Category: Blog Post

  • The Three Pointer: Not Enough Talent

    AP Photo/Jim Mone

    Game #37, Home Game #18: Golden State 105, Minnesota 98

    Season record: 5-32

    1. Low IQ. Low skill level. Low chance of winning.

    All things being equal, the Minnesota Timberwolves without Randy Foye and Theo Ratliff, opposing the Golden State Warriors on a sub-zero January night having already clearly established themselves as the worst team in the NBA, will lose to the Golden State Warriors.

    Well, all things were essentially equal tonight. Al Jefferson and Rashad McCants were off their games a bit, but Antoine Walker emerged from a long slump, Ryan Gomes continued his solid play, and I thought Randy Wittman both coached well and summed up the defeat in a succinct, intelligent fashion from the postgame podium. Or maybe this loss sort of blurs into the other 31 because I’m just not inspired enough to hash out particularly innovative nuggets of wisdom that seem particularly different than the various recaps of so many other games. This wasn’t a special loss in that it was a tough, close encounter or a monster blowout, or that one particular facet of the other team was vitally important or one particular player on the Wolves was the giant goat. So rather than pretend we’re doing depth tonight, let’s just wing it with the impressions and see what happens.

    But first, Wittman’s take. Asked about the large disparity in backcourt performance (Monta Ellis and Baron Davis were a combined 39 points, 6 rebounds, 13 assists, 5 steals and 4 turnovers in 73:34, versus Telfair-Jaric being 16-7-11-2-6 in 70:05), Witt rued the decision-making. "We talked before the game about how they are the number one team for turning turnovers into points," he stated, noting that the Wolves coughed the ball up 20 times, costing them a whopping 31 points, 13 more, in a 7-point loss, than Golden State yielded via its 12 turnovers. His troops were committing the kind of turnovers that result in 3-on-1 breaks in transition, Witt lamented, then shrewdly observed that instead of making the extra, safer pass, "we tried to split the seams with our passes" and the seams weren’t there.

    Without calling anyone out by name, Wittman cited the dumb inbounds pass McCants made that was stolen by Baron Davis in the last 4 seconds of the third period and transformed into a layup by Matt Barnes just before the buzzer. This concluded a sequence where, after McCants drove for a layup to cut the lead to 10 with 1:08 left in the third, the Warriors scored 7 straight points to bump it to 17 at the conclusion of the quarter. Witt also called out the turnover spree after the Wolves had whittled the lead back down to 4, 96-92, with 4:11 to play. McCants had his shot blocked, Walker committed an offensive foul, and Jaric was called for a carry, a borderline whistle after a series of inept calls that prompted Wittman to earn a technical.

    2. The Little Two

    Normally the big two, at least in terms of scoring, Jefferson and McCants both had off nights. Shaddy’s was by far the more obvious. On a day when the Strib had spotlighted his inconsistency in a feature piece,he showcased most of his flaws, including the stupid fouls–ladled with an increasing sense of victimization that is at once partially accurate and conveniently overblown in his own mind and emotions–the holding of the ball in the half-court, the silly turnovers, and the sporadic bouts of energy and lethargy. It all amounted to 11 points in 30:12, albeit with 5 rebounds, 3 assists and a team-best plus-minus of zero, which only makes the time he is forced to sit on the bench more aggravating. When he grabbed his second foul with 3:23 to play in the first, for instance, the Wolves scored a mere 4 points in the next 5 minutes, turning a one point lead into a 5 point deficit in the process before Walker went on one of his handful of personal mini-runs (he finished with 26 points).

    Jefferson had better numbers: 18 points on 7-14 FG, and 14 rebounds, but Wittman didn’t like his lack of aggressiveness looking for his own shot. "Al let them off the hook too much in the first half," said the coach. "No offense to anyone, but if [Al] can get Austin Croshere [guarding him], he’s got to back him down and put it in the basket." Jefferson was a game-worst minus -19, Croshere a game-best plus +17. Actually, Jefferson looked for his own shot more in the first half, when he was 4-10 FG, versus the second half, when, despite 3 offensive rebounds, he only launched 4 shots, making 3. Yes, ‘Toine was rightly the focal point of the offense, but no way Jefferson should be tied with Marko Jaric as the team’s fifth most-frequent shooter in the second half, especially against a paint-challenged squad like Golden State. (For the record, ‘Toine had 9 second half shots, Shaddy and Gomes 7 apiece, and Telfair 6.)

