The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • A Kingdom of Stinks and Sighs

    Come on, give a rat’s ass, would you, you fuckers? Give it the old college try.

    Take a good look around and tell me what you see.

    Don’t lie to me.

    My kingdom is a laughingstock. I’ve let myself go, grown fat on the sautéed kidneys of disc jockeys and dickweeds whose gross ambition offended my eroding sense of decency. I’ve eaten other things I’m not proud of. So-called professionals.

    What I wouldn’t give for a second chance.

    What I wouldn’t give, you fuckers, but it’s too late for that and I have nothing left to give.

    This confusion of dialects, poverty, and heat. I can’t get any more naked, have no more grease left to sweat.

    From my window I can see the laborers dragging bodies across the dirt courtyard and stacking them on a flatbed truck. It’s not a pretty picture, but I am incapable of painting a prettier one.

    Near as I can tell the engineers have cobbled together some sort of crematorium in the laundry room of the Super 8 across the courtyard. Three tin smokestacks that weren’t there yesterday are belching out clouds of thick black soot, an additional layer of grime that is trapped beneath the over-gloom.

    Mine is now a kingdom of branded cattle swilling 3.2 beer, feral dogs in shopping malls, brain-damaged lab rats shuffling along in flip-flops and ridiculous sunglasses, and genetic monsters with perfect teeth. Dime-store dollhouses and teetering castles made of recycled plastic sand. The fine bones of dead roses. Fields of loud pastel crows, screaming for attention. Almost trees. Burned-out rocket ships that never left the launch pad. All our dreams, dreams written in invisible ink and nightmares etched in the more permanent kind.

    When night falls I draw the shades and listen to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings over and over as I imagine –or cannot imagine– the next crippling blow, the next wave of sorrow, the inevitable endlessly repeated slow-motion montage of flag-waving catastrophe. You can bet, by God, that when again this world begins to fall down around me they’ll once more dust off the old reliable Barber.

    Didn’t any of you remember to bring a flashlight? Did it not occur to a single one of you that it would be dark in the belly of a whale?

    You tricked me into this covenant, but I have no one to blame but myself.

    These words –the last I have left– are the ghosts of dead snails. I give you my word: you haven’t been haunted until you’ve been haunted by the ghosts of dead snails.

    Come on, let me have it. I’m ready for my medicine. Give me my bitter pill.

    I am waiting, my little sparrows, to hear from you.

  • Consumerist Report

    I’m one of those crazy people who enjoys giving more so than
    getting. But that’s because I’m a total snob, not that I’m generous of spirit.
    I mean, I certainly appreciate the professional portrait of my nieces I get from my
    sister most years. But, geez, couldn’t she have at least tucked them inside some fancy frames? And there’s simply no way my mother can please with her annual assortment
    of Kohl’s-bought bedclothes. Not that I have anything against Kohl’s. What
    a great place to buy pots!

    So, you see the point: I’m no fun to buy for. But it’s very much fun, I would assert, to find your way onto auntie Christy’s shopping list. Me, I
    enjoy the thrill of the hunt, the self-satisfaction of knowing I’ll snag one-of-a-kind
    and/or designer items for all my loved ones, and they’ll never get the faintest
    whiff of the pittances paid to acquire these goodies. For these reasons, I’m
    much better at buying for adult women and style-conscious men. What follows is a
    sampler of the Christmas gifts I purchased over the weekend. (Note: This post is written
    in good faith that my loved ones don’t read this blog.)

    My best friend Andrea is a woman of letters. While perusing
    Letterbox, I found her this gorgeous (but very affordable) letters kit, replete
    with address labels and envelope stickers in the themes of birds, flowers,
    vines, and leaves. This version was designed by Suzanna LaGasa (a somewhat-celebrity
    graphic designer) for Sukie.

    Local Motion currently has an assortment of cutesy leather handbags
    and carryalls from this Canadian label, ESPE. I went in for this billfold for
    my brother’s style-conscious, teen-age daughter. It has universal appeal, don’t
    you think? And besides, it was a steal at just twenty-five dollars. Note: Local
    Motion hosts “Girls’ Night Out” this Thursday from four to nine p.m. Go for the free snacks
    and wine, if not for the sales.

    For the practical—one might say miserly—mother whose sole extravagance
    is buying Coach handbags off eBay: A pair of sleek Coach kicks. OK, I didn’t
    get the best deal on these sneaks. I found a cheaper pair at Off Fifth, but
    wanted to make sure mom could easily exchange if the size isn’t quite right, so
    I went to Macy’s.

     

    And while I was at it, I picked up some staples for myself. From
    the Len Druskin Outlet: I couldn’t pass by these leggings with snap
    details. Also, just yesterday afternoon, I stumbled upon the newly remade
    vintage store, Swank. I picked up the ‘70s socks (pictured above) as well as reams
    of vintage Santa-themed wrapping paper (left in boyfriend’s truck) for only
    five bucks. In fact, Swank is a great place to find cheap Christmas crap!

  • Bouncing Around: The Atlanta Choke, the KG Smear, and 4th Q Stats

    There won’t be a three pointer on the Wolves’ dreadful collapse against the Hawks Saturday night. Frankly, it didn’t bother me as much as the pig-headed play and lack of effort that fostered Minnesota’s loss to a thoroughly disinterested Denver Nuggets squad the night before. At least the Atlanta game found the Wolves playing inspired ball for an entire half. What happened in the second half was a team-wide choke, but veteran Wolves’ watchers have certainly seen it before in previous years. As it was, spitting up a 21-point lead was only the third largest edge the team has sacrificed in franchise history. In other words, more talented and seasoned squads than this one have choked on larger advantages.

    Or maybe my outrage meter redlined against Denver and it made more sense to put this sorry squad into perspective again.

