Thanks to local designer George Moskal for making me feel all
Lindsay Lohan-like this holiday season. He lent me one of his dresses! I wore it to
a belated holiday party last Friday night; see the craftily cropped outtake
below. Because, you see, even with a pretty dress on, I still can’t feel good
about my big, frizzy mop of hair.
BOOKS & AUTHORS
Have a Beer and a Book
Join us for Raking Through Books, The Rake’s monthly happy hour
book club, at Kieran’s Irish Pub.
This month, meet authors Biloine W. Young, Wing Young Huie, and David
Parker. Exploring human rights, activism, the power of story, and
determination of spirit, these three authors tell their work here and
around the globe. Featured books include My Heart It is Delicious, Young’s story of the Center for International Health; Looking for Asian America, by Huie; and Before Their Time: The World of Child Labor, by Parker — all of which are for sale at a 20 percent discount from the University of Minnesota Bookstore. Plus, participate in our new Monthly Book Swap: Bring a book, take a book! Meet people who read books! Have a beer. —Jennifer Havrish
5:30-7:30 p.m., Kieran’s Irish Pub, 330 2nd Ave. S., Minneapolis; free.
BOOKS
The Department of Homeland Decency
What does it mean to bring decency back to America? (Some might even question whether or not it ever existed here in the first place.) Does it mean wishing folks a "Merry Christmas," rather than a "Happy Holiday"? Does it mean never referring to s-e-x as anything other than "it"? According to Susan and Frank Fuller’s new decency manual, it does indeed. The Department of Homeland Decency’s Decency Rules and Regulations Manual
dissects the Rules and Regulations of the USA Decency Act and describes
in great detail how such rules may be executed for co-existing in a
wholesome, more civilized nation. Is this irony? You’ll have to read it for yourself to figure that one out. (But remember, you can choose to interpret it however suits you best.)
Available today in bookstores nationwide.
Castro’s Spoken Autobiography
Regarding Fidel Castro: My Life: A Spoken Autobiography — we’re curious about what the old man has to say, and we’re
hoping for wardrobe and grooming tips, along with colorful yarns about
outlasting ten American presidents. Plus, how can you resist a
two-colon title? —Brad Zellar
Available today in bookstores nationwide.
MUSIC
A Voice that Soars from Lebabon to Canada
Since she won first prize in the 2000 Operalia competition (founded by Plácido Domingo), soprano Isabel Bayrakdarian has performed in many of the world’s major opera houses. The stunning, young Armenian-Canadian is best known for her work in Mozart operas, which she has sung continuously during the composer’s 250th birthday year: Susanna, Zerlina in Don Giovanni, and Pamina in The Magic Flute have been her calling cards, along with Marzelline in Fidelio, Adina in L’elisir d’amore, and Rosina in The Barber of Seville.
8 p.m., Ordway Center for Performing Arts, 345 Washington St., St. Paul; 651-224-4222; $22-$45.
A
young family moved in on a nearby street and we’re determined to give
them a warmer welcome than what we got. It’s not like folks were mean
upon our arrival, but there is more than one house on the block with a
lawn service, drawn curtains and a dark porch light on Halloween.
Either they’re in the Witness Protection Program or they’re dead.
So we decided to host a neighborhood New Year’s get together to
show-off the new people, kid-friendly of course. The invitations were
met with enthusiasm, and by that I mean A LOT of enthusiasm. We’d
causally mention the event and people wanted in – and to bring friends.
Then I got a phone call from another friend who heard about it. And
could they bring some other kids they were watching? You get the
picture. Plus, it got to be a real rush to extend invites to such happy
recipients.
Now, let’s be clear. This has VERY LITTLE to do with us as hosts and
EVERYTHING to do with the nature of the holiday. While Christmas is the
epitome of child fare – everyone wants to see the kiddies around the
tree, New Year’s Eve is its polar opposite. And since you can’t pack
your babies up with the Christmas décor, it’s simply a non-event for
parents.
I’ll be honest here; it did get a little wild. The party topped out
at about 34 guests, nearly half being kids – and keep in mind we didn’t
even invite our core friend group. At points, I was holding babies
whose names I didn’t even know and passing them off to adults (no
backsies!) while I tried to keep up with the all the food people
generously brought.
We fired up the inflatable jumpy house in our rec room (an impulse
purchase that helped me through a very dark week last winter – don’t
judge me) threw a movie on the TV and 60 mini-corns in the oven. And at
8:00 p.m. we lined up pots and pans, gave each kid a spoon and brought
in 2008 with a ruckus. It was the New Year somewhere, right?
The party broke up around 9:20 (we’re in our 30’s and have little
kids – don’t judge us.) On the door stoop, people thanked us like we
had given them a kidney. They put their kids and their crock-pots back
onto their sleds and shuffled off into the dark, cold night.
Two dishwasher cycles and a Hefty bag later, our house was nearly
back to order. It was definitely worth the effort; but then again,
public service usually is.
I’ve spent the day researching the life of Michael Dorris: reading him, reading about him. And the dark, frantic moral of his story seems to be simply that some lives are unlivable. This is not a comforting thought.
