and a man who has his cat turned into a woman, and a goat who smokes a pipe, wears spectacles, and speaks the plain, hard truth. Old, old stories, every last one of them, yet still, I think, worth telling.

    I worry, though, that I’m not long for this world. But who doesn’t?

    I’ll leave you with some selections from the Yo Ivanhoe Commonplace Book, another in-progress and almost certainly never-to-be completed project of Open All Night, Inc.:

    A Very Troubled Human Being

    What if an
    individual is perceiving a daydream and a series of external sensory inputs at
    precisely the same time, and has lost the capacity to distinguish one from the
    other? What happens to his perceptual world? Clearly he will be peopling his
    universe of awareness with elements that are altogether private, presences
    generated within which for him will be a genuine part of the real world; these
    are what he sees, or hears, or is otherwise sensing. And should he then be
    unable to differentiate these from his everyday perceptions, then indeed he may
    move into a haunted, nightmarish world, and be a very troubled human being.

    —Joseph D. Noshpitz,
    “Reality Testing: A Neuropsychological Fantasy,” in     Comprehensive
    Psychology

     

    Mr T: A Flower Unfolding

    No more small-time stuff for Mr. T. No more bit parts, no more local
    talent jive….I call the shots. I am in a position to pick and choose. More
    movies, more TV commercials, talk shows, speaking engagements, banquets,
    receptions in my honor, autograph sessions, the red carpet treatment everywhere
    I go.

    In the words of my pastor, Henry Hardy, Mr. T, you are a shining star.
    The heavens are warmed by your presence. You are a flower unfolding its petals.
    The universe is alive with your fragrance. You are a voice caressing the dawn.
    The silent spaces are filled with your joyous hope. This is your day! Live it
    in love because you are an expression of the life of God.

    —Mr.
    T,     Mr. T: The Man With The Gold. An Autobiography.
    St. Martin’s Press, 1984

     

    Talk Radio Explained

    I’ve been poking through this great book, African All Stars: The Pop
    Music of a Continent     (Chris Stapleton and Chris May) for several days, and
    last night I stumbled across the Yoruba word for radio, As’oromagb’esi,
    which is literally translated “One who speaks without expecting a
    reply.”

    Also, here’s a terrific quote from Ko Nimo, a Ghanaian musician: “The
    old people are my friends. I think of them as libraries on fire. They are
    passing away….as a musician you must be versed in the history of your
    people.”

     

    The Bush Bible

    …And you
    shall conquer every fortified city, and every choice city, and you shall fell
    every good tree, and stop up all springs of water, and ruin every good piece of
    land….

    —Second
    Kings, 3.19

     

    Elvis In Prophecy

    For Memphis shall become a
    waste, a ruin, without inhabitant.

    —Jeremiah,
    46.19

     

     

    The Gospel According to Red
    Sovine

    …For the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels.

    —Ezekiel
    1.20

     

    Of the Frying Pan As An Instrument of Torture

    Mention is made of the frying pan in the Second Book of the Maccabees (Ch. VII) and in very many collections of the Acts of the Blessed Martyrs, as of St. Eleutherius the Bishop, Saints Fausta and Justina, virgins and martyrs.

    The
    frying pan –if we may trust the the natural meaning of the word and
    the afore-named histories of the Blessed Martyrs– was a wide open dish
    or plate, which (as the Acts of the Martyrs bear witness) was
    filled with oil, pitch, resin, or sulphur, and then set over a fire;
    and when it began to boil and bubble, then were Christians of either
    sex thrown into it, such as had persisted steadfastly and boldly in the
    profession of Christ’s faith, to the end they might be roasted and
    fried like fishes cast into boiling oil.

    –Rev. Antonio Gallonio, Tortures and Torments of the Christian Martyrs

     

    Madame Curie Dreams of Radium

    Whenever
    Pierre and Marie, alone in their poor place, left their apparatus for a moment
    and quietly let their tongues run on, their talk about their
    beloved radium passed from the transcendent to the childish.

    I wonder what it will be
    like, what it will look like    , Marie said one day with the feverish curiosity of
    a child who has been promised a toy. Pierre, what form do you imagine it will take?

