The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • The Three Pointer: A Culture of Losing

    Game #30, Road Game #17: Minnesota 82, LA Clippers 91

    Season record: 4-26

    1. 4th Quarter Follies

    For those of you with hangovers, either from an excess of alcohol or undue loyalty to a dysfunctional, mentally weak basketball franchise, we’ll start with a Joe Friday straight script on the lodging of the Wolves’ latest L. The team was up 11, 70-59, heading into the final period against a woeful Clippers team that had lost six straight overall, seven straight at home, and all 17 games in which they had trailed after three quarters thus far this season. A mere five minutes later the Wolves had missed ten straight shots, committed three turnovers and four fouls, and watched the Clips reel off 15 straight points–the most they had amassed in any one of the three previous quarters was 21–en route to a sudden 70-74 deficit.

    Against stiff competition, the most absurd stat of the quarter was the 13 personal fouls committed up by the boys in blue and green, a pace that would disqualify eight players from the game if enacted for the entire contest. Only one, perhaps two, of those fouls were the purposeful offenses of a team hoping their opponent misses from the foul line in the waning minutes of the game. In any case, the Clips leveraged the hacking for a bounty of 20 free throws in that 12-minute span, making 16, which by itself was enough to top the Wolves 12-point period (which included just 5 free throws). That’s how you come within one miss of tying the NBA record for three-point futility–the Clips finished 0-14 3ptFG–and still win by 9.

    Four of those 13 4th quarter fouls were committed by Rashad McCants, whose regression has entered toxic territory. In the past two games, McCants has gone 2-13 FG–with just three of those shots inside the three-point arc–with zero, count ’em, zero, free throws. Tonight he fouled out in 18:48, registering a game-worst minus -15. But beyond the numbers, McCants seems to be moving at half-speed. His defensive rotations and scrambles back in transition are occurring in invisible molasses. His engagement and desire are MIA. Even as the desperate television stations broadcasting Wolves games repeat the feature on his many tattoos, this hip hop poet and sensitive soul is mailing it in on the court.

    Perhaps Shaddy is sulking over his demotion, watching from the bench as Corey Brewer gets bumped over to his two-guard spot (that went to Marko Jaric before him) and Ryan Gomes takes the bulk of the minutes at small forward. It is hard to argue with Gomes’s effort and performance the past two or three weeks, however–last night he vied with Jefferson as the best player in a Wolves uni, scoring 17 points (8-14 FG) and grabbing 15 boards. In terms of the future, however, it is hard to imagine Gomes resigning here.

    Hindsight is 20-20, and this only became apparent to me as the game was progressing. But the Clippers took the floor was grandpa Sam Cassell and defensive specialist Quinton Ross in the backcourt. The Wolves countered with Sebastian Telfair and Brewer. Coaches Mike Dunleavy and Randy Wittman both seemed content to cross-match the guards, with their taller, defensive-oriented 2s throttling their smaller point guards. That’s because Brewer’s season-long shooting woes made Dunleavy comfortable sticking the 38-year old Cassell (who moves like he’s 76 on D) on the rook. But what happens if McCants starts at shooting guard? That forces matchups of Ross-McCants, Casell-Telfair, and either Brewer-Maggette (who’s 6-6, 225) or Gomes-Maggette.

    Wittman obviously didn’t want to go that way. His plan was clearly to take advantage of the Clips woeful front line, suffering from the season-long absence of Elton Brand, and, last night, Tim Thomas. That’s why he started Michael Doleac next to Jefferson, and put the taller Gomes on Maggette. Besides, Wittman also had to be salivating over the backcourt matchups off the bench. Specifically, 6-7 Marko Jaric would go up against either 6-foot Dan Dickau or 5-10 Brevin Knight. And, as it turned out, Jaric and McCants were greeted by Knight and career-scrub Richie Frahm to begin the 4th quarter. But Jaric never once posted up his nine-inch shorter opponent, But he, McCants and Sebastian Telfair went scoreless (0-7 FG) for the period while Frahm and Knight combined for 6 points, five assists and two steals.

    Judging from his postgame comments, Wittman was more concerned with his backcourt’s inability to execute the paint-oriented gameplan. "I have to find some guards to lead us down the stretch. We had no direction, no leadership. We have mismatches on the inside that we don’t even recognize. It’s the same thing every game."

    Clips center Chris Kamen, who notched 16 rebounds and 5 blocks, was equally frank. "They’re just not that good, so we were able to beat them. We’re not that good either. I mean, it was like a `Dust Bowl" game–two of the worst teams in the league playing each other."

    2. Witt Tightens the Screws

    Last night was the most aggressive I ever remember seeing Wittman coach. He juggled his lineup, inserting Michael Doleac so Jefferson could operate against rookie Al Thorton. When Jefferson committed some early defensive gaffes, Witt yanked his star less than three minutes into the first quarter and kept him on the bench for nearly five minutes. Likewise, timeouts were quickly called after a pair of mentally lazy turnovers in the third period and when Brewer allowed his man to waltz past him for a layup later in the second quarter. Finally, Witt altered his lineup five times in the first 4:36 of that disastrous fourth period.

    There are at least two ways of looking at this. First, Wittman has a thankless job and preferred to have praise and a long leash with his troops result in a steady increase of confidence and, thus, maturity and performance. And when it hasn’t happened, he’s been forced to withdraw the carrots and deploy more sticks. After all, people are finally beginning to understand how magnificently multi-faceted Kevin Garnett can be for a ballclub–all the big and little things he does to enhance your squad. Look at the Celts’ roster and tell me how they are allowing 86.82 points per game when the next best team is ceding 89.25. Then, on top of that, they don’t have Foye or Ratliff at the two most important positions on the court.

    The flipside is that everything Wittman has tried hasn’t worked. The ballclub he is coaching is mentally weak, physically weak, woefully immature and now thoroughly embedded in a culture of losing. Witt fired one of his bullets a couple weeks ago when he essentially told his players they were a bunch of wusses; then, as further motivation, the Strib ran a front-page story openly wondering if this could be the worst team in NBA history, a challenge Witt said affected his team, who proceeded to play their best game of the season in blowing out the Pacers.

    But since then, it’s been almost all regression, with playing time seemingly allotted without rhyme or reason. Last night it was Doleac getting his season high in minutes while Gerald Green and Chris Richard received their first DNP-CD in quite awhile. Why? Yeah, you can say Doleac was a nice matchup on Kamen (my choice for Comeback Player of the Year thus far) and the big lug did a good job. But with Doleac saddled with foul trouble, why not at least try out Richard? I guess it is plain that Wittman really does envision a Jefferson and Craig Smith front line for the future, a depressing thought. And while I am content to watch Green languish, his supporters have to wonder why he didn’t join Walker and McCants on the bombadier squad when Witt was desperately trying to salvage the game in the final minutes–or why he didn’t some of McCants minutes when Shaddy lethargically went through the motions in the first half.