    Still, if not a full-blown trey, we should note a few items. Al Jefferson had a stunning 18 points on 6 shots from the field in the first half (6-6 FG, 6-6 FT), plus 11 rebounds. When Atlanta adjusted its coverage and put two or three guys on Jefferson, the Wolves were flummoxed and the offense stalled. Coach Wittman has discovered that his most intelligent offensive player, the guy who can best "make something happen" in the half-court sets, is Antoine Walker. But Witt’s adjustment has been to slide Jefferson over to center and install ‘Toine at the power forward slot. This allignment is deadly to the front court matchups at both positions. As Paul "ikrushsots" so helpfully pointed out with statistics from 82games.com in the comments sections of the last trey, Jefferson’s effectiveness plummets at the center position. And Walker simply can’t guard quality power forwards, like, for instance, Atlanta’s Josh Smith.

    Minnesota’s huge el foldo act isn’t just limited to that substitution. As the Wolves coughed up the lead, Jefferson was rushing his shots, especially on putbacks of offensive rebounds. That would have happened whether he was a "4" or a "5." And the growing backlash against the horrible, and selfish, shooting performances put in by Rashad McCants the previous three games certainly had him reluctant to pull the trigger on his own shot during crunch time (at least I assume that’s what held him back). Finally, the ability of Hawks’ point guard Tyrone Lue to get his teammates involved in the offense dramatizes how crucial heady point guard play can be. And while Marko Jaric had a second good game in a row, and actually went to the hoop with authority, he is not on even the mediocre Lue’s level when it comes to seeing the court and enablign good half court possessions.

    For most of the season, I’ve been pleasantly surprised that Wittman hasn’t been incompetent. That is not to say that he’s been especially competent either, but last year’s 12-30 mark and constant carping about discipline while the inmates still seemed to run the asylum (and yes, Pretty Ricky Davis, I’m talking about you and your boy Blount) set the bar pretty damn low for Wittman. And he’s still above that nadir.

    But without Theo Ratliff on your roster, how do you leave Michael Doleac in street clothes? Doleac is a larger body than Mark Madsen, and, while not as quick, bangs very well. More importantly, he can pop out for a little 12-15 footer and nail it 50 percent of the time. That’s a good counter to teams who double Jefferson with a couple of bigs. Do you think it is a problem for Atlanta to double Jefferson with Madsen’s man? Me neither. And as I said, Walker at power forward makes for a lousy defensive front line. The statistics indicate that Jefferson suffers at center; so do the eyes of anyone watching these games. Why doesn’t Wittman see it; or, if he does, why doesn’t he respond?

    Here’s another criticism of the coach. He strongly lamented the inability of his ballclub to penetrate to the hoop for most of the second half. He seemed mystified that it would happen. During the postgame press conference, I mentioned that Marko seemed to be penetrating well, and the coach jumped in before I finished my sentence, saying (and I paraphrase because I wasn’t taping): Yeah, in the first half, and on the first possession of the third quarter. But not after that. We stopped penetrating until we had given up the lead and there were two minutes left.

    Okay, fine. What is the one attribute that Wittman was cited for as the reason to keep him on board this year? His ability to run a tight ship, to discipline his players, keep them on the same page, eliminate the bullshit. So why wasn’t he able to emulate Gregg Popovich (a much better example than Witt’s mentor, Bobby Knight) and simply call a timeout, sit across from the players and tell them if they didn’t start fucking going for points in the paint he was going to bench their asses and find people who could? Because that’s what Pops says when his squad isn’t playing defense to his liking. And he backs it up by sitting them down. Instead, Witt watched it happen for what he claims was almost all of the second half, a 24-minute stretch when the squad scored 24 points after getting 63 in the opening 24 minutes, and couldn’t stress how important penetration was to the game; either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, get through to them. And this happened, by the way, in the immediate wake of Wittman telling the press that Rashad McCants didn’t take bad shots in his 1-15 performance against the Nuggets the night before; a game in which Shaddy consistently jacked it up from outside rather than engaging in dribble penetration.

    On to another thing that has my undies in a twist. As those of you who read the comments know, I have been a little peeved at the ill will expressed toward KG’s new ballclub, the Boston Celtics, both in terms of observers disliking and underestimating the accumulation of talent on the team. There is a Garnett backlash happening, and I imagine it has to do with owner Glen Taylor’s interview with the PiPress’s Rick Alonzo, and even with my comments in an interview on Dan Barreiro’s radio show, where I pointed out how Garnett was two-faced about his support for Flip Saunders and his disdain for Kevin McHale.

    I stand by those comments–just as I did when I originally wrote them, both back when Flip was fired, and when KG went off on McHale at the beginning of either last season or the year before. And I also believe KG was a lousy general manager with respect to his advocacy of Troy Hudson and Mike James. Garnett isn’t perfect, by any stretch. But man, his positive impact on the Timberwolves is larger than any one player’s impact on any one franchise that I can come up with in all of team sports. And, it should be remembered, it was management’s decision to trade him. Now, for reasons I have stated, I endorse the trade, and by now I’m sure KG endorses the trade, if he didn’t at first. But this backlash business is bullshit.

    The latest example is a column in today’s Strib by Jim Souhan, a writer I happen to like better than most of the people I talk to about him (or maybe bitching about the Strib guy is just the nature of the business for most folks). First a little background. On Thanksgiving Day, Souhan wrote a piece about Torii Hunter signing with the Angels, entitled "An unhappy adieu, but a wise decision." As the subhed indicates, the thrust of Souhan’s column was that "it didn’t make sense for the Twins to pony up the money to keep him." Funny, that was the argument I was making with Souhan on the radio this summer, and he was forcefully disagreeing, going so far as to say it would be preferable to trade Johan Santana and keep Hunter if one or the other must go.

