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  • Wine, Noir, and Bombs

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

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

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

    MORE WINE & DINE
    Italian-Inspired Wine Dinner

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

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

    FILM
    Five Film Noir Masterpieces

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

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

    MUSIC
    Building Better Bombs

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

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

  • Licking Toads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Beginning of a Story That Doesn't Yet Have an Ending

    We asked the captain what course

    of action he proposed to take toward

    a beast so large, terrifying, and

    unpredictable. He hesitated to

    answer, then said judiciously:

    "I think I shall praise it."

    Robert Hass, from Praise

    Every once in awhile he would experience a disorienting moment –these instances were almost like seizures– in which he would find himself wondering just what the hell he thought he was doing. He couldn’t spend much time with that question or he’d be paralyzed. He knew this.

    He’d allowed himself to get pinned down a few times, and things would start swirling in his skull and he’d feel like he’d been turned inside out and salted. It was an ugly business.

    He recognized that at this point he didn’t have any good answers. It had already gone too far to be justified or explained. Once, though, he had not been this man, and wouldn’t even have been able to imagine the man he had apparently become, or any man like him.

    He didn’t know quite what he was doing, but he had a vague notion for why he was doing it. If anyone were to ask him, if he were caught (and this seemed increasingly inevitable), he would be able to offer up only the shortest and most pathetic of explanations: he was lonely. If pushed he was prepared to elaborate. He had lost everything, everything he’d ever had that he wanted, along with every hope and dream and brief, confused vision of what his life might one day be.

    Yet he was alive, which was remarkable in and of itself. He’d spent years –most of the last two decades– trying to imagine and will himself dead. He’d made plans, done research, presumably gone as far as a man could go without actually succeeding in killing himself. At a certain point it had occurred to him that he might well be one of the world’s foremost experts on suicide. He had read dozens of books on the subject, and literally thousands of articles in newspapers, magazines, and journals. He had scrapbooks in which he’d compiled almost two thousand different examples of successful suicides. By his last count, these people had utilized upwards of two hundred different methods in taking their own lives.

    He had started to think of this business, which had taken up the latter half of his forties and much of his fifties, as perhaps the one great undertaking of his life.

    Then, a week before his fifty-sixth birthday, he started stealing dogs.

  • The Three Pointer: Bad Loss, Good Loss

    Copyright 2008 NBAE (Photo by D. Clarke Evans/NBAE via Getty Images)

    Game #35, Road Game #18: Minnesota 82, Houston 113

    Game #36, Road Game #19: Minnesota 88, San Antonio 105

    Season record: 5-31

    1. The Emergence of Gomes

    Let’s begin with the good news. In terms of being a complete, synergistic basketball player working to enable his team toward victory, Ryan Gomes has put together the best three-week stretch of anyone in a Timberwolves uniform thus far this 2007-08 season–better than any comparable peak period from Jefferson, McCants, Jaric, you name it. The numbers by themselves are mildly impressive: In the 12 games beginning with the Indiana win on December 21, the 6-7 forward has averaged 14.8 points and 7.2 rebounds per game while shooting 47% from the field and 86.7% from the line (39-45 FT, nearly 4 FTA per game). But three factors bolster the value and context of those figures.

    First, consistency: If you throw out his horrible performance last Sunday against Dallas, Gomes has scored in double figures every game in the past eleven and snagged at least five rebounds in all but one of them (getting just two versus Seattle). Second, role-playing: Gomes is getting his points despite rarely having plays called for him as happens with Jefferson and McCants, and is snagging rebounds despite rare appearances at one of the two frontcourt positions that would ensure him more boards. Third, intangibles: This goes beyond role-playing and addresses basketball intelligence, the trendy way of saying Gomes knows how to play the game. When Gomes was mired in his mysterious doldrums in late November and early December, it was remarkable, and depressing, to see how much the Wolves’ basketball IQ was elevated when long past his prime vet Antoine Walker stepped out on the court. Aside from Walker, the guys with half a clue seemed to be the two Florida rooks, Brewer and Richard, and ‘Toine, despite his admirable spunk in response to the thudding career comedown of joining the Wolves, still was a guy ultimately most comfortable in going for his. Ditto Jefferson and McCants, without the court savvy. And while point guards Telfair and Jaric seem to know how to play, they each exhibit crippling flaws (for Telfair, shooting; for Jaric, lack of quickness in playing the point) that prevent them from executing.

