The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • If I were king of the fore-e-e-est

    I hope you all noticed the bold initiative of the Star Tribune, as expressed on their editorial page on Sunday. Yup, they put their heads together, snorted and wheezed with the Herculean effort, pressed hard on their temples to concentrate the intellect, and made their endorsement regarding tomorrow’s "Super Tuesday" nationwide primaries and caucuses.

    And you thought they were too timid to actually make an endorsement without doing a focus group first of what they could get away with without offending their ever shrinking base of readers and advertisers.

    Well, the joke’s on you. The Strib editorial board ain’t afraid of nobody or no thing. Not nobody. Not nohow.

    And just to prove that, they threw caution to the wind, damned the torpedoes, hurled themselves once more into the breach and endorsed…voting.

    As they put it, "Super Tuesday, Too important to miss." If that weren’t endorsement enough, they even said,"It could be a transformative moment in American politics."

    That’s some bold talkin’ there.

    So whatever you do, don’t miss Super Tuesday. It’s too important AND it could be transformative.

    And speaking of "Super", how ’bout them Giants? They made the top of the Strib’s front page today, right above the coverage of the candidates.

  • Yes, Yes Yes, Yes, No!

    Priorities. Priorities. Be on the lookout for Leinenkugel’s Northwoods beer, which, after a two-year hiatus, finally goes on sale today for a limited time. Mmmmm.

    Also, be sure to stop and visit our Multimedia page again for a tour of the Art Shanty Project with Rake intern Tricia Towey. We’ll have a new Owen video for you later this week.

    FILM
    Our Man in Havana

    Unavailable on DVD in the U.S., this 1959
    British noir classic reunites director Carol Reed and writer Graham Greene, the
    sly duo who gave us The Third Man and The Fallen Idol, also classics. Here,
    Alec Guinness plays James Wormold, a British vacuum cleaner salesman stationed
    in Cuba who is enlisted as a spy for
    Queen and country. Concerned that he is going to lose this prized position,
    Wormold concocts a story about secret rockets, using vacuum cleaner circuit
    diagrams to fool the British Secret Service into believing he’s onto a Russian
    missile scheme. Shot entirely in Cuba-Castro’s government was, at the time,
    eager to encourage a film that portrayed a corrupt Batista regime. —Peter Schilling

    7:30 p.m., Parkway Theater, 4814 Chicago Ave. S., Minneapolis;
    612-822-3030, $5.

    MUSIC
    Tim Finn and Alice Peacock

    Minnesota in early February is the perfect place and time for some
    intelligent and effervescent pop to quicken our winter-slogged minds
    and brighten our outlooks across the snow-covered prairie. The chance
    to hear ex-Split Enz frontman (and Crowded House cohort) Tim Finn spin flax into gold while reprising the magical realism of his latest solo disc, Imaginary Kingdom, fills that prescription better than anything else out there this month. At his best—and much of Imaginary Kingdom
    qualifies—Finn blends Paul McCartney’s delightful sense of naïveté with
    Ray Davies’s trenchant eye for social detail. Folk-pop thrush Alice
    Peacock (a White Bear Lake native, donchaknow) has enough insight and
    honesty in her mainstream-safe approach to set the stage as a strong
    opening act. —Britt Robson

    7:30 p.m., Cedar Cultural Center, 416 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-2674; $25.

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Say Yes to No

    We’ve all seen parents idly sitting by as their children grossly misbehave — not a word, not a "No," not a reprimand, or one of those motherly glares that freeze you at the core. Nothing. And then we complain about the state of youth today. Accoring to psychologist, author, and founder of the National Institute on Media and the Family Dr. David Walsh, we just need to learn to say "No!" Join Walsh this evening as he shares some of his strategies for raising healthy, self-reliant kids. He’ll be discussing his new book — offering an antidote to Discipline Deficit Disorder — No, Why Kids of all Ages Need to Hear It and Ways Parents Can Say It.

    6:30 p.m., Pohlad Hall, Minneapolis Central Library, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-630-6000.