    Anyway, having agreed with Hunter’s departure, Souhan felt the need to balance it by paying tribute to the Twins’ longtime center fielder two days later. And he allowed his fondness for Hunter’s sunny disposition to besmirch his perspective in a significant way. Here are his first three paragraphs:

    "Tori Hunter’s departure creates more than a void in the Twins lineup– it creates a void
    in Minnesota sports.

    "In the past decade we’ve heard Latrell Sprewell complaining that a three-year $21 million contract wasn’t enough to help him feed his family. We went through the Love Boat scandal. We watched Sam Cassell dog his way out of Minnesota, and Randy Moss make even a team desperate for star power and talent eager to dump him.

    "We’ve watched Kevin Garnett sulk while playing under the terms of a record-setting contract, watched Kyle Lohse take a baseball bat to his manager’s door, watched A.J. Pierzynski talk his way out of town. [emphasis mine] Through it all–and since he first signed with the Twins back in 1994– Hunter made himself our model athlete by bringing to life all the cliches about persistence, perseverence and passion."

    That’s right: To better glorify Torii Hunter, Souhan lumps KG in with, in order, Sprewell, Fred Smoot and the Love Boat crew, Sam Cassell, Randy Moss, Kyle Lohse and AJ Pierzynski. Apparently Garnett did not bring to life "all the cliches about persistence, perseverence and passion." He was too busy sulking.

    It just so happens that the very same day that this tripe appears, Sid Hartman also had a column in which he quotes at length a recent interview he had with Hunter:

    "Had the Twins’ three-year offer for $45 million been five years for $75 million, he might have considered it, Hunter said, but on the other hand he wanted to play with a winner. He said he doesn’t think the Twins are going to have the talent to win in the future.

    "…’I was going to get what I was going to get. I just wanted to make sure I was with a team that wants to win, that’s going to try to win day in and day out…I just didn’t feel the Twins were that ballclub.’

    "It will be hard for the Twins to attract free agents, Hunter added, because the new stadium lacks a roof.

    "’People aren’t even thinking about this,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t play in Minnesota unless my career was at an end and I had to go to Minnesota to play the game…People think that’s not true–that’s 100 percent accurate. This is coming from a player, so I’m telling you.’"

    See, all the talk about wanting to remain with the Twins, and especially being able to finish his career playing on that wonderful grass in the new outdoor ballpark, that was Hunter’s passion–not to mention his persistence and perseverence–coming through. I mean, at least he wasn’t like that sulker Garnett, who took less money than the market would pay him so that his local franchise could go out and sign better players. If he made that challenge to management, I’m sure Hunter would have backed it up the way Garnett did, by going out and earning the MVP Award when management stepped up and got those players. And Hunter certainly would have been his same old honest, effervescent self if he’d then watched the franchise make a series of disastrous personnel moves and cost his squad any chance of competing for a championship three years running. I mean, just because he took a poke at Justin Morneau the last time the Twins didn’t make the playoffs and he didn’t have an expiring contract for his escape doesn’t mean the guy would sulk in that situation–at least not the way that bad Garnett sulked. Isn’t that what you remember about his 12 years in town?

    Later in Souhan’s piece he offers up these pearls of wisdom:

    "What do we ask of our best athletes? To play hard. To play hurt. To recognize how lucky they are to be wealthy, to take care of their families and invest wisely. To be a good teammate. To work on their craft. To show a little joy. To care about winning

    "Hunter did all of that."

    If Souhan doesn’t realize that KG also did all of that, while performing at a level beyond Hunter’s grasp, then he ought not to write about things he doesn’t understand. Like hoops. And human character.

    Finally, in memory of the Wolves latest collapse, I present some typically compelling info from stat guru Paul Swanson (apologies for what I’m sure will be a somewhat garbled transfer):

     

    2007-08 4th Quarters
    (through November 24)

    NBA Wolves Wolves
    Average Offense Defense
    ——- ——- ——-
    Points 24.5 21.2 26.7
    FG Pct 44.0% 34.7% 46.6%
    3Pt Pct 35.6% 41.8% 37.5%
    FT Pct 74.9% 75.0% 79.0%
    FT Att 7.8 7.3 9.1
    Off Reb 2.8 3.6 3.3
    Def Reb 7.6 6.3 8.6
    Tot Reb 10.4 9.9 11.9
    Assists 4.7 3.6 4.4
    Steals 1.7 1.5 1.8
    TOs 3.6 3.5 3.3
    Blocks 1.2 1.2 1.5

    *

    2007-08 Minnesota Timberwolves
    Individual 4th Quarter Statistics
    (through Nov. 24)

    Player Min FGM-A FG% 3FG-A FTM-A Reb Ast Stl TO Blk Pts
    Jefferson 92 17-42 .405 0- 0 11-14 30 4 3 8 2 45
    McCants 63 11-29 .379 6-14 8-10 8 3 3 4 0 36
    Jaric 61 7-19 .368 2- 5 8-10 5 6 3 2 2 24
    Gomes 57 5-17 .294 4- 8 10-12 7 4 1 2 0 24
    Walker 81 7-30 .233 4-13 5-11 20 5 1 5 0 23
    Telfair 68 9-26 .346 3- 6 2- 2 5 7 1 3 2 23
    Brewer 65 4-11 .364 0- 2 7-10 10 4 1 2 2 15
    Buckner 61 4-13 .308 3- 5 3- 4 8 2 2 5 0 14
    Green 33 6-12 .500 1- 2 0- 0 4 4 1 4 1 13
    Ratliff 24 3- 4 .750 0- 0 3- 3 6 1 0 1 3 9
    Smith 46 1-12 .083 0- 0 3- 4 6 0 1 1 1 5
    Richard 7 1- 1 1.00 0- 0 0- 0 0 0 0 0 0 2
    Doleac 2 0- 0 .000 0- 0 0- 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
    Wolves 75-216 .347 23-55 60-80 109 40 17 38 13 233
    Opponents 97-208 .466 21-56 79-100 131 48 20 36 16 294

