Category: Letter

Stefan writes:

Sharon, Liam and I just returned from two weeks in Israel.

We carried a copy of the Rake with us to the Golan Heights and gave into the pull of pop culture and took a few shots with the Rake!
The shot of us is in front of the Chateau Golan Winery at a Moshav just
a few clicks from the Syrian border.

Send along your Rakish travel shots, if we publish yours in the
magazine, we’ll send you a non-thermal, non-extreme Rake T-shirt and a
$25 gift certificate from West Photo (21 University Ave. N.E.,
Minneapolis).

If we publish yours on our website, then we’ll send you
nothing, but you will be considered Rakish and that alone is well worth
it.

Keep the submissions coming!

Mark writes:

I had the opportunity to catch up on the latest edition of the Rake
while waiting in line to cross into Nicaragua from Costa Rica on
vacation… and there was plenty of time to catch up. There were a
total of three stops crossing the border where we had to pay both
coming and going, but the best part was the fumigation tunnel – kind of
like a car wash in the US, but instead of water they apply some unknown
chemicals.

Send along your Rakish travel shots, if we publish yours in the
magazine, we’ll send you a non-thermal, non-extreme Rake T-shirt and a
$25 gift certificate from West Photo (21 University Ave. N.E., Minneapolis).

If we publish yours on our website, then we’ll send you nothing, but
you will be considered Rakish and that alone is well worth it.

Keep the submissions coming!

Paulette writes:

Rake, Rake — whose got my Rake.

Well, I have two men on vacation in Sayulita Mexico, vying for a Rake
read. They had to take turns. Here are pix of both sitting on a palapa
at the top of “gringo hill” — there’s no specific evidence of place,
but you can see the Pacific in the background — which is far, far down
the hill.

Frankly — outside of the barking roosters and crowing dogs
— pure paradise. Glad to have had you with us!

The cute young guy is
Steve Lauterbach presently of Salt Lake City, Utah. The cute gray beard
is George Warren of Lino Lakes, MN (my hubby).

Sayulita is a community
about 30-40 miles north of Puerto Vallarta and many many worlds apart.
Unfortunately, it is a boom-town in the making — development is
everywhere and what might have been reasonable real estate just three
years ago is now far beyond the reach of everyone except the
Californians — who are convinced they have a new Carmel in the making.
And — unfortunately — they are probably right. Oh well — there’s
lots of coast in Mexico before Paradise is Lost.

Send along your Rakish travel shots, if we publish yours in the
magazine, we’ll send you a non-thermal, non-extreme Rake T-shirt and a
$25 gift certificate from West Photo (21 University Ave. N.E.,
Minneapolis).

If we publish yours on our website, then we’ll send you nothing, but
you will be considered Rakish and that alone is well worth it.

Keep the submissions coming!

There weren’t many people on the plane from Minneapolis to London. My husband, Mike, and I could have had our own aisles, our own sections, our very own bathrooms. Granted, we were traveling in the off-season, but also, dollar-wise, visiting Europe has become rather stupid. Thanks to our huge national debt, the war in Iraq, and a bunch of other financial factors I don’t really understand, the dollar is losing value by the day. Three years ago, a dollar bought almost three quarters of a British pound. Now, it buys just more than half. That’s a nearly twenty-five percent slide, making a tasty Orangina beverage, which costs $2.50 here, the equivalent of $3.50 in London. We paid three dollars for M&M’s and four dollars for a bottle of plain water. Carbonation costs extra.

Nevertheless, we were determined to vacation in what we would come to know as the most expensive place on earth. We’d never been, after all—never seen all that history. We had relatives to stay with. We had savings and the necessary devil-may-care attitude. So, after a disorienting layover in Reykjavik, Iceland (it was nine in the morning local time and still pitch black outside), we made London at around noon on a Sunday.

