I laughed so hard with your SUV article. It is so true. I am one of the few owners whose SUV spends more time off-road than chasing to the supermarket. I live in a rural area, megasnow, and I am a nurse who must get to work when scheduled. Just caught your link off the KARE -11 site, and I will return for your cutting-edge commentary. Meanwhile, I am going to go buck my Jeep through some snow—just because I can!
Char Woizeschke, Windom
You might remember that I revoked Clinton Collins’ “Brother Card” a few months ago [Letters, September 2002]. Clinton, after reading your most recent column, my knees buckled. I don’t think I have ever read or heard a more balanced position to the reparations/affirmative action issues that face this nation. Your article was so strong in terms of positioning the issue outside the Black community and making it a national crisis for all American citizens. I pride myself on being well read, from conservative viewpoints to the very liberal positions, and usually I find most tip in favoring their alliances. I have never read words on paper that have moved me emotionally, where I have gone directly to the computer to write a response, in the form of a “thank you.” I find great pleasure in knowing a man who holds this idealistic position on these issues during these critical times.
Rod Martens, Minneapolis
Yes, Sid Hartman works hard at his job and does it well [“Celebrating Sid!,” January], providing inside dope for that noisy, pushy minority who think pro sports are important. Many of us have meaningful lives and don’t need to identify with the staged battles between millionaires. Sid is also a tireless crusader against women’s athletics, and ignores or denigrates all sports except basketball, baseball, football, and hockey.
Hans Arlton, Minneapolis
The sign said, “All life on Earth, including human beings, was originally created scientifically in laboratories by the Elohim—an advanced people from space!”
“Tell me more!” I said to the sexy French Canadian woman boasting ample cleavage. She was running the Raelian booth at “A Gathering of Light,” a new age convention. “The only person the Elohim communicate with is Rael,” she explained, with sincere conviction and a cute French accent.
Glancing at the back of his best-selling book, Message Given By Extraterrestrials, I noted that Rael himself is an older French man with a ponytail. And he used to be a racecar driver! Now Rael is the head of the Raelian religion. According to the person I took to be one of Rael’s terrestrial girlfriends, the main mission of the Raelian religion is to build a $20 million dollar space embassy so the aliens will return. It’s not clear why a $10 million dollar space embassy wouldn’t work. There was a way to find out, though: Travel through time and space to their headquarters in Montreal. I booked a flight.
Through the Raelian website, I located their headquarters on Earth, and planned to attend one of their weekly organization meetings. I pictured myself sitting in a large room filled with dozens of new Raelian recruits. I was excited to learn more about a religion that performs the minor miracle of making Scientology look reasonable.
Once I got to Montreal, an evil acquaintance of mine planted some very bad information in my head, which would not come out: He said the Raelians hold wild sex parties filled with beautiful single women. Though I might not fully believe humans were created in a laboratory by aliens, I can always appreciate French-speaking hotties who like having unattached sex. A little paranoid, I made sure others knew where I’d be for the next hour and a half.
I went to the second floor of a warehouse off St. Laurent Street that also housed a discount futon outlet. A door with a picture of a large alien head swung invitingly open. The turnout for the informational meeting was less than I expected. Inside, two sad men on couches looked surprised at the appearance of a willing human being for the 7:30 weekly meeting. So, where were the hot French chicks?
One of them appeared to be the leader. He had a mullet a lot like Michael Bolton’s, and he was wearing a vest with no shirt (maybe the Raelian uniform?). He signaled for me to sit down. I made my way to the farthest couch. Michael Bolton signaled for me to sit snuggly next to him. I got the uneasy feeling he might try to touch me. I tightly held onto my Dr. Pepper can, in case I needed it as a makeshift weapon.
The other Raelian looked like an elf-alien hybrid. He remained silent, staring straight ahead. Then began the heavy talk, the unblinking eye contact. “Did you come all the way to Montreal to meet with the Raelians?” Michael Bolton asked. He too had a thick French accent. I mentioned that I’d seen a few UFOs, had a few encounters. “This is not a group for spotting UFOs,” Michael Bolton explained. In Montreal, he said, the organization is 5,000 strong.
Both he and the elf wore a symbol around their necks that resembled a Star of David, with outer space stuff in the middle.“It’s the Symbol of Infinity,” Bolton said. It once had a swastika in the middle, but for some reason, people didn’t respond favorably to that. “In 1975, Rael was taken back to the Elohim planet,” Michael Bolton said in a way that invaded my personal space.
“Wow, how long did it take to do that?” I said.
“Two hours!”
“That’s amazing!” I said. I decided to improvise: “When aliens took me back to their home planet, it took over three days.” Michael Bolton was unimpressed by this. The elf stared straight ahead.
“In all religions, there’s one prophet who returns to earth. We believe it is Rael.”
“So what you’re saying is, all the prophets of each religion have been agents of the Elohim?”
“Yes!”