    For what it’s worth, Jefferson ducked the media after the game. He follows the now standard custom of not wanting to conduct postgame interviews until he is fully dressed. He came out, put on his pants, then went back into the trainer’s area. A few minutes later, a Wolves’ locker room assistant came out and scooped up the rest of his clothes. Jefferson still hadn’t emerged by the time almost all the media had gone.

    3. Quick Hits

    ‘Toine’s breakout game was his first bout of productivity in weeks. Because both he and Gomes understand how to play the game so thoroughly, they are fun to watch, but recently only Gomes has been able to take what he sees the opponent giving him–‘Toine simply hasn’t executed. But Golden State’s fly by night D has a tendency to heal all slumps. Playing at the power forward slot, ‘Toine already is a natural floor spacer, causing mismatches either on the perimeter on down low and finding the open man or making a team pay for whatever mismatch they choose. Tonight he shot 4-5 FG from down low, especially little turnaround jumpers spinning baseline on the left block, and 3-4 from beyond the arc. Half of his 26 points came in the fourth quarter, when he went 5-5 FG. He also snatched 10 rebounds, second only to Jefferson among all players on both squads. But zero assists, because, as with Jefferson, the Warriors weren’t emphasizing the double team.

    Corey Brewer may be hitting the proverbial rookie wall, usually judged to begin slightly before or after the midpoint of the 82 game season. Yes, I know Brewer’s minutes have been cut, but it isn’t the game-time lack of energy so much as the constant practicing, travel, level of competition, and, in Brewer’s case, all the losing. A key point in tonight’s game occurred when Brewer subbed in after McCants’ third foul with 6:13 to play in the second and the score tied. Mickeal Pietrus proceeded to school him for a trey, reverse lay-up and alley oop dunk in the next 1:48, compelling Wittman to utilize a quick hook and bring in Greg Buckner. That followed a desultory first quarter stint where Brewer committed a turnover and a foul in his first 70 seconds of action. For the game he had one missed shot, one assist, one block, three fouls, two turnovers and was a minus -12 in just 8:24 of action.

    Asked what happened in the Brewer-Pietrus matchup, Wittman said the difference was "just experience. I would be comfortable putting Corey on him again." But 8:24 proves he was not comfortable with it–and appropriately so–tonight.

    The referees were horrible. The worst display was a no-call on a breakaway layup where Stephen Jackson clearly travelled, but there were a bevy of others. McCants and Craig Smith both got jobbed and then had reason to overreact to all the legit fouls called upon them–there is a reason they lead the team in whistle frequency. But what was also telling is McCants getting whistled for pretending like he was going to fling the ball into the stands, a situation where he seemed as mad at himself as at the refs; versus the veteran Walker screaming at them for no calls during a rebounding scrum and getting only a delay of game for tossing
    the ball away. The terrible crew: James Capers, Scott Foster, and Tommy Nunez Jr.

    While I laughed at Gerald Green running around like a chicken with his head cut off while constantly looking to the bench for instruction on defense, GG went plus +10 during his 8:25 on the court–not coincidentally spent almost entirely with Walker.

    Sebastian Telfair is dinged up, perhaps his back. Teammates took turns holding on to his arms and gently lowering him to the floor (instead of a chair) during his times on the sidelines.

  • Movement and Music

    DANCE & PERFORMANCE
    Wreck

    Black Label Movement
    received a hearty welcome with its debut 2006–07 season, garnering
    praise both for its evocative choreography and athletic, hyperkinetic
    dancers. The company repays that kindness by opening its sophomore
    season with the ambitious Wreck, artistic director Carl Flink’s first evening-length piece. Claustrophobics beware: Wreck
    depicts ten sailors trapped inside the last watertight compartment of
    an ore boat at the bottom of Lake Superior. Confined to a small space
    defined by several benches, the dancers artfully flail, careen, and
    collide as they run out of air and time. Vintage 8-millimeter footage
    of an ore boat, along with a score by acclaimed Twin Cities-based
    composer Mary Ellen Childs, provide a backdrop. —Danielle Kurtzleben

    8 p.m., Southern Theater, 1420 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-340-1725; $18 (but tonight’s show is a pay-what-you-can show).