     

  • Who Is Rachel Hutton?

    NOTE: This post originally appeared with a photo that Rachel Hutton herself asked me to remove — in a very nice note that said in part "I realize it’s impossible to stay anonymous. . . .but I spent all last week pulling as many images as possible off the S&S [Simon & Schuster] and BTM [Before the Mortgage] sites." I was happy to do so.  AB

    If you haven’t heard, Rachel Hutton is the new food writing star for City Pages. And it’s about time she got her own gig.

    Back when I was working for Minnesota Monthly as their food and feature writer, Rachel was an associate editor — and a whip-smart devotee of local restaurants. To be honest, she did most of the grunt work for our food section: keeping the listings and calendars up-to-date, writing short "Quick Bite" reviews, and reading my copy with an eagle eye. I was perennially distracted and lost in language; she (a Stanford-trained engineer who decided after graduation that she didn’t want to spend her life designing widgets) offered much-needed common sense.

    In late 2005, my first novel came out. It was a weird experience, frankly. . . .like giving birth to a little literary baby and being graded on the effort in newspapers ranging from the Strib to the Washington Post. Kirkus liked the book but didn’t give it a star; People had a piece on me slated that was canned [mysteriously] at the last minute. I got entirely caught up — forgot (for the first time in my life) to pay my property taxes — and went maybe four or five nights without sleep. That’s when Steve Fox, the publisher of MN Monthly, decided in a surge of Friday afternoon gallantry to throw a party for me. He went to Barnes and Noble and bought a copy of my novel for everyone in the office, ordered a case of wine, and asked me to inscribe the books while people mingled and drank.

    Here’s the thing: Not only was I exhausted, I’m also more than a tad agnosiac. But I’d never told a soul.

    Clinical prosopagnosia is a condition that makes it genuinely impossible for the brain to recognize a human face. Ears, eyes, nose, and mouth all appear, but they fail to fall into a pattern that provokes a memory. Oliver Sacks wrote a terrific essay about one sufferer called The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, which appeared in a book of the same name.

    But the point here is that I do not mistake people for hats, and there are some people I recognize. What I am is just sort of foggy on visual details, particularly when it comes to appearance. I rarely understand, for instance, the men other women find attractive (personally, I far prefer Harvey Keitel to George Clooney). And if one of my students cuts her hair or trades her glasses for contact lenses, I’ll certainly need to be re-introduced.

    It’s worth noting, too, the I’m the mother of an autistic son and it’s common for the parents of people with autism to have "shadow" neurological differences, such as agnosia, synesthesia, and a heightened sense of smell. I’m three for three.

    In any case, I finally found Rachel and confessed my problem. I’d been at MN Monthly for a year and a half but recognized only a handful of the 50 or so people who worked there. I could pick out everyone on our immediate staff, the receptionist, the director of sales, and one of the custom publishing people who had a very distinctive voice. With the other 42 or so, I was screwed.

    Rachel immediately (and unfussily) devised a plan. She would stand next to me with a list, open the books one by one and clue me in whenever I froze. "Here’s a copy for Jill," she would say. Or, "Don’t forget, Maryanne has an "e" on the end of her name."

    It was a kindness I’ll never forget. And it was representative of her extraordinary good nature. When I left MN Monthly and Fox did not (as he had suggested he might) hire a celebrity chef or a well-known foodie to take my place, I assumed Rachel would get the job. However, though she DID the job, she never assumed the title.

    Several weeks ago, when it was announced that Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl was taking over as the premier food writer at MN Monthly, I have to say I felt a twinge of dissatisfaction. I like Dara very much and I it goes without saying she’s a knockout writer, but Rachel had put in years of really solid work and there was a big part of me that felt the job should have been hers.

    So I was delighted to find that in one of those inside-baseball sort of trades, Rachel Hutton is moving from MN Monthly to take over Dara’s post at CP.