He was an extraordinary writer. No matter what his myriad sins, this man had a way on the page that was gentle and lucid and lyrical. I’ve no doubt it inspired other people to be better than they were, even if he, the writer, was hiding a self so sinister he eventually killed himself (in 1997) rather than be revealed as the Hyde that he was: nocturnally — when he was out of the public eye — an unspeakably monstrous man.
In addition to being an essayist, a novelist, and a scholar, Dorris was the author of a 1990 memoir called The Broken Cord, which is among the loveliest, most heartbreaking books I have ever read. More important, he more than anyone was responsible for publicizing the scourge of fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS) particularly in Native American populations, and for calling on legislators to enact laws that would make it illegal for a pregnant woman to cripple her unborn child by drinking.
In his 1992 testimony to the Centers for Disease Control, Dorris said:
Unlike so many good people — scientists and social workers and politicians — who have chosen out of the kindness of their hearts and the dictates of their social consciences to become knowledgeable about fetal alcohol syndrome and fetal alcohol effect, to work with their victims, to demand prevention, I was dragged to the subject blindfolded, kicking and screaming. I’m the worst kind of expert, a grudging, reluctant witness, an embittered amateur, and, above all else: a failure. A parent.
I’m a living, breathing encyclopedia of what hasn’t worked in curing or reversing the damage to one child prenatally exposed to too much alcohol. Certain drugs termporarily curbed my son’s seizures and hyperactivity but almost certainly had dampening effects on his learning ability and personality development. Fifteen years of special education — isolation in a classroom, repetitive instruction, hands-on learning — maximized his potential but didn’ t give him a normal IQ. Psychological counseling — introspective techniques, group therapy — had no positive results, and may even have encouraged his ongoing confusion between what is real and what’s imagined.
Brain surgery hasn’t worked. Anger hasn’t worked. Patience hasn’t worked.Love hasn’t worked.
(from Paper Trail, Harper Collins, 1994)
I read this and several other of Dorris’s essays last night, not out of literary or professional curiosity but because I was trying to figure out the motivations of the man.
His words ring true to me, despite everything I know. Despite the allegations by Hennepin County investigators that Dorris abused (sexually and physically) four of his five living children before taking his own life in a New Hampshire hotel room. He was a man who had lost a child — his older son, Abel, whom he’d adopted at the age of three then tended and coached for 20 years — and appeared, for all his egregious sins to be entirely shattered. Grief-stricken, not just because his grown son was hit by a car and killed. But because his life, while he’d had it, had been such an unholy mess.
Dorris reportedly bullied, hit, kicked, and screamed at his children. He probably — though we in the public will never now know — sexually violated his young girls. He tortured the son afflicted with FAS whom he believed (or said he believed) could pay attention if only he tried. Dorris’s conduct was, in the strictest sense of the word, unforgivable. But at the same time, he seemed genuinely bewildered and undone by his inability to help his child.
Today, desperate to understand and learn from the mistakes of those who’ve gone before, I actually contacted Colin Covert, the terrific writer who covered the Michael Dorris story back in ’97 and went on to become the Star Tribune‘s film critic.
An excerpt from Covert’s landmark investigative piece "The anguished life of Michael Dorris":
Although Dorris’ writing about his family humbly noted many of his
shortcomings as a parent, it never hinted at violence. But his son
Abel, describing his life in an epilogue to "The Broken Cord," cited
incidents in which Dorris pushed the retarded boy "face first into the
wall." He said Dorris punished his younger brother by shutting him
alone in his room to cry for hours.
"What I want to know is, what was your gut feeling at the time, as you
investigated?" I wrote to Covert. "Was Dorris guilty? Was he victimized? Was it a combination of the two?
He seemed — in his writing — to have been wrecked by his own inability
to cure his adopted children. Was this simply hubris turned ugly? Or was it a
father’s grief so dark that it took him over and made him do terrible things?"
I signed my name, then added a postscript. "I am the parent of a profoundly disabled child and I find that as he grows
older — and becomes more intractably impaired — some of the people around him have begun to behave in odd and hurtful
ways. That’s why I ask these unanswerable questions. . . ."
Here’s what I did not say: One family member no longer speaks to me — or to my two younger children — because she faults me for my 19-year-old son’s worsening struggle with autism. And a caregiver my son once loved and counted on has become punishing, hostile, and sporadically cruel, probably because he cannot deal with the fact that his attention did not constitute a cure.
Frustration, fear, and hopelessness seems to have driven these once caring people completely insane. And I am afraid of going over the edge with them. I read Dorris, in part, to remind me. To hold me back from being so jaded that I, too, am useless.
Covert must have sensed some of this in my e-mail. He wrote back immediately, advising me to re-read the piece and draw my own conclusions. Then he added a postscript of his own. "I wish you all the strength in the universe. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers tonight."
It’s amazing to me how much that sentence — coming from a virtual stranger — matters. Tomorrow, there will be a meeting at which we will, hopefully, begin to determine my son’s future. And I will try once again to rally faith that despite all the uncertainty and cynicism surrounding him, he has one to face.