    FILM
    Cinema Lounge Goes MTV

    What’s better on a cold January
    night than curling up to an independent film or listening to some music? How about independent films AND music! Cinema Lounge has done
    it again. They have created an exciting new line up for their
    monthly movie event at the Bryant-Lake Bowl Theater. Everyone is welcome
    to come in, kick back, and enjoy some original music videos from local
    independent filmmakers and some great new bands. These are not
    like your average YouTube clips. Cinema Lounge promises
    "smart and well-crafted" videos that are sure to please.
    And the cost is pleasing too: FREE! —Kate Leibfried

    7 p.m., Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 West Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949; free.

    MUSIC
    A Mature G Love


    G Love’s
    heyday may have been in the early ’90s when backwards caps and funky alterna-rock were somehow considered chic. But he’s proven himself a perennial favorite amongst the aging slackers that don’t want to move into the 21st century of music. That portrayal may be unfair though, because G Love’s recent albums indicate a growing sense of maturity and songwriting talent just as rich as the keen-eyed exuberance of his earlier and more revered albums. Opening are the folksy Wood Brothers, featuring Chris Wood of Medeski, Martin and Wood. —Christopher Hontos

    8 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612-332-1775; $25

  • Sex and the Fat Man

    I learned again last week that any blog, book, or article with the word "sex" in the title will be read. Not that this was news to me. But it’s a lesson that was reinforced by our nifty Popular Today list, which proved that sex sells better than anything except basketball. Which, when you think about it, is an interesting commentary. . . .

    Now, I don’t know the Lakers from the Bears, but I do know sex. And I even have a legitimate reason to write about sex because my new novel is absolutely chock-full of sex. Really good sex. Only the person who’s having it happens to be an attractive but very, very large man — and I do mean that, in every way.

    So you should know that I spent my entire morning searching for a photo of a sexy fat man for this blog. Finally, I gave up and e-mailed our web guru who spent her entire afternoon searching. And what did we find? Well, what’s above is the best by far.

    I sorted through photos of fat men wearing baseball caps and stuffing enormous hamburgers into their mouths; clinical shots of obese men with pendulous fins of flesh hanging off their 1,000-pound bodies; pictures of sumo wrestlers in diaper-like garb. The closest I could come to a stud with a little meat around the middle was a stock shot of John Goodman, back in the Roseanne years. Yet — and I find this interesting — when I looked for cheesecake photos of hefty women they were in large supply.

    What’s that all about?

    Well, I’ll tell you what it’s all about. We women can talk about weight discrimination until we’re 90 (and probably will): the way men want stick-thin babes on their arms, women who look like heroin-addicted teenage boys and have collarbones that could kill. But suddenly, I’m not at all convinced that the problem isn’t really the other way around.

    Men are out there looking at jpegs of zaftig females lounging on pillows among dozens of cats. They’re getting turned on by women with rounded Rubanesque tummies and thighs that meet. But women, it appears, are not at all interested in looking at photos of beefy, hairy, barrel-stomached men.

    This has become a real hot button issue for me because my book is about a synesthetic 40-year-old food critic [nothing autobiographical there] who begins dating a smart, witty, reliable, thoughtful six-foot-six-inch 300-pound guy. (And no, for all of you who are wondering, my new six-foot-one-inch husband weighs a mere 203 dripping wet. . . .)

    The plot of my novel hinges around the fact that in high-falutin’ foodie circles, fat is simply not acceptable. Oh, the people who attend restaurant openings may talk about food constantly, describing as if it were sex, longingly and with hungry eyes. But they don’t eat much. And they do not care, as a group, for people who do.

    Mind you, I’m exempting real food lovers, most chefs (they eat constantly but they also move constantly,which is how they stay so thin), and those lusty gourmets of the Ruth Reichl type. What I’m talking about here are the socialites who attend every haute cuisine gala in town. When my heroine tries to bring her big man along as escort to one such event, he is openly derided for being not of the right type.