    That’s what has made Gomes so invaluable during this stretch. As mentioned in the last trey, he’s a glue guy, doing the things that don’t always make the stat sheet; not so much an initiator or a finisher in the half-court game as a linchpin between the two, not only fostering ball movement for its own sake, but making the smart, slightly creative, yet still high-percentage pass that exploits the defensive seam in a way that forces adjustments and opens larger seams for open jumpers and layups that generate assists on the next pass. If basketball were scored like hockey, with multiple assists, Gomes would rank just behind the two point guards for dishes. He’s already second on the team in rebounds per game, and fourth in points per game (and seemingly destined to pass Craig Smith in the next few games to be third behind Jefferson and McCants). He rates alongside Jaric, and just ahead of Brewer, as the most versatile defender on the team, committing fewer stupid fouls–a huge Wolves bugaboo–than anyone getting regular minutes. Now all he has to do is stop jacking up treys: After shooting 44% (15-34) from behind the arc in November (while clanking from two-point range; which I believe was the psychological catalyst for the overall deterioration in his game earlier this season), Gomes has been wretched from outside. Take away his 10-36 performance from treyville since 12/21 and he’s hitting 54% from the field (54-100 FG).

    Unfortunately, there was a glaring gap between Gomes and everyone but plugging center Michael Doleac in terms of consistent aptitude on the Wolves roster during the two losses this weekend. He was the only Wolves player with a pulse in the first half of the blowout Friday night in Houston, tying for the team lead in rebounds with 4 and the sole Timberwolf converting more than half his shots–Gomes went 4-7 FG while the rest of the squad was 8-28 FG–as Houston rumbled to a 61-31 lead at the break and transformed the entire second half into garbage time.

    Last night in a much better team effort against San Antonio, Gomes was again Minnesota’s clearcut MVP. Responding to the Spurs’ opening gameplan of denying McCants and Jefferson easy looks, he burried a couple of open jumpers, then, as the perimeter players began closing out on him, fed McCants for a pair of treys to knot the game at 24 in the first period. By halftime he had a game-high 6 rebounds, was second only to Jefferson in the game with 11 points (again on 4-7 FG), and committed no fouls nor turnovers in 19:14 of action. Yes, he was on the court for most of the second half as the Spurs outscored the Wolves by 18 points, and contributed to that deficit by not responding quickly enough to the Spurs inside-outside offensive ball movement (at 250 pounds, rapid defense from paint to perimeter in the half court is not Gomes’s forte). But anyone watching the game would acknowledge that the Spurs’ full court pressure on defense and ability to score (or provoke mismatches) inside were the two biggest factors in their win.

    For the game, Gomes had 21 points (9-15 FG), second only to Jefferson’s 24 (on 10-18 FG) and a game-high 9 rebounds. As color commentator Jim Petersen noted two or three times, he continued "taking what the Spurs gave him" in the Wolves’ half-court offense and added a pair of opportunistic baskets in transition to close out both the second and third quarters on a strong note.

    It is a long season, of course, and even a consistent three-week run by Gomes doesn’t guarantee that his role or his performance will continue unabated on a team that has a surfeit of unproven performers it must cull through before next year’s draft. Wolves’ stat guru Paul Swanson has informed me that Gomes is a *restricted* free agent at the end of this season, meaning the Wolves can match any offer, a vital distinction not indicated in the salary figures for either hoopshype.com or shamsports. Even if the Wolves feel compelled to take Michael Beasley as the top talent in the NBA draft–who, folks tell me, clones the best of Gomes and Jefferson–Gomes is exactly the sort of smart, consistent player that will always be a valuable commodity.