    I don’t know, the physicist answered
    gently.

    To which Marie replied, I should like it to have a
    very beautiful color….

    –Eve
    Curie, from     Madame Curie

     

     

    Amish Recruitment Drive: Serious Replies Only

    Wanted: Able-bodied
    men and women to join ongoing, harshly-restrictive experiment in rural
    living. Requirements: severe dress code, piety, hard work, frugality,
    and facial hair for the gentlemen (with the understanding, of course,
    that one can’t get blood from a stone). Bee-keeping skills a plus.
    Absolutely no modern monkey business.

    –Classified advertisement, Grit. January 5, 1988

     

    Socrates: The Man Could Hold His Liquor

    And we are
    told that Socrates, though indifferent to wine, could, on occasion, drink more
    than anybody else, without ever becoming intoxicated.

    –Bertrand
    Russell, A History of Western Philosophy

     

     

    Adventures in Etymology

    How about this definition (from Cooper’s Thesaurus Linguae Romanae and Britannicae) for ‘fanatic,’ by way of the Latin fanaticus:
    ‘Ravished by a propheticall sprite’? And how can you not like a word like absquatulate,
    and wonder not just at its meaning but also it’s origins? (To make off,
    away, skedaddle     –one marvel to define another, and, as for origin, the
    experts throw up their arms). The etymology of abstruse couldn’t
    be more perfect: from the Latin abstrudere, to push away. And here is
    the lovely South African name for an antelope: klipspringer (cliff
    springer). Finally, I give you the Greek origins for testicles,
    translated literally as ‘bystanders.’

     

    Curiosities of Science

    …in the
    year 1639, a woman was delivered of two eggs at Sundby, one of which was sent
    to Olaus Worm the famous naturalist, with ‘attestation signed by
    Ericus Westergard, Rotalph Rakestad and Thor Venes, coadjutors of the pastor in
    the parish of Niaess.’

    They
    certified, that upon ‘the 20th of May in that year, by the command of the
    Lord President in Remerige, the lord Paulus Tranius pastor in Niaess, we went
    to receive an account of the monstrous birth in Sundby by Anna, the daughter of
    Amundus and wife of Gudbrandas Erlandsonius. Upon the 7th day of April she
    began to grow ill and her neighbors came to her assistance. She brought forth
    an egg like that of a hen which was broken by the women present. They found
    that in it the yolk and white answered directly to the common egg. Upon the
    18th of April, about noon, she was delivered of another egg, which in figure
    was nothing different than the former. The mother reported this to us and the
    woman with her confirmed the truth of it.’

    Dr. Olaus
    Worn, the ornament of the University, preserved the egg in his study to be seen
    of as many as please.

    This story is
    reminiscent of the case of Mary Tofts, ‘the rabbit-breeding woman,’ who deceived some of the
    leading physicians in the time of George II by her assertion that she had given
    birth to a number of living rabbits.

    —C.J.S.
    Thompson,     The Mystery and Lore of Monsters. 1930

     

    The Perils of Home Schooling

    We are a
    community theater whose players are comprised of home-schooled Southwest area
    children between the ages of five and eighteen, devoted to enriching the lives
    of our children and our neighborhoods through challenging and creative explorations of stories, ideas, and identities –in short, the very best of
    the theater arts. Our first offering of the 2003 season will be a performance
    of Harold Pinter’s The
    Homecoming    , with 11-year-old Tim Rickard in the role of Max, the aging patriarch
    of a dysfunctional London
    family.

    —From The Southwest Harbor
    Gazette    , June 14, 2003

     

     

    Auto-Eroticism: A Brief Reader

    Consider the
    serious psychic struggle that the onanists undergo before they yield to the
    temptation of going through the act. They surround themselves with a thousand
    oaths, they try to protect themselves with prayers and resolutions, etc. They
    are strongly determined not to fall again! If they must yield –this one time–
    let it be the last! And yet, in spite of all self-conjurations and in spite of
    all their resolutions, the instinctive craving persists within them and –there
    is a ‘next
    time,’ they
    yield once more; they slip back, again and again, in spite of everything. The
    spiritual katzenjammer of defeat naturally brings on a severe depression.