    So the couple ends up instead frequenting a small Persian restaurant in suburban Chicago where he, a scientist, is treated with dignity and she, a food critic, is not even recognized. They fall in love over a dish called fesenjoon, which she describes this way:

    The flavor reminded me of the mood rings we used to have when I was in grade school, with stones that would change color — supposedly depending upon the wearer’s emotional state, but really due to body temperature. Fesenjoon seemed to change in the air: its scent was of one thing and then another. Berries, citrus, bakery buns, roasted chicken, nuts, and earth.

    I wrote this, however, before ever having tasted fesenjoon. I’d read about it. I knew the ingredients (chicken, pomegranate juice, walnuts, onion, and citron), so like a person who can read music and hear the melody in his head, I conjured up the scent and flavor of the dish based upon its recipe.

    Last Friday, my normal-sized husband and I went to Shiraz Fireroasted Cuisine, on 60th and Nicollet, so I could taste the dish around which I’d based the whole crux of my book. Let me tell you, I was nervous. . . .

    "What if I hate it?" I asked my husband in the car.

    "You can write about something else," he said. "Send your editor the changes." He was nice enough, you’ll notice, not to point out that I might have tried fesenjoon before sending the book in.

    Shiraz was, I’m sorry to say, nearly empty. We sat in a booth next to a miniature Persian rug that looked like a little flying carpet. The lights were low and the walls a warm rose color. It would have been a very pleasant place to be except that the noise of clattering dishes coming from the kitchen echoed through the cavelike space.

    We ordered the fesenjoon (called fesenjan at Shiraz) and a ghormeh sabzy stew. Each came with a plate of white rice and lemon zest. I spooned a little of each on my rice and tasted.

    "Do you hate it?" my husband asked.

    I shook my head. But the truth is, I didn’t love it, either. The fesenjan was redder and sweeter than I’d expected, and the Shiraz version seemed to have no onion in it, nothing savory to counter the syrupy pomegranate sauce. The other dish, however, was extraordinary: chunks of rich, tender filet mignon with red beans in a thick gravy made of beef juice, herbs, and lime. It had a nearly South American flavor, mixed with the wondrous plain meaty taste of a rare Manny’s steak.

    Speaking of Manny’s, they have fat men there. Lots of them, and they’re sexy, too. Forget the wifty, silk tie types who hang out at places where the food is vertical, these are guys who take their 4-pound steaks lying down.

    So could someone get over there right now and take a picture. Please?

  • Eyes on Mondale

    On January 8th, 2008, Walter Mondale spoke at the Phillips
    Eye Institute’s
    annual dinner and review. As the daughter of an
    ophthalmologist for this clinic, I’m
    not usually invited to the dinner, which I consider a blessing after having endured 18 years of LASIK eye
    surgery and patient stastistics. But this was Mondale, after all; and I was curious to discover what stellar contributions he might offer the opthalmology community.

    Much as expected, the clinic president subjected the audience to more statistics and eye surgery stories before ceding the stage to Mondale — the price to pay, I suppose. But he still left me wondering what a former presidential candidate was doing at an ophthalmologist dinner — a question that Mondale himself finally shed some light on.

    According to Mondale, he was having his
    eyes checked and his doctor asked him if he wanted to talk at the annual
    dinner, to which he replied, “What am I going to say to a bunch of
    rich, Republican doctors?” His doctor suggested talking about the
    primaries, which is precisely what Mondale set out to do, focusing on the differences between today’s campaigns and his own campaign against Ronald Reagan in 1984.

    One big difference, Mondale pointed out, is that the states are having their primaries and
    caucuses closer together. Each state wants to have an impact on the
    next state, so they’ve all pushed their caucuses and primaries
    earlier in the year. This year, about 20 states (including Minnesota)
    are having their primary elections on February 5th, known to the news
    networks as “Super Tuesday.” These close election dates make it harder
    for the candidates to campaign. While in the past they might have had more time to visit the states, talk to citizens personally, and go to town hall meetings, they are now limited to national debates and speeches — a fact that could cost less-skilled public speakers votes.