Spending money in London as an American felt like spending money in America as a Mexican. Dollars drifted away like pesos, confetti, vapor. It was a humbling experience, coming from a country where we’re taught to swagger, own the place, no matter what or where. On our first night, by the time Mike and I headed out for dinner, the pubs had all stopped serving. We wound up at a pizza place, where we split a twenty-five-dollar mini pizza pie (we steered clear of “the American,” a pepperoni version intended for people who like their pies “strong and simple”) and a four-dollar bottle of water, and walked back to the house where we were staying.

In fact, mostly we walked, to avoid the cost of the Underground—cabs were out of the question—but also to view life on the streets. Neither of us is particularly fond of the theater, but we can appreciate an odd situation. We traversed Hyde Park, where we came upon a monument to all the animals who had died in battle. It was embossed with the words, “They had no choice.” We saw the ornate Parliament building and Westminster Abbey (a splurge, since total admission cost around thirty-five dollars), which is basically a giant graveyard full of royalty and other less important people. A coffee stand served cappuccino directly on top of the graves of the least important people. We passed through the financial district and stared down into the swirling brown Thames. We toured several free museums, and stood outside several that charged admission.

We saw many sites missed by rich people in cabs: the graphic porno flyers in those quaint red telephone booths; the metal fencing that’s been painted so many times it’s clotted with texture; and graveyards where the words have weathered off the stones. In east London, we found an ancient pub called the Town of Ramsgate. It’s right on the Thames and its claim to fame is that pirates used to be hanged out back on scaffolding at the foot of the Wapping Old Stairs. How the Brits love their gore. From the tourist-packed Tower of London where hundreds, maybe thousands, of people were decapitated or hanged or left to rot in their cells, including two of Henry VIII’s wives, to tours of Jack the Ripper’s killing territory, to these Wapping Stairs, the British are simply fascinated.

At the Ramsgate, my husband and I finished a rather bland traditional English meal of bangers and mash and a pasty chicken pie (total cost, an eye-popping forty dollars) and then went out back to view the spot where Captain Kidd met his end in 1701. According to an excruciatingly detailed placard inside the pub, as Kidd stood atop the scaffold with a rope around his neck, he pointed at a woman in the crowd and yelled, “I lain with that bitch three times, and now she comes to see me hanged.” Not much of a commentary on his performance, joked my husband. Kidd’s body was left to bloat and be picked apart by crows.

We trekked and trekked. For rest, we usually ducked into the pubs, where, if you’re lucky, you get a glass of beer for five dollars. And where you can hang around all day reading a complimentary copy of the Guardian, which is convinced that all Americans are fat and caught in the grip of a misdirected morality craze. London pubs admit dogs and Englishmen with missing teeth. At one particularly charming pub, the Warwick Arms, Mike was at the bar buying me an extra special bitter. A regular, who had obviously beaten us to the scene by a few hours, slurred in heavily accented English, “Steady, boy.”
“Why am I silly?” my husband responded.

“Stea-dy!” he bellowed. “Is there somethin’ wrong with me English?”

“Well, I’m English as a second language!” The guy had to laugh. He kept laughing as Mike paid the bill.—Jennifer Vogel

DO LITTLE
Thank you for the auto magnets guide [the Rake’s Progress, April]. I had considered having one made that said, “Is this all I have to do?” Simple sentiment is right.
Beadrin Urista
Minneapolis

SHOOTIN’ THE BREEZE
I really enjoyed Maria Rubinstein’s article on the IRS’s image [the Rakish Angle, April]. And I know what the Alaska Permanent Fund is (I think): I believe that basically, if one has the cojones (or female-wise, cojonettes) to live in Alaska, you get like two hundred dollars a year from the government. I know this because I have a poet friend who lives outside of Fairbanks with a backyard big enough and remote enough that he shoots annoying books there. I asked him to shoot The Bridges of Madison County so I could give it back to a friend who made me read it “because you’re a writer” (Hey, smell this food: is it spoiled?) and he wanted confirmation that it sucked. When I read the whole dang book and found that indeed it did suck, he wouldn’t let me give it back to him. So I had it shot and returned to me, and I wrapped it up very prettily for Christmas. Would you like to become my friend?
Miss Terri Ford
Minneapolis