    OK, she’s not the powerhouse the mighty Moskowitz can be. But Rachel is a hell of an up-and-coming writer, and she’s an incredibly sweet person besides. She’s the one on the left above — and I wouldn’t out her if she were anonymous but her images are readily Googleable because about a year after my book came out with Simon & Schuster, Rachel co-wrote and edited one of her own, Before The Mortgage, with the very same publisher.

    I attended her first reading and publication party. But I’m happy to say, Rachel recognized everyone there, all on her own. And without a bit of prompting, she inscribed a book for me.

  • There Is No Bottom. There Is Simply —Or Not So Simply— the End

    There is another kind of sleep,

    We are talking in it now.

    As children we walked in it, a mile to school,

    And dreamed we dreamed we dreamed.

    —James Galvin, from "Hematite Lake"

    Maris Gomes was very young when he went to sea for the first time, and not much older –still much too young– when the boat on which he was working was capsized in a storm and he swallowed seawater and rolled for hours slowly toward the ocean floor.

    He remembered next to nothing about the moments and hours after he was thrown into the cold ocean. He wasn’t even sure; he may have jumped; he may have had no choice. His last clear memory of the experience was of watching one of his shipmates, a boy not much older than himself named Scruggs Colvin, clinging to some piece of debris from the wreck and drifting out of view, his shouts quickly swallowed up by the darkness and driving rain.

    Maris had been surprised to discover that there were angels in the ocean, living in the ruins of an old shipwreck out of which they had constructed a sort of cathedral of light.

    When the angels first came for him –there were five of them, all young and more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen– Maris had assumed they were mermaids. After a moment, though, there was no mistaking what they were: they had wings, and their flowing hair was haloed with pulsing light. They also had bare feet, and when they kicked their feet the bubbles they created were infused with golden light as well.

    In the time that followed –and Maris had no idea how long it might have been– he was given to understand that the human soul would perish in salt water; it could not escape a drowned body, and the job of the underwater angels was to ferry these drowned souls to the surface for release.

    Among those living in the ruins of the shipwreck there was one very young and inexperienced angel named Doon, and this angel fell immediately in love with Maris, and he with her. This sort of thing was not only discouraged, of course, but was strictly forbidden. Doon was headstrong, however, and in every translucent fiber of her being she was convinced that she and Maris had lived together in a long-ago forest and were fated to spend eternity at the bottom of the sea.

    For his part, Maris regarded Doon as the loveliest creature he had ever seen.

    Doon implored the other angels to allow Maris to stay with her, yet they remained insistent that she release him and let them take his soul to the surface so it could begin its rightful journey. This Doon stubbornly refused to do –in her brief life on earth she had known no great love– and she somehow managed to spirit away a fully compliant Maris to another shipwreck, where together they hid from the other angels and did nothing but hold each other –their bodies tangled like the braid of a parade horse’s tail– and tell stories.

    Doon told Maris she was not so keen on Heaven. "There are no thunderstorms," she said. "No mice. No tears of joy or sorrow. Angels feel only the small, tsk-tsking pity of those who have found safe haven in God’s arms. Heaven sometimes seems smug to me, and I miss being dirty. It is not as beautiful, sad, and various as the world."

    The lovers, alas, were soon enough discovered, and for her disobedience Doon was recalled straightaway to Heaven.

    And it was only then, as he was wrenched from his beloved, that Maris Gomes finally and truly drowned.

    By this point, and much to the satisfaction of the other angels, his soul was deemed beyond retrieval.

  • The Three Pointer: Cruise Control

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

    Game #46, Home Game #22: LA Clippers 83, Minnesota 104

    Season record: 10-36

    1. Two Matchup Switches

    Sebastian Telfair was in the torture chamber that is Sam Cassell’s offensive bag of tricks. The first two times Cassell called his own number in Friday night’s game, the 6-3 motormouth was backing the 6-foot Bassy down in the low block, then missing the makeable turnaround J’s. After that, he stopped missing, hitting four of his next five shots in the period, plus three FTs that saddled Telfair with two fouls. When Randy Foye subbed in for Telfair, Cassell broke Foye’s ankles with a court-length dribble-layup–consider how back you have to be on defense for ancient Sam to do that to you–then fed Cuttino Mobley for a jumper.