    A young man,
    23 years of age, showing all the typical signs of a severe neurosis confesses
    that for the past two years he has given up the habit of masturbation. Since
    that time he suffers from anxiety attacks and sleeplessness. Freud, as is well
    known, has pointed out that masturbators become victims of anxiety neurosis
    when they give up the habit. They become unable to live without masturbating.
    Any physician is able to verify this pertinent revelation. We find the most
    severe neuroses among those who give up the long-standing habit.

    *****

    [The female patient] was
    firmly convinced that indulgence in the habit had made her ill. She resolved to
    masturbate no longer and kept to her resolution for about three weeks…. Then
    she was amazed to find herself masturbating during a state of
    half-consciousness. Great was her horror, and she now feared going to sleep;
    she tied a bandage around her pelvic region, and woke up from sleep with a
    feeling of dread. Nevertheless her craving was supreme and she felt herself
    giving in. She could not bear the thought of confessing to her husband. He held
    so lofty a view of woman’s purity that he would have scorned her and
    possibly would have left her. But she loved him passionately and could not live
    without him. In her dilemma she decided she must die, took a large dose of
    veronal, and wrote her husband a parting letter, which I reproduce below as a
    touching document illustrating the depths of human suffering….

    My Beloved
    Otto,

    When you read
    this letter I won’t be among the living any more. I pay with death for my
    wrong. I cannot keep on under the burden of a terrible habit, while you held me
    to be a pure woman. So, therefore, know: since childhood I have practiced
    masturbation. The habit began during childhood and I have kept it up after
    marriage. Finding myself too weak to give up the habit, unaided, finding that
    the consequences of this terrible habit already begun to show themselves, and
    as I do not want to burden you with a sick wife, I part voluntarily and give up
    this life, though with heavy heart. Indeed, how shall I look you in the face,
    how shall I look my children in the face, when I find myself so badly dishonored
    and disgraced.

    No! I cannot
    stand this any longer. For the love you have so richly bestowed on me, I thank
    you. I wish you the company of a woman worthy of your confidence and love. Do
    find a woman worthy of you. Kiss our dear children for me. It is hardest to
    part from you.

    Forgive me. I
    cannot help it.

    My last sighs
    go out to you.

    Yours,

    _______

    An
    examination of this case reveals two important facts: first, that ideas of
    suicide bear a certain relationship to masturbation….

    Suicide
    represents merely the extreme consequence of abstinence. It is possible to
    construct a scale, approximately as follows: anxiety neurosis, hypochondria,
    moodiness, depression, melancholia, suicide. From the day masturbation is given
    up life ceases to be worth while….These cases demonstrate to our satisfaction
    that many persons are unable to live without masturbating and that they would
    rather renounce living altogether than try to get along without their customary
    gratification.

    Attempt at
    suicide through the abuse of masturbation is by no means rare; it is a
    particularly frequent occurrence in jails. This form of self-annihilation
    I have called ‘chronic suicide.’

    –From Wilhelm Stekl’s Auto-Eroticism. 1950

     

  • Wilson’s: Loss of jobs and my junior-high jacket

    When was the last time you entered a Wilson’s? For me, it’s been a while. But the
    trip that’s forever etched in my memory goes all the way back to junior high.
    My sister had just scored a cool Michael Jackson Thriller-style red
    windbreaker. Not wanting to be outdone, I commenced to scour the shopping mall for my own status jacket.
    Eventually I settled on a black suede bomber from Wilson’s that had a lil’ feminine flourish: a
    tiny puff at each shoulder (the closest approximation of a Juliet sleeve that
    can be done in buckskin, mind you). All that remained was begging poor mom to shell
    for the modest pricetag, which she happily did. "You’ll have this coat for a long
    while," is what she said, the foolish thing.