BLOWN AWAY
Thank you for the fine article on wind power [“Buffalo Ridge,” April]. It blew me away. Hooray for the Juhls. They are people who have committed their lives to their vision for the betterment of everyone. May NSP catch the spirit and may the wind be at their heels.
John Newman
Minneapolis

Kieran’s Letter of the Month: SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT
The Rake rightly deserves enormous credit for advising Bob Dylan in June 1963, “Move away and write your own damn songs,” and for predicting the date of Garrison Keillor’s conception in Anoka [Good Intentions, March]. Concerning mistakes and missteps, you do not seem to recognize that your failure to have Spoonbridge and Cherry moved to the city impound lot was the result of weak analysis and poorly conceived strategy. A stream of liquid issuing from a cherry stem? If you had convinced the arts police to replace it with the kind of appendage from which a stream of liquid might actually issue, then the forces of prudery would have forced the destruction of the whole sorry sculpture. You report that you wish you “hadn’t cooperated in burning that last Minneapolis streetcar.” Do you make this stuff up? Don’t you know that all those streetcars were sold to Mexico City? Last time I was there, they were still rolling merrily along. Finally, you do not mention your failed campaign to persuade Senator Mark Dayton to change his name to Marshall Field. This was perhaps the most consequential failure: Look what has happened to him.
—Frank C. Miller, Minneapolis

WAR POETS
I usually enjoy and trust your magazine, so I was surprised to see Oliver Nicholson imply that the Second World War produced no poets of note except for Keith Douglas [Wine, March]. I like Douglas, too, but he’s hardly the only poet who served in that war and wrote well about it. Among American soldier-poets, the most celebrated at the time was Karl Shapiro, who came under fire in the Pacific theater, and whose V-Letter won the Pulitzer Prize; the most celebrated now is likely Randall Jarrell, who considered soldiers, airmen, and the civilians they sometimes bombed in poems such as “Losses,” “Eighth Air Force,” and that hardy perennial, “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.” There’s also Richard Wilbur (Army), William Meredith (Navy), and (for West Coast tastes) Robert Duncan. But these are Americans. Nicholson may be British, and may be thinking of British poets alone. How about Alun Lewis? Or Basil Bunting, RAF serviceman (and spy), whose war experience entered his poem “The Spoils”? Or Donald Davie, a Royal Navy man?
—Stephen Burt, St. Paul

BOY OH BOY
I burst out in laughs more than once reading Elizabeth Larsen’s “Boy Trouble” [March], but my situation was the opposite. I wanted just boys, no girls. My first child was a boy. Nothin’ else was gonna do and I was ecstatic. When I had a girl, my initial disappointment (I guess more fear actually) was soon replaced with joy. But as much as I tried to raise my son (and daughter) “gender neutral,” there was no denying the “nature vs. nurture” effect. Any object, no matter the shape, size, or color became a weapon of some sort complete with sound effects. (Daughter was very twirly, dancy-prancy—again, nature.) This same boy at age two wanted a doll, a specific boy-doll made for boys, but his father put his foot down thinking it was sissy. I thought it would be sweet. My son was a roughhousing, sports-loving, dirty, torture-the-little-sister, laugh at any gross-out fart-burp, etc. as any boy (or should I just say male?) can be. However, he has also grown up to be a very sensitive, compassionate young man who still thinks I walk on water (ahhh, the wonderful unconditional love of a son), who burned a CD of songs he knew I loved and had special memories attached to each one, bought a bracelet for his sister when he went to Mexico on break, absolutely loves babies and little kids, and votes Democrat. Even though he is now a beer-swilling college freshman, he still sleeps with his blankie (sorry, kiddo, couldn’t resist telling that). Having come into adulthood in the seventies, I consider myself a progressive, fairly feminist and humanist person. No matter what the gender and the inherent nature of that gender, the environment—emotional, spiritual, intellectual—they are exposed to is what truly shapes that person. Enjoy your boys!
—Deb Casserly, St. Louis Park