    It was the Clips’ only assist in the period. They were too busy creating their own shots off dribble penetration, as evidenced by their 55% accuracy (11-20 FG) for the period. When an opponent shoots 55% with one assist, they are either pounding one huge matchup or the entire team is breaking down. For Minnesota, it was a little of both: Cassell alone had 13 points, 5 boards and that dime, but the other Clips weren’t too shabby at 6-12 FG as the Wolves were down seven at the period buzzer. Coach Randy Wittman glowered, spun, stamped his foot and hollared at his troops heading to the bench during a timeout.

    But it didn’t get any better in the first half of the second quarter. The Clips were 5-11 FG and coaxed 8 free throws from the too-late Minnesota D, while the Wolves themselves drew nada from the charity stripe. For a five-minute stretch, Minnesota’s offense boiled down to: get the ball to McCants and get the hell out of the way. At least that’s the way McCants saw it. Consigned to the bench apparently due to remnants of a flu that caused him to miss the previous game, he then saw Foye become the Wolves’ first sub. You think he was a little perturbed, perhaps ready to show the world a thing or two? Here is the total sum of the Wolves’ shot selection over a period of 4:17 of the second period:

    11:24: McCants, layup shot missed

    11:22: McCants, tip shot made

    10:46: McCants, jump shot made

    10:16: McCants, driving reverse layup shot made

    9:37: McCants, layup shot missed

    8:31: McCants, driving layup shot made

    7:54: McCants, fadeaway jumper missed

    7:07: McCants, 3pt shot missed

    Twelve seconds later, McCants picked up his third foul of the period and headed for the bench. Those in the pro-Shaddy camp will approvingly note that he made four of those eight shots, which was a damn sight better than the 34.6% Minnesota shot in the first period. Another positive is that five of those eight shots were in the paint–four layup attempts and a tip-in. And if you were there, it was a pretty conclusive demonstration that Rashad McCants can get his own shot pretty much whenever he wants against a decent NBA defense not specifically geared to stop him. But those same people saw that McCants had eyes for nothing but the hoop–his teammates might as well have been trading high-fives with Mad Dog. The three fouls likewise were no coincidence. When Shaddy is trying to rule on the offensive end, he has a tendency to overhype his defense–faux effort, in that he’s not thinking ahead anticipating his man’s move and he’s not moving his feet, at least not as pretty as those traipses through opponents when he’s the one with the ball. Bottom line, the Wolves were down 7 when he began his shooting spree, and down 12 when he grabbed some pine.

    It got as bad as 15, at 30-45 with 5:59 left to the play in the second period, when Telfair likewise picked up his third foul, joustling Cassell, naturally, and joined McCants on the bench. Then, because of two huge matchup switches, the game flipped, flipped hard, and never re-reversed itself.

    The first thing that happened was that Marko Jaric was sent back into the game to replace Telfair–and guard Cassell. What Sammy soon discovered was that Jaric was too large to fit inside the torture chamber. After getting 15 points with one assists and zero turnovers in 12:56 before Jaric came in for Telfair, Cassell registered just two more points, two assists and four turnovers in 14:50 after that.

    The second thing was that unheralded Josh Powell picked up his third foul trying to stop an Al Jefferson layup just 18 seconds after Marko switched in for Bassy. It was just the second bucket of the game for Jefferson, and afterward both Wittman and Jefferson said that was Jefferson’s fault, that he wasn’t being aggressive enough trying to get to the hole. I say they are being unfair to Powell, an undrafted kid in his second year out of North Carolina State who is already on his fourth NBA team and was busting his hump trying to deny Jefferson first the ball and then position. So with Powell’s third, in comes Aaron Williams, who is 6-9 like Powell but 15 pounds lighter at 225. With Elton Brand out all season with a shoulder, Chris Kamen sidelined with the flu (ditto free throw machine Corey Maggette), and Powell on the bench in foul trouble, Aaron Williams was choice #4 to match up with Jefferson. He should have been #5. Jefferson scored 9 points over the next 2:20 and the Wolves were down only 4, 56-52, at the break.