    2. Jefferson: Spelled with an O, no D

    On a ballclub without stars, it is difficult not to love Al Jefferson, who turned 23 last week, and is already giving the team 20 points and 11 or 12 rebounds per night by dint of mucking hard in the paint. Throw in his acceptance of a longterm contract that certainly could have been higher had he waited a year–and screwed the Wolves by signing elsewhere–and he’s a feel-good story and burgeoning cornerstone on a ballclub crying for a public identity in the post-KG era.

    But here’s the rub: Nearly halfway through his fourth NBA season, the evidence continues to mount that Al Jefferson is a lazy defender. Perhaps what damns him most of all in this regard is the huge disparity between his doggedly refined low-post game on offense and his frequent willingness to get undressed on defense. When the Wolves set up in the half court, Jefferson’s precocious footwork, vast array of shots (jump hook, funky push jumper, up-and-under scoop, beneath-the-rim baseline banker, and well-calibrated wrist flick), cunning in avoiding predictible patterns on his moves and fierce determination to go up and finish in traffic already make him a top ten NBA scorer in the paint. To develop such multi-faceted skills takes dedication and intelligence. Neither of those virtues are apparent, to put it charitably, at the other end of the court.

    Yes, Jefferson has been yo-yo’d between his natural power forward spot and center all season since the injury to Theo Rat
    liff. And it seems that physically he is a ‘tweener on defense–lunched by leviathians such as Andrew Bynum yet zipped past or feinted to a faretheewell by small, savvy post performers like Houston’s Luis Scola on Friday. But how does that excuse all the times he shows too hard and can’t recover on the pick and roll (or, conversely, allows the p+r shooter an open look on the switch), or is caught napping on an interior pass for an easy layup, as happened twice with Francisco Oberto last night? He also doesn’t get back in transition very well, and his rotations are adequate at best–and inferior to Michael Doleac or the undersized Craig Smith.

    Again, what is especially aggravating about these consistent lapses is that Jefferson continues to improve on offense–even on weak spots such as passing out of double teams, or raising the accuracy of his midrange jumper–while the fundamentals of his D remain fundamentally flawed. It bespeaks of ignorance to that part of his game, and diminishes his otherwise well-earned rep as a blue-collar stalwart. I understand the incentive for such imbalance in a league where Vince Carter is a fan favorite for dunking at one end while tanking at the other, and where no one wants to talk about how the universally lauded Yao Ming is totally ineffective on defense against a half-dozen NBA teams, and couldn’t guard relative lilliput Carlos Boozer when a playoff series was on the line. But despite Jefferson’s gaudy offensive numbers and my overall admiration for what he has accomplished, albeit only when his team has the rock, I don’t believe he deserves to be an All Star this season. Let’s not start handing out carrots to a young player with a marvelous upside who is currently staging perhaps the most impressive half-assed season in Timberwolves history.

    3. Hosannahs and Brickbats

    After alternately arguing for first Doleac and then Richard to be slotted in at center beside Jefferson, this weekend’s performances had me agreeing with Doleac’s starting assignments and Richard trading in his uni for street clothes on Saturday. As well as Richard recognizes rotations and hustles on defense, he simply abandons any pretense of offense–he’s even more unbalanced than Big Al. Twice on Friday his teammates,against all odds, bothered to pass him the ball, simply because he was so wide open. The first time Richard fumbled it; the second time he sent a carom so strong off the glass and rim it would have flown to half-court if not rebounded. Hard to say whether it is nerves, overdoing the self-effacing defensive-oriented role, or simple lack of talent at that end of the court, but Richard isn’t such a stud on defense that he can afford to let everyone take him for granted on offense.