     

    Of course, subsequent visits to the store, years and years later, proved
    disappointing. But rather than trash this local "heritage" retailer (the Strib
    sez     it’s been around since 1899), I’ll merely point out that it failed to
    fulfill our expectations for such businesses. Consider the example of, say, Duluth
    Pack    , another centenarian company (sine 1882) that, rather than get greedy and
    try to mass-market its products, concentrated on steadily crafting their
    simple, quality line of luggage, sacks, and bags–all of which are united by a
    singular rough-hewn aesthetic. Meanwhile, Wilson’s
    knocked off every which department-store trend in leather coats and
    accessories. Plus, I noticed they use really shitty buttons. "Disposable" is
    how I later came to regard my sole Wilson’s
    possession, and I don’t suppose that’s an enviable position for a leather
    jacket.

    It’s not surprising, then, that the business is starting to
    tank. Still, it’s always a shame when jobs are lost–especially Minnesota jobs!

  • Letters from Eurydice II

    So, Eurydice in a nutshell. Many of you will be familiar with the Greek myth Orpheus and Eurydice. A Cliff Notes synopsis:

    Orpheus, the son of Apollo and the muse Calliope, is presented by his father with a lyre and plays with such beauty that that nothing can resist the charm of his music. Orpheus marries Eurydice. Soon afterwards Eurydice, fleeing the unwanted attentions of the shepherd Aristaeus, is bitten by a snake and dies. Overwrought by grief, Orpheus descends into the underworld for an audience with Pluto and Persephone. Through his music, Orpheus pleads for Pluto to return Eurydice to the living. Pluto (and just about everybody else in hell) is moved and grants Orpheus’s request,with one condition (there’s always a condition). Eurydice may follow Orpheus back to the world of the living, but during their ascent, he must always look ahead, If, for any reason, he turns around to look at her before they both have reached the surface, Eurydice will instantly return to the underworld forever. Orpheus and Eurydice ascend and the moment Orpheus makes it to the top, overwhelmed with joy, looks back at Eurydice who still has one foot on the pathway. She vanishes immediately and Orpheus, re-overwrought with grief, rejects the attentions of the thracian maidens who finally, in a fit of Bacchanalian pique, tear him to pieces. He then descends to the underworld and is re-united with Eurydice.

    This legend has been adapted and co-opted many times by by such poets, composers and playwrights as Dante, Auden, Offenbach, Monteverdi, Philip Glass and Tennessee Williams. Our playwright, Sarah Ruhl, decided to look at the story from Eurydice’s perspective and has created a haunting exploration of the choices we make about love and the consequences we face when those we love are taken from us. The TTT website description of the play is “An exploration of loss and grief, revisiting the mythic tale of Orpheus’s descent into the underworld through Eurydice’s eyes. A humorous and haunting new play by the MacArthur award-winning playwright.” Works about as well as anything else and must, in the end, suffice because, like all great art, Eurydice defies description. Any further attempt to explain the play further simply does it a disservice: it truly defies description. In order to understand it, you must experience it. I will say, however, that Eurydice is one of the most beautiful, spare and compelling scripts I’ve ever worked on.

    Our production is directed by Larissa Kokernot who, despite a long list of impressive acting credits and a growing list of achievements as a director, may be condemned to be ever known as “one of the hookers in Fargo.” Personally, I don’t think this will turn out to be the case- Larissa is young, exceptionally talented and will doubtless accumulate a substantive body of work which will turn her bouncing on a bed with Steve Buscemi into an amusing footnote on her CV.

    The cast stars Sonja Parks as Eurydice, Sonja was named by American Theatre Magazine as one of the five actors worth travelling across the country to see. One look at her and you’ll know why- she’s mesmerizing. Marc Halsey, who plays Orpheus, recently appeared in Pen at the Guthrie and is one of the marvelous BFA graduates that the University of Minnesota is starting to produce with startling regularity. And then there are the three stones of the underworld, who function as the chorus of the play. These are played by a brilliant trio of actors who double in other (unforgettable) parts in the play. Leif Jurgensen, long-time CTC stalwart, plays Big Stone as well as Lord of the Underworld and a very disturbing Mysterious Man. Vera Mariner, a TTT veteran who has sung with the Minnesota, St. Paul Chamber, Cleveland, Boston Symphony, and Philadelphia Orchestras plays Loud Stone and Eurydice’s Grandmother. Lisa Rafaela Clair, late of the acclaimed production of Sarah Ruhl’s The Clean House at Mixed Blood plays Little Stone and the mother of the Lord of the Underworld — a woman who has has  “special needs.” The sound & music design is courtesy of the remarkable Peter Vitale, who not only can play just about any musical instrument you hand him but coaxes strange and beautiful music out of household utensils, found objects and cobbled together devices that can only have appeared to him in dreams. And yours truly plays Eurydice’s father.