    "Run roughshod" is a good cliche for the second half. The Clips had nothing, shooting 10-34 FG and getting only 27 points in the entire 24 minutes. For the second half of the final quarter, they had a backcourt of 5-10 Brevin Knight and 6-0 Dan Dickau. Wittman called it the best 24 minutes of perimeter D he’s seen this season, but I think all but the final minute–the collapse, in other words–against the Celts in the second half was better, because the opposition was a JV team. I mean, Al Thornton, that stupidly trendy pick for ROY before the season started, was 1-15 FG. Meanwhile, Craig Smith himself had 19 points in the second half, on 8-10 FG.

    2. The Backcourt Jumble

    So what did Jaric’s stellar stopper performance on Cassell–he was plus +24, with 8 assists and but a single turnover–do to enhance his place in the crowded backcourt picture? And what about Shaddy, the Mad Bombadier? Well, the tea leaves on the second question are easier to answer than the first. After the game, I asked Wittman if McCants might have freer rein to let fly when he’s a sub coming off the bench versus when he is a starter. "Yeah," the coach acknowledged, looking down at a stat line that had McCants attempting a dozen shots in 13:36. Then he added, well, how often was he in there with Al, or Gomes?

    And right there you realize that if you’ve got a low block stud in the game alongside a sage, keep-the-ball moving teammate in the frontcourt, *and* a shoot-first point guard just returning from injury but expected to be a pillar for your future, the best place for a protean swingman who can almost always get his own shot might be coming off the bench while those previous three take a breather. Translation: Jefferson and Gomes are two-thirds of any frontcourt allignment from here on out. Sooner, rather than later, Foye will be the point guard. With those three in the game, what you need most is passing, defense, and, especially if it is Witt’s smallball outfit, a little more length. That’s Marko.

    How well McCants takes to this is fairly predictable–not well. His demeanor and behavior have indicated thus far this season that starting matters to him. Will having the opportunity to be the gunner without a conscience compensate at all for this perceived slight?

    When I naturally followed up Witt’s inference by saying, so the idea will be to bring McCants off the bench for instant offense, the coach gave a "we’ll see" reply. But it is hard not to see that’s wha
    t he had in mind. When McCants was jacking up 8 shots in 4 minutes, the man giving him the ball and waving goodbye to the rest of the play was Foye. *That’s* not going to happen too many games in a row. Lest we all had forgotten, Foye has a pretty large ego too. In his postgame comments Friday, he reminded folks that the team is 2-1 since his return, that he is indeed a point guard much more than a two-guard–"it’s the way I play, the way I do things"–and that "You’ll know when I’m back: I’ll have a big game and play more than 24 minutes." Friday’s tote: 2-5 FG, 2 assists, one turnover with a pair of steals. He had more shots and half as many assists as Telfair; only half as many shots yet just one-quarter the assists of Jaric. Stay tuned.

    3. Jefferson to Brewer…

    At least three times on Friday, Al Jefferson set Corey Brewer up for a perfect layup. At least two other times, Jefferson’s pass provided Brewer with a wide open jumper. Brewer finished 2-9 FG, and Jefferson was credited with but two dimes, one of them to Brewer. In other words, Brewer hurried the bunnies Jefferson was pulling out of his hat for him, going too strong on a pair of layup attempts and not assembling the sort of silky flow on practically any of his jumpers that elicit confidence that the ball is going to go in. For the season, Brewer now has 95 makes in 271 attempts, or 35%. The hard part is that he’s missing good shots.

    Now let’s look at the good news in this exchange. Jefferson’s growth at finding the open man when teams collapse on him is becoming manifest. Seriously, Jefferson deserved at least five assists, in just 29:58 on Friday (he didn’t play the entire fourth quarter of the blowout). On Monday, the team that gave the Wolves their worst whupping of the season–the Houston Rockets–come to Target Center. Don’t be surprised if Michael Doleac gets a few Jefferson feeds for midrange jumpers when Houston comes with the double-team. And don’t be surprised if Corey Brewer is on the bench.