  • Politics, Jazz, and Imagination

    FILM
    Terror’s Advocate

    Jacques Vergès is probably one of the most controversial attorneys in history. When asked if he would have defended Hitler, he responded, "I would even defend George Bush, if he would plead guilty." Throughout his very public career, Vergès has defended Klaus Barbie (the "Butcher of Lyon"), Ilich Ramírez Sánchez (a.k.a. Carlos the Jackal; 1994), the Kelkal faction, Holocaust denier Roger Garaudy, and President Slobodan Milošević. How has he done this? With what convictions? Director Barbet Schroeder asks these questions and more in L’Avocat de la Terreur (Terror’s Advocate), a documentary about the enigmatic figure. "Schroeder explores and questions the history of ‘blind terrorism’ through his penetrating investigation of this compelling man and leads us towards shocking revelations that expose long-hidden links in history." French & English with English subtitles.

    7:30 p.m., The Oak Street Cinema, 309 Oak Street SE, Minneapolis, 612-331-3134, $8.

    MUSIC
    Roy Hargrove

    Just about a couple of decades ago, Wynton Marsalis was traveling through Texas, when he discovered an impressive Jazz trumpet talent at a local high school. Since then, Roy Hargrove has established himself as one of America’s greatest Jazz trumpeters. "Everstretching into more challenging and colorful ways to flex his musical chops, Hargrove has left indelible imprints in a vast array of artful settings." He is also the leader of The RH Factor, a progresive group combining elements of jazz, funk, hip-hop, soul, and gospel music. See him tonight flying solo.

    7 & 9:30 p.m., Dakota Jazz Club & Restaurant, 1010 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis; 612-332-1010; $40 & $25.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Mr. Marmalade by Noah Haidle

    If last month’s feature on the death of the american imagination sparked a desire to bring it back to life, you might want to head out for the Red Eye Theater tonight for Noah Haidle’s dark comedy on the power of the imagination. "Four-year-old Lucy wants to have tea with her imaginary friend, Mr. Marmalade. But Mr. Marmalade is too busy at the office… and with his darker pastimes. Enter five-year-old Larry, the youngest suicide attempt in the history of New Jersey, plus the babysitter, a talking cactus, and Mr. Marmalade’s personal assistant, a much put-upon man who can sing like an angel." Now that’s imagination!

    7:30 p.m., Red Eye Theater, 15 W. 14th St., Minneapolis; 612-870-7531; $16.

  • White Burgundy: Smooth Sunlit Chardonnay

    You would think — would you not? — that having been rendered temporarily, partially deaf would improve one’s ability to evaluate wine. Blindness, after all, makes the other senses more acute. Why not a faint pain and constant ringing of the ears.

    I had occasion to ponder this on Thanksgiving, after attending the Young Wild Things concert with my daughter in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the night before. They, the wild things, were Cute Is What We Aim For, Plain White T’s, Gym Class Heroes (whom I adore), and the smashingly loud yet strangely dirge-ish Fall Out Boy. The last, headline band was accompanied by popping bursts of fire, a la Whitesnake, which amused most of the 40- and 50-something parents in the audience — and there were, by the way, A LOT: so many that Travy from GCH dedicated one entire song to us.

    Four hours. That’s how long we sat in the auditorium in C.R.

    But it was all worth it when, as we drove away through a sprinkling of midnight snow, my daughter turned to me, huge brown eyes shining, and said, "It feels like something’s missing now that I don’t have that thumping in my chest."

    The following day, Thanksgiving, I uncorked a Domaine de la Bongran Grand Vin de Borgogne, a white Burgundy from Clessé, France, 2002. I’d been saving the bottle, because it was expensive, highly-rated, and promised to be excellent. This, I decided, would be the perfect opportunity: my ears were wrecked, so surely my nose and tongue would be in top condition.

    Not so. Perhaps because I’m a bit of a synesthete — all my senses intertwined like tentacles of computer wire — I was in my echoey state also olfactorily confused. I smelled lime at the outset, and that was right. But after that, I got a whiff of green onion that no one else at the table (and luckily, I’d invited some excellent tasters) could detect.

    "You cut onions for the salad earlier," said one friend, tactfully. "Could that be it?" Indeed. It probably was.

    Everyone agreed that the wine was smooth and dry and delicious in a not-quite-crisp sort of way. The first taste seemed whole, as solid and neatly planed as a jewel. But as this Burgundy warmed and softened and unfolded, it became more complex, with a warm, sunny apricot flavor that filled the mouth and a finish that contained a bit of flint.

    Gradually, I figured out how to taste in my impaired state. This required intense concentration, and a palm pressed to my right ear in order to mute the dull throb inside. I got the spoke-like qualities of the Grand Vin de Borgogne, even if I couldn’t make the connection (as I might, under normal circumstances) between its flavor profile and a summer sunshower or a Sheryl Crow song.

    I have it on good authority — both Robert Parker’s and my Thanksgiving guests’ — that the Bongran Grand Vin de Borgogne (a Chardonnay wine with 14% alcohol) is well worth all the accolades it’s received. But I probably need a couple more days, preferably in a stark, white room with Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young playing in a continuous loop and at low volume, before I’ll be recovered enough to tell you on my own.

  • My Last Supper: What's Yours?