EYE-OPENER
Bravo to Elizabeth Larsen [“Boy Trouble,” March]. The article brought a new dimension to my understanding of feminists and the feminist movement. I am a red-state conservative Republican who found Larsen’s willingness to share her views and experiences with feminism as it relates to raising a boy to be refreshing and honest. Specifically, her willingness to challenge her previous beliefs on feminism has caused me to reflect on my stances towards feminism and its value in today’s society. Her article has also opened my eyes concerning my own daughter and the upbringing that my wife and I are trying to provide. I have always felt my daughter should have every opportunity in the world to do what she wants without societal restraints based on gender, but now also realize that our two boys have that choice as well.
—Chad Frost, Prior Lake

combat credit While it may be true that Emily Dickinson was a better war poet than Rupert Brooke, it’s not quite fair to say he never heard a shot fired in anger. While his combat experience was limited to the evacuation of Antwerp early in the war, he did see some combat. Sorry for the nitpicking, but that’s what I do best.
—Jeff Cawhorn, Minneapolis

OVERDUE APPRECIATION
Regarding “Who Needs All These Books Anyway?” [February]: Not long ago I asked my dad, who grew up in Minneapolis during the Depression, if he ever remembered a time when the city closed the public libraries or cut back their hours. He told me he couldn’t recall such a time, and this was during the greatest “budget crises” in our country’s history. My feeling is that the current crisis has nothing to do with budgets. It’s really a spiritual crisis, a shift in our values from the communal to the “private.” Anything with the word “public” or “social” in it is now under attack, to be replaced by an illusion of privacy and go-it-alone individualism. The New Deal values of cooperation, civic pride, and a communal sense of joint venture are succumbing to competition, distrust, and open warfare amongst fellow citizens. Public libraries were a refuge to me as a child. They were the one place, besides nature, where I could find some respite from the often brutal, competitive world of school and jobs. Librarians were usually kind and helpful to me. They never graded or fired me, just asked that I be considerate of others. Public libraries are the foundation of any decent society that cares about its children. More than mere warehouses of knowledge, they represent the human yearning to grow and learn throughout a lifetime, long after formal education has ended. An attack upon them is an attack upon the future and the common good.
—Kurt Seaberg, Minneapolis

REPRESENTATIVE MAN
While Clinton Collins’ musings have long been a favorite of mine, it is a shame that he is perpetuating the (implied) myth of how the shortest month of the year came to be Black History Month [Love It and Leave It, February]. The selection of February, in fact, was made by a black scholar, Harvard professor Carter G. Woodson, in 1926 when he initiated “Negro History Week” in the second week of February. Dr. Woodson chose that week in homage to Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln. There are numerous websites with information on the origins of Black History Month, such as www.freemaninstitute.com/woodson.htm.
Patty Dean
Minneapolis

HERE, HERE
African-American history doesn’t fit into white-American folk history in the same way that black South African history didn’t fit into Afrikaan’s folk history. It took years of revolt and international pressure to change apartheid South Africa. Mainstream American history, despite the revolt of the 1960s, is still a folk history filled with tall tales and omissions. American music, writing, the visual arts, and political change owe much to African-Americans. A month of lip-service is insulting.
Walt Rupp
St. Paul

