As dead-on as Colleen Kruse always is [“Satan in the Litter Box,” January], James Boswell may have said it best in his couplet:
The only problem with a kitten is that / Eventually it becomes a cat!
On the QT to Ms. Kruse: A helium balloon tied to an unsuspecting tail can yield hours of gut-splitting hilarity.
I haven’t a clue how to fix most of our huge national scourges. Global warming, gang violence, reality TV. These issues are just too big and ghastly and amorphous. What’s one person to do?
But hunger. Now there’s a solvable problem. People are hungry, you feed them. Even tiny efforts make a difference. And every single person who has enough to eat can help.
It’s been an era of wretched news from the nation’s food banks. Need is way, way up; donations are way, way down. In some states, homeless shelters simply don’t have the raw materials it takes to feed all the cold, hungry, ill, and marginalized people streaming through their doors.
Luckily, that’s not the situation here in Minnesota, where being homeless in winter is a genuinely lethal prospect, and eating a decent meal can be the difference between weathering the cold and freezing to death. The organizations that feed our most vulnerable brethren actually do have enough in the coffers and cupboards to get by.
But according to Heidi Stennes, director of communications for Second Harvest Heartland Food Bank, an organization that distributes food to 950 agencies and programs serving the poor, demand is going up among low-income working people. And that’s a need the current system can’t quite meet.
"Half of the people using Minnesota food shelves have a child at home; half have a job," says Stennes. "Why is this happening? The price of gas is up. The price of groceries is up. A lot of folks are losing their homes. People get to the end of the month and after paying the heat bill and the rent and child care bills, they’re going to food shelves just to try to make ends meet."
And the situation is getting worse. . .as it does each January. Shoppers tend to be happy and generous throughout the holidays, tossing coins into bell ringers’ buckets and volunteering at soup kitchens Christmas week. But come the long icy stretch of early year and a lot of that goodwill dries up. Suddenly, no one’s showing up to wear a frilly apron and ladle out chicken salad. Everyone who can afford to be is worried about taxes. Food donations slow.
But there is something you can do.
Second Harvest accepts already-prepared food from restaurants and suppliers (currently Leeann Chin and Target Greatland delis are among their top donors) and donations of both money and food from individuals and corporations. Workers there sort and box items appropriately — putting ingredients together with boxed meals, for instance, so the meat and/or butter a family might need to make a noodle dish come at once. The organization even has a $400,000 two-year grant from the state exclusively to buy milk. That’s a lot of milk. . . .
But what gets me is, any one of us can do some good by spending an extra $2.59 on a can of beef stew or a box of whole wheat pasta. Throw it into the bin at Lund’s or collect a few shoppings trips’ worth and take them to a drop-off location. That’s it. This genuinely is a case where a little bit goes a long way.
And if I can put my own little plug in here: the poorest people in our community consume far too much salt, sugar, fat, and preservatives, because that’s what’s in the food available to them in their local stores and through nonprofit agencies. If you can pay the extra dollar to donate something that’s organic, whole grain, or (at least) contains no MSG, artificial dyes, additives, high-fructose corn syrup, or synthetic sweeteners, all the better.
The items most needed by Minnesota’s food shelves include:
canned or dried fruit
Now I have to admit, I’m feeling all mawkish and chipper and Tiny Tim-like here. But dammit, it’s true. Feeding people — when done right, with respect and a sense of equity — not only sustains their lives, it preserves their dignity. And if we have the time and resources to debate restaurants, chefs, and gourmet ingredients, I think it’s the least we can do.
MUSIC
Learn about the Bird and the Bee, LA Style
The middle of January may be the best time to warm up to The Bird And The Bee’s stylish,
airy continental pop sounds. Steeped in bossa nova, solid-gold AM pop and classic
new wave, this fetching boy/girl duo from LA are favorites of both critics and
crowds. They also don’t ignore the nearly forgotten art of the succinct,
economical EP — as of September they have eclipsed their ratio of EPs to albums
by 2:1 with the release of Please
Clap Your Hands. It’s a five song document of simple, sexy retro-pop that comes
off something like the prodigal kid siblings of the Brazilian Girls or Nouvelle
Vague, minus the pretentious clubbiness and the sophomore slump, respectively. Also
performing is Charlie W.