    Meanwhile, Doleac showcased that midrange jumper I kept harping on while arguing for some playing time for the Pale Rider earlier this season. He also knows how to commit the hard interior foul that prevents "and 1" from happening when someone loses their man in the paint. He play at both ends of the court was obviously bedeviling the Spurs on Saturday, as they ran multiple plays right at him after he’d picked up his 4th foul. Finally they were able to draw the fifth infraction with 5:50 left in the third period, sending Doleac to the bench for Smith. San Antonio promptly extended a 58-55 lead to 73-60–a 15-5 run–over the next 4:42 and that was essentially the ballgame. Word is that Theo Ratliff will be in the lineup soon. A Ratliff-Doleac platoon at the 5 gives the Wolves a fighting chance–and consistent minutes for Jefferson where he belongs–against squads with legitimate big men. Let that happen with Foye at the point and then we can finally see what we have on this roster.

    Ah yes, the point guard spot. It is becoming more and more dramatically obvious that Telfair’s future will be determined by his ability to hit an open jump shot. Houston and San Antonio both gave Bassy a wide berth out on the perimeter–to the extent that it was almost 5-on-4 with the other players–and Telfair shot 1-10 FG in a combined 69:58 of play. That’s one shot every 7 minutes, or less than 7 per 48, a huge reluctance when the opponents are daring you to score–and yet, as Telfair’s wayward aim demonstrated, a wise reticence on his part. Meanwhile, brickmeister Bassy got the minutes because Marko Jaric may as well have been sidling in quicksand against the likes of Tony Parker, Rafter Alston, Jacques Vaughn and Aaron Brooks. Jaric himself shot 1-3 FG in a combined 39:06, fewer FG per minute than Bassy. Hmmm, maybe it is time to spot McCants in at the point every now and then, with Brewer, Gomes, Jefferson and Doleac. It would give the ego-laden tattoo aficionado incentive to distribute the rock and perhaps prompt him to be more turnover conscious. A gamble, yes, but the current alternatives aren’t exactly delivering dividends.

    Even when he was going 7-9 FG in the meaningless second half against Houston, Brewer’s form is enough to give Fred Hoiberg an ulcer. Can he make NBA defenses respect him with that mid-air flailing? Well, Telfair certainly looks pretty going up, and the ball doesn’t go in. But the burden of proof to turn that mess into points is squarely on Brewer.

     

  • Carjacked

    A friend forwarded this classified ad to me in an email:

    OLDS 1999 Intrigue
    Totally uncool parents who obviously don’t love teenage son, selling
    his car. Only driven for 3 weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a
    life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on
    the planet.

    I thought for sure this was an urban myth making the cyber rounds.
    But after a quick Google search, I found a supporting article in the
    Iowa newspaper that carried the classified.

    So, it’s real. The mother who wrote it, Jane Hambleton, is being
    lauded across the country by parents, emergency room personnel and the
    like for the outrageous vehicle sale.

    I’ll admit it; I laughed when I read it. And because the ad is well
    written and this drama isn’t going on under my roof – it’s hilarious.
    Can’t you just hear this teen telling his mom to “get a life” and
    calling her the “meanest mom on the planet?” Those words coming back to
    haunt him is an instant classic for parents everywhere.

    I plan to save the article and whip it out when my children become
    drivers. And for that reason alone, I’m glad she did it. But it’s a
    guilty pleasure.

    One could easily argue that this meanest mom on the planet
    (it’s a shared title) could have sold the car without publicly
    humiliating her young college student. All this attention certainly
    can’t help the parent/child relationship in a family who must carry on
    long after the phone stops ringing.

    But whether you agree with Hambleton’s methods or not, this dust-up
    has created buzz. As colleges are experiencing binge-drinking deaths
    with an alarming frequency, the timing is right on. (Minnesota Public
    Radio has recently completed an extensive series on the subject.)