    Mondale went on to describe his one-day trips from New York to California, stopping in other states along the way. Back when there was more time between primaries, candidates would do this regularly, he explained. He would arrive in
    California, fly back to New York, and start over the next day.

    According to the former presidential candidate, the Internet has also helped with the candidates’ fast campaigning. Each
    candidate has his/her own website, where you can sign up for mailing
    lists, catch up on campaign news, or volunteer. The Youtube
    Democratic debate, as well as many groups, debates, and polls on Facebook,
    have involved more people with the election.

    Mondale spoke briefly about the differences in cost between the
    elections. In 1984, Mondale’s campaign cost him $325 million. This
    year, each candidate will spend about $1 billion just for a
    nomination to their party. That’s a lot of wasted money for those who
    don’t get nominated.

    This election is significantly different from any other election
    because of the candidates who are running. This is the first time in
    history that a woman, an African American, and a Hispanic American are running
    for president in this country. Mondale mentioned that many other countries — such as
    India, Argentina, and Germany — are ahead of us by already having
    multiple presidents who more widely represent their country. During his campaign, Mondale
    took a huge risk by choosing Geraldine A. Ferraro as his running mate,
    making her the first woman nominated to this position. Now Hillary
    Clinton is running for president, which shows how much our views have
    changed over 24 years.

    No analysis is complete without a few suggestions for improvement, so of course, Mondale tossed in some ideas to making the primaries a little less
    hectic for the candidates, and a little more interesting for the rest
    of us. He thinks that we should change the order in which the states
    have their primaries. Instead of Iowa, have South Carolina or Arizona
    be first. He also suggested that the country be divided into eight
    different geographical regions, each with its own date for primaries. This would give candidates time to campaign in each region prior to the primary election.

    Overall, the ideas he proposed seemed like good ones, but let’s face it, politics moves very slowly. Despite the current candidates’ continued focus on the need for change, we all know politicians — and this country, in general — are reluctant to major modifications. I doubt that the way primary
    elections are run will change any time soon.

  • Hell Yes, Holly

    Last week, while continuing work on
    the February fashion feature (coming soon), I stumbled upon this fantastic jewelry
    collection at Key North, a new-ish eco-retailer in Northeast Minneapolis.

     

     

     

    The earrings, of course, are my fave – they’re made of something called African turquoise. Each of the above pieces are by Holly J., a Minneapolis-based
    designer.

  • Elegant, Swashbuckling Laughter

    MUSIC
    Elegant Melodies of Simpler Times


    A homegrown performer with a
    sound reminiscent of Jack Johnson or Simon and Garfunkel, Alex Goldfarb
    takes the stage tonight at the 331 Club. His crystal clear voice
    and elegant melodies spin yarns of sunny days and simpler times. Don’t be fooled, however, by Goldfarb’s seemingly straightforward
    themes. His tunes carry an undercurrent of social commentary and
    thought-provoking lyrics that allow you to quietly reflect on your own
    life and the world around you. With influences as diverse as Iron
    & Wine, Metallica, and puddles after a rain, Alex Goldfarb promises
    to be an interesting and innovative performer. —Kate Leibfried

    9:30 p.m., 331 Club, 331 NE 13th Ave., Minneapolis; 612-331-1746.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Peer Gynt

    Who better than Robert Bly to revive this cautionary tale of misdirected masculinity? Peer Gynt is
    the most deplorable of characters, a swashbuckler who, during the
    course of a single play, manages to desert his mother, cajole a bride
    into the mountains on her wedding night, get crunk with some
    hillbillies, and go on a globe-trotting black-market bender.
    Contemporary audiences will notice that nineteenth-century playwright Henrik Ibsen
    makes an apt statement about a familiar, modern archetype: the
    fatherless adolescent whose thuggish ambitions eclipse all kindness
    within. What’s more, Ibsen wrote the entire thing in Norwegian verse;
    as with most English translations, Bly’s new adaptation duplicates that
    effort. —Christy DeSmith

    7:30 p.m., Guthrie Theater, 818 S. 2nd St., Minneapolis; 612-377-2224; $29-$69.