—Christopher Hontos
8 p.m., Varsity Theater,1308 4th St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-604-0222; $12.
BOOKS & AUTHORS
Fight: Or, Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Ass-Kicking but Were Afraid You’d Get Your Ass Kicked for Asking
Well, the title is a mouthful, but it certainly has that fabulous Fight Club appeal. Who can resist? I mean, really — who amongst us hasn’t wanted to kick some ass at one point or another? Even if you don’t use it, it would be nice to know you could. Trigger any interest? In his new book — Fight: Or, Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Ass-Kicking But Were Afraid You’d Get Your Ass Kicked for Asking — Eugene S. Robinson exposes an underground world of hand-to-hand combat — knife fighters, soccer hooligans, mobbed-up boxers, prison yard pugilists, and mixed martial artists — and he among them. "When Robinson and his fellow fighters mix it up, they live completely for the moment: absorbed in the feel of muscles slippery with sweat; the metallic tang of blood mingling with saliva in the mouth; the sweet, firm thud of taped knuckles impacting flesh. They fight because it feels good. They fight because they want to win. And even if they lose, they fight because they love fighting." Yup. Sounds pretty Fight Club-y to me. Maybe after this evening’s presentation, Robinson will give you an ass-whooping of your own.
7:30 p.m., Magers & Quinn Booksellers, 3038 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-822-4611.
THEATER & PERFORMANCE
Raw Stages
The History Theatre has
hit its share of fouls lately—last fall’s production based on the life
of Kirby Puckett was uniformly blasted, and the recent Hormel Girls
had a lackadaisical score and a script wholly reliant on stereotype.
But this institution also boasts a singular and noble characteristic:
It commissions more original works by living, local playwrights than
any other Twin Cities theater. Its annual Raw Stages
series bundles four samplings of works-in-progress, each with a certain
destiny for the History Theatre mainstage. This year’s lineup includes
the chronicle of a haunted Summit Avenue mansion, by the edgy
Minneapolitan Deborah Stein (see “Heavy Rotation”); and the story of Tyrone Guthrie and Ralph Rapson’s collaboration building the landmark Guthrie Theater at Vineland Place—by the prolific, Minnesota-based playwright and screenwriter Jeffrey Hatcher. —Christy DeSmith
History Theatre, 30 E. Tenth St., St. Paul; 651-292-4323; $10/show or $25 for a full pass.
Typically, it is heat that frightens me. Perhaps this is because I grew up in Minnesota, but sweltering temperatures seem more sinister — thick and canopy-like and unavoidable — whereas cold has always struck me as surmountable. Until now.
It was just last week, on what I assumed then would be the coldest night of the year, that my son suffered a relapse of a condition called Autistic Catatonia. We imagine catatonic patients as still and statue-like. Frozen, even when they are warm to the touch. What we do not consider — what I forgot — is that catatonia actually signals an exponential speeding up of the brain; it is what doctors call a "paradoxical condition," meaning the body’s stasis is masking a panic of mind. And it’s often preceded by a bout of mania in which the afflicted individual moves wildly in an effort to shake off the coming storm.
It was in this incipient period that my son began wandering, desperately, after dark. It was 14 below zero the first night he stepped out the door and nothing we did or said could stop this giant young man.
We spent 24 hours, my husband, my younger son, and I chasing, coaxing, begging, warming. We slept in shifts. When dusk fell the following evening and the temperature began to drop again, we knew we couldn’t last through another night. Finally, we called everyone we knew to call. They came, blowing through our front door with a killing cold. And they took my son away.
Tonight, the thermometer will go even lower. But my son is safe. Or rather, he is as safe as a fragile, shuttered soul can be. But there are other people out wandering. I know this, because I’ve come close enough to touch the life they have. And no matter where they seek shelter — in bus shelters, abaondoned buildings or skyways — it’s unlikely they’ll every truly get warm.