    Next: Final dress and opening day!

  • …leaving community hurt, too

    Here’s the headline from yesterday’s Strib: "Girl, 6, is grazed by bullet, leaving community hurt, too."

    It’s tempting just to let that stand as one more blob in the insipid lump of goo that is the Star Tribune. OK, I will, but with just one comment: Doesn’t every bullet that hits a six-year-old hurt our community?

    I wish I had such an overstaffed news room that I could send a reporter out to the scene of a shooting to ask everyone who lives near the incident what they think of a little girl getting shot. What do they expect people to say? "Hey, no big deal. People get shot here all the time. What really makes me mad is the Twins letting Johan Santana get away."

    Actually, there was one detail of the Strib story that’s kind of funny. The assailant’s gun went off because his pants were so loose that the gun slipped down his pants leg and discharged when it hit the floor. How much funnier would the headline have been if the gun had hit with the muzzle pointed straight up?

    "Man, 20 or so, grazed by bullet, leaving future generations hurt, too."

  • The Three Pointer: Laker Chew Toy

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

    Game #51, Home Game #26: LA Lakers 117, Minnesota 92

    Season record: 10-41

    1. Every Position

    Coach Randy Wittman was fairly nonchalant after his team got pasted by 25 points in a game that wasn’t even *that* close. But nobody could, or did, blame him, really: It was hard to tell how badly or well the Wolves had played because the Lakers looked like supermen. "This is a team playing extremely well," Wittman understated with a shrug. "We had a hard time matching up with them at every position."

    Every one. Al Jefferson played well; Pau Gausol was just a little more efficient, getting his 19 points on 9-11 FG while Jefferson was 9-18 FG. Jefferson had two assists but only one block; Gausol had nada dimes by a trio of rejections. It was at best a wash, with both ensconced on the bench for an entire 4th quarter of garbage time that found 14th man Coby Karl going up for not one but two alley-oops–Bostjan Nachbar envy, no doubt.

    Randy Foye took advantage of the blowout to do what he does regardless of the score: jack up shots. He had 16 of them in 28:43, giving him 75 heaves in 182 minutes. Four players on the team shoot more frequently. Jefferson is first, and justifiably so, given that he has 206 offensive rebounds and all those immediately chances for putbacks. McCants is second, and justifiably so, given that he’s the team’s most explosive and accurate perimeter shooter. The other two are clueless and past-his-prime, Gerald Green and Antoine Walker, and this, sad to say, is Foye’s current neighborhood. His 34.7% shooting is between Green’s 33.1% and Walker’s 36.6%; throw in Corey Brewer’s 35.4% and Sebastian Telfair’s 39.3% and the Wolves have already logged well over 4,000 minutes of playing time for sub-40% shooters thus far this year and we didn’t even pile on with Greg Buckner or Mark Madsen.

    We are supposed to be patient with Foye. Fine. If he is having trouble shooting and having trouble defending, what about a little court vision? Well, he still has more turnovers than assists and the Lakers trapped him into difficulty a handful of times last night. What? Are you sure he’s only been back 8 games? Well, okay, but if the performance curve doesn’t start to rise soon, I’m going to start pointing out that McCants, coming off microfracture surgery, had a better 2007 than Foye’s 2008 thus far.

    I can tell I’m unfairly impatient with Foye–who was 3 assists/1 turnover the other night although totally stymied by the trap–because with the possible exception of Jefferson, *nobody* on the Wolves had a good game. Corey Brewer had four steals but was absolutely abused by Kobe–who was psychologically playing for Brewer’s mindset in 2010-11 as much as this season, backing him down whenever he felt like it or simply driving past him. Too strong, too quick. And Kobe had an off night.