It is ironic, I admit, but I opened a bottle I’d been saving — a 1996 Lyeth Meritage — to help me figure this out tonight. Bottled the year before Dorris died, this is a red table wine that’s aged and acquired a bite, like an old man with a wicked tongue. It’s sour upon first sip, cherry and apple cider and vinegar and, yes, piss. But the finish is smooth and knowing, as the Atlantic surf receding, a definitive end to a wine that’s lived long enough to know how to exit. I like it because it matches my mood, which is both determined and resigned.
It is tempting, as a writer, to act as Dorris did: to use words in order to appear collected and enviable. He did this to his — and his family’s — detriment, I think. Said Mark Anthony Rollo, editor of an Indian newspaper called The Circle: "Michael started falling apart, I believe, when the chasm between his
public persona — which was in a sense fictional — and his self in
private life just couldn’t be reconciled."
I decided tonight, after a couple glasses of the Meritage, that it is better to be open, flawed and unsure, rather than covert and vain. Even as a writer, even in print. It is wrong — and dangerous — to put forth a front of heroism while living an addled life.
Perhaps that is the lesson of Michael Dorris. If, indeed, one exists.
For the Bible Tells Me So, Daniel Karslake’s 2007 documentary on the history of the religious right’s hate-hate affair with the gay community, begins with news footage of a celebrity who was once a household name, but is now long forgotten … and yet, thanks to Minnesota 6th District Congresswoman Michele Bachmann, she is not at all unfamiliar to us. The fallen idol is Anita Bryant, singer of “Paper Roses,” “Til There Was You,” and other hits from that bleak era in popular music between Buddy Holly’s death and the arrival of The Beatles (who, ironically, did an equally bleak cover of “Til There Was You”). In the seventies, Anita would become even more famous for her TV pitches for the Florida Citrus Commission, exhorting Americans to drink orange juice, with everything from toast to cheeseburgers to caviar, with the words: “It’s not just for breakfast anymore!” But, by 1977, the year of the footage featured in Karslake’s film, Bryant’s name became synonymous with one thing: homophobia.
That year, Bryant founded and became the spokesperson for a grassroots campaign called Save Our Children. She had begun SOC in response to a movement by the Commission for Dade (later Miami-Dade) County, in her home state of Florida, to amend a human rights ordinance so that discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation would be outlawed. The amendment was slated for a vote in June, 1977, and Bryant, who belonged to the Northwest Baptist Church, a virulently conservative congregation that also fought against school desegregation, was not about to let gays and lesbians be given the same rights as those minorities her confederates failed to keep out of their schools.
With the help of her husband, Miami DJ Bob Green, and a little known pastor named Jerry Falwell, Bryant and SOC quickly gained support via petitions, direct-mailings, and phone drives. She also sought support, and gained nationwide notoriety, with public appearances in which she snarled statements like: “If gays are granted rights, next we’ll have to give rights to prostitutes and to people who sleep with St. Bernards and to nail biters.”
These words, of course, were echoed in 1998 by recently retired senate minority whip Trent Lott, who said that gays should be put in the same class as shoplifters and drunks (and who, according to the blogosphere, at least, might have left office out of concern for being outed by a rent boy). But the whiff of familiarity does not apply only to Lott. In fact, Anita Bryant bears so much resemblance, in terms of personal, spiritual and professional philosophy — not to mention physical appearance — to Michele Bachmann, that it’s enough to make one, well, bite one’s nails.
Back in 1977, Bryant launched her SOC campaign with this fearful declaration: “As a mother, I know that homosexuals cannot biologically
reproduce children; therefore, they must recruit our children." When Bachmann was serving as Minnesota state senator in 2004, she reacted to Massachusetts’ legalization of same-sex marriage with this eerily similar preoccupation in a radio interview: “Little children will be forced to learn that homosexuality is normal and natural and perhaps they should try it.”
Unlike the juicer, who made no bones to the mainstream press about her notion that gay people love nothing more than to get their greasy little hands into kids’ pockets, the congresswoman, like most other current anti-gay fundamentalists, insists that she merely wishes to protect the sanctity of marriage. But, as her own personal and professional pursuits have shown, this is a diversionary tact to distract from her and her cronies’ determination to purge society of any gay person who doesn’t want to be “cured.” It’s just that Michele, like others of this peculiar mindset, has learned to be more careful in her language — at least that which she deploys in secular, mainstream settings — thanks, in no small part, to the woman who would be the homophobes’ first celebrity mascot.
Turning back the clock again to the year that disco — up to then the province of bars and clubs catering to all those sweating, pulsating gay men — took over the world, Bryant and Save Our Children did shore up significant support for repeal of the amendment. She not only became a darling of the religious right, helping to shine the spotlight on Falwell, as well as Phyllis Schlafley and Pat Robertson, but even enjoyed support from the conventional media, including Time Magazine and The New York Times.