Even our house is failing to keep out the cold. Granted, it was built in the 1920’s, and the windows are like loose dentures, rattling with every windy sigh. Our wine rack sits in the south corner of our dining room, and when I removed what promised to be a very nice bottle of Domaine Olivier Bourgogne Pinot Noir tonight, it felt as if it had been thoroughly chilled.
We opened it and toasted, my husband and I, in thanks that our son was not only inside but beginning, gradually, to emerge from his whirring state of mind.
But the first taste was not what we had hoped. "Maybe it’s corked," my husband said. "It’s awfully sour."
I swallowed a bit of wine, its cranberry flavor as sharp as a knife. "Let’s let it breathe," I said, "and warm. I think it will be fine."
In fact, I, too, would have thought the wine was bad, but the finish was too nice. Corked and cooked wines always end badly: raggedly, with hints of sulfur, mold, or lye. This one did not.
We left the bottle open for 20 minutes, then poured individual half-glasses and warmed them in our hands. When we tasted again, the Olivier was entirely different: full and sweet and delicate, with scents of lemon and eucalyptus, and the flavor of wild strawberry, oak, and mint.
By the end of the bottle — and yes, in our relief, we did polish it off — this pinot noir had expanded kaleidoscopically. It was not at all the same as the chilled liquid we’d poured originally, two hours before. Never have I experienced such a profound change in a wine over the course of a couple degrees.
Watching my son come out of his delirium had been a little like this on a much grander scale. The doctors gave him 2 milligrams of Ativan (such a tiny pill!) and suddenly, he calmed to the point where he could, once again, talk and focus and move.
"What were you thinking?" I demanded as soon as he could listen to me. "When you went out in the cold. . . .do you remember? What the hell was going through your mind?"
He tilted his head and really pondered the question. After a full minute, he spoke. "Eric Clapton’s Layla," he said soberly. "The second version — the acoustic one — not the first. That one. . . ." We’d been playing Cribbage and he glanced at his hand, as if to remind himself of the game. "I believe it might have been Eric Clapton with Derek and the Dominos. I like that version, too. But I don’t think it was in my head at all the night I got lost."
Then he put down a card for the count. And that’s how I knew the cold had receded and my son was back.
It’s almost time for those beautiful little pink stone crab claws to hit the market.
The first time I ever put claw to mouth was in a kitchen cooler with my friend Wade, the guy behind the fish at Oceanaire. We stood in the chilly box furtively dipping the black-tipped gems in a little mustard-mayo and sliding the sweet, soft meat from the claw with our teeth. It was just a perfect moment, that’s all.
I used to wonder why all the fuss was thrown over some crab. I like crab, but I’m not gaga over it. A well-honed crab cake can be quite satisfying, but I feel cracking and dealing the big spidery crab legs to be too much of a bother. And you with your "imitation crab" salad, get out.
But stone crab claws are different.
First of all, harvesting stone crab is very ocean-friendly. Fisherman take only one claw from a crab before returning it back to the ocean. The stone crab is genetically gifted with a speedy regeneration process, a natural trick that favors their habit of losing limbs to get away from predators and out of tight spaces. With the help of warm waters, it can take as little as a year for the claw to grow back.
And then there’s the taste. Crack a claw and the meat inside is a translucent white. It has a fresh and clean flavor with a light sweetness. Hit it with a little lime and the citrus will brighten the flavors. Dip it in a little mustard-mayo to add a touch of creamy bite and you’ll be the one who’s caught in a trap.
Stone crabs are usually harvested from October to May, but the restaurant industry likes to promote them in January and February to help pump up business during the post-holiday blahs.
I think it also helps us all take a break from the heavy stews and pot-roasts of the season, reminding us that there does exist a warm place where things regenerate.
The recent chilly weather in Florida has delayed shipments because the crabs tend burrow into the sand when it gets colder. But keep your eye out for announcements from Oceanaire, McCormick & Schmicks, Stella’s, as well as many steakhouses or have a go with them on your own from Coastal Seafoods.
Game #34, Home Game #17: Miami 91, Minnesota 101
Season record: 5-29
1. The Importance of Glue
Other players scored more points, grabbed more rebounds, doled out more assists, and generally exerted a higher-profile on tonight’s rare Wolves victory than the two glue guys I consider to be most crucial to the win, Ryan Gomes and Marko Jaric.