MILL CITY MUSEUM: ALIVE AND WELL
It was wonderful to read last monthÕs cover story about the great things happening with the new Minneapolis Library [Who Needs All These Books, Anyway? February]. But given the flurry of activities that happen daily at Mill City Museum, we were bemused to see ourselves described as an “exquisite corpse.” The grand architectural achievement created at the museum is becoming well known through various awards and public acclaim, but we fear that the article missed the point of how this architecture was envisioned, and how visitors experience history at the museum. Since our opening in September 2003, more than thirty thousand schoolchildren have explored their roots through our engaging programs. Another one hundred thousand regular visitors have experienced history in a variety of innovative ways–through the eight-story “Flour Tower,” a modern music series in our Ruin Courtyard called Mill City Live (sponsored by The Rake), and numerous events such as weddings, class reunions, corporate parties, and, yes, a multitude of museum programs and demonstrations that put the past into context. And if readers need further convincing about the vitality of this place, then they simply need to come marvel at the transforming and vibrant Minneapolis riverfront from the top of our building–perhaps the most dramatic observation deck in the state. According to the National Historic Trust for Preservation, Mill City Museum is now the national standard in successful public/private preservation. Even the American Institute of Architects recently honored Mill City Museum with its highest award for architectural achievement. These awards are testament to the power of making history matter for people in the current moment, and for the ability of this unique venue to create a sense of the past that informs our communityÕs hopes for the future. We invite you to come down and give us a pinch. You’ll find we are alive and well, and eager to treat you to a taste of Minneapolis past and present.
John Crippen
Mill City Museum Director
Minnesota Historical Society

LIBRARIANS DO IT IN THEIR STACKS
What a great article! I live in western Hennepin County but I sent my check for twelve dollars (and more) to the Minneapolis Public library. I used this system extensively when in college and could not have graduated from college without it. Well-staffed and stocked school libraries actually boost all students’ test scorces K-12. We have test data for more than six years that prove it. Regardless of socio-economic factors and education level of parents. What a great buy! Let’s all rejoice in all libraries.
S. Mays
Minneapolis

EXTEND THOSE HOURS, ASAP
When I was a kid in Chicago, libraries were open until midnight on Friday and Saturday. They also showed educational films to the general public. The libraries were a place to go, learn, and talk to your neighbors, and they were pretty busy. The libraries here are not typically available for anyone other than people who have the day off or on weekends. I believe they should all be open until 10 P.M. and they should start to open themselves up to more community events. Whatever happens, libraries are a great resource and could be more effectively used as the hub of a community.
Daniel Blackburn
St. Paul

TRAFFIC RADIO
Regarding 511 Is A Joke [Good Intentions, February]: MnDOT’s cancellation of the KBEM partnership is yet another major public education cut made by a governor’s administration that is simultaneously pretending it is increasing funding to public schools and has yet to do anything real about our traffic situation. We all know that traffic changes by the minute. 511.org is outdated by the time I get to my car, and calling 511 takes more time to use than driving during rush hour. I do hope the partnership will be reconsidered (reinstated) by MnDOT. Minneapolis Public Schools should consider selling airtime to other metro school districts. Not only would MPS retain ownership of this important asset, but students from all metro districts would learn about all facets of operating a radio station while getting a first-class education in jazz. That is a win for students, MPS, and those of us stuck in traffic.
Tom Madden
Minneapolis

SMOKE ‘EM IN THE BOYS ROOM?
In response to Fred Eisenbery, the smoking bike-messenger who complains, “Minnesota is such a mommy state, where absolutely nothing is allowed … ” [One Step Forward, Two Smokes Back, the Rakish Angle, February]: If you want to smoke your lungs out like I did when I was eighteen, so be it. I strongly recommend that you quit, but you’re a big boy now. My main beef is with your secondhand smoke, not your bad habit. You and your buddies are standing outside Dunn Brothers on Nicollet because that smoke coming off your cigarettes and out of your lungs is not only putting you at risk, but also everyone working there, and the people like me who start off every day with some high-octane joe. That’s why indoor workplaces are going smoke free in Hennepin County in March, and hopefully statewide in August. Still think smoking isn’t so bad? Check out our website: www.alamn.org.
Robert Moffitt
Communications Director
American Lung Association of Minnesota