    It’s #128 on Amazon, so I’m guessing this book will appear under many tinsel-frocked Christmas trees — My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals, by Melanie Dunea — a thick, lush photo, interview, recipe volume that’s been described as Annie Liebowitz meets Heat.

    The conceit here is that 50 chefs, ranging from Jaques Pépin to Gary Danko to Nobu himself, were asked to imagine they would die the following morning and instructed to plot out their final fantasy meal.

    Here’s a portion of the publisher’s description:

    Chefs have been playing the “My Last Supper” game among themselves for
    decades, if not centuries, but it had always been kept within the
    profession until now. Melanie Dunea came up with the ingenious idea to
    ask fifty of the world’s famous chefs to let her in on this insider’s
    game and tell her what their final meals would be.     My Last Supper showcases their fascinating answers alongside stunning Vanity Fair–style
    portraits. Their responses are surprising, refreshing, and as distinct
    from each other as the chefs themselves. The portraits — gorgeous,
    intimate, and playful — are informed by their answers and reveal the
    passions and personalities of the most respected names in the business.
    Lastly, one recipe from each landmark meal is included in the back of
    the book. With     My Last Supper, Dunea found a way into the
    typically harried, hidden minds of the people who have turned preparing
    food into an art. Who wouldn’t want to know where Alain Ducasse would
    like his supper to be? And who would prepare Daniel Boulud’s final
    meal? What would Anthony Bourdain’s guest list look like? As the clock
    ticked, what album would Gordon Ramsay be listening to? And just what
    would Mario Batali eat for the last time?

    Curious, I looked up the menu for the actual last supper — which was, of course, a Passover seder meal. No one knows for sure, but it probably included unleavened bread, lamb with bitter herbs, saltwater, and wine. This was a supper at which the shared cup symbolized a "new and eternal covenant," an era in which everyone would be redeemed, heart, mind, and soul.

    Now, this sounds far loftier to me than the truffles, foie gras, blowfish, and (believe it or not) hotdogs the celebrity chefs of Dunea’s book listed among their desires. But in the absence of bread and wine consecrated by a prophet, I think I’d have to go with either the Salade Chinoise from Vincent A Restaurant followed by Alex Roberts‘ roasted duck with Brussels sprouts, or carryout from Pizza Lucé with a really nice Côtes du Rhône.

    Anyone else care to contribute a recommendation for last-day-of-life dining in the Twin Cities metro?

  • The Three Pointer: Blown Opportunity

    Road Game #4: Minnesota 93, Denver 99

    Season Record 1-9

    1. Time To Get Angry

    Okay, that’s about enough patience, enough leeway for a basketball team that is playing with stupidity as well as incompetence, and showing very little character in the process. During the off-season, Kevin McHale remarked that any team that really plays hard and within themselves can win nearly forty games a season just by picking up a dozen or more victories left lying around by opponents that for one reason or another don’t bother to show up. Well, Denver didn’t show up tonight. The Nuggets knew they had allowed themselves to get down by double digits in the Wolves’ season opener in Minnesota and still managed to tuck the game away in the second half. And so they played without respecting the Wolves; jacking up a lot of dumb shots from the perimeter, not defending with vigor, and generally lazing around until there was 2:45 left and the Wolves were up by 3. Then, after plopping himself on the bench like a somnambulant toad for the entire game, Nuggets coach George Karl called a timeout and presumably told his squad that it was time to expend the requisite energy to put this sorry Minnesota squad where it belongs, cluelessly flying back home with a .100 winning percentage.

    It was all Fox Sports analyst Mike McCollow could do not to blatantly rip the Wolves; the disgusted look on his face and his accurate statement that Denver "laid an egg tonight," said it all. And if it didn’t, the postgame interview with Denver’s Eduardo Najera–who has more grit than any three Timberwolves combined–sealed it. "We came out flat; I don’t know what it was," Najera said with a grin and a shake of his head. "Maybe we ate too much for the holiday." He was apologizing for the six-point triumph.

    Let’s start calling people out. Rashad McCants played like a punk, like a kid who, despite all evidence, refuses to believe he’s not the best thing on the playground. McCants shot 1-15 from the field, a stat uglier in reality than it is on paper. His only make was a waltzing, uncontested layup after a teammate made a steal and delivered him the ball while Denver conceded the hoop. Of the 14 misses, maybe 3 or 4 were in the paint, and at least one of those was a stumbling toss-up prayer after McCants drove expecting a foul that never came. That leaves about ten jumpers, the sort of chemistry-corroding shots that would have had his teammates irked at Wittman for not sitting him if McCants hadn’t benched himself with a series of fouls. He got to the line just three times; once after a technical foul on Denver, and once on the next possession after Wittman explicitly instructed his squad during a timeout that they needed to take it to the hoop. Otherwise, nada.

    Since his 33-point breakout against Sacramento, Shaddy has converted 15 shots (in 57 attempts) and committed 16 turnovers. Over the last three games, he has mounted a 8-41 brickfest–less than 20% shooting. His defense tonight was actually good in spots, but his offense game was so ugly, so selfish, that it is hard to give him credit for that positive contribution.

    Al Jefferson is an easy player to love for his precocious footwork, realistic self-assessments of his foibles, and strong work ethic. But aside from his low-post offense, Jefferson remains woefully inconsistent. He can be a bulldog on the boards for two possessions and a negligent terrier the next. He can flash hard on the pick and roll two out five times, and bollocks it up the other three. He can spot open teammates out of the looming double team two or three times per period, but might as well be wearing blinders 60-70 percent of the time. On top of all that the recent injury to Theo Ratliff has further exposed him as being a converted power forward instead of a center when he’s forced to play the pivot. Despite all the good things he does and the admirable way he acts, there is a reason why he was a game-worst minus -14 tonight and the Nugs’ center Marcus Camby was a game-best plus +16.