For that matter, Gomes himself has had games, especially recently, where he’s shown off more obviously than he did tonight. But this Miami game is what I had envisioned when I penciled in Gomes as the team’s second-best player at the beginning of the season. It wasn’t just that his versatility enabled coach Randy Wittman to get away with a daring lineup switch. He was also the calming agent on a squad dripping with flopsweat at crunchtime, the one who took the hands away from the Wolves throat when it looked as if the team was going to choke away what was once a 19-point lead to the second-worst team in the league.
We’ve all seen it before from this ballclub: the rote perimeter passes and faux-aggressive dribbling accomplishing nothing but wasting time. Then, tick-tick-tick, the spin-dribble in traffic, or the forced lean-in trying to draw the foul, or the shot taken almost deliberately off balance for no ostensible reason, or–at long last–the now-gallant chucking up of a prayer because the 24-second clock is expiring. These are the crunchtime moves of performers angling to hedge their choke against extenuating circumstances. It’s a mentally frozen team psychologically preoccupied with not looking stupid or of being the goat, which of course dramatically increases its chances of looking stupid and being the goat. That’s the way the Wolves played most of their half-court sets in the 4th quarter tonight. But Gomes was a prominent exception.
When I mentioned Gomes’s ability to remain unruffled during an otherwise rocky crunchtime, coach Randy Wittman didn’t entirely agree, inferring that Gomes, too, turned down a couple of easy shots he should have taken–and given that Wittman was understandably both ebullient and relieved by the win, and in a mood to slather credit on his troops, he might be right. But the coach then identified two of the three plays that had me pinning gold stars on #8, and correctly called them "the big shots" of the game.
First the one Wittman didn’t cite: With nine minutes to play and the Wolves lead dropped to 8, Gomes faked a jumper, dribbled to his left and nailed a 17-footer. For most of the season Gomes has been a catch and shoot guy, and for him to vary the script and still go up easily and in rhythm was body language telling everyone he wasn’t feeling any pressure. Fifteen seconds later, Jaric committed a foul and the Wolves were in the penalty with 8:51 to play, against a player, Dwyane Wade, who had 16 fourth quarter FTs against them in Miami. The heat, if not the Heat, was on.
But with 8:02 remaining and the Wolves up 9, Jaric found Gomes in the corner for a trey and again he didn’t hesitate, went up smoothly, and buried it. At a time when the Wolves’ offense was clearly floundering, this was a big basket; and a signal they wouldn’t fade under the expected barrage of free throws Miami was going to be shooting. Then, with 2:36 to play, Miami cut the lead to 6–closer than they’d been since midway through the first period. The squads traded misses until, with about 90 seconds to go, Gomes got the ball and drove down the left lane, suddenly dumping it off to Jefferson for a lay-up that put the Wolves up by more than two possessions with barely over a minute to play. Huge basket.
The preceding paragraphs are also an abject lesson in why you don’t go chapter and verse about glue guys. Describing subtle contributions, or steady play in relatively dramatic moments–and watching the Wolves tighten up as their lead eroded on their most winnable game of the month was, unfortunately, dramatic–still can’t do them justice.
Anyway, Gomes was also crucial to Wittman’s decision to shake up his lineup by replacing Craig Smith with Rashad McCants. That put Gomes at the power forward slot, opposite not Udonis Haslem, who guarded Al Jefferson much of the time, but Heat center Mark Blount. Now all Wolves fans know that Blount is a shrinking violet in the paint. But it’s still notable that the 6-7 Gomes was trusted with the assignment of containing Blount, which he did mostly by fronting him, but occasionally playing behind him on the low block. Gomes also had to play all the rotations on zones from the power forward slot. The bottom line is that Gomes outrebounded Blount 6-4 (surprise, surprise, eh?) and also grabbed three steals and dished for 3 assists against just one turnover while getting 13 points–stats better than Blount’s across the board.
