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  • Before It's too Late: Tom Snyder

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    The bridge disaster put a hit on my carefully planned blog schedule. (I’ve been reading through the local papers from the first days after — I was out of town when it happened — and will offer deep thoughts in the not too distant future. I know, hearts be still.)

    But I gotta say something about Tom Snyder, whose death was obscured, not just by the bridge over I-35W, but by the simultaneous passings of film legends Ingmar Bergman (somebody … please … another full-scale retrospective … fresh prints … especially Wild Strawberries and Persona), Michelangelo Antonioni (ditto, La Notte), and Bill Walsh. (Do you really think Brad Childress has read ANY of Walsh’s stuff?)

    I was a Snyder fan. The guy was the perfect night-capper: curious, smart enough, inclined to be goofy but not a comic, flappable, affable, approachable and occasionally maudlin. The kind of guy you figured spent the previous night out on the town chatting up cabbies and players, and was perfectly comfortable telling stories about the boss(es) with a cocktail in his hand — i.e. an evolved, easy to be around human being. For God’s sake, the man even SMOKED on camera. (It was relaxing watching him smoke. The cigarette was a prop he used well. It conveyed relaxation.) And he admitted smoking pot to Barbara Walters. And he managed — more or less — to get The Clash to sit still for an interview, (during their legendary Bonds’ concerts in Times Square in 1981).

    I met Snyder only once, in L.A. maybe 10 years ago, during his brief come-back. By that point the game had shifted and he was doing kind of a caricature of himself, almost as though that’s what the suits expected. But in his prime Snyder possessed — and was allowed to express — a quality largely missing from television today, despite the fact there are roughly 150 more functioning channels than when he was doing his thing.

    What gives? Why can’t a character who isn’t as self-involved and self-serious as Charlie Rose, or as embalmed and … incurious … as Larry King, interview people from the entire range of modern culture — novelists, government leaders, rockers, athletes, firebrand politicos, other media egos? My understanding has always been that in the fragmented media game of 2007, every niche has its go-to interview guy/gal and the rules more or less require them to play within their demographic zone. That is to say, if on MTV, stick to pop foo-foo. If on ESPN, don’t wander far from sports. Stick with the games and the careers, and obviously don’t even try to trot say, Jonathan Franzen onto MTV, or Win Butler from Arcade Fire onto The Best Damn Sports Show.

    The lack of a character like Snyder, or hell, even like Dick Cavett, bothers me. Although Cavett, who I also enjoyed and appreciated, had a lot more of that Upper East Side ‘tude going for him than Snyder. (Never mind that Cavett was born in Nebraska and Snyder in Milwaukee. Both are also the same age, interestingly enough.) Their act — Snyder’s in particular — shouldn’t be that tough to replicate. But I don’t have the feeling anyone is even trying.

    PBS should be able to pull off something like this. But somehow everything that goes through the PBS de-flavorizer, (TM — Neal Karlen), ends up too self-consciously proper and measured, with no room for a prankish stupid question or two. And God knows you couldn’t smoke.

    I really have nothing more to say on the subject, other than it strikes me as odd that Snyder’s shtick, and it was pretty natural as shticks go — isn’t playing anywhere, nationally or locally.

    If any of you think of someone who meets the criteria, remind me.

    Here is a collection of Snyder’s “classic bits”. Steven Spielberg, Alfred Hitchcock. a very young Bono, Charlie Manson, Johnny Rotten.

    Nice range, dude.

    I looked for Dan Aykroyd’s impersonation of Snyder and couldn’t find it.