    It’s a double-edged sword, for sure. The best-case scenario is for
    Hambleton’s young pedestrian to escape an alcohol-related death, so he
    may enjoy a long life of pissiness over his public carjacking.

  • Sushi a la Francaise, Chinese-Style

    We stopped in last night at Musashi, the new Japanese
    restaurant in the former Olive Garden space at 6th and Hennepin,
    downtown, and took a seat at the sushi bar.

    When I asked for omakase, the sushi chef who greeted us gave
    me a puzzled look.

    "Teppanyaki?," he
    asked – or something that sounded like that.

    "No, "I said, "omakase."

    "We don’t have that."

    Just then, a second sushi chef, Noua, overheard our
    conversation, and stepped in: "I can do that. How many courses do you want? How
    much do you want to spend? Four courses? Five?

    Omakase means, roughly, "chef’s choice," and when I have
    tried this gambit before, the results have ranged from spectacular (Fuji-ya in
    Saint Paul,) to the same stuff we could have ordered from the menu.

    We never did agree on a price, but a series of off the menu
    dishes started to arrive, starting with a pair of martini glasses, filled with
    chunks of raw tuna and salmon with thin slices of cucumber in a soy marinade .
    The novelty of this dish was the fake ice cube at the bottom of each glass,
    each with a little blinking light that changed colors from to blue to green.
    (Actually, mine was stuck on blue.)

    Round two was four pieces of raw salmon wrapped around
    spears of fresh mango, served over leaves of aromatic Japanese chrysanthemum.
    partially cooked with a blow torch by the first sushi chef, presented with a
    mound of shredded daikon at the center, topped with a little dollop of lumpfish
    caviar. Buried beneath the daikon was
    another light cube, again flashing red, blue and green. A little less novel
    this time, but still an attractive presentation.

    Then came a third course – a sort of seafood medley covered
    in a spicy mayonnaise the color of Thousand Island dressing, dappled with
    orange flying fish row. Actually quite tasty.

    And for the grand finale, four little rice balls wrapped in
    eel and white tuna, again presented with a flashing litecube by chef #1. This
    was, he informed us, "French-style sushi."

    I have never seen anything like it in France, but the
    phrase, French-style sushi rang a bell. The last place I went that offered
    "French-style sushi" was the Mt. Fuji in Maple Grove, which serves up neon
    day-glo fantasies on the theme of sushi far more elaborate than anything
    dreamed of in the land of the rising sun. The chefs at Mt. Fuji are Chinese, as
    are the owners of Musashi, and Wasabi, which opened last year near the
    Metrodome.

    It turns out that Minneapolis may be prt of a global trend. According to a December 2006 report from Agence France-Presse, an estimated 90 percent of all the Japanese-style restaurants in France are Chinese-owned.

    So I asked sushi chef #1 where he was from, and he said,
    China. "Are you all from China?" I asked. "We’re from Asia," sushi chef #3
    offered, helpfully. "Not me, " shouted out Noua, in perfect English " I’m from Saint
    Paul."

    Overall, some of the off-the-menu omakase dishes were pretty good, some of it was just okay, and mostly it was kind of weird. It certainly didn’t seem very Japanese, but maybe that’s okay. Neither is teppanyaki, really, nor California rolls. I did see a lot of "normal" sushi come out of the sushi bar while we were dining, and it looked the same as it does everywhere else.

    Bottom line: dinner
    with the four omakase dishes and a spicy tuna roll, plus tax, tip, and a couple
    of drinks apiece came to just under $120.

  • Get Your Blood Boiling

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Heads Will Roll, Blood Will Flow

    William Shakespeare’s epic revenge tragedy, Titus Andronicus, opens this weekend. Directed by Paul von Stoetzel, and starring Charles Hubbell, this Cromulent Shakespeare Company
    production tells the brutal, yet beautifully poetic story of revenge
    between Roman General Titus and Tamora Queen of the Goths. Expect a
    great deal of blood and death. This is Paul von Stoetzel’s return to
    directing theater after his first feature film, SNUFF: a documentary about killing on camera.