I’ll be more succinct about Marko’s glue heroics. First and foremost, he was the primary defender on Wade, forcing him to make a bevy of acrobatic layups in order to get his 25 points. More importantly, he stayed in front of Wade well enough to prompt six turnovers from the Miami superstar, including four in the fourth quarter, and to draw a charging call on Wade for his 5th foul, further limiting Wade’s aggression (kudos to gutsy ref Dan Crawford–the best in the game–for making the right call there). He also hit 6-9 FGs (5-6 from inside the three point line), and dished as well as scored off of penetration, finishing with an 8/2 assist-to-turnover ratio. It was a game tailor-made for the "good Marko"–chaotic, sloppy, and prone to spurts of opportunism.
2. Inside-Outside
Having argued in my last trey for less Jefferson-Smith on the front line and more burn for McCants, I was pleasantly surprised by the rejiggered lineup. In retrospect, I don’t think it was the difference in the outcome of this game–during his brief stint, Smith murdered Blount in the low block by flashing down into the paint and using Blount’s well known distaste for flesh and flesh contact, getting 7 points and 6 rebounds (and, alas, 5 fouls, an ongoing Rhino vexation) in just 13:43. But having McCants around for the opening tap is really the only way right now to prevent Wolves opponents from packing the paint against Jefferson, especially when Shaddy erupts, as he did tonight, for 18 first half points on just ten shots (8-10 FG, 1-1 3ptFG, 2-2 FT). What Wittman appropriately demands, and what McCants has done recently, is to vary his attack, from full-court dashes in transition to explosive penetration in the half court to quick midrange jumpers and, finally, three-pointers.
When McCants is on his game, there is more room and less pressure for Jefferson to score. Hell, there is more space for everyone to score–that’s why an inside-outside scoring tandem is fundamental to even mediocre offenses. That the Wolves have been trying to get by exclusively pounding the ball into Jefferson–or relying on the likes of Telfair, Jaric, Brewer, etc. to score from outside–is a rather large reason why they’ve been so dreadful on offense the past month. Toss Randy Foye into the mix, and you’ve got three players capable of getting bushels of points in the paint–with about two dozen cavaets–involving health, maturity, pecking orders, etc.– that we won’t go into right now.
Besides, even this win comes with a sobering reality check. After combining for 30 points on 70% shooting (14-20 FG) en route to a 59-point first half, the Jeff-Shaddy combo played like jokers and exerted no leadership or command against an opponent begging to be put out of its misery in the second half. The most jaw-dropping stat in last night’s box score is zero turnovers for Jefferson. That’s only because all the times he muffed well-timed and -delivered entry passes resulted in him putting up a more difficult shot instead of an easy make, or being forced to pass it back out. His only basket in seven third quarter attempts was a tip-in 15 seconds after intermission, and in the fourth quarter one of his two baskets was the crunchtime dish from Gomes,
who did all the heavy lifting. At 3-10 FG, Big Al came up small in quarters three and four.
McCants was as bad in the fourth period as Jefferson was in the third, going 2-10 FG after nailing 8-10 in the first half and 2-4 in the third quarter. Wittman inferred that some of that might have been because Shaddy was willing to step up and let it fly while his teammates were fearfully spurning better shots. But even granting the point, McCants seems better able to bang home those treys or finish those serpentine journeys to the hoop when he team is up or down by 20 points, or in the first half, rather than when the score is close and the game is late.
Nevertheless, balance out the bad and the good and you still have a player who went off for 27 points–pretty much his average the past two games as well–on 12-24 FG. Shaddy wrested a missed Jefferson free throw from Udonis Haslem (no mean feat) and laid the ball in. He snuck in for another offensive rebound and putback midway through the second quarter. He hit a respectable two out of five treys but also muscled his way through traffic for at least two left-handed layups. Oh and there were also the 8 rebounds and 4 assists. Overall a fabulous game, but, McCants being McCants there was of course some bad with the good, just as his "bad" games frequently contain silver linings.