    Neither Sebastian Telfair nor Marko Jaric can be a starting point guard on a successful team–it just won’t happen. There is a point guard gene missing–a different one in each player. Telfair can provide pace and a probing spirit with his passes; Jaric has marvelous hands and good anticipation on defense, and was one of the precious few Timberwolves that heeded Wittman’s admonition to penetrate into the paint. But past failures have fed the demons in both of their psyches, and there are glaring flaws in each of their games that inevitably buzz kill their most painstaking efforts at kindling some personal momentum. Put it this way: You don’t want either one of them bringing the ball up against a zone trap, and you don’t want either one of them with the ball in their hands in the closing seconds of a game with their team down a deuce. And that, folks, are precisely the two situations when point guard play is most crucial. The Nuggets deployed a full court press that coughed the ball from Telfair twice late in the first half, likely robbing the Wolves of a double-digit lead at intermission. Jaric, as I say, actually played one of his better games, but he’s been in the league long enough to know what you’ve got and it’s not enough to fortify this callow squad. There are roles for both Jaric and Telfair, but all the opportunities that Randy Foye’s injury have provided dramatize that those roles should be smaller than the ones they currently occupy.

    2. The Better Gomes

    Ryan Gomes also belongs on the "disappointing enough to be pissed at him" list thus far this season, but it took one of his vintage games tonight to remind us of how far he’d out of our consciousness. Before the season started, I expected Gomes to be the Wolves’ second-best player behind Jefferson. He fulfilled that promise for the first time in more than two weeks by toting up 18 points in less than 25 minutes simply by flowing in the course of the offense–moving without the ball, and seeking out seams in the opposing defense in a way that Flip Saunders would salivate over and utilize to the tune of 20 points per game if he had him. Or maybe not, because Gomes has clanked way too many wide open jumpers this year. Tonight he made 7-13 FG, including 4-5 from beyond the arc. His defense on Melo Anthony game but only partially effective–Melo’s 31 points on 22 shots were boosted by a hot hand early (6-7 FG on mostly contested jumpers in the first period) and trips to the line late (11-11 FTs for the game).

    Which Gomes will we see over the next few games? The Wolves desperately need it to be the Good Gomes, because the the schedule ahead is road-wearying and folks who "play the game right" are at a premium.

    3. A Plus and a Minus

    For about the fifth or sixth time in this brief season, Antoine Walker demonstrated more competitive spunk and both blatant and subtle court savvy than anyone else in a Wolves uni. One might even think the dude is playing to earn himself a ticket to a contender later in the first few months of 2008. It is probably poetic justice that ‘Toine must endure McCants’s pig-headedness, having had his own bouts on many occasions early in his career. Even tonight, his 15 point first half bore an interesting stat within the stat–1-5 from outside the arc, 5-5 shooting two-pointers. It should also be noted that Walker is getting a lot of his points and rebounds using his half-court quickness against opposing power forwards, an advantage that is quickly reversed when the big boys take him into the paint at the other end of the court. Kenyon Martin more than doubled his 7.9 ppg average with 18 tonight.

    See the theme? Walker at the 4 and Jefferson at the 5 are both overmatched on defense, but Walker is one of very few Wolves who can not only get his own shot, but create one for a teammate in the half court, especially because he understands how opponents will concentrate on Big Al and space himself accordingly.

    Yes, it is true that Minnesota really misses Foye and Ratliff, and the failure of players to fill those voids is valuable, if depressing, information for the future. But it must also be said that this squad is *not"–repeat *not* making progress, a fact dramatized by the opening night opponent playing demonstrably worse in their Game 10 rematch and winning just as handily. Almost any NBA player can jump up and have a good game, or two or three good games over a 10 game span. But the glimmers of consistency, the slow but steady signs of progress, are what this 2007-08 must be all about.

    And where are they? Did Corey Brewer get a mere 2:04 tonight because Gomes were going well, because he’s now missed four free throws in a row, because that late to practice stunt still has him in Witt’s doghouse, or because the past two opponents have been LeBron and Melo? Why is Mark Madsen a better bet to start versus Camby than Michael Doleac, who is larger and has more range on his jumper (which is to say he can shoot one)? Has anybody yo-yo’d in minutes and productivity like Craig Smith, who led the Wolves with a plus +8 tonight and had 5 rebounds to go with his 7 points (3-6 FG) but only got 15:52 (likely another victim of the Walker-Jefferson tandem)? Is McCants going through a rough patch or going down for the third time? What do we really know about this team other than they have won once in their first ten games and let an indifferent opponent that had contempt for their ability loiter through the motions and then, after the coach finally sounded the alarm, tromp down the throttle and outscore them 15-4 in the final 2:45?

    It’s not cute anymore.

  • Pizza Via Text Message and U.S. Mail

    I recall sitting in a long, dull editorial meeting one Monday afternoon. It was around 4:30; a dozen writerly types, all disengaged. Our eyes were darting between our watches and the door. Then, the editor gave us the topic for our annual food issue: Best Pizza. Suddenly, everyone in the room perked up and had something to say.

    What is it about pizza? Not only is it a strikingly perfect meal: if you assemble it correctly, all five food groups are represented in more or less the right ratio. But it seems to strike an emotional chord with just about everyone in the free world.

    That it is the preferred late-night nosh of college students seems right to me, too. These are kids — really — away from home for the first time. There could be nothing more comforting than a warm slice, bubbling with cheese, to take the edge off worry about exams and dating and that touch of homesickness to which none of them want to admit.

    I saw this demonstrated just last week, when I mentioned to my creative writing class at Macalester that Papa John’s has now made it possible to order a pizza by text message. Half the students in my class rose off their chairs, as if they couldn’t possibly make it through the next hour of lecture; they simply had to leave and code in an order for a large pepperoni with onion and green pepper.