    Friday and Saturday at 7 p.m., Bedlam Theatre, 1501 S. 6th St., Minneapolis; 612-338-9817; $15.

    MUSIC
    Abbado Conducts Schubert

    Italian conductor Roberto Abbado
    knows the difference between flair and flash, or sophistication and
    ostentation. After a series of typically elegant performances with the Minnesota Orchestra earlier this decade, he became an artistic partner of the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra two years ago and ascended the podium for five weeks of solid Beethoven
    last February and early March for performances that enhanced this
    undeniably crowd-pleasing music with rigorous exploration. This
    season’s three Abbado dates concentrate on another early nineteenth
    century Viennese master, Franz Schubert. The program includes Schubert’s Ninth Symphony, the “Great C Major”, preceded by his Overture to Rosamunde and Kirchner’s 1960 Concerto For Violin, Cello, Ten Winds, and Percussion, featuring Steven Copes (violin) and Ronald Thomas (cello). —Britt Robson

    Friday at 10 a.m. and Saturday at 8 p.m, Ordway Center; Sunday at 2 p.m., Ted Mann Concert Hall; 651-291-1144; $11-$59.

    Also on the musical agenda for the weekend — Charlie Parr is playing at the 331 Club on Friday at 9 p.m. You never want to miss Charlie.

    MUSIC & DANCE
    It Takes an Orchestra to Tango

    Lacking
    a little passion in your life? This is the perfect event to heat things
    up a bit. Dancers Florencia Taccetti and Somer Surgit join the
    Mandragora Tango Orchestra this weekend for a steamy tango performance.
    Arrive at 6 p.m. for a tango lesson of your own (in the Jaycees Studio)
    prior to the show — the perfect cure for the post-holiday blues.

    Saturday at 7:30 p.m., Hopkins Center for the Arts, 1111 Mainstreet, Hopkins; 651-209-6799; $12-$24.

    ART
    Closing this Weekend: Lynn Geesaman

    Lynn Geesaman’s photographs always draw one in. And after that, you
    stand around in the image, thinking, Now what am I doing here? I came
    here to get something; what was it? The fuzzy, melting landscapes have
    the memory-dissolving qualities of a late spring day—and, quite
    honestly, who knows whether that’s good or bad? But these days, which
    seem to be an era of doldrums in the art world (however well masked by
    stratospheric speculation and its attendant glamour), art that affects
    its spectator with this kind of subtlety is worth a second look. —by Ann Klefstad

    Friday and Saturday from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m., Thomas Barry Art Gallery, 530 N. Third St., Minneapolis; 612-338-3656.

    Closing this Weekend: Nicola Lopez’s Constriction Zone

    Creativity is a double-edged sword. This was something I first
    realized after reading a detailed account of the torture regimen used
    by the Sforzas, a Renaissance-era Milanese family whose fortune had
    been made in arms sales. They called it “Lent”: forty days of inventive
    and excruciating pain-inducing practices almost guaranteed to leave the
    victim alive at the end. And the Sforzas were renowned arts patrons to
    boot; Petrarch did their PR, in fact. What does this have to do with
    Lopez, who is getting a lot of attention in New York for her big,
    complex, print-based installations? These works, which explore
    infrastructure and built environments, are baroquely inventive, while
    also enacting the menace of urban sprawl and so-called progress; Lopez
    herself is an artist with enough sense to see not just the beauty in
    human creativity, but also its potential detriments. —by Ann Klefstad

    Friday and Saturday from 12 to 5 p.m., Franklin Art Works, 1021 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-872-7494.