  • The Strip Club, and other Town Talk Talk

    I get a little grumpy every time I set foot inside the Town Talk Diner at 27th and E. Lake in Minneapolis. The decibel level is overwhelming, especially in the bar, which not only makes it hard to have a conversation, but pushes me towards morbid thoughts of how I am becoming one of those cranky old geezers who complains about the noise levels in restaurants. The place is always packed with customers, who don’t seem to mind the decibel level one bit – in fact, they are creating most of it – which only makes me crankier. What on earth was my esteemed former Star Tribune colleague Rick Nelson – whom I usually agree with – thinking when he gave this place three and a half stars?
    Then the food shows up, and the three-and-a-half star rating starts to make a little more sense. We only ordered a few dishes, but they were just about perfect: a creamy corn soup with spicy croutons; a citrus and avocado salad sprinkled with pine nuts, and a very simple grilled cheese sandwich with avocado, accompanied by superb hot-from-the-fryer french fries, tossed with garlic and parsley. I’m still not convinced of the three and a half stars, but then again, I am a cranky kind of guy. There’s lots more on the menu I would like to try, including the lamb braised with sumac ($18.95); the pan-roasted chicken breast ($17.95), and the Town Talk Pancakes with maple syrup, butter and bacon ($8.95).
    Pretty soon one of the owners, Tim Niver, spots me, so it’s possible that I got a much better grilled cheese sandwich than I would have gotten otherwise, but I doubt it. Niver dishes up a juicy tidbit of info: he and his partners are working on a neighborhood steak house in Saint Paul’s Dayton’s Bluff neighborhood – to be called The Strip Club. An October opening is planned.
    We were actually headed over to the new cafe two doors away, T’s Place, currently the world’s only Ethiopian-Malaysian restaurant. Owner Tee Belachew learned to cook Malaysian dishes from Malaysian chef Kin Lee during their brief partnership at the ill-fated Singapore! restaurant in south Minneapolis. But it turned out that only the Ethiopian side of the menu was available last night – chef Tee had left the restaurant earlier in the evening, when he got word that his wife was giving birth to their first child. Congratulations, Tee! We’ll be back soon, to try the Ethio-Asian fried rice and Tee’s chicken curry.
    Town Talk Diner, 2707 1/2 E. Lake St., Minneapolis,.
    T’s Place, 2713 E. Lake St., Minneapolis. (no phone number available.)

  • Take this cup and drink from it

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    My mother is a gifted caretaker.

    She’s nursed me through three births and two surgeries. I’ve watched her sit with dozens of friends and relatives who were sick or grieving. When I was very young, she volunteered at a hospital and I remember the things she told me when I would go with her: people who are frightened or heartbroken need to be touched, carbohydrates are comforting, those who are stricken often want to talk.

    It was with these things in mind that I made dinner last week for friends whose teenage son had been killed suddenly in an accident. Remembering all my mother’s wisdom, I made a very simple meal: marinated chicken, cold tortellini and vegetables, a green salad with fresh strawberries and a balsamic vinegar dressing.

    Midafternoon, my husband called to ask what kind of wine he should pick up. I had never seen this couple consume alcohol. And the funeral for their son had been a conservative Christian ceremony with incense and scripture, so I told him the wine likely was unimportant. But just in case, could he get something very light, easy and drinkable, a Viognier, or perhaps a Vinho Verde.

    He came home with a wine I’d never before seen: Pavão Vinho Verde, with a picture of a peacock on the label and no vintage.

    Our friends arrived at 6:30, clearly exhausted but bearing a gift for us. At first, they refused anything but water, sitting close on our couch, holding hands. “We’ve lost our appetites,” the husband admitted. He didn’t need to: both of them were worn-looking, drawn and small.

    Like many parents, I’ve dreamed that one of my children was dead and I know what it’s like to awaken with my heart pounding and my legs full of ice. I’ve written a novel in which I imagined the death of a child for the characters, and it felt — for those few minutes that I made myself re-live the nightmares — like a loud, black, empty place from which there was absolutely no escape. There is, I think, a wildness to this grief: something you must work every minute to contain. What I wanted, more than anything, was to reach through that darkness if only for a few minutes.

    We moved to the table. These two gracious people took tiny spoonfuls and placed them on their plates. Then they sat staring at them, as if wondering how it would be possible to open their bodies enough to put the food in.