“And the reason Rael was visited by UFOs is because he is a prophet?”
“YES!”
Now, I turned the tables. “Maybe I had an encounter with a UFO because they came special to see me!” I puffed out my chest, insinuating that I, too, might be a prophet—perhaps their new Messiah. Michael Bolton looked aghast. Even the elf looked over. “NO! Rael is the only prophet on Earth. Rael is the last prophet!”
“You never know,” I said, giving my best I-might-be-your-new-Messiah smile. With distaste, Michael Bolton quickly wrapped things up. But not before inviting me, in a perfunctory way, to their weekly Raelian bowling night. “You’ll have fun,” Bolton said. “We’re a little crazy.” He made little circles with his finger at his temple. That was the understatement of the millennium.
I was excited about the prospect of bowling with Raelians. I went to a place called Jillian’s, which turned out to be the coolest bowling alley I’ve ever seen, with large music video screens at the end of each alley, and multi-colored balls under disco lights. French-speaking people can even make bowling seem chic. There were a few groups of happy bowlers. None of them wore the Symbol of Infinity. “Raelians?!” I yelled, to see if this would get anyone’s attention.
Gathering courage, I approached an attractive woman just lining up her sights for an easy spare.“Excuse me, but are you a Raelian?” She looked at me like I had poohed in my pants. I went to the payphones and dialed. “You have reached the Raelian religion. Stay on the line. Someone will answer to you.” Moments later, someone picked up. It was a French Canadian woman who couldn’t speak English very well. I told her Michael Bolton and the elf told me to be here for Raelian bowling night; I was wondering where everyone was. She said the Raelians should be there. “I don’t see the Symbol of Infinity.” She told me to call back in ten minutes. In the background, I thought I heard giggling. I called back in ten minutes. No one answered. Suddenly, I realized they must be having a wild sex orgy for the recruits who had made the cut.
There’s nothing lonelier in the world than being stood up at a bowling alley by Raelians. Couldn’t they have cloned some attractive, low-ranking members and gotten their asses down here and into bowling shoes? Would Jesus or Muhammad abandon one of their disciples, crushed, with pins still in formation and shoes unrented, on their prospective bowling nights? I looked toward the heavens, unto the next solar system, and I spit with disgust.—Harmon Leon
Harmon Leon is a comedian, actor, and writer living in San Francisco. He recently published “The Harmon Chronicles” (ECW Press).
As a former Twin Citizen now working for Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Seafood Watch program, I was delighted to see some of our recommendations in January’s Gastronomer (“Go Fish,” by Dan Gilchrist). Sushi is no longer a coastal phenomenon. Gilchrist got it right with our “bad news” about the bluefin tuna and farmed salmon: we suggest you avoid them; bluefin (called toro at sushi bars) are severely overfished, and salmon farms may pollute coastal waters. But, as a sushi lover, I was pained that you left out our “good news”: Many sushi choices, including yellowfin tuna (maguro), albacore tuna (shiro maguro), squid (ika), crab (kani), and even that imitation crab in your California roll (made from pollock fish) all earn our environmental go-ahead. We support sustainable fishing—personally, I want my favorite sushi fish to be around now and in the future. We urge consumers to ask where their fish comes from and how it was caught; our program publishes a handy consumer guide you can carry in your wallet, if you want a little extra help on “eating green.” You can download the card off our website at http://www.mbayaq.org/cr/seafoodwatch.asp
Alice Cascorbi
Fisheries Research Biologist
Seafood Watch Program
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Monterey, California
I read “Life in a Northern Town,” [January] and sat and thought about the many good times I’ve had in Duluth. The town is so filled with memories. And the beauty of the old houses. If they could only get a museum together for all the history of that old place, and the people who help make Duluth the place it is. We usually visit Duluth once a year, I wish it was more often. The town is a very romantic place—looking out on the lake and seeing ships coming in, the city all lit up in the evening. It’s like a little town from our past.
Donna Miller-Gohman, St. Cloud
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The reason the Duluth Aquarium is having financial difficulty is not solely due to the price of admission. The cost of parking is $9! (I would expect this in Minneapolis, but not in Duluth) So the failure of this museum is simply the outrageous price for parking and admission.
Nancy Toth, Brooklyn Park
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I just wanted to take a brief moment to compliment you on your delightful story. So well written, so thoughtful, so respectful of the city and its’ residents (past and present). It is first class. Truly a delightful read. I look forward to more. How about a series? One every month on a different city in Minnesota. Thanks again for the joy it brought to me and many others I expect!
Patricia Floyd, Plymouth
I was very glad to read “Patriot Act” [Good Intentions, January]. I’m so sick of seeing the American flag plastered all over the place like a cheap advertisement, as if that proves anything except a person’s paranoia about being seen as un-American. True patriots would be doing something for the country, whatever that might be—working in the armed services, or volunteering at a charity, or teaching children the meaning of the constitution. The flag is a great symbol, but people are just using it to let themselves off the hook. Look, I’m patriotic, everybody. Look! Look at me! It’s shameless and it’s against the law. Or at least against the Flag Code. You have to wonder how deeply their patriotism really runs, if the most they can do is trot out the bumperstickers.