    Ryan Gomes continued his recent series of disappearing acts, and was on the floor for the Lakers’ 39-point third quarter. Jaric and Telfair were a combined 3-11 FG. Meanwhile, Lamar Odom had a casual triple-double of 10 points, 16 board and 10 assists.

    More fun facts: The Wolves and Lakers each had 93 shot attempts, but the similarity ends there as LA not only had seven more field goals but 10 more makes at the line, owing to the foul disparity–the Wolves committed 27, the Lakers 11, and while some of those whistles were Kobe worship (he was 13-13 FTs) more of it was a slower, smaller team trying to hold on, and hack, for dear life. due to the garbage time drought of just 18 4th quarter points after registering 99 in the first three, the Lakers finished with just 29 assists, the smallest total for a Wolves opponent in the past three games. No wonder everyone at Target Center–coaches, players, fans, media–were ready to get the hell out of there and flake out until next week. All except the Lakersm of course, who just finished a 7-2 road trip on ultracruise, an inordinately talented, confident and happy team that can play big, play small, play pretty or play gritty; a team that has caused Phoenix and Dallas to blow up their squads beyond all reason (Devean George apparently may save Dallas); a team that will give the Spurs all it can handle should we be lucky enough to see those teams fulfill their potentials and meet in the conference finals.

    Which brings me to my fly-by-night "midseason honors."

    2. Midseason honors

    Best in the East

    C Dwight Howard

    PF Kevin Garnett

    SF LeBron James

    SG Paul Pierce (I know he’s a 3, but he can play here)

    PG Chauncey Billups (Yes, over Kidd. Billups shoots 45.3% to Kidd’s 36.7%, turns the ball over less than half as much, and plays better D. That overcomes Kidd’s extra 5 rebounds and 3 assists per game. So does the extra 16 wins Detroit has over NJ. Oh, and Calderon is on the second team ahead of Kidd.)

    Best in the West

    C Tyson Chandler (Way better than overrated Yao and no-D Amare)

    PF Tim Duncan (The toughest call, over Boozer)

    SF Carmelo Anthony

    SG Kobe Bryant

    PG Steve Nash (But in the playoffs give me Deron Williams. And I’m damning Chris Paul with faint praise by mentioning him only now.)

    Rookie of the Year: Sean Williams of New Jersey is the best rookie I’ve seen.

    Most Improved: Lamarcus Aldridge, with Chris Kaman second.

    Coach of the Year: Phil Jackson

    GM of the Year: Mitch Kupchak

    6th Man: Manu

    3. Silver Lining

    Because I’ll be cross country skiing all weekend and letting the board run amok, here’s some red meat to chew on. I just read somewhere, think it was the wonderful True Hoop about three days ago, that the Wolves have three of the top 31 draft picks if the standings were to hold firm. That includes a stud at #2 and a chance for a lucky hit at #30 and #31. My opinion of the Wolves’ top needs:

    1) A center who plays stalwart D

    2) A dynamic small forward who can get his own shot and play uptempo or half court

    3) An aggressive but pure point guard

     

    See you next week.

     

  • From Ghana to the Suburbs

    DANCE
    Ghana in Motion

    Every year, dance students from the Twin Cities travel to the Dagara Music Center, in Ghana, to study traditional Ghanaian music and dance on the home turf of the Saakumu Dance Troupe. This year, the tables have turned, as the Saakumu Dance Troupe kicks off its first U.S. tour right here, in the Twin Cities. Enjoy a vibrant West African performance that includes local artists the New Primitives and Ibé.

    Friday at 8 p.m., Suburban World Theatre, 3022 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis, 612-822-9000; $12.