HARD-SCRABBLE LIFE
In “War of Words” [the Rakish Angle, January], Tim Bewer is kind enough to cover the National Scrabble Association’s activities here in the Twin Cities, as well as mention the All-Stars tourney in Rhode Island, which was also on ESPN, and finally he acknowledges that two Scrabble-oriented movies are soon coming out of Hollywood. Though I am pleased that big fish like these enjoy our populist game, it would have been nice if one mention, one teensy, eensy mention, had been reserved for a true “Secret of the City,” an actual bit of “Scrabble Underground” lore. I am, of course, referring to the late night Scrabble sensation on Minneapolis cable access: Totally Scrabble Tuesday. The show airs on the Minneapolis Television Network’s channel 17 at 11 A.M., but I forget on which day of the week. Viewers call in as “Team Minneapolis” and play their tiles (one play per call) against the host. The callers are good and bad at the game (also: mediocre, first timers, prank callers, and wrong numbers). As play proceeds, there is casual banter. Families, college dorm dwellers, businesspeople, stoners, Ph.D. candidates, and racists call in, without being screened. Frequently, their efforts would upset any NSA purist. Finding the Team Minneapolis mantle too vague, viewer-players sometimes subclassify themselves. For example, Team Fresh frequently calls in, as does Team Fooligan, Team Tony Danza, Team Tour de Bong, Team Grove Street, and Team Lick My Nipples. The show is sometimes fun, often boring, and it is beset by technical difficulties. Despite its crappiness, there are always participants—secret, underground, off-the-grid, and local participants. I guess now would be a good time for me to reveal that I am the host of Totally Scrabble Tuesday, which makes this entire letter a shameless self-promotion. I do appreciate it when anyone writes about this game, and it certainly has taken hold in Minneapolis. I saw people playing Scrabble at 1:30 A.M. at the Red Dragon a few weeks ago.
Hamil Griffin-Cassidy
Minneapolis

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU
ASK FOR, STUART
I faithfully read Stuart Greene’s column [Sex & the Married Man] every month, and I just have to ask: Stuart, do you have any cute single friends who aren’t married, engaged, or have a girlfriend? I swear, I want to meet someone in this town who can communicate. Yeah, I just might need to find myself a writer. I’ve lived in the Twin Cities for three years now and I’m still getting used to that passive-aggressive “Minnesota Nice” stuff—and most of the time my confusion of that very thing is what gets me in trouble. I am that gal who tells my man that I want to show him a trick on my “beautiful instrument.” Oddly enough, it usually freaks him out, at least a little bit. The average Minnesota man, in my experience, is too proud to admit he doesn’t necessarily know what turns me on. However, as any woman will tell you, that thing that made your last girlfriend scream at the top of her lungs just isn’t quite right for your current girlfriend. I totally agree that women really should take a more active role in their own physical happiness, but please, could you introduce me to someone who can appreciate that in a woman?

RedLin S. Murphy
Minneapolis

WE REPORTED, YOU DECIDED
Ms. Guimond’s beef (“Stay Tuned,” the Rakish Angle, January) doesn’t seem to be with the ubiquity of televisions in public places, but that some of these televisions—gasp—are tuned in to Fox News. Even more horrible in her eyes is that nobody is complaining. Jesusland Bible-beaters are not the only fans of Fox News. It is possible that the majority of workers in a politically diverse office building in a liberal downtown don’t automatically retch and convulse at the sight of Shepard Smith like she would want them to—and it’s not the end of the world.
Gentry Boeckel
St. Paul

FLATTERY GETS YOU
EVERYWHERE—WELL, AT LEAST
IT GETS YOU ON THIS PAGE
I am highly impressed with your magazine and website. You are a hard-working, honest, and ethical publication that ferrets out breaking news. MPR had a diddy on Eric Utne this morning. You beat them to the punch there. I recommend you to anyone when the occasion arises.