    Once again the question is–what’s the plan? Go with enough vet seasoning to help the young’uns? Give the kids all the burn they can stand? Find out about your expiring contracts–Smith, McCants, Green, T
    elfair, Gomes–as much as possible? Reward hustle and performance or play for the future? Engender experience in specific roles or juggle the lineup to get the best immediate matchups? There is evidence that the Wolves are doing all of these things and thus none of these things very well. Some of it can be blamed on the bad luck of injuries and flu bugs and the travails of youth and immaturity. More of it is bad, inconsistent judgment.

    Bottom line, the problems with this team are fundamental: Executing and defending the pick and roll, moving your feet, boxing out, staying mentally focused, avoiding stupid fouls. They are getting worse, not better. Meanwhile, ten players on the roster average at least 20 minutes a game (a testimonial to wildly fluctuating playing time) and three others average at least 11 mpg,

    3. Hit and Run

    I walked into the Caribou Coffee outlet beside Lund’s in Uptown the other day and saw that if you purchased a pound of Caribou Coffee you would receive two free tickets to the Wolves’ January 6 game against Dallas–while the supply lasted. Meanwhile, if the team’s play doesn’t kill fan interest, the absurdly expanded coverage by FSN will. While Jim Petersen and Mike McCollow are both astute and engaging analysts, promoting a former cheerleader to provide fashion tips or insights on halftime shows or having sideline guy Telly Hughes interview the third or fourth best player on that night’s victorious Wolves’ opponent kills more brain cells than the 180 proof everclear I once got for Christmas from a friend in Alaska.

    After the Indiana win, I pronounced Telfair as having made it in the NBA, claiming that his next batch of bad games should be construed as a slump rather than an immediate ticket to Europe. Since then, Bassy has reverted to the form that earned him his rep as a colossal bust. Last night he shot 3-14 FG, and while the 7/2 assist-to-turnover ratio and the three steals were hopeful, the stubborn fact is that he can neither stick a long-range or mid-range jumper nor finish at the hoop in transition. Aside from Al Jeffersonj, no one will benefit more from the return of Randy Foye–provided it happens this year–than Telfair.

    I have long been a supporter of Wolves owner Glen Taylor, who, especially compared to the likes of Pohlad, Wilf, and the Wild crew, has been willing to step up in a dramatic fashion to invest in his franchise. Taylor’s loyalty to Kevin McHale and Randy Wittman is another matter, and a can of worms I’m not opening here. No, what perplexes me is how and why Taylor stood by while two of his division rivals–Portland and Seattle–have stockpiled assets from a Phoenix Suns franchise that abhors the luxury tax, has abandoned any pretense of building for the future and is doing everything possible to win now. Portland’s owner Paul Allen has gladly accepted Phoenix’s top draft pick the last two or three years, ensuring that the already deep Trailblazer team is a dynamo for the next five to ten years even if Greg Oden can’t fully recover from injury (one, I might add, that deprives the Blazers of a greater potential talent than Randy Foye). Further up the West Coast, Seattle was able to execute a sign-and-trade with otherwise departing free agent Rashard Lewis that provided them with an enormous trade exception against the salary cap. They then peddled that exception to the Suns in exchange not only for Kurt Thomas (whose $8 million deal expires this year), but Phoenix’s first round pick in both 2008 and 2010. By 2010, the Suns should be in a precipitous freefall, giving the Sonics (or whatever they are called by then) a nice addition to the roster as Kevin Durant and Jeff Green enter their fourth year in the NBA.

    Let’s end on a positive note, eh? Doleac demonstrated that he’ll be a solid 15-20 minute performer as the Wolves encounter a slew of legit centers–Joel Pryzbilla, Marcus Camby, Erick Dampier, and Shaquille O’Neal–in the week ahead. Sorry, that’s the best I could come up with.

  • A Bone to Pick with Andrew Zimmern

    I was going to tell you about my most memorable dining
    experiences of this past year, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. There is more pressing business at hand: Andrew Zimmern’s recent blog post.

    I have only met Andrew – who writes about restaurants for
    Mpls-St.Paul magazine – a couple of times, but he seems like a nice guy. Once,
    when we happened to be dining at the same restaurant, he sent a couple of
    glasses of champagne over to our table
    – a classy gesture. But in a
    recent blog post, Zimmern says some things about my colleague, Ann Bauer, and
    me, that kind of hurt my feelings.

    I don’t mean the
    part where he says that I have a "workmanlike style honed over many years
    churning copy at the Star Tribune." I’m not sure how to return that compliment,
    except to say that Andrew is the perfect restaurant critic for a magazine like
    Mpls-St. Paul.

    No, the part that bothered me is when Andrew wrote that Ann
    needs to get out more, and that The Rake should send us to the restaurants that
    are "really making some noise," like La
    Belle Vie     and Heartland, which have both been around for years. And then
    he suggests that Ann and I need to be "more conversant with the local dining
    scene."

    That’s an interesting suggestion, coming from a guy who
    seems to spend a lot of his time out of town, eating sheep eyeballs on camera.
    I’m a little curious as to how Andrew finds time to check in on "two dozen
    other restaurants in town that are kicking ass every meal period." I’m in town most of the time, eating out
    about five nights a week, – looking for good restaurants that don’t make a lot
    of noise – and I can’t name that many places that are that consistently
    excellent.

    He did confess that he still hasn’t made it yet to Heidi’s,
    Meritage or Nick & Eddie, but I would be curious to know whether he has
    made it to very many of other new restaurants that we have written about in the
    past year: including Saffron (my nominee for the best new restaurant in the
    Twin Cities), the Blackbird Café, the Chindian Café, Pagoda, Keefer Court, Ngon
    Vietnamese Bistro    , Shiraz, Café BonXai, Mysore, the Hyderabad House, and Vinh
    Loi. Some of these have been reviewed by Andrew’s colleagues, but it looks like
    Mr. Zimmern himself isn’t getting out as much as he should. Or maybe he is
    spending too much time at the usual suspects. He did make it to Cafe Ena but wasn’t impressed – I suggest he give it another try.

    I made it to a lot of other very worthwhile restaurants this past
    year: Peninsula, Brasa, the Grand Café, Cosmos, Relax (the former Yummy), Yum!,
    Tanpopo Noodle Shop, Obento-ya, Cave Vin, Tam-Tam’s African Restaurant, Wolfgang Puck’s 20.21,
    First Course, Little Szechuan, Hoa Bien, Evergreen, Vincent, the Colossal Café, North
    Coast    , Kum Gang San, Victor’s 1959 Café, Sapor, Babalu , Cheng Heng and the
    Namaste Café – and I am sure I am forgetting a few.