    My husband offered wine. “I would take a little,” the wife said. “Maybe half a glass.” So we opened the peacock wine and I tasted it, hoping it would be right. And it was. The most utterly drinkable white I’ve ever had: not so effervescent as other Vinho Verdes and a little drier, too, but lemony and clear and glinting with a touch of steel.

    I’m not a believer in the divine intervention of God or the wisdom of the world — I don’t adhere to the “everything happens for a reason” school of thought. But if there is luck, it was with us that night. The couple tasted the wine and said, as if surprised, “This is good!” Both of them pushed their glasses forth.

    Do I care that they drank or that the wine was successful? No. Here’s what I care about: their world was gentled, however slightly. Because I recalled another of my mother’s donations to my bank of knowledge — a little wine or beer can stimulate the appetites of people who need desperately to eat: the elderly, pain patients, those who are lost in grief.

    The light dimmed, which helped somehow. The gift our friends had brought was a rosewood candle with a wooden wick and we lit it. I watched as our guests relaxed, the wine and the candlelight softening their world, if only for an hour. Over dinner, we talked about their son, about his love of cars and his mastery of certain video games and his plans to attend college in the fall. Once or twice, they laughed. And they actually ate.

    It is my business to talk about the qualities of wine and most of the time I do this as if the substance itself is the focus. In this case, however, the wine was simply a palliative — one that the savior in whom our friends believe ardently offered to his followers when times were tough.

    It was comforting, just as my mother said it would be. And for that, I am grateful.

  • The Book of Pops

    Looking for a great Fringe Festival show to see this weekend? Go see Ben Kreilkamp’s The Book of Pops. Here are a few video previews of some of my favorite scenes.

    The Book of Pops will be performed Friday at 10 p.m. and Sunday at 6 p.m., at the Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949.

  • Sibling Revelry

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    Soooooo my sister is coming to town.

    With my natural hospitality tinged by a pinch of sibling rivalry, it means that I need to bring my A-game … without it seeming like I’m bringing my A-game.

    I have to pull off flavorful and different, while exuding simplicity and ease.

    Spain may be the key. I’ve already started a big vat of Sangria for the weekend, so I might as well carry through. While many cutting edge gastronauts are Spanish, there really are so many accessible and yummy Spanish eats that won’t freak out the average eater.

    Nothing is cleaner, fresher and more disarmingly simple than a true gazpacho: a real garden-to-kitchen creation that allows for personal interpretation.

    If you’ve had a lackluster paella, then you probably poo-poo the dish. But don’t punish your gut, punish the cook. Great paella just takes focus and seriously fresh ingredients.

    Keeping a couple tins of ventresca on hand always pays off. When people arrive and we start milling around, filling glasses and making introductions, I can just slip a little on a plate with some roasted red peppers, capers, cornichons, crusty toasted bread, serrano ham, idiazabal and voila: instant tapas.

    Score one for the fat sister.

    Sangria, roughly.
    Here’s what I do: take a 3L jug of cheap dry red wine. Pour it all out into a non-reactive bowl (plastic or glass). I throw in about 1 cup of sugar, 1/2 cup Cointreau, and 1 cup of brandy. Then I slice all manner of fruit: oranges (squeeze them in), granny smith apples, carambola, grapes, plums, apricots,a peach maybe. Throw them in and stir everything about so that the sugar is dissolved. Stick it in the fridge for at least 4 hours, better if you can leave it overnight.

    If you’ve done it on the short, you can leave the fruit. If you’ve let it sit for 8 or more hours, scrap the old fruit and add a few fresh new slices. For pretty pretty: cut blood oranges, halved grapes and slices carambola.

    Serve over ice.

  • The Grindstone And The Garden

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    …if people who expect nothing come away empty-handed, then there really is no hope.

    —William Maxwell, Time Will Darken It

    The dead flicker like candles around you. They are burning their memories for warmth.

    —Kelly Link, “Flying Lessons”

    This world is full of war criminals, many of whom have never fired a weapon in their lives. Most of them don’t commence their truly devastating assaults until the enemy has laid down its arms.

    What good are fighting words in a world where there are no longer any fair fights?