Killairne Jewell
St. Paul

THIS STALL ALREADY IN USE
I am writing in response to Colin Covert’s piece, “Rated ‘R’ for Dirty Situations” [the Rakish Angle, January]. First off, I was impressed to learn from the article that Jon Thompson, founder of Restroom Ratings, is the son of a plumber. I have often wondered where his inspiration came from. Secondly, as minor as it may seem, I cannot resist the temptation to correct a few factual errors in the article. The outhouse with the baby birds is in Lyon’s Park in Taylors Falls, not Interstate State Park. I know this because I wrote the review. One of my reviews (Mankato Wal-Mart) was also quoted without being credited. To be fair, it was not credited on the Restroom Reviews website, either, so Covert may not have thought to inquire about the review’s origin. Some of the reviews on the site are credited and some aren’t. Regarding the gender disparity concern, Covert should not assume that men’s-room reviews far outnumber women’s. On my review visits, I bring my girlfriend and she always checks the ladies’ room, assuming there is one. Often, a unisex restroom is available for either sex. My review is a summary that applies to both men’s and women’s unless otherwise noted. Also, Covert forgot to mention Jon Thompson’s original, top-notch artwork that adorns many of the feature reviews. Anyway, thanks so much for highlighting the public service work of the Restroom Ratings website. There are not many people who are willing to walk into a public bathroom with a camera. I’m proud of the work Jon has done, his ability to follow through on his vision, and having the chance to personally contribute to it.

Justin Teerlinck
St. Paul

Apart from the usual stuff—saving four-leafed clovers, never opening an umbrella inside the house, throwing a broken mirror into a stream—Italians observe a mind-boggling array of superstitions. When I walk with Italians on the street, I notice many little tics and odd gestures. Most Italians have elaborate routines designed to bring good luck and avoid bad. As I add up all the possible pitfalls, I wonder how anyone can bear to step out of doors.

If you don’t wear a scarf when it’s the least bit chilly, you will surely fall victim to the dreaded colpo della strega (the witch’s hit). You must watch where you walk. Some towns have an arco del cornuto (the cuckold arch). If you unwittingly pass under one, your lover will betray you. To undo the damage, you can try to squeeze between a couple carabinieri. These special policemen always walk in twos, reportedly one to read and one to write. (They are notoriously dim, according to the Italians.) If you walk between two nuns, however, it will have the opposite effect. You do not want to be on the receiving end of the Church’s holy anger. But your situation may not be entirely hopeless. You can find a cigarette butt still smoldering on the ground and stamp it out. This will transfer all the luck of the smoker to you. Also, accidentally stepping in dog poop is considered one of the luckiest omens of all. (Interestingly, this does not result in a tremendous rush to every little pile on the boulevard.)

The Italian national pastime is not bocce ball. It is sitting around the dinner table for hours at a time. This is one of the most perilous things you can do. If you’re unmarried, never sit at a corner, unless you plan to stay single for the rest of your life. When clinking glasses, never cross arms with fellow toasters across the table, unless you have a death wish; making a cross means someone in the group is doomed. Never pour wine overhand with your wrist turned outward, or the recipient will be insulted. Also, make sure your guests’ glasses are filled before your own; however, you are allowed to sneak the last drop for yourself. This is an elaborate form of good luck that ensures romantic interest from guests with the opposite hair color. It goes on and on. Spilling the salt is bad; accidentally tipping over your wine glass is good.

A recent survey reported that just under half of Italians believe in the evil eye. My students assure me those people are just gullible and scared. Then I notice some of the students carrying around a little pepperoncino (red hot chili pepper) to ward off evil. They tell me it’s just for fun and characteristic of southern Italy. It’s a little more difficult for them to hide it when they make the corna gesture. They stick out their pointer and little finger (like the American gesture for rock ’n’ roll) and vigorously point their fingers downward. This is a way to avoid being jinxed.

I explain that, in America, we cross our fingers to prevent bad luck. The boys stand up and say, “In Italy, we touch our balls! Here, touch my balls for good luck! You must touch my balls!” I pass on the offer and should really change the subject, but I can’t help asking: “What do girls do?”

The boys scramble to their feet, grab their pants, and yell, “Girls, too! They must toccate le mie palle!” Luckily, the principal doesn’t happen to be walking by the classroom. (That’s another thing. Just mentioning the name of the principal is bad luck and leads to failing a test.)