    I don’t spend a lot of time going back to places like La
    Belle Vie and Heartland, because they have been around for years. And besides,
    I have had some wonderful meals at La Belle Vie, but I have also had moments
    where I have found myself wondering just exactly what the point is. Tim McKee
    and Josh Thoma are very talented chefs, but their menu, with its truffles and
    porcini and Barkham blue and branzino (sea bass, flown in fresh from the
    Mediterranean), doesn’t exactly engage the place where they are. It’s a cuisine
    they could create anywhere, as long as their customers have enough money – but
    maybe that is the point.

    I’m more inclined to restaurants like Heartland, at least in
    theory. I like and admire Lenny Russo, who is a very engaging guy, and has done
    heroic work to support local farmers and promote local and sustainable eating.
    His menus always sound wonderful – how can you resist a dish like Minnesota elk tartare with preserved tomato
    jam, Wisconsin turnip slaw and rosemary-shallot dressing?     In my limited experience, it’s always good,
    but it doesn’t always taste as exquisite as it sounds. Maybe it’s time for another visit, but I
    wish he used more garlic. Or something.

    Zen philosopher Alan
    Watts     warned against eating the menu instead of the meal. That’s good advice.
    Charlie the Tuna had something similar in mind when he made the distinction
    between "good taste" and "tastes good." Lucky for us, our readers just want to know what tastes good.

    Tomorrow: my favorite tastes and restaurants of 2007. I
    promise.

     

     

     

     

  • Best and worst gifts of 2007

    Of course, this will be a personal list. If you have a
    hankering to mention a particularly tasteful or -less gift of your own, please comment below.

     

     

    WORST

     

    1. Body Fat Scale (from one fat ass to another?) On Christmas
    evening, after I’d had my fill of sugar cookies, at the most inopportune
    moment, I opened a body-fat scale marked "From Santa." Quickly programming the
    thing with my height (5′ 5.5") and gender, I hopped aboard and was horrified to
    read its measure: thirty-seven-percent fat. However, if I program myself as an "athletic
    woman," it puts me at only twenty-four. And when I weighed-in as a man? Ten. And
    if you sleep it off and try for better the next morning? Eighteen. Needless to
    say, I can’t stand the fucking thing.

     

    2. Portraits. Is it really appropriate to give framed
    portraits of your lovely children to the single, childless aunt who once walked
    away from an engagement to a hot, wonderful man (thus causing suspicions about
    her sexual preferences) and who, furthermore, lives in a 600-square-foot box? I
    don’t have room for that shit … in my apartment or in my frozen-over heart.

     

     

    BEST

     

    1. In Vogue. A coffee-table book providing a comprehensive
    history of Vogue magazine, with plenty of images, beginning with the
    illustrated covers of the 1890s through the ’40s and moving into the magazine’s
    heyday, from about 1950 through the mid ’80s.

     

    2. 20 Questions Game. This handheld, battery-operated doodad
    asks you to think of an object and then, after asking twenty questions, guesses
    what it is – and with amazing accuracy. I’ve found it to be a colossal, but nonetheless
    delightful, waste of time. Already, I’ve identified its weak points: food things
    and anything feminine other than bra and panties.

  • Looking Back on 2007

    Say you were offered the option to go forward or backward in a time machine. Which would you choose?

    If science fiction is any indication, most people would leap ahead to find out what the world will be like at some future time. Me? I’d go back: to the Last Supper, to Ludwig Beethoven’s Vienna, to the birth of my firstborn. I’m fascinated by what has happened and by the changes wrought. Whereas others blow horns and throw confetti, kissing strangers and drinking too much to welcome the new year, I tend quietly to look to the past.

    This is why I love those recap shows — even the really sappy montages set to music — that show the events of the previous year. It never fails to awe me how much transpires in so short a time and how long the events echo.

    In 2007, for instance, we as a world suffered the loss of Kurt Vonnegut, Ingmar Bergman, and Luciano Pavarotti. There were other deaths, of course, which for whatever reason don’t rank as high on my personal list. I’ll admit I’m irrational. That Norman Mailer finally shuffled off this mortal coil, leaving some 17 wives and 98 children, seems fitting somehow; but the silencing of Vonnegut’s wit and preternatural understanding struck me as abrupt and left me cold.

    There were the iPhone and the Kindle; the collapse of the 35W bridge; the massacre at Virginia Tech; and the real estate crisis that precipitated a slow-moving but monstrous economic slump. As a result, people are reading The Da Vinci Code on handheld screens. Commuters of sound mind are taking long detours to avoid crossing rivers. College professors who teach writing are on alert (I know, because I am one) to pick out troubled students. Once secure and successful homeowners who thought they’d made a failsafe investment are going broke. And all this took place in the space of a year.

    In my smaller corner of the world, 2007 was the year I celebrated my one-year wedding anniversary to a man I never expected to meet — and whom I did not yet know on New Year’s Eve 2005. I was 39, the longtime single mother of three teenagers, and happily resigned to a life of independence (though far less happily to a life of celibacy) when we brushed against one another for the first time in the Heartland Wine Bar. That we are now a family simply amazes me.

    I also watched the resurrection of my older son — the one whose birth haunts me because of its profound normalcy — from a trancelike condition called autistic catatonia. In 2007, I allowed the doctors at Mayo to hook my child up to machines and jolt him with electricity in hopes it would bring him back to life. And in the sort of weird coincidence that appears in books like The Sirens of Titan, I took comfort from the fact that Vonnegut once made the same decision regarding his son, Mark.

    I spent an afternoon with Leonid Hurwicz, the 90-year-old winner of the Nobel prize who fled the Nazis as a young man and came to Minnesota where he developed economic theories touched with the humanity of one who knows both honor and sin. I met Max Fink, one of psychiatry’s most well-known and controversial figures. I finished my second novel. I joined the staff at the Rake.

    Truth? I also culled a lot of people out of my life this year. It happened around the time of my son’s illness as the community I knew divided neatly into those who remained admirably steadfast and those who became distant, accusing, or mean. It saddens me to say that several friends and my own younger sister were among the latter. And while I try not to live with the grudge in my throat, I find it’s a relief to know where in the world you stand.

    All this happened, and yet it feels like no time at all has passed since the night of December 31, 2006. I was in a hotel room in Madison, WI, drinking a glass of something red and watching my then-brand-new husband sleep as the bells and whistles and gongs of some faraway New Year party announced midnight’s turn.

    I began contemplating all this last night, while sipping on a strange wine called The Other. I will rarely admit this, but I bought the bottle mostly because the label rather appealed to me. It’s simple and incredibly off-topic but the line drawing somehow speaks to what it is to be a woman in flux. It’s inexpensive: about $12 in most stores. A blend that, confusingly, changes each season depending upon both crops and the winemaker’s whim, this Peirano Estate Heritage Collection variety doesn’t list a year. But the one I tried was 60 percent Cabernet, 30 percent Merlot, and 10 percent Syrah. Heavy, fruity, and almost leathery, today’s Other belies the naked yoga pose on the label. Like hearing the voice of Queen Latifah come out of the mouth of Heidi Klum. This is a thick, thoughtful, serviceable wine. It exists in no time, apparently, and contains an oddly specific 13.8 percent alcohol.