    ART
    Worlds Away: New Suburban Landscapes

    Just
    as the Ash Can School turned to burgeoning cities for subject matter in the
    early twentieth century, suburbia has proven captivating to artists over the
    past few decades. But while many of them have tended to look outside city
    limits with a skeptical, ironic, or even condemning eye, this exhibit,
    organized around homes, stores, and roads, aims to go beyond stereotypical
    views. Among the works from some thirty architects, photographers, sculptors,
    and videographers, one favorite is Stefanie Nagorka, a sculptor who visits Home
    Depot stores, plucks materials for her pieces from the shelves, and assembles
    them right in the aisles or parking lot. Other artists look at the
    people-besides mom, dad, and 2.5 kids-living in all those tract houses (some of
    them are porn stars); propose revamping dead malls and big-box stores; and
    steal shots of suburbanites as they zoom around behind their steering wheels. —Julie Caniglia

    Preview Party Friday at 9 p.m., Walker Art Center, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7622; $35, members $25.

    PERFORMANCE
    Exercise Your Creative Demons, Exorcise Your Winter Ennui

    Lamb Lays with Lion
    has organized a six-part series to help stave off the winter blues and
    keep the creative juices from freezing. Tonight is already the second
    week, but you have four Fridays left. Enjoy a host of great
    performances this evening as part of ExerciseEXORCISE. This week’s performers include the Mustache Rangers (comedy
    duo), Mad King Thomas (dance/theater), El Guante (solo word), the Nancy
    Drew Crew (feminist hiphop), Sally Rousse (avant-dance), Alex Cordoneau
    (Dracula lecture), and Meg Ashling (mariopaint performance).

    Friday at 9:30 p.m., The Bottling House Theater, 79 13th Ave. N.E., 212, Minneapolis.

    FILM
    Academy Award Nominated Short Films

    Starting tonight, you have a rare opportunity to see all five of the 2007 Academy Award nominated animated short films, and all five of the 2007 Academy Award nominated live action short films. Sounds like a party to me. I’d opt for the animated shorts, of course: "I
    Met the Walrus     (Canada), an animated documentary about 14-year-old Jerry
    Levitan, who snuck into John Lennon’s hotel room in 1969 and persuaded him
    to do an interview; Madame Tutli-Putli (Canada), in which a timid woman
    boards a mysterious night train and has a series of frightening experiences;
    Meme Les Pigeons Vont Au Paradis (Even Pigeons Go To Heaven) (France),
    about a priest who tries to sell an old man a machine that he promises will
    transport him to heaven; Moya Lyubov (My Love) (Russia), in which
    a teenage boy in search of love in 19th century Russia is drawn to two very
    different women; and Peter & The Wolf (UK & Poland), Prokofiev’s
    classical music drama of a young boy and his animal friends who face a hungry
    wolf."

    Opens Friday, Animated Shorts at 2:15 & 7:30, Live Action Shorts at 4:20 & 9:30 p.m., Lagoon Cinema, 1320 Lagoon Ave., Minneapolis; 612-825-6006; $8.25 ($5.75 seniors and children).

    Also this weekend:

    Romeo Castellucci’s theater of the subconscious — Hey Girl, at the Walker (Friday through Sunday).

    VocalEssence: Witness’s The Duke Ellington Effect at the Ordway (Sunday).

     

  • Happy Valentine's Day — not just today, but every day!

    I for one think that to have one day to tell the people you care about how much you love them is nothing more than an opportunity for stores to raise the price of flowers and chocolates to make up for the 364 other days when we don’t give our loved ones a special something to brighten up their day.

    Don’t get me wrong; I think having a day dedicated to Love is a great idea, but I believe that telling the people in your life how much you care about them should not just fall on Valentine’s Day.

    So to those of you who felt the pressure to go out and pay more for flowers and chocolates to bestow on your loved ones… I have an idea for you.

    Save some money and wait for all of the Valentine’s Day Hype to wear off. Then give the people in your life a box of divine chocolates or a beautiful floral arrangement when they least expect it.

    I could be wrong on this, but chocolate tastes wonderful and melts in your mouth any day of the year, and flowers are always appreciated, especially on a day when you least expect it.

    Much love to my husband, kids, and Louie (the family dog) — all of whom make every day Valentine’s Day!

     

     

  • V-Day Food Flix

    Being married to the restaurant industry means that, for me, today is not that special. My entire adult life I’ve either worked the night or sat home while my sig other does.