    Talk about your savvy marketing campaigns! Papa John’s not only has the most active Internet ordering system of any pizza purveyor (it’s advertised during Heroes — how much more exposure can you get — and statistics show one in five PJ pizzas is now ordered online), the company has hooked into the Millennium Generation‘s favorite method of communication.

    There is nothing new about any of this. Pizza has long been unique among restaurant food offerings: it’s the only item available for delivery to your hotel room, dormitory, house or apartment door in nearly every city, township, and village in the United States. And certain beloved pizzamakers are willing to go to great lengths to ship their product directly to you.

    How do I know this? Because I have a personal pizza story of my own:

    Back in April, I was on a college fact-finding trip with my younger
    son, who was then a junior in high school. It had been a tough year.
    Max was a varsity football player who got laid up with a nearly fatal
    staph infection, missed the final game of the season, and confessed to
    us that he’d always hated football and he was just as glad. . . .This
    explained a lot: the moodiness and testosterone bursts and mediocre
    grades we’d been seeing out of this heretofore model kid.

    Things
    were still a little tense, even when we left for our trek through
    Wisconsin, Michigan, and Illinois. This was supposed to be our chance
    to bond — mother and son — getting back to where we were before the
    fall from hell. We drove to Madison and had a fine time. Then we went
    to Ann Arbor, and it was as if the heavens opened up and angel trumpets
    began to blare. Max was entranced. He met with professors and took
    every tour and dragged me to a falafel place on the far side of town.

    "This is where I want to go," he told me that night over dinner. "There’s no need to visit Northwestern; let’s just go to
    Gino’s instead."

    He’d been talking about Gino’s since we planned
    the trip. "It’s the best pizza in Chicago, probably in the country,
    maybe in the world." But I — the responsible mother — was having none of this. "We came to visit colleges," I told him, "not eat pizza."

    We
    set off the next day for Northwestern. I’d programmed it into the GPS
    and allotted just enough to get there for our scheduled tour at noon.
    But as we drew closer to Chicago, something clearly went wrong. The GPS
    kept directing me toward downtown, though I knew the university was in
    a place called Evanston. Finally, around 11:30, I pulled over and asked
    someone.

    "You’re a good hour and a half from Northwestern," she told me. "There’s no way you’re getting there by noon."

    I
    was furious — at myself. I told Max I was going to find a coffeeshop
    where I could call the admissions office to get good directions and see
    if I could postpone our tour. I turned left, then right, then left
    again, and then I heard Max shout, "There it is! I don’t believe it. .
    . .you got us to Gino’s! See? It was meant to happen."

    Well, there it was. Indeed. And I had to make a split-second decision. Should I stick to my guns and drag the kid to Northwestern, risking our fragile new relationship; or should I go with the flow and share in his sense of divine guidance?

    Let’s just say: The pizza was really, really good. The lightest upside-down deep-dish I’ve ever eaten, it had a savory cornmeal crust and lots of tangy tomato sauce. And the best part is, you can have it shipped to you anywhere in the country.

    My son wears his Michigan sweatshirt proudly, but his other memento from that trip is the black marker I bought him to sign Gino’s wall.

  • Consume Consume Consume and Kill — Happy Holidays!

    SHOPPING
    Christy’s Recommendations for Black Friday

    Roam (811 Glenwood Ave.) It’s the latest store to open on the burgeoning design
    corridor of Glenwood Avenue;
    you’ll find it next to Ligne Roset. Featured lines include Minneapolis’s own Blu Dot as well as some fantastic
    Scandinavian-designed minimalist wares, like those from Alessi.

    Fashion Avenue (4936 France Ave. S.) Actually, I was just there last weekend and spotted
    a half rack of vintage couture, like a gorgeous ‘60s-era emerald-green Yves
    Saint-Laurent     sweater. Of course, I can’t think of anyone on my list who might
    want such a thing. But I’ll be shopping with my mother; and FA is fertile
    ground for dropping hints.

    Letterbox (2741 Hennepin Ave.) Again, there’s nothing used to be found
    (unless you count recycled paper). However, this repository of fine stationery—the
    best in the cities, if you ask me—is conveniently located near my house. I plan
    to snag a few reams for the smart-ass chicks on my list; those crazy bitches just
    lurves fancy stationery. And I suppose I’ll pick up wrapping paper while I’m there, too.
    P.S. Letterbox will be serving free hot cocoa to all customers on Saturday and
    Sunday.

    Local Motion (2813 Hennepin Ave) Again, it’s right in the neighborhood, and I’ll
    be dropping more hints. Love those elbow-length leather gloves!

    ROBOTlove (
    2648 Lyndale Ave. S.) My lucky niece might be getting one of
    the locally-made plush dolls above. These are by a Minneapolis-based artist named Curster, or Erin Currie.

    Minnesota
    Center     for Book Arts     (1011 Washington Ave. S.) If
    they won’t let me buy a gift certificate, redeemable for one of their family-friendly
    book-making workshops, then I can at least pick up some supplies for the budding, ten-year-old
    author on my list.

    —Christy DeSmith

    Of course, if you leave it up to me, I say stay at home, avoid the crowds, serve yourself a glass of wine (or coquito), and buy your gifts online.

    MUSIC
    Against Me!