    It’s a wine with a wallop, a rough finish that lasts for full minutes, and a dissonant drawing on the front. But after such a year, I’m thinking Kurt definitely would approve.

  • Bring on 2008!

    Today is the last day of 2007. Happy almost New Year!

     

    Spend a little time today reflecting on the year gone by; then move onward and welcome the new year head on, without ever turning back. That’s the key, folks — keep moving forward. Always move forward.

    Here are a few items to help you reflect on the past year and send it off:

    "Over the Coals 2007"
    "Top Ten Tastes of 2007"
    "Zagat and the Wisdom of Crowds"
    "One Curmudgeon’s Opinion: The Top Ten Films of 2007"
    "Thumbnail Sketch: Wolves 2007-08 Season Preview"

    Hopefully, you all have your evening mapped out already, having made your reservations weeks or even months ago. But for those of us who don’t like to sign our names on the dotted line without first gauging how we feel that day, here are a few options for the evening’s festivities that aren’t quite sold out yet. Act fast, though, or you may end up quietly toasting on a rooftop somewhere — which might be a great option indeed.

    It’s Going to Be a Zoo Out There
    Join the Como Park Zoo and Conservatory for a buffet dinner and live music by the Honeywagons, in the candlelit gardens of the Marjorie McNeely Conservatory ($195 per couple). Reservations are required; call 651-487-8250.

    Laugh It Up
    If 2007 was a particularly difficult year for you (or a particularly good one, for that matter), you might enjoy sending it off in a fit of laughter. The Scrimshaw New Years Spectacular at the Bryant Lake Bowl ($20) promises "comedy, music, dance, special surprise guests, and more broken resolutions than you can shake a Scrimshaw at!" Catch the early show (7 p.m.) and head to the next location before midnight; or stay through the late show (10:30 p.m.) and laugh your way right into the new year.

    New Ways to Welcome the New Year
    Ever bring in the new year on skates? First Avenue is looking like a bold adventure this evening (8 p.m.) with their Solid Gold New Year’s Eve Celebration ($15). Enjoy a performance by Guerilla Artfare, followed by a midnight roller skate dance and a free Champagne Toast. And if you find yourself up for a little Brother Ali action, you can sidle on over to the 7th Street Entry ($20).

    Of course, you can always forgo the skates and bring it down to the basics with a Lingerie and Loungewear New Year’s Eve celebration at the Varsity Theater (8 p.m.). I can’t promise you boundless sex appeal in 2008, but at least you’ll start off on the right foot. Enjoy music by Mark Mallman, The Alarmists, and Solid Gold, as well as a Lingerie & Loungewear Show by Eclecticoiffeur ($12).

     

    Not sexy enough for you? How about live nude drag?! Celebrate the new year at Pi (9 p.m.) with a Dykes Do Drag burlesque performance ($5).

     

    Nothing’s Quiet on New Year’s Day
    "Naked / I’ll stand naked / if you stand naked with me." Do you think they mean it? Somehow standing naked with the BoDeans sounds like a fabulous way to bring in the new year. The BoDeans are feel good music. Sure, they like to remind us of the horrors out there, but the music makes us bob, hop, and jump, regardless. "See / I can see / good things for you and I." New Year’s Eve at the Fine Line (8 p.m.) might seem a bit on the pricey side ($100), but the cost includes appetizers, drinks, the BoDeans, and Michael McDermott. Bring it on!


    Fine Dining
    Of course, the most standard New Year’s Eve option is simply a nice dinner somewhere, topped off with a Champagne toast at midnight. Sure, many of the finest dining establishments are already booked by now (the Dakota was sold out almost a month ago), but if you do a bit of leg work (finger work, in this case — meaning pick up that phone and make the reservation now), you ought to be able to find something. Word has it Cue at the Guthrie is serving up a five-course, European-inspired dinner with wine and a champagne toast at midnight.

     

    See Jeremy Igger’s Breaking Bread posts, "Where to Dine on New Year’s Eve – Part I" and "Part II" for more fabulous dining options.

  • birthday rally

    Midwest appeal

  • Zimmern's Complaint

    Here’s what happened. Mitch Omer — one of my dearest friends in this world — showed up at my house on Thanksgiving with a red-lined version of Andrew Zimmern’s December column, livid about some of the things it contained. Mitch railed. I defended Andrew on many points. We got into a bit of a tiff, which we worked out in about 30 seconds over a nice Cabernet. Then we moved on.

    Before leaving my house, Mitch asked if my editors at The Rake might be interested in publishing his thoughts. I said they might, he should send. So he did and they did and Mitch’s funny, blasphemous and hugely popular Ode to a Sycophant was published early on the morning of December 27.

    Later that same day — around noon, according to the time stamp — Andrew’s Chow & Again appeared responding not to Mitch but to me, referencing a desultory, down-home Top Ten list I’d posted in large part to make a point about these lists being rather ridiculous: subjective, random, and, in most cases, designed to show off what the reviewer knows or where he’s been.

    Zimmern wrote:

    Bauer is a very good writer, more of a craftsperson than I will ever
    be—I am more of a hack. But reading [Breaking Bread] throughout the last
    month and finally seeing Bauer’s piece touring us through the
    highlights of her year of eating was the biggest buzz kill of my day.
    Sample Room? Kinhdo? Coffee News Cafe? Pizza Luce? Atlas Grill? Anne,
    you need to get out and eat more!

    Now, put aside the fact that he misspelled my name repeatedly [note: most, but not all, of these errors have since been corrected, no doubt by MSP’s fact checkers] as well as the confusion about why Andrew happened to be on our site reading and what he actually was upset about. . . .

    There are a few things I’d like to clarify. (Though in truth, I feel as if I’ve been clarifying them for years, and it’s getting pretty damn old.) First off, I AM NOT A FOODIE. I am a food writer who also writes about literature, film, art, culture, history, religion, health, and politics. I often tie these things in, because I believe that food while central to existence should not be central to life. (It’s a fine distinction, I know, but one which I hold strongly.) My 2005 Salon essay "Food Slut" described my position as a food writer — and, by the way, resulted in a truly delightful turn on Zimmern’s now-defunct radio show, Chowhounds — and I posted a blog just a couple weeks ago restating it.

    Second, in order to get a rise out of Andrew Zimmern — let’s face it — I’d have to eat great-spotted lizard eggs or suck down the testicles of an endangered wildebeest. This is a man who travels the world and masticates things I believe should be left to evolve in the wild. . . .or, rarely and only for the sake of study, housed happily inside the glass walls of a terrarium. Not my bag, and how it informs an audience of viewers in Indianapolis or Billings about what to eat, I just cannot parse.