  • 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days

    Ever since Bruno Dumont was bequeathed the honors of the Cannes festival jury (including two grand prize awards for this and this film), I have been doubtful of just how significant the honor is. That is not to say that Dumont didn’t deserve the awards (he did) but that they had almost no effect whatsoever on the mass shitting that all his movies, save his debut, have wrongfully received. Somehow, I don’t think 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days will have that problem. It was the surprise winner of the Palme D’or for 2007 and it’s easy to understand why – Its eloquently affecting power is too moving to ignore and too tenacious to be misunderstood. The film is already getting its due both critically and commercially, in fact it will soon open in the area via Landmark theatres. I suggest you see it, but be warned – it’s not the kind of date movie that will result in a pleasant romp later in the evening. Then again, that disclaimer should be self evident under consideration that the film is being referred to as “that Romanian abortion movie.”

    The film documents a day in the life of two college roommates. Gabita is the underprepared pregnant one and Otilia is her friend who, it turns out, is willing to do almost anything to help her. The girls prepare for the illegal abortion like they would an exam – with a sort of dignified verve. They overcome some small setbacks only to be faced with some much bigger ones. The overcome those, then a short diversion and then the procedure and the clean up. Finally they are left to face the reality of what they just did. This is where we leave the characters and their struggle in the film’s beautiful final moment. In strictly real time we experience these events and the transformations that they cause, and this is where the power of the story rises above any particular cinematic aesthetic.

    The style is not necessarily anything new. Michael Haneke, the Dardenne brothers, Bella Tarr, Lars Von Trier, Bruno Dumont, and many more have successfully stripped realism to its rudimentary core when approaching modern subjects. What this film contributes to that towering (and intimidating) canon measures in at least two traits. First, it’s a story about abortion. Not a message, but a topic that is contextualized within the milieu of post-Ceausescu Romania. Of course framing the story in an oppressive political state also carries strong political implications. But Mungiu downplays them and renders significance in the way that they are not ever specifically mentioned, only alluded to. It is consistent with the realist tradition that the context is explored only in the implications of the films primary characters. The second quality is revealed in the moments of black irony that will somehow make you laugh in the midst of such real pain and difficulty (particularly if you’re Romanian, I’m told). Notice the dizzying dinner table conversation that logically progresses from raising children and family values to the idea of waiting 9 months for a soldier to come home. The camera is focused intently on Otilia and the audience experiences the implications of the painfully clinical abortion scene that just occurred right with her. At one point the phone quietly rings in the background. She hears it, and we hear it – has something gone wrong at the hotel or is it nothing? Is someone going to answer it? The scene is simultaneously excruciating and mischievous. And, it’s devastating, as is almost every scene in the film. (For definitive evidence of black irony pay attention to the meal that Gabita eats in the final scene after expunging her child)

    It’s textbook realism, yes, but it’s also the moment where Mungiu reveals his cards and stakes claim as the commanding director that he is. His scenes frame the incidental narratives that drift in and out of people’s lives in such a way that he bestows the utmost effect on the viewer using tiny hints of activity drawn from our collective prosaic activities. It’s this subtle yet potent statement in the midst of a brutally real and painfully accurate story that speaks to Mungiu’s power as a great director. And it indicates his truly grand sense of irony, suggested so intuitively onto the screen. 4 Months also proclaims the vitality of the emergent Romanian New Wave (now that’s a catchphrase to watch out for!) better than anything else associated with the “movement” so far. But if you need further proof of its actual vitality, check out the Walker’s February 8th screening of the late Cristian Nemescu’s exceptional final film California Dreamin’ (Endless).

  • Super Tuesday

    Beware Minnesotans, as you
    look hungrily toward the weekend of various and sundry
    dips    , lowest common denominator
    too hot for TV sales pitches    ,
    and an incidental football game. For this weekend marks the opening
    of the Black Gates of Democracy, unleashing the unwashed hordes of political
    punditry upon our fair state.