    COMEDY
    Get Some Schoolin’ in the Laughter Zone

    With a long list of credentials
    and an even longer list of jokes, Ted Alexandro guarantees a good time. Once a New York City schoolteacher, Ted found his true calling outside the classroom and inside the comedy club, and occasionally on your
    television. He has made appearances on Comedy Central, The Letterman Show,
    Jimmy Kimmel, Conan O’ Brien, and several other big-time comedy shows. All this week at the Acme Comedy Company we are lucky to have Ted’s
    big personality drumming up some big laughs. —Kate Leibfried

    8 p.m., Acme Comedy Company, Historic Itasca Building, 708 1st St. N., Minneapolis; 612-338-6393; $15, $27 dinner and show package.

     

  • Kidjo Electrifies the Ordway

    Last night, four-time Grammy-nominee Angelique Kidjo gave a stellar performance at the Ordway Center for the Performing
    Arts
    . Despite her relatively
    petite stature, Kidjo is a ball of energy. She brought life and
    vitality to the stage as she sang and danced to the rhythm of African
    drums and electric guitars.

    Kidjo’s music is inspired by her childhood home
    of Benin, but also includes elements of American R&B, funk, and jazz,
    and influences from Europe and Latin America. From the very beginning
    of her performance, Kidjo was clearly able to energize her audience.
    Her powerful voice and catchy African beats make it hard for the audience
    to resist dancing along.

    Calling
    her microphone her "weapon of mass love," Kidjo also brings activism
    to the stage. Kidjo preaches love, peace, and the need to unify
    all human beings. Her goal is to touch lives through her singing
    and her message of love. The audience at the Ordway Center seemed
    to truly embrace Kidjo’s message as they unabashedly sang and danced
    along to her music, sometimes swaying back and forth with their neighbors
    and embracing those around them. Kidjo’s positive attitude reverberated
    through the crowd along with her powerful voice.

    To
    compliment her strong vocals, Kidjo was backed by an equally strong
    band. The three guitarists and two percussionists not only provided
    an energetic backdrop for Kidjo’s songs, but were also let loose to
    perform a purely instrumental segment of the show while Kidjo took a
    break offstage. The band gave the show depth through their lively
    performance and constant interaction with Kidjo.

    Kidjo’s
    connection with her audience was incredible. It takes a special
    kind of performer to gain the love and appreciation of a crowd, but
    Kidjo seemed to accomplish this feat effortlessly. She danced
    among the audience, told jokes, and even encouraged audience members
    to come dance on the stage with her. The level of interaction
    Angelique Kidjo had with the crowd at the Ordway made her
    show unforgettable.

    Before
    you buy a ticket to her next show, however, keep in mind that if you
    have trouble losing yourself in a performance, the amount of audience
    participation may be daunting instead of delightful. In order
    to truly enjoy Kidjo’s performance, you have to let yourself be enveloped
    by her music and the excited atmosphere it creates.

  • Wicked Pissah

    I’m out here in Boston during this lovely Nor’Easter. As a true-hearted girl from Minny, it’s my duty to throw a few What’s-The-Big-Deals around and trudge through the slush in just a fleece declaring the 33 degrees to be a bit "balmy". I wear my Northern pride and January birthday like a fierce badge.

    But on to the eats…

    Last week, the city happily basked in warmer than normal weather, which made it the perfect walking city. I had pizza on the brain and my local pal Alex told me to walk to the North End and find Regina’s.

    The North End is the Little Italy of Boston. Down the main drag of Hanover Street, little restaurants and pastry shops glow through the late hours, welcoming locals and tourists alike. Despite the bright neon and hanging Christmas lights, the North End feels less of a tourist trap than Mulberry St. in NYC. We had to ask a few locals for directions to Regina as it wasn’t on the main street.

    The side streets in the North End are crooked and twisty, just like you want them to be. We passed apartment buildings that were so close together that we imagined neighbors hanging out the windows having a chat. In the middle of a five-way intersection, on the corner of Thacher Street we found Regina’s.

    Since 1926, Regina’s has been serving up brick-oven pizza. Walking into the dingy, tightly packed room, that seemed evident. The room was covered with black and white photographs showing stern waitresses and proud pizza cooks. The yellow walls were framed with woodwork that had seen many coats of dark paint and the booth tops were marked from years of hungry patrons waiting for their pizza.