    This brings up another point: I will never knowingly eat food that involved the torture of animals — or the exploitation of people — in its production. This means no foie gras (which I absolutely love) unless someone can assure me the fowl that donated their livers never had their feet nailed to the floor and grain poured through a tube down their throats. Not even in pursuit of the perfect meal. Never.

    Finally, Zimmern suggests The Rake should send me out with more money to dine and runs a list of his own, which includes:

    Patricia Quintana week at Masa

    Heartland on principle and because I love the ‘everything from scratch’ vibe.

    Foie terrine at Cosmos

    Sautéed fish with pickled vegetables at The Teahouse

    Quail with pineapple at 20.21 . . . and brunch as well—the smoked salmon alone is worth it.

    Almost anything at Peninsula

    Morton’s for a salad, a steak, and some creamed spinach

    Oysters at Oceanaire

    Striped bass at Alma

    Everything I ever ate at La Belle Vie, and each time I go there, it gets better and better.

    Mussels and a wedge of pate at the bar at Vincent

    Homestyle tofu at Little Szechuan

    Lunch at Que Nha—you can’t go wrong.

    Passion fruit and chocolate dessert insanity at Chambers, and its truffle pizza and the ridiculously good galangal dipping sauce

    Punch Pizza

    What I find puzzling is this: Why is his pick of Punch Pizza somehow superior to my predilection for Pizza Lucé? And how is that tofu at Little Szechuan hits a higher mark of sophistication than tofu at Kinhdo?

    As it happens, I did go to Vincent this past year and I was
    disappointed (heartbreakingly so, for the first time ever, in both the food and the service) which is why the restaurant didn’t make my list. I love the food at 20.21, always have, but am so fatigued by the noise level it downgrades the dining experience for me. I’m long on record as loving Oceanaire, but as a former East Coaster I prefer to eat my fresh shellfish, er, fresh and by the sea. I went to the Chambers this year and, to be blunt, the décor there gives me the willies, making it tough for me to enjoy my food. And I have been perplexed by Masa — the brightness, the weird layout, the ersatz Chihuly light fixtures, and the high-priced pedestrian fare — since the day it landed on the Nicollet Mall.

    As for Heartland, I adore the restaurant, the wine bar, and the owner, Lenny Russo — with whom I am under contract to write a cookbook about his "everything from scratch" philosophy. I am there often and have written about Russo’s cuisine as recently as December 5.

    I am, moreover, a synesthete, which means my senses intertwine. I see sounds in color, I taste emotions and can identify the flavors of wind, thunder, sun, and rain. Along with this heightened sensitivity goes a tendency to evaluate factors other food crtics might not. If there is a scent coming from the kitchen that does not cohere with my meal, I will be unable to separate the experiences. One wine I tasted recently brought to mind the memory of kissing a baby’s sweet, sweaty neck. A dish like the vegetable salad at the Sample Room, which was on my original list, delights me because it is simple and triangulated: cool greens, warm winter gourds, oily dressing. To me, it evokes hay fields and full October moons, lacy, gray clouds scudding across the darkening sky.

    In other words, a good, hot black bean burrito with goat cheese and homemade corn salsa in a clean, bright lake-facing room after a long motorcycle ride is going to make me happier than all the pomp and whipped beef foam and jangling table service in the world.

    As for Zimmern’s charge that he goes out more and has a bigger expense account: True and true. (So, so true. . . .) My bet is that he dines out 8 to 15 times a week (and is known by the proprietors in 90 percent of these cases), while I go maybe four times and am treated the same way, uh, YOU might be. If there is any limit on Zimmern’s budget — which I doubt — it’s probably still ten times the one I share with Jeremy Iggers to do this blog. One reason for that is that The Rake has less money to throw around because they let us say absolutely anything we think, without regard to how it will affect advertisers, which is what I call journalism.

    But we’re not here to debate the flimsy firewalls at Minnesota’s lifestyle magazines.

    Here’s the truth. I enjoy Andrew Zimmern — a lot. I think he’s funny and smart and raucous and, for that matter, just darn cute. What other middle-aged man do you know who can get away with wearing a suit and red Converse shoes? But it’s never occurred to me that we were competing for audience share. His show is grand and opulent. He travels the world on someone’s full-service jet. He has been shown in the pages of his own magazine sitting in his huge, perfectly-decorated, and photogenic home.

    I, on the other hand, am a woman more like you. A little younger than he and definitely less monied. I live in a little St. Louis Park house that no one is going to feature in a magazine, but I love it because there usually are six or seven teenagers draped over the living room couch. I have a talent for writing and for tasting and if I don’t quite have Zimmern’s globe-trotting flair, I think of myself as serving a different constituency altogether: people like myself and my husband, hardworking professionals and parents for whom a night out at Restaurant Alma (the one place where my list and Zimmern’s overlapped) is a profound and rare treat.

    The way I think of it is this: When Andrew’s followers go out to eat, they talk about the food. But mine? I’m hoping that you, like I, enjoy the meal but discuss more important things. Whether there is a God. What your 16-year-old’s curfew should be. Philip Roth’s latest Zuckerman novel and whether he is the last great Jewish male writer extant.

    Here’s one more thing you should know: I’m not, depite the way I may posture, a cynic. And neither is my colleague, Jeremy Iggers, which is one of the many things I love about working with him. Both of us bring a strong ethical approach to food, and a reverence, if you will, for the fact that we’re surrounded by riches. Restaurants needn’t be brand-new or lushly carpeted or habituated by the so-called "beautiful people" and visiting starlets to impress the two of us.

    We’re big fans of the long-standing Minnesota restaurateurs who’ve been in operation for years, chefs who care about the provenance of the food they prepare, and establishments — both haute cuisine and casual — where diners receive exactly the same high level of service no matter what their color, dress, or station in life.

    Which reminds me: I forgot to add Milda’s Cafe on Glenwood Avenue to my original top ten list. It’s not going to appear on anyone else’s, I guarantee you. But I had one of the most pleasant and inspiring lunches of my life in this little box of a place. I watched people walk in and be greeted by name: black, white, elderly singles, and families with small children. It was as happy and warm and welcoming as anywhere I’ve been. And more to the point of this blog, I had an entire plate of American Fries — diced, golden, grilled potatoes mixed with crisp shards of green pepper and perfect little curls of fried onion — for about three bucks.

    It may not be Morton’s, Andrew. But the company at Milda’s was wonderful. The conversation was uplifting. And the food? Amazing.