    How many anarchist punk bands from Gainesville, Florida, actually
    get better with age? The only one that matters thus far certainly has.
    Worthy heirs to Bad Religion if not The Clash, Against Me! have always curlicued their snarl with a knowing smirk—“Cliché Guevara” is a song title from back in 2003. But this year’s New Wave, their major-label debut adorned with big-time producer Butch Vig (of Nirvana’s Nevermind
    fame), invites the ire of the righteously betrayed skateboard brigade,
    ups the ante by ranting against the ineffectiveness of protest songs in
    the middle of a protest song (against the war in Iraq), and laces
    together a rapid-fire collection of tunes that are too pretty and yet
    too harsh to make anyone feel completely comfortable. Sage Francis opens. —Britt Robson

    Friday at 5:30 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Ave. N., 612-332-1775; $16/$18.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Stuck In The Manger With You; or Carol On, My Wayward Son

    Check that holiday-themed theater production off your annual to-do list. Just this past weekend, the Brave New Workshop Theatre opened its annual Christmas show. The opening night performance was chalk full of biting, acutely perceptive satire: Joe Bozic performed as a hell-on-wheels UPS driver, speeding through the night to deliver a single package on time for Christmas; Lauren Anderson reprised her riff (first performed at the 2007 Ivey Awards) on drunken office holiday parties; Josh Eakright and Mike Fotis rendered a Brokeback Mountain-inspired love story starring Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and his cohort, Blitzen. Taken together, these bits and sketches make the perfect holiday outing for family and group of friends not taking Christmas so seriously this year. —Christy DeSmith

    Friday at 8 p.m., Saturday at 7 and 10 p.m., and Sunday at 7 p.m. (through Jan. 26); Brave New Workshop, 2605 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-332-6620; $23-29.

    Hormel Girls

    After World War II, when most U.S. businesses emphasized hiring male war veterans, Hormel Foods
    hatched an unusual plan to employ women. Of course, these women tended
    to be less needy than attractive—not to mention talented. In fact, from
    1947–53, a troupe of sixty female employees from the Austin-based
    company, known simply as the “Hormel Girls,” served both as
    door-to-door sales force and drum-and-bugle corps. The Girls are
    credited with doubling sales of their employer’s packaged foods,
    especially Spam, with such tactics as traveling stage shows, parades,
    and a weekly CBS Radio show in which product names were liberally
    dropped. The “Hormel Girls” make for fascinating history; but they’re
    likely to make even better musical theater. —Christy DeSmith

    Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m., History Theatre, 30 E. Tenth St., St. Paul; 651-292-4323.

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Our Very Own Rockefeller Center (or death of a 76-year-old tree for your viewing pleasure)

    While
    I’ve often heard Minneapolis referred to as the Mini Apple, I have to
    give St. Paul some credit here, as they’re the ones with our version of
    Rockefeller Center, a city-defining asset after Thanksgiving. You’ve
    seen it in a hundred movies — the ice skating rink, the giant Christmas
    tree, the crowds, the love, the broken hearts and broken bones. This
    weekend truly kicks off the holiday season with the opening of the Wells Fargo WinterSkate
    and the official tree lighting at Rice Park. I’m not a big fan of
    buying the Christmas tree right after Thanksgiving (by the time
    Christmas rolls around, the darn thing is dead and dry), but there’s no
    reason not to celebrate the season with the lighting of a 78-foot tall
    Christmas tree with 60,000 lights, and a lovely skate around the rink.
    Take the kids. Take your lover. Start those sleigh bells a’ringing in
    your head. The Wells Fargo choir will help get things rolling, and the
    marching band will lead in Santa on his sleigh. A little premature
    perhaps, but so much fun.

    Saturday at 4 p.m., Rice Park, Saint Paul; 651-291-5608; $2 skate rental, all else is free.

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Michael Tisserand with the Southside Aces

    In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, displaced Big Easy journalist Tisserand, the former editor of the estimable Gambit Weekly, has produced a truly inspiring and moving testament to the power of perseverance in the face of unimaginable exile. Sugarcane Academy: How a New Orleans Teacher and His Storm-Struck Students Created a School to Remember
    is an account of teacher Paul Reynaud’s heroic efforts to turn an
    abandoned New Iberia office into a one-room schoolhouse for a group of
    evacuee children. Tisserand will be joined by local traditional-jazz
    purveyors, the Southside Aces. —Brad Zellar

    Sunday at 7 p.m., Magers and Quinn, 3038 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-822-4611.

     

  • Sursum Corda: Give Thanks

    I’d say it’s a decent idea, Thanksgiving, even if it’s one of those old, decent ideas that means almost nothing anymore. Still, it does strike me as a worthwhile thing, the notion of taking time out of your life to give thanks for whatever the hell you have to give thanks for. And surely you have something to be thankful for –come on, pull your face away from that bong for a moment and think about it.

    I know I do. A few for instances:

    Microwave popcorn.

    Tabasco sauce.

    Canned chili.

    Willie Nelson.

    Cold beverages.

    Dune buggies.

    The Colonel’s blend of special spices.

    The grand-fetuses –if I’d known the little bastards were going to be so much fun I’d have had them first.

    The troops, which I nonetheless feel strongly should be spending the holidays with their families at home.

    Zigaboo Modeliste.

    Al Jackson, Jr.

    Air hockey.

    Paper boys, even –or perhaps especially– if they’re middle-aged men working three jobs just trying to get by.

    Grasshoppers.

    Formaldehyde.

    Mutterers.

    Television evangelists.

    A good cat mystery.

    Robert Goulet.

    Vespers.

    U-turns.

    Pre-history.

    Mason jars.

    The down-on-his-luck hippie magician.

    The spinster librarian.

    The smooth Lothario.

    This sneaking suspicion.

    This magic moment.

    That tragedy narrowly averted.

    Nose-diving birds.

    Twizzlers.

    Dumplings.

    Nancy and Sluggo.

    The great hearts gone, and those still beating.

    The ink I still, astonishingly, feel compelled to use.

    Unexpected eruptions of pleasure and recognition.

    Mercy.

    This life, what it helplessly is, and what it yet could be.