    FILM
    Summer Love in Winter

    The story is not a new one: Man and
    woman are together. Woman gets antsy and wants a new life. A stranger comes to town.
    Guess what happens next? I won’t get into the details, but let’s just
    say man loses woman. What makes Piotr Uklański’s Summer Love
    unique isn’t the spectacular storyline. It’s all in the presentation.
    The film is visually stimulating, more a series of images than an
    ongoing dialog — something you’ll notice immediately as the film begins with a bang, a shot literally, and a bloody stranger dying on screen. And just as the film begins with a bang, it sets the tone for the upcoming Expanding the Frame
    film series.

    Saturday at 7:30 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m., Walker Art Center, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600; $8 (members $6).

  • Juiced

    January is the month of cleaning and organizing, and how I found
    myself in the way back of my closet holding a silk maternity blouse.

    I had gained a lot of weight for my second child – A LOT of weight.
    It was a complicated pregnancy and not once did anyone accuse me of
    glowing. 84 lbs can do that to a gal.

    But to my surprise, my massive maternity became almost a disguise.
    Walking in the Minneapolis skyway, people no longer saw me as another
    yuppie on the way to work. I was more of a cartoon character. And as I
    paraded around as this living caricature of myself, people seemed to
    lose their ability to self-censor. They would say anything to me.

    Sometimes it was a just a startled, “Oh my God!” as I unexpectedly
    rounded a corner. The inquisitive, “December baby?” to which I was
    forced to reply a pitiful, “next June.” Or the frank, “You are the
    biggest pregnant woman I’ve ever seen.” (Um, okay.) My personal
    favorite was from the large black woman with dreadlocks who stopped,
    put one hand on her hip and said, “Whooeee girlfriend!” I nodded and
    gave a weak smile – yes, whoo-eee indeed.

    I clearly remember wearing the blouse. It’s adorned with a pattern
    of large, ripe fruit. (Take a moment to picture that.) Honestly, it
    looked really cute on the hanger, but on me it prompted the snide
    skyway comment by a young man, “Bringing juice to the meeting, huh?”
    And it hit me: I had become Violet, the girl from Willy Wonka blown up
    into a giant blueberry just waiting for the Umpa Lumpas – or Northstar
    building security – to roll me away.

    I started brown bagging lunch and kept clear of the pedestrian pattern of downtown.

    It had been the first day I wore the expensive blouse and I never
    wore it again. And when I looked at it today, still perfectly new, I
    bypassed the Goodwill bin and dumped it directly into the garbage. I
    don’t want anyone else to get juiced.

  • We Found Someone!

    Who doesn’t love Sam and Sylvia Kaplan?” [January] Well, I guess I don’t. Nothing personal; it’s just that they stand for everything I dislike about politics and “progressives.”

    Secretive meetings held behind closed doors; politicians groveling for the Kaplans’ approval; the Twin Cities’ elite hobnobbing at invitation-only soirees. It reeks of the cronyism the Kaplans are said to be against. But since they’re on the correct side of the aisle, the portrait painted is a rosy one.

    Author Brian Lambert tells us that the local Republican equivalent is Bill Cooper, who of course is not as lily white as the Kaplans. Cooper’s modus operandi is “fear based”; he’s cranky, he’s arrogant. Contrast that with Sylvia Kaplan, who is “acerbic” or at worst “blunt.” It’s all in the spin.

    The Kaplans are all smiles and I’ve no doubt they’re wonderful people. However, I’d challenge them to open their palatial estate to some of the downtrodden folks who live a stone’s throw away. Mingle with the people who have borne the brunt of your “progressive” policies for generations. You might then understand why some of us, living outside the Ivory Tower, just aren’t feeling the love.

    Editor’s Note: Brian Lambert did not write that Cooper’s modus operandi is "fear based’; he quoted Representative Keith Ellison, who said "Cooper’s thing is fear-based."

     

    Tom Bonnett, St. Paul
    Letter

  • On Track to Outlast the Pantheon

    Somehow, the September Rake still lays around, and I re-read “The Roman Arch” [Good Intentions] every few days. It must be good writing.

    Bill Kinghorn, St. Michael
    Letter