  • All the Pretty Horses

  • The Three Pointer: Suffocating Hope

    Game #28, Road Game #15: Minnesota 96, Portland 109

    Game #29, Road Game #16: Minnesota 90, Seattle 109

    Season record: 4-25

    1. Play Richard

    Wolves color commentator Jim Petersen and I probably differ as much as we agree on myriad aspects of the team, but as far as I’m concerned, the only thing missing from J-Pete’s constant lobbying on behalf of more playing time for center Chris Richard is a tone of simultaneous anger and disbelief that this elemental notion still hasn’t permeated the skull of coach Randy Wittman. There are many many things that can be blame-shifted or held in abeyance due to the injuries that have befallen point guard Randy Foye and pivot man Theo Ratliff–it is the Swiss Army knife of excuses–but the inability of center Al Jefferson and power forward Craig Smith to defend even mediocre NBA front lines certainly ain’t one of them.

    Is this Timberwolves team sincerely playing to develop the talent and start the learning curve of defining roles for members of its current roster or is this franchise tanking in December? Given how obstinate Wittman has been about putting Jefferson and Smith in a position to fail, it’s unfortunately a legitimate question. I’ve already hammered on this point a couple of times this season, but watching the Wolves get waxed last night and tonight just diddles on the raw nerve of it.

    First, let’s drag out the numbers once again. The latest figures from 82games.com don’t even take into account this weekend’s losses to Portland and Seattle. But they show that Al Jefferson–who everyone and their third cousin knows is a classic NBA power forward–has played the center position for 54% of the minutes the Wolves have been on the court during the team’s first 27 games. During that time, the Wolves were minus -222. During the 46% of the time Al Jefferson was NOT playing center for the Timberwolves, the team was minus -1. People can usually juggle statistics to justify most anything they want, but it is difficult to imagine numbers this stark and dramatic shrieking anything but "Play Jefferson at the 4, beside a legit center!"

    Short of deliberately tanking games to get a high draft pick, there are only two reasons why the Wolves would pursue this wretched strategy. One is that they believe Jefferson will slowly but surely mature into a top notch center and that that is the best place for his skills. I whole-heartedly disagree, but at least that would be a justification that demonstrates some supposed foresight. The other reason is that the Wolves are very excited about Craig Smith and want to give him as much seasoning as possible. This makes a little more sense, because the Rhino certainly has shown he is capable of scoring in traffic against larger foes and be a beast on the offensive glass. But the guy is way undersized–generously listed at 6-7–which is exacerbated by the fact that most of the time he is playing with an undersized center–Al Jefferson. And both are, to put it charitably, defensively challenged.

    Again, let’s go to the numbers from 82games.com. Through the Wolves’ first 27 games, Smith has logged 33% of the team’s minutes at the power forward slot. During that time, Minnesota is minus -125. By contrast, the Wolves are minus -98 during the 67% of the time Smith is not at the power forward slot.

    Why are these plus/minuses so horrible for Jeff at the 5 and Smith at the 4? Well, according to 82games.com, Minnesota yields 108.6 points per 48 minutes (the full length of a game) when Smith is at power forward, and 109.7 points per 48 minutes when Jefferson is at center. That’s at least 6 points more than the 102.2 points per game the Wolves were yielding overall through their first 27 contests. Bottom line, the Jefferson-Smith tandem is a defensive sieve.

    But anyone who watches the games knows that. Portland coach Nate McMillan and the Trailblazer scout watch games. On Portland’s first possession Friday night, 6-10 power forward Lamarcus Aldridge took Smith down in the low post and scored on a very basis and relatively unimpeded turnaround jumper. When the Wolves cut a longtime Blazer lead down to a single point with 7:32 to go in the third quarter, McMillan called a timeout and then called for Aldridge to post up Smith for a rally-stemming bucket. And five of Portland’s subsequent seven shots came from either Aldridge or Channing Frye–who came into the game at power forward, nudging Aldridge over the center–forcing Wittman to sub out Smith with Portland up 5 with three minutes to play in the period.

    Now let’s talk about Chris Richard. I won’t gush over Richard like J-Pete does. Not because Pete gushed over Mark Blount and we all know how that worked out. Because I, unlike Petersen, don’t have to fill up precious airtime polishing the turds Minnesota has been laying with alarming frequency thus far this season. Petersen gushes because he is paid to keep viewers interested, and because he sees the Wolves’ most glaring flaw being that they are a mentally clueless, physically overmatched defensive team. He sees Chris Richard as the player with the most potential to partially remedy that flaw and at the same time follow the Wolves supposed blueprint of playing young kids as much as possible to see how they pan out–hopefully at a position in which they have a chance to succeed.

    Already Richard is a better defender than Jefferson or Smith–not high praise, but a good reason to grant him more burn. He compensates for a relatively small 6-9 height with a reported 7-6 wingspan, and certainly plays taller than he looks. You can tell he listened carefully to good coaching for four years of college–be it pick and roll defense or boxing out and setting picks on offense, he is already fundamentally better than Jefferson and physically more capable than Smith (who is also fundamentally pretty solid). Thus far he hasn’t shown much on offense, but if he’s playing beside relative black holes like Jeff and Rhino, that’s probably a good thing. (There is a reason why Richard and intuitive gunner Rashad McCants are the best two-man combination on the team thus far, compiling a plus +34 together, according to 82games.com.)

    Put it this way: there is only one player on this entire team who willingly and capably does the dirty work, doesn’t need the ball, and is under 25 years of age. He currently rides the bench most of the time for a ballclub with a record of 4-25 that has yielded an *average* or more than 110 points per game over its last six contests.

     

    2. Choose McCants Over Green

    Gerald Green is a child. Friday against Portland, he unsuccessfully swooped down for an offensive rebound and had to scramble at double-time to get back on defense, flying by the jump shooter in the corner who had been left alone by his miscalculation to crash the boards. When he nicked the guy’s arm and the ref blew the whistle, Green grabbed his head–his favorite form of protest–jumped up once and then writhed in agony. Tonight against Seattle, Wally Szczerbiak drew the foul on him with an up fake, then Green missed a jumper before heading to the bench with other players consoling him as he came.

    How about this: Close out on your man when he drifts to the corner for a trey. Know your pick and roll assignments. Now that you are in your third year and have played more than 2300 NBA minutes, understand how to impact the flow of the game in a positive way at both ends of the court. And have enough composure that your coaches and teammates don’t feel the need to constantly coddle your volatile emotions. According to 82games.com, through the first 27 games, the Wolves scored an average of 88.5 points per 48 when Green was on the court and while yielding an average of 104.8 points per 48. That -16.3 point differential was by far the largest on the club, with Greg Buckner second at -13.1.

    Yes, I am picking on Green. Maybe I am trying to model how a team demonstrates to its rapidly diminishing fan base that it is serious about building for the futur
    e. That means making decisions that diminish time for some players so that other players get more burn, and have a larger sample by which to judge them at the end of the season. The Wolves—wisely, in my view–signaled that Green was not likely part of their long term plans by refusing to sign him to an extension this season. His physical makeup–from the springs in his legs to the form on his jumper–is magnificent and his potential is thus very teasing. And as someone who won’t turn 22 for another four weeks, he may yet mature, figure it out, and make caustic critics like yours truly look stupid for ripping him.