    My own special tradition includes take-out and a food movie. I’m so very happy to squish into the couch with a bucket of chicken fried rice from Kindoh, a giant pork sandwich from Scotty’s or the Toto (extra goat cheese) from Punch. No, I don’t want to try new foods tonight, bring home something cutting edge from some fancy pants new chef. I’m not up for lust, I want good old reliable and satisfying loooooove.

    Top Food Flicks

    Big Night … can’t get enough of this brilliant movie. I think every dinner party I throw lives in the shadow of their Louis Prima fete.

    Eat Drink Man Woman … I’m utterly jealous of the food that is wrought by such humble tools.

    Tortilla Soup … a Latino version of Eat Drink Man Woman. Not bad.

    Chocolat … Depp, duh.

    Like Water for Chocolate … the book is better, but the magic is still there.

    Tampopo … Japanese film in the Seven Samurai tradition, except with a ramen shop.

    Soylent Green … it’s made of people!

    Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (new) … ALL HAIL TIM BURTON!

    Dinner Rush … even pasta can be deadly!

    Soul Food … truth will out at Sunday dinner.

    Moonstruck … I like this movies because it seems like they are always eating or drinking. I crave the egg in the toast hole.

  • Extreme Naked Sushi

    I got a press release the other day from Temple, Thom Pham’s
    Asian Fusion restaurant, announcing that on March 8, the restaurant will hold
    a Nyotaimori / Nantaimori event.
    "Nyotaimori and Nantaimori," the press release helpful explains, "are accepted
    traditions in Japan of serving sashimi and sushi off of the body of a woman or
    a man. It has been practiced for centuries, initiated as an art by the
    Geisha Community."

    This struck me as a bit dubious. Given the traditional
    status of women in Japanese society, it wouldn’t surprise if me salarymen out
    for a night on the town might use naked geishas as serving trays. But naked
    men? Maybe it happens, but I doubt it has been practiced for centuries.

    "Temple has been noted for its unique and beautiful
    presentation of Sushi," the press release continues. "Now Temple
    continues in its pursuit of presenting sushi as a true form of ‘Art.’"

    It turns out this is a trend that has come and gone in other
    parts of the world. According to an article on the website, Japan for the
    Uninvited    , body sushi "received a lot of media attention in the West in the
    1990s. This coverage massively exaggerated the popularity of nyotaimori in
    Japan – these restaurants are actually very rare, and generally associated with
    organized crime rather than being mainstream."

    If Tom Pham really wants to be on the cutting edge, he could try serving wakame sake, which, according to Japan for the Uninvited, "is poured down a model’s body and drunk from the cup formed by her closed thighs. The name “wakame“, meaning soft seaweed, refers to the pubic hair floating in the drink. This is not widely-practiced, and wakame sake is even rarer than nyotaimori."

    Well, naked sushi still sounded like a good idea to me. But March 8
    seems like a long time to wait, though, and the cost for nyotaimori night at
    Temple – $75 per person, including sushi, sake and champagne, is a little
    beyond my budget. So I stopped off at the Midtown Global Market, and picked up
    a six-piece sushi sampler from the Sea Port Market: two pieces apiece of
    salmon, tuna and eel.

    I think I probably could have talked the missus into letting
    me eat sushi off of her naked body. It was the part about letting me take a
    picture of her naked with sushi on her body and post it on this blog that was
    the deal-breaker. So I suggested instead that she take a picture of me with the
    sushi artfully displayed on my body. She didn’t think this was a very tasteful
    idea, but I am willing to let the public judge for itself – I am willing to
    take risks for my art.

    This she was willing to do.

    We have two cats, Edgar and Hazel, who are usually
    restricted to a diet of raw kibble, but this definitely aroused their
    curiosity. These guys work as a team. While Carol was arranging the sushi and
    chopsticks, Hazel snuck up behind her and started licking one of the pieces of
    salmon. Then Eddie started licking the tuna on my chest.

    At any rate, Carol dutifully snapped the photo of the tuna –
    a piece that the cats had not touched. And then she tasted it. "Tastes like
    cold sushi," she said.

    Edgar declined comment.