    At any rate, let me start by thanking you for a few moments of your time. I’m genuinely grateful. I always try to be genuinely grateful.

    My fingers have all been broken and my tongue was nearly cut from my face.

    Listen: hear that? Yes, that’s right, almost silence. I’ve let the clock go. It was the sound of another time, other nights, a soundtrack of sorts for the strange, confusing, often magical nights behind me.

    I’ve moved on.

    The pygmy with the long shadow –a sort of giant pygmy, if such a thing is possible, and I’m here to tell you that I believe it is– has gone off to swing its wrecking ball at other targets.

    Protege of a Shar-peian witch who had a prodigious and legendary libido and kept a stunted oaf captive in her cellar, the pygmy was a dog killer and a ferocious biter, a sociopathic narcissist trapped in the amber of its own damage, prisoner of its obsessive routines, haunted childhood, and self-created myths; a spectacular creature, really, but one must ultimately be willing to pronounce a monster a monster and leave it at that.

    Oh, make no mistake, the pygmy was remarkably gifted so far as monsters and myth-makers go; alas, as an imitation of a human being (which it seemingly aspired to be) considerably less so. Still, yes, no getting around it, a marvel, a chimera, an absolutely indestructible (and destructive) beast who was able to go about the world in a carefully contrived costume of vulnerability.

    It’s amazing how many people are charmed out of their shoes –sometimes literally– by the appearance of vulnerability.

    I tip my hat, really I do, even as I am somehow both relieved and saddened to be rid of the monster once and for all.

  • Drinking with Minneapolis

    drinkwithian.jpgIt all started a couple years ago with Bob. Bob started video taping his 60-second rant and posting them online. These were your typical daily rants, rants about the news, rants about the world, rants about Tyra Bank’s dolphin phobia — Drinking with Bob — rants that you could hear at any bar on a Friday night, after a long week of work — only they were taken out of context, just a 60-second rants into the void (ok, in this case, cyberspace). The guy was funny, is funny — hilarious in fact. Some time last year, my boss at the interactive advertising agency where I was working went on and on in a meeting about the beauty of Drinking with Ian. “You’re sure it’s not Bob,” I asked. It wasn’t. It isn’t. And while he might not be the most original act in town, he’s certainly funny. But here’s the real comedy: you could a part of his act tonight. I don’t have the full details, but there’s a Drinking with Ian live televised event at First Avenue tonight. Go out and flaunt your stuff.

    Friday at 8 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612-332-1775; $5.

    PERFORMANCE
    Burlesque in Minneapolis

    natalie_icon.jpgIf you’ve previously experienced Le Cirque Rouge de Gus Cabaret and Burlesque! then I don’t have to say a word. This is great stuff, folks. How often do you get anything even remotely resembling burlesque in Minnesota? I don’t know; maybe I’m missing something here. Apart from a few theatrical performances each year that include short skirts and perhaps even a funny hat, we’re not much of a burlesque town. (Strip clubs don’t count, people. I don’t consider a cooch grinding in my face burlesque at all. It’s just not funny. Slightly parodic perhaps, but not funny.) Just go. Check it out. Give a little more kudos to the 331 Club for all the cool stuff that they’re doing.

    Saturday at 10 p.m., 331 Club, 331 N.E. 13th Ave., Minneapolis; 612-331-1746.

    MUSIC
    Damn, We’re Lucky!

    Friday:
    Son Volt is playing with former Leatherwoods and Jayhawks drummer Tim O’Reagan at the Minnesota Zoo ($27).
    Mason Jennings is playing with the fabulous Pieta Brown at the 400 Bar.
    Bruce Henry is serving up his jazz and blues blend “with echoes of Luther Vandross,” at the Dakota Jazz Club and Restaurant.
    Johnny Winter is sharing his old school whiteman blues at the Cabooze. You really shouldn’t miss this master guitarman.
    And Keyshia Cole is offering up a little R&B at Trocaderos ($45.25, table-seated VIP $83, couch-seated VIP $110.50).
    How are you going to choose?!