    We were brusquely waved to a booth that could seat two larger people, or four in a pinch (we smashed in, we’re low-maintenance like that). Three waitresses worked the room and managed to deliver drinks and take orders while holding a converstion with each other, at top voice. Before we even got our taps of Moretti and Peroni (we’d ordered bottles, but whatever, beer is beer), we’d heard about how one girl had taken a few days off and the others had begrudgingly covered her shifts. "It’s a wicked pissah when you can’t even say thanks!" she shouted as she dropped our pizzas on the table.

    The pies were beautiful. The Pomodoro Formaggio was covered with dappled cheese and freshly torn leaves of basil. It was simple and salty and completely fresh. The Capricciosa was an ode to the perfect bite with a mouthful of fluffy ricotta, soft mushroom, prosciutto and their wonderfully tangy tomato sauce. With just a touch of char of the bottom, the crust held a nice balance between soft and crunchy.

    Our waitress sloshed a measure of beer from the glasses as she plonked down our second round. We were left to deal with it, and we did. When the barman told her it was last call, she turned to the room and to all of us shouted "You done, right?" A couple of hands shot up for a few more Buds and we paid our bill. Walking out, the pizza man in the kitchen shouted a Thanks as he threw another disc of dough into the air, and we left Regina feeling great.

    Regina Pizza has grown into a local chain with quite a few locations. I don’t know if any of them could live up to the night we had on Thacher Street, so I’m afraid I’ll have to pass them by. What a wicked pissah.

  • Wine, Noir, and Bombs

    WINE & DINE
    Wine after Work: Port, Sherry, and Madeira

    Wine implies
    sophistication, classiness, and for many, mystery. If you love wine, but have always felt a
    little intimidated by it, then Wine After Work is the thing for you. In a
    casual and laidback setting, you (and perhaps a few friends) will learn about
    the great dessert wines of the world. The event will mainly focus on wines from Spain
    and Portugal, especially
    Port, Sherry, and Madeira. You will not only learn a little history about
    each wine, but also the art of pairing dessert wines with specific desserts. Get ready to hone your palate and impress your
    friends with your newfound knowledge of wine. Salud! —Kate Leibfried

    5:30 – 6:30 p.m., W.A. Frost and Company, 374 Selby Ave. (corner of Selby and Western); Saint Paul; 651-699-5834; $35.

    MORE WINE & DINE
    Italian-Inspired Wine Dinner

    Treat yourself tonight to the richness
    of basil and garlic as you enjoy a six-course Italian-inspired meal prepared by
    Chef Hector Ruiz of Café Ena. Chef Ruiz is
    an experienced chef who has had the opportunity to explore the local cuisine in
    places as diverse as France,
    Mexico, and Chicago. If the food isn’t enticing enough, then allow yourself to be lured by
    yet another Italian specialty: wine. Each course will be paired with a glass of fine Italian wine to
    compliment the distinct flavor of the dish. The wine, the savory Italian food, and the sophisticated atmosphere of
    Café Ena will have you singing "Bella Notte" in no time. —Kate Leibfried

    7 p.m., Café Ena, 4601 Grand Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-824-4441; $80 (Call to make a reservation or book online).

    FILM
    Five Film Noir Masterpieces

    Tonight kicks off another five-week run of Monday-night film noir at the Parkway. Come on, folks — we have to start taking advantage of these great opportunities, or they’ll simple stop being offered. And how often do we get to see these film noir classics on the big screen? Trust me: it’s just not the same thing. Experience the fabulous low-key chiaroscuro and tenebrism lighting in larger-than-life mode. You can’t go wrong with these brutal crime flicks. The series begins tonight with a Billy Wilder noir masterpiece: Double Indemnity — "a cynical, witty, and sleazy thriller
    about adultery, corruption and murder." Raymond Chandler had a hand in the screenplay, and the lovely
    Barbara Stanwyck stars as the elusive femme fatale. This is film noir at its best, folks; you don’t want to miss it.