    Now that political heavyweights
    such as Iowa, Rhode Island and South Carolina have made their voices
    heard, clearly announcing that no, they just can’t see a man who lacquers his hair and happens to be named after a German
    side dish as presidential material, it is Minnesota’s turn to make
    our voices heard on the national scene.

    Make no mistake, our time in
    the primary limelight will be intense as presidential candidates arrive in town with media entourage in tow and a
    lemony-fresh whiff o’ change in the air that gamely attempts to cover
    the sharp bracing tang of broken campaign promises carried on the wind.
    The compliments will come fast and furious, detailing our importance
    to the electoral process, how beautiful our state is, how hardy we are
    to survive in this frozen wasteland, our obvious work ethic. We’ll be dazzled by the flashbulbs
    and wit of made-for-TV political
    pundits     displaying
    their assets, intellectual and otherwise. We’ll be coddled and aroused into
    heart-pounding complacency by pillow talk topics like health care reform,
    economic stimulus, and sex education (at least on the Republican side). We’ll be convinced that our vote,
    our choice will be what makes or breaks our chosen candidates.

    But don’t be fooled. Sadly,
    even Super Tuesday and Minnesota’s small part in this orgy of punditry
    and promises isn’t going to bring this year’s primary season to
    a close. Given the amount of money flowing and the polarization of the
    electorate, this one will go to the wire.

    So make no mistake — it’s
    prom night for Minnesota, people. The glitz and glamour are fleeting.
    And while the quarterback asked us to the dance, we all know he just
    wants in to our sensibly warm, yet still quite sexy, panties. But despite
    that, we suck in our winter padding, bare our collective cleavage and
    make it known that for a flash of the pearly whites, our virtue up for
    grabs. But similar to the prom night experiences of adolescent women
    throughout the land, these first few precious
    sweaty fumbling moments
    quickly fade in the cold light of Super Tuesday, giving way to a cold hollow
    feeling as the candidates move on to other states with bigger racks
    or tighter asses. Or that slut, California, who puts out for any Austrian
    with nice biceps.

    Then the guilt settles in,
    because how could we be so stupid? Oh my god! We’re such whores! How
    could we have given it up for a few simple talking points, a flashy green pantsuit, and some vague promises to make our
    dreams come true? And after a few desperate phone
    calls    , we’ll
    settle in for the rest of the long Minnesota winter with an appletini
    and DVDs of The Wire, our innocence lost, but secure in the knowledge
    that they’ll be back for more next fall.

  • The Changing Tides of Calhoun

    So, as I’m sure lots of you’ve heard, another makeover to Calhoun Square is
    in the works. The press release came across our desk just yesterday, along with
    the artist rendering above. Frankly, I can’t pretend like I care much
    about it today …

    But here’s something I do find interesting: A few months back, while reading about the anniversary of Southdale’s opening (it’s the nation’s oldest mall, which
    you probs already knew), I was reminded that the place was built by a total commie, Victor
    Gruen, who so loathed the social isolation of suburbs, such as Edina, that he
    sought to fix ‘em a proper town square. Of course, the reality is that these
    shopping centers are too cold (as in: beige) and too manufactured to ever
    achieve the organic, hand-made feel of a public meeting spot, such as our downtowns. Turns out, sunshine and fresh air are more important
    ingredients than first imagined.

    Which is precisely why I live in Uptown. Of course, the neighborhood
    has plenty of haters, but it’s still the most walkable in all the T.C.
    I’ve got three grocery stores within a quarter mile (which is, perchance, the "walkability"
    threshold). I’ve got the lakes. I’ve got some of the best clothing boutiques
    (Ivy and Local Motion) within three blocks, an upstanding new shoe shop (Luna Soles) around
    the corner. We’ve got decent restaurants. One of them happens to be Chang Mai
    Thai    , and that joint is on the biggest eyesore of a street (Girard) I’ve ever seen. So, I’m happy to see Girard will get a boost, in any case. I’m also happy to see an attempt will be made to make the mall better "integrated
    to the Hennepin Avenue
    streetscape." But still, I’m skeptical. The best neighborhoods aren’t
    created by real-estate developers; they’re made by people. As I see it, it’s an
    ugly, vicious circle we’re now operating in: the homogenizing influence of corporate
    culture has infiltrated our homiest, most historic neighborhoods while, some time later, they started making facsimiles of the best ‘hoods (only with plenty
    of parking). Bah!