Jim Warner, St. Paul
I am responding to Dianne Rowe’s letter in the December 2002 issue. I too am offended by cigarette smoke, but I disagree that there are no entertainment options for nonsmokers. Here are a few places which welcome nonsmokers: The Guthrie, Hopkins Center for the Arts, the Ordway, Chanhassen Dinner Theaters, Old Log Theater. If she can’t find a place with nonsmoking entertainment, she hasn’t treid very hard. If she’s referring only to bars, the I would agree that few cater to nonsmokers.
Steven Steuck, St. Louis Park
Acrid smoke billows from the open loading doorways as I adjust my face mask and move tentatively into the smelting room. Above, a muscle-powered crane is lifting a small pile of stainless steel scrap over the dirt floor, toward two men standing over the white-orange burn of a smelting furnace. As they reach out for the load of scrap, I move closer, but the heat is so great that I stop ten feet from their platform. I notice that the men are in short sleeves and jeans; they do not wear gloves or respiratory protection. My guide, Mr. Jian “James” Li, president of Shanghai Metallink, taps me on the shoulder and yells, “Let me show you what happens.”
I follow him out of the building and remove my mask. Though the air in Shanghai’s Pudong New Area is some of China’s most polluted, I find the contrast with the smelting room’s air to be refreshing. We walk around to the back where a pile of half-meter-long, solid stainless-steel cylinders are stacked haphazardly against the building. They look like bombs. “Minneapolis garbage, Shanghai gold,” James tells me proudly. He leads me past another smelting room, and across the fetid dirt road that serves as a main street for the workers who choose to live in Shanghai Metallink’s company dorms. Through a gate, we arrive in a newly laid concrete unloading area, about two acres in total, where dozens of pallets containing scrap stainless steel are being sorted by manual laborers.
“Over here.” James points. “That’s from Minneapolis. American Iron, that box. Alliance Steel, that box.” He is referring to American Iron & Supply Company (famed builders of a soon-to-be-operational metal shredder on the Mississippi waterfront), and Alliance Steel, respectively. Both are large Minneapolis scrap recyclers, and both have developed successful export markets into mainland China. Several times each year, James visits Minneapolis scrap yards to arrange for the shipment of low-grade scrap stainless steel and electronic scrap to his facility in Pudong. The stainless steel being recycled during my visit left Minneapolis, by rail, about six weeks earlier.
James invites me to examine the Minneapolis material. It’s a wild assortment of broken or defective industrial components, ranging from high-temp thermometers to circuit boards. One box is a mixed assortment of valves stamped “Rosemount, Inc.—Eden Prairie, Minnesota.” American Iron has been purchasing Rosemount’s high-tech scrap and defective equipment for years, though the decision to ship it to China is recent. American Iron paid around three cents a pound for the material. It will be processed and resold in China for around a dollar a pound. “Labor is cheap,” James explains. “So I can afford to have my people take it apart, sort it, by hand. It’s too expensive to do in my Chicago warehouse. A lot of it would be burned or thrown away.”
Joe Chen, another Chinese scrap processor who has bought Minnesota’s industrial scrap metal, explains it this way: “In China we can afford to have a no-landfill policy. I can pay people to pull the gold off a circuit board, separate the insulation from copper wire. All of it gets recycled. But in America, most of it’s garbage, unrecyclable. And it ends up in a landfill.”
As James leads me into his office at the edge of the smelting operation, he muses, “China is the best place for recycling now. But one day it’ll be too developed.”—Adam Minter
Eric Dregni should be congratulated on his new fedora [“Put a Lid on It,” December]. I think he’s right, too, in locating the decline of the fedora (and the homburg) from about the time of JFK’s inauguration. I think lower car headroom played a part. I remember my father always wore a hat, and so when I got my first real job in 1958, I bought a brown fedora because that’s what you wore when you were grown up. Trouble is, I never could bring myself to wear it, and it ended up on a Guy (a Guy Fawkes Day dummy) 20 years later. Then a few years ago I read Billy Collins’ wonderful poem “The Death of the Hat” which begins “Once every man wore a hat. / In the ashen newsreels, / the avenues of cities / are broad rivers / flowing with hats.” So, I too wanted a fedora. Because I could not find any in Minneapolis, I got a brown one from Lock & Co. in London. Unlike Eric Dregni, I have met only with compliments. “Wonderful hat!” from a Marshall Field’s salesperson. “Great hat!” from a man on Sixth Street. Headwaiters’ eyes gleam when I enter a restaurant (they never did before). I owe it all to my fedora. Fedoras are back.
George Soule, Northfield