    But are there signs that Green is "getting it"? Certainly not from the defense he played against Portland and Seattle. Yes, he had plenty of company in that regard. In both games, Minnesota rotated horribly, aped the keystone cops more often than Duncan and Bowen on the pick and roll, and generally looked either disinterested and/or poorly coached on a wide variety of fundamental defensive sets. By the way, that includes Rashad McCants and Marko Jaric, two players with whom Green is competing for minutes. To a lesser extent, on both counts, it also includes Corey Brewer and Ryan Gomes. There’s a logjam of mediocrity at the swingman slots right now.

    Lately, Witt has been rolling the dice by tossing forth a trio of bombadiers from his bench–Green, McCants and Antoine Walker–with typical boom-or-bust results. Yeah, it’s more fun than the peanut vendors who can sling their wares four or five rows to the point of sale, but is that the way to best evaluate a player like McCants, for whom the team utilized a first-round pick and who is in the midst of his make-or-break season with the squad?

    What has happened to McCants? Is the guy just a rock-solid enigma, ultimately a bigger heartbreak than Gerald Green, or can he become a valuable piece on a good team. The evidence continues to mount for both sides. Against Portland, McCants duplicated what has become something of a maddening pattern: Missing jumpers and otherwise disappearing when the game is close, but suddenly catching fire when the team is down late in the game and rallying them 70 or 80 percent of the way back–but never, except for that first win against Sacramento–to victory. On both offense and defense he is inconsistent not only in his performance but in the particular attributes of the performance. Sometimes he’s a huge defensive liability because he doesn’t rotate; sometimes because he reaches in for dumb fouls, sometimes because his turnovers cause easy transition baskets. Sometimes he hurts the offense because he hogs the ball, or misses shots, or for some reason doesn’t shoot when he should. After nailing a couple of treys against Portland, he and Telfair played catch on the perimeter three times, with Shaddy turning down Telfair’s nonverbal entreaty to jack it up each time–very Kobesque.

    Tonight versus Seattle was typical McCants. His shooting was suspect, not only because he went 2-8 FG, but because only one of those shots wasn’t a trey and he had zero free throws, both of which indicate a lack of penetration against one of the more porous and least intimidating NBA opponents. At the same time, he had four steals, five rebounds, three assists and a block, and was a respectable minus -1 in 21:16 of a 19-point loss.

    Even more than 4-25, what must exasperate die-hard Wolves fans is the lack of any apparent plan, or methodology for examining key talent. I mean, if McCants can’t crack the starting lineup or be the prominent sixth man on a squad missing Randy Foye for the entire season thus far, what does that say about his future? And should the Timberwolves be subtlely sending that negative signal based on such relatively few minutes for such a relatively large investment and potential key cog? I understand the frustration with the enigma–I yo-yo back and forth on the dude constantly himself. But isn’t this the season to stick him in a role–starting two guard or designated scorer and sparkplug as 6th man–and milk it until it is patently obvious he just doesn’t have it, or until you understand how deep the enigma goes? Right now Wittman is fond of starting Gomes at small forward and Brewer at shooting guard. While I generally applaud the recognition that Brewer is physically better at the 2 right now–Seattle’s Wally Szczerbiak was the latest to body him up–and think Gomes has finally started playing the way I figured he could before the season started (although he still gets beaten on D and clangs open looks more than I figured), I think McCants needs to encroach on both Gomes and Brewer, mostly Gomes, who doesn’t figure to resign here, especially if he plays well. (And how was that for a convoluted sentence?)

    3. Quick Hits

    Who else is tired of hearing how rarin’ to go Randy Foye is while Brandon Roy gets named NBA Western Conference Player of the Week two times running and Portland fans chant MVP when he steps to the free throw line? Funny, the Wolves probably opted for Foye over Roy because they figure Foye was a better fit as a combo/point guard and that Roy was more of an injury risk. Who said irony was dead? Personally, I’ll never forget how much Dwane Casey favored Roy over Foye with his body language and tone of voice when the braintrust came down to first announce the choosing of Roy and then the trading for Foye.

    The best time to make this observation is when it doesn’t matter to the outcome of the games and won’t seem like sour grapes: The officials job the Timberwolves almost every game. Part of it is the star syndrome (the Wolves really don’t have any), part of it is favoriting vets, and part of it is favoring hustle and smart aggression. But even granting the Wolves’ paucity in all those areas, they consistently are on the wrong end of the refs’ double standard when it comes to charges versus blocks on player contact, on borderline shooting fouls, and on being sticklers for travels, double-dribbles, moving picks, etc. It penalizes the poor and when you are as poor as the Timberwolves, very noticeable.

    Ever since the beginning of the season, the best half court offensive play for the Wolves has been Jefferson on the block and Ryan Gomes cutting baseline, usually on a give and go but occasionally to clear out so Jeff can go for the turnaround jumper.

    Foye gets the next report on his knee January 7. If more delays are announced, it is time to stop this cat and mouse and engage in a full-blown press conference that lays out all options in a realistic manner. Because it is beginning to look like Foye will never suit up this season and that the team is being very disingenuous about that possibility.

  • An Old Thing, from Somewhere Else: Something Heavy Being Carried Away

    I WAS 38 YEARS OLD and washing dishes in a strip bar,
    forced to wear a ridiculous chef’s hat because the place clung to its delusions
    and had the audacity to serve food. The all-you-can-eat chili special was a big
    draw with the oil boys from the refinery across the highway. I’d punch out at
    11:00 and get the hell out of there. I still had enough pride to go someplace
    else to drink, so every night I’d head over to the Toot-Toot Tavern up the
    road. There was a decent moon over the highway and the usual prevailing stench
    of petroleum. I guess I felt pretty good, but this was no bright beer
    commercial; I was too old, had a bigger thirst than that, and wasn’t dressed
    for the part. I had a pocketful of cash, and my life at the time didn’t boil
    down to much more than that: I’d have a pocketful of cash and then I wouldn’t.
    I still had this vague notion that anything could happen, it was just that
    anything now meant something entirely different than it once had. Maybe it was
    now a truer notion, with a greater allowance for the machinations of what I
    like to call the black lottery. Some guys hit the Powerball jackpot; others get
    hit by a grease truck or get kicked in the teeth in the parking lot of a bar.
    Odds were odds. Still, that night I liked my chances. I had this interesting
    thing developing with a woman at the Toot-Toot; a bashful, slow-motion, almost
    old-fashioned sort of courtship that had been going on for almost three weeks,
    and was completely out of place in a grimy, groping dive like the Toot-Toot,
    where the jukebox was so loud and the selections so horrific you almost wished
    you could drink yourself deaf.