3. Hit and Run Observations
Watching Ricky Davis pile up the turnovers–five, in 25:24–take breaks on defense, commit a dumb foul or two, and wring about three percent of the potential from his talent produced some Pretty Ricky flashbacks that actually put McCants, who schooled him most of the game, in a much more favorable light. Then there was Blount and his pathetic defense, aversion to contact, 4 boards in 35:37, and dutiful going through the motions. About the only consolation for Heat fans is that Antoine Walker had one of his worst games of the season. That said, ‘Toine’s been a stand-up teammate under trying circumstances, Minnesota bagged a first-round pick, and the Wolves don’t have the toxic twins poisoning their locker room.
Minnesota would have won by 25 or 30 tonight if Sebastian Telfair could shoot. Let the record show that Bassy finished 3-10 FG and turned down about three times as many wide open looks throughout the course of the game. Nine assists versus three turnovers is nice, but the more frequently defenses can disdain his jumper, the less and less passing alleys and angles he’ll have against dropping-off defenders.
Randy Wittman pointedly mentioned a very rigorous practice the team had yesterday in the context of tonight’s uptempo win. If the Wolves beat one of their next eight opponents–Phoenix and Golden State twice apiece, plus Houston, Denver, Boston and San Antonio–maybe I’ll buy that taskmaster approach. Meanwhile, it was just good to be able to see him smile at that postgame podium for a change. He opened his remarks by saying, "Well, we got off the schneid finally." Yes, yes you did coach. Here’s hoping another schneid isn’t headed your way.
I’m
feeling very married these days. More than when I stood in front of the
judge, more than when I opened a joint checking or co-signed a
mortgage. And even more than when I drove away from the hospital with
our first child.
While my marriage has seen its share of compromise, we’re on the
brink of its biggest conciliation to date. We’re moving for my
husband’s career – to Duluth.
It’s a good opportunity; it really is. But I’ve been so deep in
mourning I’ve had a hard time hearing all the good reasons. My husband
had to all but don sock puppets (speaking loudly & slowly) to help
me to follow the logic of the career potential, the insurance benefits
(we currently buy our own) and the beauty of moving to a less inflated
housing market. It’s all good; I know, but we’ll be moving for his great adventure and I’ll be the tag-along – the little woman, the Stepford wife.
So I’ve been in ostrich mode lately and decided to cope by not. I
ordered all six seasons of Sex and the City (SATC) from hclib.org and
have been watching them on my Mac laptop – propped up on the kids’
bathroom stool – where I can see it while in a hot bath drinking a glass
of wine. This is a good place to be while waiting for your bed’s
electric blanket to heat up.
And while I was deep into my media therapy session watching the
writer commentary, she said it. Some fancy screenwriter was commenting
that SATC had to be in New York because it is so alive, so vibrant…and
because (and I paraphrase here,) “Who would watch a series called Sex
and Duluth?”
NO SHOUT OUTS TO THE SAD WOMAN IN THE BATHTUB!
This got me thinking that it’s NOT the time to invite me to a bridal
shower. I’ve long held the belief that one should be wary of any life
event that requires a “shower.” Those of us who have done said event,
like the married women who typically throw these gatherings, can’t
bring ourselves to tell the bride the cold truth about her future
institution, so we just buy her a Cuisinart instead.
I’m afraid if I attended in my present state, I would lose my head
and leap up and start shaking the bride. “Don’t you know that what this
party means? One day you could be unexpectedly plucked from the beige
rambler of your dreams – the one with the open floor plan, first floor
laundry and solid school district – and cast out of the Cities to a
place that is the butt of screenwriter jokes!” I’d then have to
straighten myself up, smooth out the bride and excuse myself to the
restroom where I’d climb out the window.
Of course, it is not like I’m leaving the Twin Cities forever. I’ll
be back for overnights probably twice a month to retain some writing
clients here and stay with my fabulous mother-in-law.
And there are moments, when I’m clear-eyed and possess a willing
spirit, when I can actually see where my husband is coming from. It
really is a great opportunity for our family and Duluth does have a
tempting lifestyle. But I’m not putting everything I own into a truck
for job or a big lake. I’m doing it because I love my husband and want
to support him in his career as he has supported me in mine. Because
you see, I’m married.