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

    MUSIC
    Building Better Bombs

    Lately the Triple Rock has been doing free Monday-night shows
    featuring cool local bands. The idea is to showcase new local talent and foster
    an environment that allows a unified and cohesive local music scene without the usual
    barriers that many nightspots impart. And also to sell more beer. Tonight’s
    lineup is decidedly more in-your-face than some of the previous shows. Check out
    Building Better Bombs – a post-hardcore
    band featuring Stef Alexander – aka P.O.S. BBB is a high
    energy outlet for the Warped-tour rapper’s screaming punk side. Also performing
    are post-AmRep rockers Death To Our
    Enemies
    and goofs The
    Talkers
    . DJ C-Gull will be spinning records and of course the bar will
    feature drink specials. —Christopher Hontos

    9 p.m., Triple Rock Social Club, 629 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612- 333-7399; free.

  • Licking Toads

    I would watch Philip Seymour Hoffman fold his laundry. Magnolia, 25th Hour, Capote. Like a blond, overfed version of Sean Penn, he is so riveting onscreen — so true in every single role he plays — that the actors around him seem to fade.

    In The Savages, which I saw this afternoon at the Edina Cinema, Hoffman plays Jon, a 42-year-old eternal boy who teaches dramatic theory and whines to both his sister and his beautiful Polish girlfriend about his inability to commit. Yet Hoffman infuses the character with such rumpled confusion and genuine decency, you cannot help but love the child-man. And when he and his sister, an equally emotionally-stunted 39-year-old named Wendy (Get it? Jon and Wendy. . . .I kept waiting for a Peter), must stow their demented and dying father in a nursing home, Hoffman manages to play the part simultaneously with impatience, sadness, disgust and a profound sense of loss.

    See this film for the wry story, for Laura Linney and Philip Bosco, for a cameo bit by a young Nigerian-American actor named Gbenga Akinnagbe as a brusquely gentle geriatric nurse. But see it. And you may go home as I did, less concerned about the rampant dysfunction in your own family and hopeful that even incredibly fucked-up people can show a little humanity when brought right down to the wire.

    After the movie, while basking in the glow of shared neurosis, I opened a Languedoc from 2004, the Domaine de L’Hortus Grande Cuvée 2004, a blend of Syrah, Grenache, and Mourvedre, and the last of the holiday bottles we had on hand. It gave off a musty, almost yogurty smell when first I removed the cork. I took a tentative sip and maybe it was the movie still running through my mind — Philip Seymour Hoffman’s meaty, sweaty charm — but when my husband asked whether I liked it I said I did, though it was rather amphibious, like licking a frog.

    This begs the question of whether I have actually licked a frog, I suppose. And the answer is no, I have not. But the first mouthful I got had the flavor of river water and mushrooms; it tasted the way murky ponds smell. After this, however, the Grande Cuvée lightened almost magically, with cherry and coriander on the tongue with a bit of burlap sack. I liked it a great deal, because I love a wine — as I love an actor — that will change and surprise me, being at once funky, mean, and sweet.

    Our 13-year-old happened through the room as we were discussing The Savages and debating the taste of wet frog. She informed us that there are people who lick toads, not for their flavor but because their skin excretes a substance that will produce a good high. Now, put aside for a moment that she knew about his practice while I did not (a precocious child, she), and be assured that tomorrow we’re going to have a long mother-daughter talk about what exactly a young lady should and should not lick.

    The important thing is that I’ve done some research — on behalf of my daughter and you — and determined that toad licking is not, after all, an effective means by which to get high. According to The Truth About Toad Licking (and who would not trust such a source?), the slimy stuff you ingest when licking the back of a toad actually is venom. In order to get a good dose of the hallucinogen 5-MeO-DMT, it’s necessary to collect a quarter cup or so of toad juice (by agitating a toad — and I’m totally serious about this, look for yourself), heat the goop until it crystallizes, then smoke the grains.

    Now call me a pessimist, but I don’t think your average toad-licking addict has the follow through to complete all the steps in this process. I know I don’t. What’s more, I wouldn’t recommend it. There are so many startling joys in life even without the use of hallucinogens. For instance, I’m very happy drinking my frog-tasting wine and thinking about the way Philip Seymour Hoffman makes unshaven and schlumpy look so wordly and suave your whole world simply turns upside-down.