    It was the strangest damn thing because I had seen this
    woman around for well over a year, and all that time there was nothing
    there. Nothing. Her name was Julene and she was a day bartender at a place
    further down the highway called The Bends, and she apparently lived with her
    mother in a trailer somewhere out in the scrub. I’d been introduced to her by a
    guy named Slim Chung, who was the caretaker at the place I was staying, and who
    divided his drinking between the Toot-Toot and The Bends. Slim Chung had a temp
    job at the airport in something called "In-Flight Services," a gig
    that allowed him to carry home a blue gym bag full of those little bottles of
    airline liquor every day. He carried that bag everywhere he went.

    Anyway, you know how certain types of women will pull every
    single hair from their eyebrows and draw a more perfect line along the ridge of
    bone above their sockets? That was Julene, and I’d never given her a second
    look until one night a few weeks back when I found myself seated across a table
    from her, studying those odd brown lines above her eyes. She smelled just like
    angel food cake. We made small talk for a while, and I noticed she could force
    down Old Heaven Hill bourbon without retching or tearing up. I was impressed. I
    told her I wasn’t a guy who was threatened by a woman who could drink me under
    the table, which was the honest-to-God truth. She asked me if I was one of
    those men who made a habit of barging in and out of women’s lives. I think I
    just blushed and shook my head; I certainly didn’t tell her that on the two
    occasions in my life that I had actually fallen in love, I hadn’t even realized it until I
    found myself in the middle of the night drunk and crying in a phone booth. No,
    I didn’t tell Julene that, not then anyway, but at some point in the
    conversation I did start to look at her a little harder, a little more closely.

    She was one of those women who would strike you as beautiful
    one minute, and a moment later you would change your mind. There is nothing
    particularly cruel or calculating in that assessment. I know I’m not a matinee
    idol, and cheap whiskey has taught me lessons in practical relativity that no
    physics professor could ever hope to impart. I suppose the truth was that we
    had both seen better days, but in the world of the Toot-Toot, that notion could
    be almost presumptuous. When you’re 25 years old, you want to look into some
    woman’s eyes in a bar and feel like she’s thinking you’re the most charming
    person in the world, but when you get to be 38, it’s somehow good enough if you sense the the presence or the approximation of the same thought that’s running through your
    own mind: You’ll do.

    That night at the Toot-Toot, I thought I saw that most
    modest of appraisals in a woman’s eyes for the first time in many years. And
    every 15 minutes or so Slim Chung came around and freshened our drinks from his
    stash in the blue gym bag, so everyone got very drunk.

    IN THOSE DAYS we all lived in the industrial bush out beyond the
    airport, and we drank all the time. Every big city eventually runs out of steam
    and coughs up a mess just like that, a place where infrastructure gives way to
    indifference, and the tangle of streets and highways and interchanges finally
    gives way to one dark road, leaving town. Follow that road from the airport and
    you’ll enter a territory of the ugliest outcast industries: places of necessary
    isolation; waste; intense pollution, steam, and heat; nuts-and-bolts
    capitalism; blank, flat barracks where hinges, springs, filters, mud flaps, and
    ball bearings are manufactured. These were badlands; dark scrub, fringe,
    margin, the outskirts of Oz, the airspace invaded every 30 seconds by the
    skull-vacuuming scream of jets.

    I had a room in the Jet Stream, an old cottage motel dating
    from the ’50s or ’60s. The Jet Stream was a dejected and defeated enterprise.
    Perhaps the original owners thought they would attract airport business;
    pilots, stewardesses, and businessmen in town for a few days, but the Jet
    Stream was in precisely the wrong location to attract airport customers. The
    airport, big as a city itself, sat directly between the motel and the city with
    its access freeways and enticements. When I first discovered the Jet Stream, it
    was already in lamentable condition. The parking lot and faded sign were
    terminally dark. The various cottages were badly in need of repairs and a coat
    of paint. Slim Chung never lifted a finger around the place. A peeling sign
    along the old state highway advertised "Low weekly and monthly
    rates." There was a modest and functional neon sign in the window of the
    office that was activated nightly: Office. Vacancy.

    South along the two-lane highway, there were no occupied
    dwellings between the Jet Stream and a huge, terrifying oil refinery about a
    mile down the road. That place was a visual spectacle: garishly futuristic,
    with its towering smokestacks belching flames into the night sky; seemingly
    random nests of wire and steel; looming towers, catwalks, and trestles; and
    concrete orbs sprawling and towering over acre upon acre of a tightly penned,
    brightly lit, steam-bound nightmare. Strung out along the opposite side of the
    highway from the refinery were a half-dozen bars and truck-stop cafeterias that
    were frequented day and night by refinery workers.

    THE TOOT-TOOT was a squat box in the middle of a scrub lot about a
    half-mile south of the refinery, surrounded by a dirt parking lot that even on
    the best days was as challenging as a motocross track. The place was always
    packed with serious drinkers, and I had been forced to come to terms with the
    fact that I had joined their ranks. I was becoming a career drinker, so great
    was my weakness for sedation and liquored transcendence. I’d learned just how
    far I could go without a lot of sick carryover and soul-searching and ugly shit
    like that; train wreck narrowly averted: I liked to keep it right there. But
    just about everybody in the Toot-Toot had had a gun in their mouth at one time
    or another–metaphorically, certainly, but also literally–and more frequently
    than most of them were comfortable admitting.

    When I came through the front door I saw Julene at a table
    in the back, her feet propped on a chair directly across from her. I made my
    way across the crowded bar and joined her. "Hey," she said, and
    kicked the chair out from under the table with her feet. "I saved you a
    place." We sat there and made our usual nice, quiet conversation until
    closing time. We both had plenty to drink, and while we were standing around in
    the parking lot out back she took my car keys from me and said, "Why don’t
    we go back to your place?" I wasn’t terribly surprised… but, yes, I
    suppose I was.

    I wasn’t the slickest fielding shortstop in the American
    League, but she clearly knew what she was doing. There were sparks, I guess,
    but they were the sort of fat tadpole sparks you’d see drifting lazily from a
    dying campfire and then collapsing back into darkness. This was nice enough. I
    certainly wasn’t complaining.

    Afterward we took a little sampler of Slim Chung’s airline
    liquor and sat outside my room. We’d found a little bit of the only sort of
    magic you could hope to coax from the kind of lives we were leading. I think we
    both knew full well that one day pretty soon we’d have to face some ugly music,
    and we surely did, each in our own way. But that morning we were content to
    simply sit there quietly sipping from our little bottles and staring at the
    refinery flames in the distance, listening to the sound of a train moving
    somewhere out in the darkness, easing by with that soothing restless rhythm,
    the perfect somnolent sound of motion, of something heavy being carried away.