  • In a Word, Slutty

    A word regarding this month’s fashion feature and the related
    discussion: Jason DeRusha did not, in fact, call his wife slutty. He was simply
    being witty about the fact that 1) he is, in fact, male and 2) he therefore prefers that his
    beautiful wife wear form-flattering clothes. And yes, friends, in the minds of
    men, I’m afraid "attractive" has often been conflated with "slutty."

     

    So, is this one of those quotes that should’ve fallen to the
    cutting-room floor? Perhaps. But, in my mind, it was just too specific/amusing to pass
    over. And you know what? If it was my boyfriend who had gone shopping for me, I
    can almost guarantee that, knowing him and the way he talks, he would’ve used a
    different, even more incriminating word as he picked out one of those uninspired,
    almost ass-baring sundresses to which he’s partial: "whorish." Of course, in reality, I’m not really a whore. In fact, I’m pretty much a prude.

  • Think You Know Sushi?

    Test your sushi knowledge with this fun sushi quiz:

     

    1) Which specialty sushi roll was invented in America?:

    a) the spider roll

    b)
    the rainbow roll

    c)
    the California roll

     

    2) What gives most sushi-bar salmon that bright orange
    color?

    a)
    their diet of krill and plankton

    b) their genes

    c) food coloring

     

    3) What gives most sushi-bar tuna that bright red color?

    a) hemoglobin

    b) mercury

    c) carbon monoxide

     

    4) Which religious organization makes millions from sales of fish
    to the sushi market?

    a)
    The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons)

    b) Jehovah’s Witnesses

    c) The Unification Church (the Moonies)

     

    5) Which popular sushi fish is banned in Japan?

    a) fugu (blowfish)

    b) koi (goldfish)

    c) matsu (super white tuna)

     

    6) That little wedge of green putty on your sushi boat is
    most likely:

    a)
    real wasabi – "Wasabia japonica"

    b)
    fake wasabi

    c) Play-Doh

     

    Answers:

    1. All of the above. Those high-fat specialty rolls are an
    American invention.

    2.c Most sushi bar salmon is farm-raised on a diet of fish
    meal. Two chemicals, astaxanthin and canthaxanthin are commonly added to their
    diet to give them the orange color of wild-caught salmon. The European Union
    recently set limits on the use of canthaxanthin, because it can damage eyesight
    in high doses/

    3. Raw tuna, whether fresh or previously frozen, quickly
    turns brown. If your tekka maki is bright red, the odds are pretty good that it
    has been treated with carbon monoxide. The ever-vigilant Food and Drug
    Administration permits the practice, but, according to the New York Times,
    carbon monoxide treatment is banned in Canada, Japan and the European Union
    because it can be used to conceal spoilage.

    4. c According to a detailed investigative report in the
    Chicago Tribune, most of America’s estimated 9,000 sushi restaurants get their
    raw fish from a company called True World, which is a subsidiary of Unification
    Church International, a company with close ties to the church.

    5. c. Matsu, often sold as "white tuna" or "super white
    tuna" isn’t actually tuna at all – it’s escolar, also known as snake mackerel
    or walu. Its fat contains waxy esters
    that can cause gastrointestinal symptoms, including diarrhea and oily orange
    leakage. Because of these side effects, it has been banned in Japan since 1977.

    6. b. Odds are, it’s fake wasabi, a cheap blend of
    horseradish, mustard and food coloring. Real wasabi, wasabia japonica,
    which has a more subtle flavor, is hard to grow and very expensive – up to $100
    a pound.