    Saturday: The Rentals

    mattrentals.jpgWhen bassist Matt Sharp left Weezer, the group he cofounded, in 1998, he traded in stardom for something a bit more obscure. Listening to The Rentals (Sharp’s main project since the mid-’90s), there’s a sense that their songs are targeted at the mainstream, yet the band itself tends toward shyness. Since their 1995 single “Friends of P,” The Rentals’ tunes have been delightfully poppy, but still somehow enigmatic — uplifting melodies pinned down by mournful lyrics. Their new album, The Last Life EP, builds on their past work, offering densely layered (think synthesizers, synthesizers, and more synthesizers) yet delightfully harmonic songs. Expect an all-out rock performance, even though several of the band members are prone to wear thick, face-obscuring glasses. — by Max Ross

    Saturday at 6 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Ave. N., Minneapolis; 612-332-1775; $16.

    Also here this weekend, before continuing the tour, is our very own Sick of Sarah. Saturday at 8:30 p.m., at the Cabooze, Minneapolis; Sunday at 9 p.m., Dinkytowner, Minneapolis.

    NOTE: I’ll be updating this post shortly with a few great videos for the Fringe Fest show you should look out for this weekend.

  • Back To Zero: Ptolemy's Heroes

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    A history of zero    .

    Null.

    Nil    .

    Naught.

    Nada    .

    Zip    .

    Zippo    .

    Goose eggs    .

  • Mix 'n Commingle

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    Notice: There is actually a respectable fashion event going down tonight. However, in my dual roles as theater and fashion writer (and a triple as a full-time employee), I’m afraid I’ll be missing Commingle in favor of catching one, maybe two Fringe Festival shows this evening. Nevertheless, my fashionable friends, this Commingle show was a fine piece of entertainment when last year I saw the thing. The clothes weren’t all that, as I recall (at least for the likes of an old lady like me). But the music was topnotch.

  • Gin and Cobbler

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    lucky boozers…

    Am I becoming disenchanted with my favorite show?

    I’m ok with cross-marketing when it highlights chefs and their restaurants, or maybe a high quality name brand ingredient or sweet blender or something. But I’m a little worried when Cold Stone asks the kids to come up with a Mix-In for ice cream as a challenge. No wonder Hung went all freaky with the cauliflower foam, isn’t this supposed to be high-level sutff? And worse yet, before they cut to commercial, they highlighted Dale’s wining peach cobbler recipe and tagged it “which is a perfect pairing with Bombay Sapphire Gin” and a big ol’ graphic of the blue genie bottle. Yeah, because when I’m indulging in creamy-peachy-fruity all I’m looking for is sharp and piney to wash it down. It was a disgusting plug for their Perfect Pairings promotion, which OOOPS has been canceled for 2007.

    But maybe that was the theme this episode, drunk consumption.

    I liked the fact that they had to cook for clubbers from a hot-truck. That they thought they were going out to party and had to work instead, well that actually happens in the real restaurant world quite a bit. When a cook walks off the line in the middle of a Saturday night, it doesn’t matter if you have tickets to the moon, somebody’s gotta cook.

    The chick factor bugged me. Sara wore the heels to dance in, but she can’t grocery shop in them? Suck it up sister, there isn’t a grrrrl cook in the world who hasn’t come home from the club with a gaggle of hungry drunks that demand sustenance. I can picture a particular New Year’s with my husband flipping hashbrowns dangerously low to the floor while I made sure my earrings didn’t fall into the eggs. Way it goes.

    As for my boy Brian, did he put on a show or what? I’m still a little whipped over CJ (you know I like ’em tall), but Brian knows how to work a crowd and I think he should have won the challenge. Tre’s food looked really good, but Brian threw the party and kept the eaters hooked. When you think about what it takes to run a restaurant, to read what the guest wants and deliver it, that’s a Top Chef.

    And what about Govind? Was he the most boring guest judge yet? All I could think about was poor Dale, dinner conversation might have been the tougher challenge. Unless it was sponsored by Bombay.