The lesson has already digressed, so I ask my students to list all of their superstitions. Each requires commentary, however. Never wear purple on TV (“It’s true! No one ever dares risk it!”); if you get bat droppings on your head, your hair won’t grow (“It’s a myth, but I do always wear a hat at night!”); if you’re sweeping and you brush your shoes, you’ll never marry (“I insist my mamma always does the cleaning”).

Now that they’ve explained their system of beliefs, I know why all the boys seem to be digging in their pockets with a look of fear each time they hear an ambulance or see a hearse go by. They don’t want to be next.

In spite of myself, I’ve become more careful while living in Italy. I don’t pass under ladders, I never toss my hat on the bed, and I would never kill a spider (certainly not a seven-legged one). When Friday falls on the seventeenth of the month, I feel a new sense of dread. Like any true Italian, I don’t plan anything too important.
—Eric Dregni

COUNTRY MUSIC RECONSIDERED

It seems to me that Mr. Eisenbeis needs to listen to a little more country music before he tries to explain its popularity or lack of same [“It’s My Country…,” November]. In today’s music world, pop hardly exists, and no one can understand the lyrics of today’s rock. There is no longer any innovation in the instrumentation of rock, and country to a lesser degree suffers the same fate. The rock stars of today place themselves above their fans. Country musicians tend to embrace their fans, plus they are more educated than the majority of rock performers. Country performers know the value of attending and lending a hand at charitable events and autograph signings. While country produces a lot of junk, it also produces some great stuff. Country songwriters tend to write songs that reflect current trends, or objectionable practices. Take, for example, “Murder on Music Row,” a protest song against the mainstream country music establishment. Still, it became very popular and won a Country Music Association award as Song of the Year. Look at Alan Jackson’s “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)?” Another Song-of-the-Year winner. Even the latest, very popular “Whiskey Lullaby” sounds as though it was written about an actual event in someone’s life and could very well have been. Songs like these make people stop and listen. Even young people. If you want to know the history of country music, you listen to country music. If you want to know the history of this country, you listen to country music. If you want to know the political climate of this country, you listen to country music. Mr. Eisenbeis seems to want to complicate the reasons for country music’s popularity. The reason is simple, really: The music is real, it is heartfelt, and the performers are honest. Even when they are being bad, they still remain loyal to their music and their fans. That is something that is rare, even in society as a whole, but it is still highly valued by most.

Dale Butler
Fridley

CREDIT (& BLAME) WHERE DUE
You guys must have spent too much time with Eric Utne, doing that cover piece [December]. So it’s no longer just about him, eh? Funny, you don’t act like you believe that. What? Check it out: In the photo caption on page forty. Here are the five people responsible for forming and developing and keeping the Utne Reader going. But four of them are unimportant. They are even unimportant today, years later. They don’t even have names. Shame on you, Rakesters. Just to help you (and I’ve never even been involved at the Utne Reader), without charge, I’ll help your identification process: [from left] Besides Jay Walljasper, Eric Utne, and Julie Ristau, the other people you did not identify are Barbara Mishler, who was the Utne Reader’s librarian for at least ten years, and Helen Cordes, who was one of the originals at UR and was there probably twenty years.
Jon Schultz
Minneapolis

Our readers are frequently smarter than we are. Thanks for the help.–Eds.

A TEA PARTY WITH UTNE
I enjoyed meeting the man, Eric Utne of the Utne Magazine, in the December issue of The Rake. He and his magazine did a great service when they brought back the conversational salon movement. I bought the book Salons, and it all made such an effect on me that I started a conversational salon, and it is still going strong at Mad Hatter’s Tea House in St. Paul. I can’t believe it, but we have had one a week for over two years—poetry, open discussion, and guest speakers. Tea and cake always served. Such a civil thing, really.

So the statement from your article, “the movement itself turned out to be short-lived,” is shortsighted. As Eric says, “the effects live on,” and we at Mad Hatter’s give thanks to him and the Utne Reader for helping a community and culture thrive through conversation. Thank you for the article.

Patty Guerrero
St. Paul