At the same time, she inadvertently galvanized the gay rights movement, increasing its numbers several-fold, and sparking record-setting attendance for pride parades in major cities, most of which used her as an emblem of hate (in fact, here in Minneapolis, an Anita look-alike contest was part of the festivities). A nationwide boycott of Florida oranges began, and the Citrus Commission was inundated with phone calls urging them to dump the woman who so sweetly chirped, “A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine!”
Barbara Streisand, Ed Asner, and other celebrities spoke out against Bryant, as did former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark and President Carter. By the time the Dade County Commission voted in favor of repealing the anti-gay discrimination amendment, Anita and her people had won their political victory. But they also, as The Nation aptly put it, became “the best thing that ever happened to homosexuals.” This was largely due to the hateful one-liners the chanteuse (who, despite a high singing voice, had an intimidatingly low speaking one) would spit out before cameras and microphones, such as: “If homosexuality were the normal way, God would have made Adam and Bruce.”
The gaining strength of the gay community, and the beginning of the end of her crusade, is symbolized by the footage featured in For the Bible Tells Me So. At a press conference in Des Moines, one of several cities where discrimination ordinance amendments were to be voted on, Bryant discusses the protests and harassment she has received from the people she regards as pedophiles. As she does, a gay activist named Aron Kay rushes up to her and rams a pie in her face. While gasps fill the room, and Bryant’s husband implores attendees not to apprehend the assailant — whose specialty was sending the pastries into rightwing enemies’ kissers — but to pray for him, the singer growled, “At least, it was a fruit pie.” (For the record, it was just cream.)
Within months, Save Our Children would collapse, and Bryant’s performing and pitching career would come to a screeching, terminal halt. The Citrus Commission, and the many corporations for which she was a spokesperson, refused to renew her contracts. By the early ’80s, she was making pathetic attempts to renounce her hate-mongering, insisting the whole campaign was the idea of husband Bob, whom she divorced in 1980. This rapid fall taught many, if not all, antigay crusaders to be more careful in how they spoke to those outside their inner circles (Falwell and Robertson would continue to have a problem with this, especially after 9-11).
Thus, Michele Bachmann, who began her life as a “fool for Christ” around the time of Anita Bryant’s brief tenure as chief fool, made sure, by the time she ran for national office in 2006, to focus on the preservation of marriage and deny any links to homophobic institutions — even if those links were very much a part of her adult life.
Game #32, Home Game #16: Denver118, Minnesota 107
Game #33, Home Game #17: Dallas 101, Minnesota 78
1. Beating A Dead Horse
Al Jefferson and Craig Smith took the floor for the opening tap Friday night so you knew the Timberwolves would fall behind early. And, why, yes, Denver scored the first 12 points of the game and was up 12-2 when coach Randy Wittman mercifully subbed in Chris Richard for Smith with just 3:24 gone in the game. By the time Smith returned alongside Antoine Walker for Richard and Jefferson seven minutes and three seconds later, the score was 28-21, meaning the Wolves had outscored the Mavs 19-16 during that stretch. Nevertheless, to begin the second half, it was again Jefferson and Smith matched against Marcus Camby and Kenyon Martin. And again Denver jumped out, this time 5-1 to go up 66-53 before Wittman gave Smith the hook, in favor of Walker.
When I asked Wittman after the game why Smith was yanked twice, he said because the Rhino wasn’t getting back quickly enough on defense. Okay, got it.
The Dallas Mavericks came to town this afternoon. They started a front line of DeSagana Diop, Dirk Nowitzki and Josh Howard. The tricky matchup, of course, is Nowitzki. Ah, but not for Randy Wittman. He goes with the old tried and untrue, Jefferson at center, Smith at power forward and Ryan Gomes at small forward.
Listen folks, I really would like to be more original in my criticism of this ballclub. But when a squad is losing 29 of its first 33 games, including the last 8 in a row, and is getting demonstrably worse, not better, I feel it is important to point out the main reasons why this seems to be happening. And with precious few exceptions, it has to be said that when Jefferson plays center and Smith plays power forward, the Timberwolves get their ass kicked.
You have a wealth of stats to back this up, and I won’t go back and get them (scroll back on previous posts if you want). Let’s just focus on this afternoon. By what logic do you send out a beefy undersized former second round draft pick, who was twice benched in the last game for not getting back on defense, and who has trouble guarding players outside the paint, as the one to match up against the reigning league MVP, who just happens to be a half-foot taller, quicker, and a deadly outside shooter? Do we really need a manual with the words Craig Smith vs. Dirk Nowitzki = bad matchup in bold print to prevent this from happening? Apparently so, because when Smith went to the bench with 2 fouls in the first 3:35 of the game, Nowitzki already had 7 points and the Mavs were up 7, 11-4.
Now without question Nowitzki is a brutal matchup problem for most every team–that’s a main reason why he’s MVP. But there were at least three better options for Wittman than Craig Smith. One would have been to play Jefferson at center, Gomes at the power forward opposite Nowitzki, and Corey Brewer at small forward on Josh Howard. Or kick Marko Jaric up to the small forward slot and slide Rashad McCants–he of the 34 points the previous game–in at shooting guard. Or go big, with Chris Richard or Mark Madsen (Michael Doleac didn’t dress) at center beside Jefferson at the power forward and Gomes at the small forward. Or throw a front line of Jefferson at center, Walker at the power forward guarding Nowitzki, and Gomes on Howard. Because Gomes, Jefferson, Walker, Jaric, Madsen, and Richard are all better matchup options on Dirk Notwitzki than Craig Smith.
And indeed, all but Richard got a chance to guard Nowitzki at some point in the game. For the most part, Nowitzki burned them all, finishing with 30 points on 12-20 FG and 5-5 FT. But Walker and Gomes took away his easy looks from three-point range, and it was good to see Jefferson reach down and get feisty with Nowitzki in the 3rd and early 4th quarters, bodying him up and making it a personal battle. Jefferson lost that struggle but the notion that he waged it, wagered a little of his personal identity on trying to stop someone for a change, was one of the few silver linings in this nasty 23-point spanking that wasn’t even that close.
Again, I understand I’ve said all of this before and am "beating a dead horse" as they say (unfortunately a very fitting analogy for this Wolves team right now). But Al Jefferson and the Minnesota Timberwovles play much much better with a legitimate center on the floor. Today, Richard and Madsen played center for a combined 21:08. During that time, Dallas outscored Minnesota by 2 points. In the 26:52 Madsen or Richard was not playing center, Dallas outscored Minnesota by 21 points.
This continues a year-long pattern that surely has been noticed by *someone* in the organization by now. The only logical explanation is that Wittman and the front office stubbornly see some benefit in perpetuating a consistently bad lineup. Yeah, one coujld argue that Dallas’s first quarter blowout quickly made the Madsen/Richard minutes in the second half garbage time, negating the plus/minus emphasis. (A full six minutes into the game, the Wolves had 1 rebound, 1 assist, 3 turnovers and were allowing the Mavs to shoot 78% (7-9FG).) But then how to explain Richard going plus +3 in the first quarter against Denver the other night–when the game theoretically was still in reach–only to never again see action during the other three quarters? No, the Jefferson-Smith pairly has been willfully rammed down the throat of Wolves fans by this coaching and front office staff. Wittman has occasionally justified it as providing better front court offense, but the awful defense from duo more than negates that supposed advantage.
Wittman stalked away and cut off his press conference early today, once again vowing to make "changes," and once again callign forth all kinds of fighting analogies to say that the Wolves lack heart. Well, yes, it appears that way. Certainly less heart than they showed in November, and slightly less than they showed in December. But what the coach needs to remember is that the hearts of players grow, like their confidence, when they are put in a position to succeed.
2. Make McCants Prove Himself
Ironically, pairing Jefferson and Smith on the front line is one of the precious few things Wittman has done consistently for most of the season. Another, by default, is playing Sebastian Telfair at the point. What consistent Wolves watcher doesn’t have a very clear idea of what Jefferson, Smith and Telfair can and can’t do?
But if Wolves fans are to endure an epically horrible season, they deserve that management, A) Identify which key players need to evaluated, and B) Get as large a sample size as possible by which to evaluate them. Put simply, there are certain players that need to prove or disprove themselves this season. And I’d put Rashad McCants at the top of the list.
Why? Because McCants is the team’s premiere scoring threat on the perimeter. Because he has undergone microfracture surgery and needs to be physically vetted. And because McCants is a player of great virtues and vices, and the Wolves need to see if the virtues can be maintained with more consistency, and if the vices are a product of simple immaturity of something more fundamental.
For all you McCants doubters out there, I understand. I see the scowls, the reach-in fouls, the neglect to penetrate and simply jack up jumpers, the bushels of points that don’t matter and the paucity of key hoops that could swing a game or two Minnesota’s way. But I also saw him get a career-high 34 in the flow of the offense Friday night. And I saw him get to the line 17 times in 55:24 over the past two games. The McCants supporters can appropriately note that if Al Jefferson goes off for 34 and 21 and shoots 17 FTs, we are all more apt to overlook his shakey defense, lack of passing and other deficiencies.
Besides, what are your backcourt options, folks? Sebastian Telfair looks fried, Corey Brewer can’t stick a J, Marko Jaric is approximately as
inconsistent as McCants, and Gerald Green is earning a C- in Basketball 101. Yes, perhaps McCants is a perpetual tease and a toxic head case destined to be more trouble than he’s worth. If the Wolves believe they know that to be true already, then they ought to be force feeding Corey Brewer in the backcourt rotation with Telfair and Jaric and given the vet Greg Buckner a little more burn to try and pull out a win or two. I think McCants remains an enigma. After awhile, that ceases to become a teasing mystery and turns into an deadly flaw–call it strangely willful inconsistency. But isn’t this lost season supposed to be about getting to the bottom of enigmas, and tossing away the bad apples and priming and then accelerating the development of those who seem to be getting a clue?
Stick Shaddy in the starting lineup for 30 minutes per game, minimum. State that this will continue at least until Randy Foye returns, and quite possibly beyond. Take some of it out of Telfair’s minutes, some of it out of Jaric, and some of it out of Gomes–Telfair needs a breather (psychologically if not physically), we know the Jaric rollercoaster intimately already, and Gomes is hardly a sure bet to stick around once his contract expires. The notion of a Foye-Jefferson-McCants triad on offense remains the rosiest point-scoring scenario before the next NBA Draft.
3. Quick Hits
Remember all that talk about how much this team pulls for each other and how tight and enthusiastic they are? It has been true and it has been remarkable. But it can’t last much longer without some good news, like a win or two or Foye’s imminent return and a lineup shift that suddenly pays big dividends. Al Jefferson in particular is starting to get surly, McCants is a couple of weeks from blowing, especially if his minutes continue to yo-yo, and Randy Wittman’s post-game snits are already running out of juice.
Also, remember all that talk about what a brutal schedule the Wolves had in December, and how things would improve in January? This was almost totally based on home games versus road games. For the record, the January schedule is if anything tougher than December’s. Portland, Denver and Dallas were all correctly figured to be losses. Miami at home without Wade and Shaq looks to be a golden opporunity to bag the squad’s first W since the Winter Solstice, but after that they have Houston and San Antonio on the road, Golden State at home, then Phoenix and Denver on the road before going to Golden State and Boston on either side of playing Phoenix here. If you’re wondering at what point the Wolves’ winning percentage falls behind Philadelphia’s NBA worst-ever percentage of .110 (9-73) from 1972-73, it would be 4-33.
Kevin McHale, quoted in Wolftracks magazine: "Another solid veteran for us is Antoine Walker. He gives us a different look at the four spot and also can play the three spot. He can shoot and help spread the floor– and he understands the game very well." All true. And ‘Toine at the 3–what a concept.
As the cold weather digs in its claws to take hold for the next four
months, we must keep things in perspective by remembering one key fact:
This city’s greatness depends largely on the cold. Sounds strange; I
know. But can you imagine a city as great as this one with decent
weather? It’d be unbearable! For one, this frozen tundra of ours keeps our lakes and man-made lagoons of ice fully solid and ideal for some serious skating. Go to Winterskate Park or The Depot to experience the fine indoor and outdoor skating venues the cities has to offer. If the weather outside gets too frightful surrender to the indoor push and let your guard down for the local open mic nights. Our state boasts some mad public speaking and performance skills. Try Acme Comedy Club to tickle your funny bone or The Terminal Bar for a musical treat.
MUSIC
Another Local Legend?
The fabulous Minnesota weather — or perhaps the chaos it prevents — has also made the Twin Cities home to many a music legend. The talent with which we’re surrounded on a regular basis here — the talent we so often take for granted — is enough to make any non-native music lover squeal with delight. Take local blues pianist Willie Murphy: His 1969 collaboration with folk/blues legend "Spider" John Koerner (Running, Jumping, Standing Still) has achieved all-time folk/blues classic status. He has continued to perform and impress for 30 years. And he was named as one of the three charter members of the Minnesota Music Hall of Fame, along with Bob Dylan and Prince. Bob Dylan and Prince! This is not just a local blues pianist, folks. And this is not just a West Bank icon. This is a blues icon. Period! You have eight straight Monday nights to see him, so start tonight.
8 p.m., Minneapolis Eagles Club, 2507 E. 25th St., Seward, Minneapolis; 612-729-4469.
WORKSHOP
The Textures of Your Life
What’s your favorite winter fabric texture? And can it heal you? Apparently, this afternoon’s Well Within art and support group will show you how. The Textures of Your Life: Healing through Art will help you explore the rough and smooth parts of your life through work in textiles and other media in this three-hour workshop. Bring on the polyester! —Kate McDonald
12:30 p.m., Well Within, 1880 Livingston Ave., Suite 103, West St. Paul; 651-451-3113; $15.
Remember Cue at the Guthrie?
The press release from the Guthrie Theater touting a January
three-course prix fixe menu for $29.95 took me by surprise. This isn’t just a
prix-theater early bird special – it’s available any time, and includes a free
self-guided iPod tour of the theater and complimentary glass of wine or cup of coffee after dinner.
Back when Cue opened in the summer of 2006, a table at the
new Guthrie Theater’s sleek dining room was the hottest ticket in town. Cue had
snagged a local celebrity chef, Lenny Russo, and all the buzz that came with
the opening of a major new landmark, designed by superstar architect Jean
Nouvel.
Russo’s opening menu, assembled with the help of a network
of Midwestern producers made the concept of Midwestern haute cuisine seem like
more than an oxymoron: Rick Nelson’s review in the Star Tribune praised the
wild boar pate with pickled vegetables; sliced elk with wild rice and
blueberries; and a salad of grilled quail with summer squash and poached
tomatoes, among other dishes.
Russo left about a year ago, to return to his own Midwestern
haute cuisine restaurant, Heartland, and I hadn’t been back since. The buzz and the crowds
have evidently died down – when we visited at 8:30 on a Saturday night, the
dining room was about three-quarters empty. The theaters were empty last night,
which may explain the sparse crowd, but Cue had ambitions to be a top
destination restaurant.
The new Cue menu is still very stylish, but not nearly as
inventive or adventurous as it was in Russo’s day. The elk, quail and wild boar
are gone, though the menu does offer a cassoulet made with pheasant confit. (I
was puzzled enough by this description to ask the chef: duck confit is duck
cooked in its own abundant fat. How do you confit a bird as lean as pheasant?
Turns out, you cook the pheasant in duck fat. Which makes sense, but must make
the pheasant taste like duck.) A lot of the usual suspects show up, including
artic char, ahi tuna, mussels, filet of beef with wild mushroom sauce;
free-range chicken breast with whipped potatoes.
The prix fixe menu varies a bit from day to day, but the
basic format seems to include a choice of soup or salad; a choice of fish,
chicken or pork chop, and a choice of desserts from a list. In strictly
economic terms, the $29.95 special is a good deal: the pork chop costs $29.00 a
la carte, and if you add the cost of soup or salad (8-$9) and dessert ($8),
plus the price of the audio tour (5), and the complimentary glass of Pinot Noir
or Chardonnay (or coffee) that accompanies the audio tour, the savings are
substantial. But this still isn’t bargain dining: with tax, tip, and
three glasses of wine between the two of us, our tab still came to $115.
We had a pleasant dining experience in striking
surroundings, with friendly and attentive service and food that was
well-prepared but not exactly exciting. My winter squash soup was a low-calorie
puree with diced cubes of roasted potato and just a hint of sweetness (pear, as
I recall), and my grilled pork chop was thick and juicy, nicely complemented by
whipped sweet potatoes, roasted golden beets and a chutney of walnuts and
raisins. Carol’s menu started with a rather bland fennel salad, followed by
grilled coho salmon served over Israeli couscous and baby zucchini with a hint
of a citrus sauce. I thought the salmon was a bit dry; Carol didn’t. Neither of
us was very impressed by our desserts – a cranberry upside down cake with a
citrus sorbet, and an almond, apple, and crystallized ginger cake with almond cream and cream cheese ice cream.
Bottom line: an enjoyable evening, and the self-guided iPod audio tour, narrated by director Joe
Dowling and several Guthrie actors, was a fun little bonus at the end. But I am
glad I didn’t pay full a la carte prices. When it opened, Cue was vying for a spot on the short list of top
Twin Cities destination restaurants. Now it seems more like a convenient but
pricy place to dine before the show.
It’s
January and I’m ecstatic. Well, ecstatic like someone who has crossed a
marathon finish line and can finally stop running. I love the holidays.
But I loved them lots more before I knew the whole damn show was
powered by one frenzied woman on a gerbil wheel – and she’s me.
This year there were a few new wrinkles to Christmas beyond finding
the perfect gift, getting the kids to smile in the Christmas picture
and keeping the artichoke dip warm at the party. Now that my children
are a bit older at the esteemed ages of 4 and 6, they’re starting to
ask questions that are, well… hard. And the balancing act of Santa vs. Nativity Story has officially begun. Or as I call it, “the pink Jesus in the room.”
Our vague “Do Unto Others” philosophy that we’ve taught our
un-baptized children works all right most of the year. But then there’s
Christmas and the Christmas Story (not the one with the BB Gun – the
other one) and it’s non-stop Jesus talk. Once my daughter came home
from preschool in tears because a child told her that “when you love
Santa it makes baby Jesus cry.” We couldn’t ignore it any longer.
It’s not that I’m against Jesus, I have even found myself describing
him to my children as “a really nice guy.” I understand that’s short
shrift for the man that inspired the Christianity movement, but
honestly, I feel like he’s been co-opted as the spokes-deity for a
political movement I’d rather not be associated with.
So to avoid completely resigning the Season to a red-suited man
driving a Norelco shaver across the snow (shout-out to anyone who
watched any TV in the 80’s), I went on-line and researched Advent.
Every December Sunday, we lit a candle, read a story with the theme of
generosity and talked about how we could each be a light in the world
like Jesus – and hey, his birthday happens to be coming up!
I’m not claiming it was perfect, but the kids liked the ceremony,
the story or at least the flames. It spurred many interesting
conversations and we even “adopted” a family in need on our quest to be
that light our world desperately needs. It helped cast Jesus as less of
a red-state politico and more of an actual “nice guy.”
All in all, it was a satisfying experiment and I’m even trying to
carry it on the 11-months when the Nativity is packed away. Most
surprisingly, I feel common ground with religious conservatives who
pull their kids from public schools because, for now anyway, when it
comes to spirituality we’re home schoolers.
Lucie B. Amundsen is a writer and editor in the Twin Cities. Her
family oriented essays have been heard the podcast, Mombo and Minnesota
Public Radio’s "All Things Considered” and “In The Loop."
Here’s how we end up at Gusto Cafe & Wine Bar in Hopkins:
It’s Saturday evening and we have nothing to do because the party we thought we were attending actually is next week (someone — that would be me — put it on the wrong space in the calendar) and all the kids are occupied elsewhere and it’s too late to make dinner reservations. So we decide to hit a cheap movie.
We intend to see American Gangster, which has Russell Crowe, so how bad can it be? But we get to the theater two minutes too late and walk in at the end of what looks like a pivotal opening scene involving bloodshed, then sit down next to three young boys who proceed to giggle and text message one another. After 20 minutes, I admit to my husband in a whisper that I have no idea what’s going on. So we get up and walk down the hall.
If we wait 20 minutes the ticket taker tells us, we can see Dan in Real LIfe instead, which has Steve Carell, Juliette Binoche, and Dianne Wiest, so how bad can it be? Well! Where to begin?
Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. . . .
This is a film that manages to be both tedious and irritating, with just enough cloying drama to keep you from thinking about something more compelling — say, tomorrow’s grocery list; or what you might want said at your own funeral — but nothing that will lift or transport or even amuse you into forgetting you’re sitting on a scratchy theater seat in Hopkins.
It’s about two brothers (Carell is one; a comedian named Dane Cook the other) who fall for the same woman (Binoche) for reasons that remain murky. She’s got a sexy bottom — this is demonstrated in a looonnnngg aerobics workout scene — but no personality to speak of and she crashes into the film’s opening segment expressing some breathy angst that you assume will be central to the plot but it never becomes really clear.
Yet we wait out the entire movie — and I know you’ve been here — thinking it will get better or maybe even worse but different in some way that’s interesting. Besides, it’s our second attempt of the evening and the adjoining seats are full of old people, so no one is text messaging. Plus, we paid only $2.50 apiece for our tickets, which is the great thing about going to the Hopkins Cinema, but still, that’s $5 and there’s nothing else going on and the party is next week and what are we going to do if we end up leaving anyway?
So we grit our teeth through exactly one hour and 39 minutes and after the movie’s denouement, involving the obligatory fistfight between brothers and a touching scene with three vapid, wide-eyed children and a raucous wedding where everyone dances, we walk down the street because at this point, we’re both really craving alcohol.
Also, we’ve been meaning to try Gusto.
It turns out to be a warm, twinkly little storefront bistro on Mainstreet Hopkins, just down the block from the antique shop and directly across from the tattoo parlor. We walk in and take two stools at the 4-seat bar. They are, by the way, the cushiest, most comfortable barstools I’ve ever occupied — with thick padding and high backs — putting those theater seats to shame.
The wine menu is pretty ordinary, for the most part: McManis Viognier and Avalon Cab. But it also offers both the blanc and rouge varieties of the M. Chapoutier Cotes-du-Rhone that I’m forever crowing about. And on the very tail of the white list is a wine I’ve never even heard of: Oremus Tokaji 2004, from Hungary.
So we order it because, I mean, how bad can it be?
And it isn’t! In fact, it’s surprisingly terrific: full and complex and smooth, like the whites of southern France, but limned with the flavor of something entirely foreign. The scent is intensely citrusy, a twist of lemon and lime, but the taste is orchard-like: pear, apple, a little kiwi and green pepper. Then it settles on the roof of the mouth — almost as if it gravitates upward — with a lingering finish of burnt sugar or caramel. The alcohol content is 13% and you can feel it, a nice low burn like vodka on mute.
Turns out Hungary is now an emerging fine wine exporter, thanks to the fall of communism (which opened up winemaking as a commercial enterprise), a recent surge in tourism, and a boatload of French investors. Tokaj, a city in the northern part of the country, has been famous for its vineyards since around 1067. Think swords and shields and storming Huns.
But back to Hopkins:
Chuck Venables, a Parasole ex-pat (he worked in various roles, both chef and front-of-the-house, at Blue Point, Buca, and Manny’s) and former manager at the Graves 601 Hotel, opened Gusto in April 2006. He wanted something closer to his house, he says; also, he believes in the way the city is changing.
"I wouldn’t have done this five years ago," Venables tells me. "Hopkins wasn’t ready. But today. . . ."
Indeed. It appears Hopkins IS ready, because the place is full. Every table in the tiny dining room is occupied and a well-dressed couple has claimed the other two seats at the bar. The food going by on its way out of the kitchen looks wonderful, and the used plates going back in are uniformly scraped clean.
There’s a happy mix of voices in the room and a faint scent of garlic, bacon, and cream hanging in the air. Prices are on the high end for this part of the metro: our three glasses of wine (one each and one to share) come to $39 without tip. But the place is so pleasant, with its suede-colored walls and black wrought-iron chandeliers, this is fairly easy to forgive.
We sit for a while and consider dinner but decide ultimately that it’s been a long evening already, we’re just recovered from the aggressive mediocrity of the movie, have thoroughly enjoyed our wine and, frankly, don’t feel like pushing our luck.
So we leave and walk through the still, quaint streets of downtown Hopkins to our car. Snow crunches beneath our feet. And across the street, the dim glow of the tattoo parlor lights our way through an iridescent low-hanging fog.