DANCE
It’s Getting Hot in Here
You
might have to wear your full-body parka snowsuit to the show, but once
you step inside, The Rabbit Show Dance Ensemble promises to turn up the
heat with some hotter-than-hot dancing. Representing an elusive Minnesotan summer and sunshine is the goal
of the thirteen choreographed dances that are part of the performance. Entitled Hot and Cold: The Minnesota-Siberian Express, this train is
sure to be a one-way ticket to the tropics. —Kate McDonald
7.p.m, Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949; $6-$10.
MUSIC
Mandolin Sans Souci
Whether or not "Sans Souci" actually means "no problem" in French is quite besides the point. What is more important about the cultured quartet with the possible francophone name is that it includes a banjo. And an upright bass. And a mandolin. And The Sans Souci Quartet plays bluegrass. What more could you want? No problems? Well, you’ll have no problems here. —Kate McDonald
9 p.m., 331 Club, 13th Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-331-1746; free.
PERFORMANCE
Take to the Stage
Move over internationally-know performers; it’s our chance to be on the Walker’s McGuire Stage! Kinda. New York choreographer Miguel Gutierrez’s new production Powerful People seats the audience on the stage for a theatrical performance that celebrates a close immediate connection between audience and performers in the present moment. Powerful People Everyone is also the first performance of the the Walker’s Out There 20 series. —Kate McDonald
8 p.m., Walker McGuire Theater, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600; $20.
So how was JesusChristmas for you all here in the United States? I have been away over the holidays but I have not been wasting time.
Au contraire.
You see I have been busily working in France test driving cars that most people can only dream about. Cars even hotter than France’s new President’s bride to be (a former supermodel, shamelessly so). I’ve included a shot of the F40 I picked up in front of the Ritz on the Place Vendome’. This is the Ferrari that everyone wants due to its umitigated brutality (the last full car designed by the Holy Devil himself.)
My photos are taking too long to upload at present but a Veyron is in here as well as a Gullwing and some more classic Bugattis, Alfas and Porsches.
Who needs women, nez pas?
(That’s what Nicholas has been known to say.)
2007 was almost certainly the first year in my adult life that I abandoned more books than I finished. For years I was a masochist about reading, and once I made any sort of investment in a book –bought it, checked it out from the library, cracked the pages– I felt obligated to finish the damn thing, no matter how unpleasant I found the actual reading experience. But after gutting out way too many lousy books in 2006 —The Emperor’s Children, for instance– I was reminded of something that someone (John Irving, I think) once said about the subject in a Paris Review interview. I’m paraphrasing here, but the gist of it was this: When you get to be a grown-up you no longer have to finish everything on your plate if it doesn’t taste good or you’ve had enough.
I’m also at an age where the math has become daunting. I now have to face the sad fact that I’ll never get around to reading all the books in my house, let alone all the other books that I keep bringing home with me or would still like to acquire and read. A lot of probably essential stuff just isn’t going to make the cut, so why should I be making crappy compromises at this point?
I shouldn’t, of course, but I still do. I still get sucked into all manner of atrocious nonsense, some of which I have to confess that I genuinely enjoy. In the last year I’ve read or spent too much time looking at books on rats, ants, dowsing, stuttering, flying saucers, tongue speaking, cremation, and circumcision. I’ve read what is essentially a history of dirt (Theodor Rosebury’s Life on Man), as well as pulp histories of torture, the Black Hole of Calcutta, and Voodoo. I spent a good deal of time browsing in The Faber Book of Madness and The Oxford Book of Death.
There are also books that I return to year after year: the stories of Borges, Eudora Welty, and Chekhov, Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, Cellarius’ Harmonia Macrocosmica, Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, the Pushcart Prize anthologies, and various collections of photographs.
Every year, as I spend more and more time trying to play catch-up, I seem to read fewer new books, and to spend more time simply looking at books, and many of my favorite books from 2007 were visual pleasures, which isn’t to say they didn’t have stories to tell. My favorite, in fact, is a small and lovely collection of photos and captions that is as powerful, heartbreaking, and life affirming as any novel I read all year. It made me, however briefly, glad to be alive, even as it made me terrified to grow old.
Here are my favorites, roughly in order of how much time I spent looking at and thinking about them: