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  • Pavane for a Dead Sculptor

    The melancholy in the eyes of the gorilla imprisoned in the zoo, I think it is real. He is confounded by the loss of his freedom. He sorrows at what his captors have evolved into.

    Minneapolis has two life-size bronze sculptures of gorillas by the late British artist Angus Fairhurst, who this past March committed suicide by hanging himself from a tree in a forest in England at the age of 41. One of them is in the courtyard of the Chambers Hotel at Ninth and Hennepin; the other is sited on the green outside the west window of the Walker Art Center.

    Fairhurst had a gift for imparting a brusque and powerful animality to clay, pressing life into it with his palms and his thumbs, building the figures in a way that I think gorillas themselves might do it if only they could. The bronzes are empathic. They make me feel what it is to be a gorilla, thickly stupid in some ways, surprisingly intelligent in others–not that different, in other words, from the condition of being a man. Now they are husks, all that’s left of Fairhurst’s struggle to inhabit his own body, a beast that in the end he could only subdue by choosing to kill it. No one can presume to say why.

     

    The gorilla in the Chambers courtyard is cordoned off and hemmed in by chairs and tables on all four sides. Fairhurst titled it, "A Couple of Differences Between Thinking and Feeling." The figure stands gorilla-style, the weight of its massive torso supported on the knuckles of its right hand as it gazes down upon its left arm, which–it is a shock to see–lies severed on the ground before him, lopped off like the limb of a tree. Looking at the gorilla’s face, it’s impossible to plumb what he’s thinking or feeling as he contemplates this part of himself that is no longer part of himself: Unspeakable pain? Detachment? Perplexity? Incomprehension? It’s hard to say, and, unable to cross the threshold of speech, he can’t tell us either. He isn’t even a faithful replication of a gorilla. The way the clay was worked, kneaded and pressed, formed into lumps and concavities, the surface doesn’t look anything like the hirsute coat of a gorilla. It’s closer to something like scar tissue or wads of putty, melted wax or clumps of tar. Every passage in the sculpting of it is evidence of an impassioned and playful hand, but the piece, in tragic retrospect, speaks of a man amputated from his own hope of connecting, the discounted instrument of his grasp lying inert on the ground.

    Crouched low on the lawn outside the Walker is Fairhurst’s other gorilla, this one rapt by the reflection of its face in a pool. His monumental hands grip the edges of the simulated pool of mirror-polished stainless steel as if to prevent the image from escaping his grasp. Every vector of his body says that his eyes cannot drink enough of what they see. Avid for the image, his body is tensed and alert-parallel to the ground but hovering over it like its lover, his whole force straining towards the object of its fascination, one leg advancing as though thinking of entering the pool.

    What does he see? His head is so close to the mirror that unless you get down on the grass to look up into his face you cannot see his eyes, only their reflection in the mirror facing the sky. The gorilla in the Chambers courtyard has no eyes to speak of; just sockets, almost as though he is too dim to have a pair to see out of. But this one, titled "The Birth of Consistency," sees, and is transfixed-it could be with horror, it could be he’s seeing the birth of Comedy, we cannot be sure. He is in the throes of the revelation of what is to follow, the next stage, the stage that will lead to us. Narcissus puts his lips to the pool; the image trembles, dissolves. Before he left this life, Angus Fairhurst cast in bronze all his longing to be one with it. It is a pity he is dead; until he stared into one too long, he was a mirror to the world.

  • Why Wacko Jacko Must Play Poe

    Given Edgar Allan Poe’s well-known fear of being buried alive, the
    claim that the horror writer and poet "must be rolling over in his
    grave" at the prospect of Sylvester Stallone writing and directing the
    biopic Poe is more than rote recitation of cliché. It’s definitely a
    curious way for 61-year-old Sly to follow-up the cinematic Cialis he
    recently gave to both the Rocky and Rambo franchises.

    It’s also yet another bizarre turn in the trajectory of Poe’s
    pop-culture legacy. First an NFL team, the Baltimore Ravens, takes its
    name from his poem (its raven mascots are named Edgar, Allan, and Poe).
    Then Poe’s great-great nephew, actor-musician Edgar Allan Poe IV,
    appeared as the ghost of his great-great uncle on the sitcom Sabrina,
    The Teenage Witch
    . A fictionalized Poe was also found sleuthing murders
    with King of the Wild Frontier Davey Crockett in The Alienist-ish novel
    Nevermore.

    Yet it’s not the idea that the star of arm-wrestling epic Over The Top
    or Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot is doing a Poe movie that bothers me (the
    man did write his own ticket with his script the original Rocky; let’s
    show him some respect).

    Even Stallone’s rumored casting notions (Robert Downey Jr., Viggo
    Mortenson) seem on target—if too buff—for his portrait of the tortured
    genius. So what’s the problem? It’s just that prospect of any Poe movie
    being made renders Michael Jackson’s long-dormant dream of starring as
    Edgar Allan Poe even more unlikely-and that’s a problem for me. Could
    Wacko Jacko fall in the footsteps of Apollo Creed and Clubber Lang, and
    become yet another black man knocked out by the Italian Stallion?
    That’s no way to celebrate the 25th anniversary of Thriller.

    Some background: In 2000, USA Today reported that the King Of Pop had
    finally seen the "very scary" script for his European-funded vanity
    project The Nightmares of Edgar Allan Poe and was gearing up to "devote
    himself full-time to preparing for the role" of the author.

    It was mind-blowing news, even by the (high? low?) standards of
    tabloid staple Wacko Jacko, one that lends itself to jokes: Will he
    instruct "The Tell-Tale Heart" to "just beat it?" Could we next expect
    Jacko’s opportunistic sister Latoya to star as Virginia Woolf in A Room
    of One’s Own?
    Would Emmanuel "Webster" Lewis be cast as Poe’s
    child-bride Virginia? Would "The Raven" be replaced by Bubbles The
    Chimp? Would we quoth The Raven "Mama-Say-Mama-Sa Mama-Tu Sa?"

    And yes, the racial angle of the MJ casting also raised questions,
    among them: How confused would’ve the late playwright August Wilson
    been? But, let’s be honest — casting MJ as Poe is not as problematic
    as, say, casting El DeBarge as Nathaniel Hawthorne. Whether it’s
    because of the skin disease vitiligo, cosmetic bleaching or a
    combination of both, Jackson’s pallid complexion looks even more Goth
    than portraits of Poe’s pale visage. The issue here is not casting a
    black man to play a white man; it’s casting an alien mannequin drag
    queen apparently sculpted out of soap to play a white man.

    Nonetheless, the King of Pop insists that he feels connected to Poe,
    and maybe—DEFINITELY—because of the fact that I was obsessed with both
    Jacko and Poe in elementary school, I believe him. Before we give
    Michael’s movie a premature burial, let us consider the connections
    between these two eerie American icons, "thrillers" both—and implore
    Sylvester Stallone to do the same.

    Both Jackson and Poe are arguably the most popular American export in
    their respective fields, and major influences on those who followed.
    Baudelaire was said to make his morning prayers to God and Edgar Allen
    Poe, and Justin Timberlake and Usher are obviously both Michael Jackson
    impersonators trying to moonwalk in MJ’s fleet footsteps.

    There is also symmetry to their scandals. They both have been accused
    of pedophilia; at the very least, they share a penchant for PYTs
    (Pretty Young Things): Poe married his 13-year-old cousin Virginia, and
    Jackson has hosted many a sleepover with 13-year-old boys. Thus, their
    sexuality has been wildly speculated about. In a posthumous
    psychoanalysis of Poe, Dr. Maria Bonaparte theorized that Poe was
    celibate, entertained thoughts of necrophilia and suffered from a
    castration complex (her mentor, Dr. Sigmund Freud provided the preface
    for this study).

    Despite vehement assertions to Diane Sawyer, many said the same (well,
    minus the necrophilia and castration stuff) of Jackson’s marriages to
    Lisa Marie Presley and later, to his plastic surgeon’s nurse, Debbie
    Rowe, even though they had two children together. (I’d also bet that
    the paternity suit of a certain Billie Jean would get thrown out of
    court in a hurry.)

    They both struggled with financial difficulties despite being among
    the best at what they did. Many historians say Poe was an opium addict;
    Jackson revealed he had an addiction to the painkiller Demerol in court
    papers. They both explored the pull of drugs in their work. Here’s
    Poe’s narrator from "Ligeia," seeing visions of his dead lover: "In the
    excitement of my opium dream (for I was habitually fettered in the
    shackles of the drug), I would call aloud her name …"

    Here’s Jackson, from Blood On The Dance Floor’s "Morphine":

    Demerol Demerol Oh God he’s taking Demerol
    Hee-hee-hee Demerol Demerol Oh my oh God it’s Demerol
    Hee Oooh

    Then there’s the Vincent Price connection. Price, of course, was the
    on-screen embodiment of Poe’s work in such Roger Corman films as The
    Pit and the Pendulum
    , The Masque Of The Red Death, and The Cask Of
    Amontillado
    . He also provided the rap and maniacal cackle on the title
    track of Jackson’s Thriller.

    That’s not all. They both had a less-talented, oft-maligned brother
    named Tito. Yep, that’s right — Tito Allan Poe. They both (except
    Jackson) are widely credited with inventing the modern detective story.
    They both (except Poe) were known for wearing a single white sequined
    glove, allegedly wanting to buy the Elephant Man’s bones, and getting
    their scalp burned by a pyrotechnic mishap while shooting a Pepsi
    commercial.

    Sure, skeptics may assert that Poe has a better chance of writing a
    sequel to The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym before The Nightmares of
    Edgar Allan Poe
    would take any Oscars, or even Golden Globes. Then
    there’s always the camp that will insist that Prince does and will
    always do everything better than Jackson. But those people obviously
    haven’t seen Under The Cherry Moon lately, and I think Michael’s turn
    as The Scarecrow in 1978’s The Wiz proves he can update classic
    material,) These maybe nonexistent critics are also forgetting that
    Jackson has worked with both Francis Ford Coppola (Disney’s 3-D Captain
    Eo, to these eyes, a primary influence on The Matrix and Neo) and
    Martin Scorsese (MJ’s "Bad" video, which featured Wesley Snipes as a
    gang-banger challenging prep-schooler MJ’s manhood) back when that
    meant really something.

    Whether Jackson as Poe is bad meaning bad, or bad meaning good, or so
    bad it’s good, who knows? But even if you don’t take into account
    movie’s off-the-scale camp genius potential (R. Kelly’s "Trapped In The
    Closet" would be rendered a trifle by comparison); think of Jackson as
    an ambassador of American literature. I don’t know how big Poe’s work
    is in Filipino prisons, but I bet he’ll be huge there after this movie.
    So it is with this argument that I must ask Sylvester Stallone
    resurrect another ‘80s icon, and cast Michael Jackson as Poe. C’mon
    Rock, make a nightmare come true.

  • My Winnipeg


    Guy Maddin
    has spent his career trying to replicate the 1920’s German
    and Russian silent filmmakers’ styles. To see today’s stars, like
    Isabella Rossellini, splashed on the silver screen in The Saddest Music in the World in archaic textured film is a surreal experience. But Maddin has taken surreal to a whole new level in his latest film, My Winnipeg.

    Described by Maddin as a "Docu-fantasia," My Winnipeg
    portrays the director’s hometown and his experiences growing up there.
    The film is somewhat of therapy for Maddin, putting down in writing
    and on the big screen many of his remembrances, thoughts, opinions, and
    stories he heard while growing up in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. The
    melding of melo-dramatic silent-film style cinematography with archival
    footage from the past gives the film a real nostalgic feel.

    The
    documentary aspects illuminate the town and its
    history, and reflect the original intent of the film. Madden was
    originally commissioned by Michael Burns of the Documentary Channel in
    Canada to do an "enchanting" documentary that looks past the frozen
    tundra cliché about Winnipeg. In this vain, the film’s cinematography
    and use of archival footage present some beautiful imagery of Winnipeg.

    But
    it was impossible for Maddin to ignore the personal attachments and
    experiences he had to the city while growing up, and do a straight
    documentary. His Winnipeg wasn’t just the stories and history that were
    going on around him. It had to include the real-life circumstances and
    dramas of his childhood. So, he chose to use his distinctly nostalgic
    filmmaking style to re-create specific situations from his childhood in
    the movie. But he didn’t stop at just filming these situations, he
    actually rented out his childhood home to film the scenes where they
    actually happened.

    Maddin
    admits that there was some catharsis involved in the process. This is a
    real treat for viewers, though, as there is a rare vulnerability and
    self-disclosure of a filmmakers’ personal life. Maddin also narrates
    the film in a poetic fashion by talking about Winnepeg, ruminating
    about his experiences there and even riffing Jack Karouac-style on his
    city.

    There is no doubt that Guy Maddin has a connection to his hometown, and in My Winnipeg he lays it all out for everyone to see in dramatic black and white, surrounded by colorful words.

     

  • "Melly" does Colorado 🙂 JAP Style

    When my husband and I were asked to go on vacation to Colorado as a guest of our good friends the Swillers, how could we say no?

    Last week was filled with good memories and a lot of REALITY. After landing in Denver with the guys, we still had a three hour drive

    to Aspen ahead of us. Swiller was the designated driver

    of the upgraded rental car, an Escalade. I guess Swilly figured that,

    since I (the JAPrincess of the bunch) was on board, it would be important to have

    a vehicle that gave me and the guys some room.

    We all were getting along great until Cleveland Mike said, "Hey, there’s an outlet store

    over there."

    Big mistake, Mike, to tell the one chick on board that there was a shopping mall calling

    her name — especially when the clothes she was wearing were binding and uncomfortable. "I promise you guys that I only need five minutes at the Polo Outlet Store."

    Forty-two minutes later I was running around some random downtown area in Colorado

    looking for the Escalade with my JAPrinces.

    When I finally found them, I got "the look" of complete disgust.

    "What the hell happened to the five minutes? And your cell phone keeps

    ringing!"

    "Sorry, guys, but the customer service (men and woman) were a little bit

    confused by my presence and rotating wardrobe."

    Back in the car, I in my newly purchased Car Clothes, we resumed our journey to Aspen, Colorado.

    Bobby Swiller, who I have known since I was a very little Melly, was the perfect

    driver and information guy.

    Everything I needed to know about Colorado, from the minute we landed in Denver until the time we pulled up to Aspen, Bobby knew.

    It was the perfect long drive, except for the two-and-a-half mile Eisenhower tunnel, where

    I tried to hold my breath and make wishes without passing out. FYI: two of the three wishes

    came through on my trip. The family is happy and healthy. (Yea, yea… don’t share your

    wishes. But at this point, too late.)

    We arrived at our home away from home, the Grand Hyatt in downtown Aspen (guests of Bobby and Missy Swiller). The accommodations were perfect. Howard and I had our

    own room with two queen sized beds (you do the math on that deal) and a bathroom with

    products by Portico Spa. The first thing I did was jump into a bath filled with Eucalyptus

    essential oils and drown out the smell of Cleveland Mike, Swilly Willy, and Howie Hankie.

    I felt like such a guy that it felt good to see the girls after my bath.

    We were all together with our significant others and on our way to a fun-filled five days

    of Aspen, Colorado.

    Part two comes tomorrow.

    —Melly

  • Queers, Bad Girls and Nerds

    FILM

    Queer Takes: Visibly Out



    For the third year in a row, the Walker Art Center launches Queer Takes
    an amazing film series (just in time for Pride Weekend of course!) focusing on LGBT films and filmmakers. Running through
    the 29th, this fest will include a wide variety of flicks from
    filmmakers from all over the world. Tonight Queer Takes screens Boystown (Chuecatown) , directed by Juan Flahn. Based in Madrid, this adaptation of a Spanish comic book follows bearish
    couple, Leo and Rey, who are pressured to sell their property by a
    shady real estate agent with plans to turn their neighborhood into an
    district for more trendy and upscale gays – and apparently Leo and Rey
    do not fit the bill, nor do they want to.


    7pm, Walker Art Center Cinema, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis, $8

    READINGS
    Murder at the Bad Girl’s Bar and Grill

    A murder in a south Florida retirement community would seem to be an
    event that is definitely out-of-the-ordinary. Add in a blind heiress
    loved by the town’s only cop, a former slasher film queen who runs a
    raucous Bar & Grill for the under-65, and a trio of Swedish
    circusfolk, and you’ve got yourself a good mystery. Acclaimed author N.M. Kelby offers up her fourth book, Murder at the Bad Girl’s Bar & Grill, which went on sale June 3rd. Library Journal has praised Kelby, a former Twin Cities journalist whose stories have appeared in Minnesota Monthly,
    as a cross between Carl Hiaasen and Christopher Moore, and Hiaasen
    described her as, "A natural-born storyteller who manages to be very
    funny and very wise at the same time." – Andrew Newman

    4pm, The University of Minnesota Bookstore, Coffman Union, 300 Washington Ave. SE, Dinkytown, Free

    MUSEUMS
    Star Wars: Where Science Meets Imagination

    This new exhibit at the Science Museum is a sprawling display filled with Star Wars fan drool-inspiring artifacts. Dozens of protective cases containing actual costumes, models, and mechanics from the Star Wars
    films pepper the space, filled in with interactive displays, such as an
    engineering design lab where show-goers can put together simple
    R2D2-style mini-robots step by step at mobility, programming, and
    sensor stations. Included in the exhibit is an actual hovercraft that
    attendees can try out for themselves – sort of a futuristic version of
    a bumper car. There is an interactive robotics station where you can
    control dangerous looking (and sounding) mechanical legs, along with
    plenty of other computerific games and experiments to try. All in all,
    this exhibit is definitely worth seeing, and weekdays are probably best
    to avoid the Star Wars nerd melee over the weekend.

    Read the complete article…..HERE

    The Star Wars exhibit runs through August 24th, 8:30am-11:30pm Daily, Science Museum of MN, 120 W. Kellogg Blvd., St. Paul, $19, Advance tickets recommended and available HERE.

  • Sometimes All the Time

    Jonah’s
    throat was sore, lately. It hadn’t bothered him in the last couple
    days, but Jonah still waited for the pain to resurface, so that whenever
    he swallowed it would feel like swallowing sand, like it had for the
    past month or so. This waiting made him impatient, but the painkillers
    he took somewhat tempered his anxiety. Right now he had a eucalyptus
    lozenge in his mouth, and he bit down on it – not all the way through,
    just so his molars sunk in halfway.

    There
    were eleven tables, and he placed the salt-and-pepper shakers and the
    miniature Tabasco bottles from each on his cocktail tray. Becky followed
    behind him, blowing out the tea lights (too hard: wax fanned out against
    the sides of the candleholders) and wiping the tables with a bleach-soaked
    rag. In the office – a desk and laptop behind a velveteen curtain
    – their manager settled the credit cards and listened to vintage rock
    radio, the songs muffled and heartfelt through the drape, and Jonah
    and Becky knew that really they were actually alone.

    "I’m
    coming over later, still," Becky said.

    "Yeah
    that’s cool," said Jonah. "If you want." He paused at a four-top
    by the front windows, and looked up and out over Lake Calhoun, trying
    to find one of the half dozen or so constellations he could recognize,
    but it was too cloudy, or maybe the lights from the bars and condominiums
    in Uptown Minneapolis were too bright and distracting, or the Percocets
    he’d taken dampened the stars like they did his feelings (physical,
    emotional, and otherwise), or maybe the stars tonight were dimmer than
    usual, farther away and burning out. He scribbled something on a guest
    check that later, when he tries to re-write it into his astronomy journal,
    he will be unable to read.

    "I
    want," Becky said. She slid into a booth and began to polish silverware.

    She
    had two blond streaks in her hair, interwoven with the black. Nights
    they spent together, Jonah guessed what her original color had been,
    but Becky wouldn’t tell him. Also – and this was maybe more important,
    at least to Jonah – she couldn’t come during sex, or at least not
    with him, or at least not yet; he asked her why she wanted to sleep
    with him so often, why she was so insistent, but she wouldn’t tell
    him that, either.

    "Okay,
    then," Jonah said. "I’ll call you after Jenna’s gone, I guess."

    He
    sat down next to her, making sure the outsides of their legs touched
    under the table, but Becky scooted away.

    Jenna,
    his friend, ex-girlfriend, possibly hopefully girlfriend-soon-to-be,
    was coming tonight to pick up their dog because Jonah worked longer
    hours on weekends. He did not like this arrangement: the time he spent
    away from Rabbit was confusing and remarkably un-linear. Tomorrow, Friday,
    Jonah will wake up the same time as usual, but realizing his dog is
    not there needing to be let out, he will fall back asleep, and in the
    two days after, his sleep will drift later and later into the morning,
    and the events of his day will be without the regular, nearly grammatical
    punctuation of walking Rabbit. Which is why tonight he was thinking
    about trying to convince Jenna to move back in with him.

    "What
    time will that be?" Becky asked. She wiped a pair of wet spoons with
    a black napkin.

    "The
    usual time. I don’t know. I just thought I should tell you, is all."

    "You
    shouldn’t have," Becky said.

    She
    was wearing a pair of his soccer socks – they came up to the middle
    of her thighs, the Puma logo stretched around her kneecaps – and Jonah
    thought it was strange how easily and comfortably she’d been able
    to insinuate herself into his life. That was, actually, the most fascinating
    aspect of their now-month-long relationship: its normalcy. After only
    a couple nights together, symbiotic sleeping positions and synchronized
    wakings had been established. Jonah was impressed with himself for this
    because he considered Becky to be a little too good for him. Not because
    she was too pretty, though maybe also for that reason, but because she
    seemed so sad, and wise in her sadness, (and pretty in her sadness),
    and for him melancholy trumped beauty: it was a sort of barometer for
    how human one was. And Becky couldn’t even say why she was on the
    anti-depressants she was on – she’d tried explaining several times
    and just given up – and this intrigued Jonah and turned him on a little.

    Right
    now, he loved the way she stopped rolling silverware, and brushed crumbs
    from the booth to the floor, hair hanging forward in a way that exposed
    the sparrow she had tattooed below her left ear.

    "What’s
    wrong?" he asked.

    "Nothing."

    "What’s
    nothing?"

    "Nothing’s
    this big void in the universe. Scientists aren’t sure if it actually
    exists or not, but it does. I feel it a lot."

    Jonah
    coughed, and then spit into a beverage napkin – candy lozenge shards,
    mostly – which he folded and put in his apron.

    "Is
    your throat okay?" Becky moved closer to him. "I hope it’s not
    strep. I don’t have the energy to get sick right now."

    "I’m
    fine, I think," he said, taking a pill from his pocket.

    "I
    can get you more, if you want," she said. "It might be generic this
    time, but basically the same. I’ll ask my guy. Then I’ll bring it
    over tonight, if you’ll let me over. Whatever. I’m hot. You’re
    dumb."

    Later,
    after the chairs are all flipped over onto the tables and the lights
    turned out, after the manager unlocks the restaurant doors so they can
    leave, and Jenna come and Jenna gone and Becky and Jonah in bed together,
    the night crew will come to sweep and mop and bleach the floors.

  • A New Lorax Is Needed

    In the corner of St. Croix Antiquarian Booksellers, over by the color-coded antique maps, is a framed edict that’s actually more of a poem:

    "I, Richard Booth
    King of Hay
    Lord of all booktowns
    & their protector in perpetuity
    hereby declare that
    Stillwater Minnesota
    Is the first booktown
    In the western hemisphere.
    Let no one gainsay
    Or dare to dispute
    This is my official decree."

    I’m writing this too late: Booktown has now mostly disbanded. Gary Goodman, who owns the shop, pointed across the street. "There used to be thirty-two booksellers in that building," he said. Now, like much of historic downtown Stillwater, it’s an antique mall. Goodman then began to count in his head the number of tomes that used to fill the stores by the St. Croix. "I think there used to be five-hundred-thousand books in the Stillwater area," he tallied.

    Not anymore. The number of bookstores has dwindled down to four. There’s St. Croix Antiquarian, which is the biggest and most impressive; The Valley Bookseller, which is this town’s Wild Rumpus, with its vast childrens’ section and its cage of assorted, fluorescent birds; Chestnut Street Books, a new-and-used shop which has limited hours that coincide with likely tourist rushes (they’re closed Mondays and Tuesdays, and generally don’t open before noon); and then a theologically based bookstore that’s a bit off from the main drag, in a spot which residents refer to as, "Up the hill."

    It’s the usual story of Amazon, EBay, and AbeBooks, Goodman explained, all of which allow individuals to unload their books at better prices than stores might pay for them, and to do so more conveniently. Even Valley Booksellers – by far the most conventional of the shops – seems to be feeling the unfortunate tug of the Internet. For the local high school’s required summer reading, they’d ordered twenty copies of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. As of today, nineteen were still on the shelf. "Maybe by August, when school’s closer to starting, most of them will be gone," a blond clerk said hopefully.

    I had the idea for this blog post since last summer, but hadn’t gone back to Stillwater until this week. It was supposed to be about how their downtown had an incredibly impressive wealth of independent bookstores, their inventories unmatched by most sellers in the Twin Cities. (Hell, in terms of rare, out-of-print, and first editions, some of these places gave The Strand a run for its money. Antiquarian still does.)

    I’d wanted to focus part of the piece on a new-and-used shop that had been on the corner of Main Street and East Chestnut Street, which Goodman estimated had once held 250,000 books. Now it’s the Summit Boardshop, a place that sells skate- and snowboards, its title written on the building in faux graffiti.

    Nevertheless, those bookstores that remain, while they remain, are worth checking out. (And this is the real tragedy – they really all were worth checking out…now there’s just fewer of them.) Their stocks are varied, unique, and unpredictable. At Antiquarian, my booknerd friend found an illustrated first edition of The Little Prince author Antoine de Saint Exupery’s memoir, Wind, Sand and Stars, as well as an early translation of Kafka’s The Castle, whose introduction reads, "Franz Kafka’s name, so far as I can discover, is almost unknown to English readers."

    These are treasures, and the booksellers in Stillwater that are left are full of them. My suggestion? If you have any interest in books, which if you’ve made it this far in the post I’m guessing you do, go while you still can.

  • NBA Draft Q&A with Hoiberg

    Wolves News, NBA photo from 2005

    No great secrets were divulged in the 15-minute phone conversation I had with Fred Hoiberg this morning, nor did I expect him to spill the beans about what will happen on Thursday. But he was kind enough to give me the time during his busy schedule and what follows is as close to verbatim as my flying typing fingers would allow. If I were to handicap what he said, I’d say it is a tossup between Mayo and Love if the team stays pat, and that a trade of the #3 down to anywhere between #12-13 isn’t out of the question.

    Rake: Rather than give away any strategy or involve ourselves in the sort of guessing games and myriad scenarios that have filled your days lately, why don’t we start with you telling me who you like from this class that you’ve seen, regardless of whether the Wolves will take him at #3 or #31 or whatever. Who will you feel a little proud about if they go on and have a really good NBA career?

    Fred Hoiberg: Well after the first two guys-it is pretty clear Rose and Beasley are one-two. But in that next group there are a lot of guys we like-Mayo, Love, Lopez, Gallinari. We just saw Bayliss and Gordon, two guys who get to the free throw line better than anybody in the country, which is something we need to get better at, so those two guys make some sense. There are strengths and weaknesses in all their games, so what you do is try and find who fits best with your team and what you are trying to do. We feel it is a very deep draft and all will be solid NBA players. You can go all the way to 12 or 13 and get a very good player who can possibly start.

    R: Which brings up the possibility of a trade, if you can leverage one of those 12 or 13 guys you like and still add another piece.

    FH: Yeah as Kevin [McHale] has been saying all week, teams won’t really come out with their best offer until the last minute. Right now nobody has offered anything that is jumping out at us and we have the pick of the litter after the top two so we’re happy with where we are.

    R: What areas of the game are you looking to bolster beyond the improvement of the guys on your roster, and how likely can those areas be addressed in this draft?

    FH: I think shooting is a priority. Just so the defender is not always sitting in Al Jefferson’s lap. O.J. Mayo will be as good a shooter as anyone in this draft. We saw him in Chicago and he was filling it up. Kevin Love is a legitimate three point shooter as a big and is a great passer. Bayliss is a good shooter. Gordon has a great shot. Gallinari made 23 out of 25 college threes in the workout we saw. It was against a chair, but he missed the first one and then hit 23 of his next 24 and he’s a legitimate 6-10, just a quarter inch shorter than McHale.

    Otherwise you just get somebody who is going to fit into your group. Lopez fits our needs because of his size and his wide shoulders. Love does because of his savvy and smarts–he fills gaps defensively and immediately helps our fast break because of his outlet passing and just does so many little things. Mayo averaged 21 points in the toughest league in country last year and has had the spotlight on him since he was growing up in Kentucky.

    R: You’ve already done this to some extrent, but let me throw four names out at you and have you respond as if the Wolves just drafted this guy. Describe why you picked him and why he fits in with your ballclub. The first one is Mayo.

    FH: I think OJ Mayo when we look back in 5 years we’ll say he was the best shooter in this draft. He has very good range, he is very consistent and he is a guy I don’t think the moment will ever be too big for him because the spotlight has been on him for so long. He defends well and you can play him at both [guard] spots-he’s not a pure point but he can get you into your basic sets.

    R: What about Love?

    FH: Looking at this draft class I think he is the smartest player. He is a skilled big which is something we need and there are not many in the league right now. His passing ability is just unbelievable–he sees things before they happen and already knows where the ball is going to go before it hits his hands. He is a great rebounder and shoots the ball well, with legit three-point range, so we’d be able to space him around Al.

    R: Lopez?

    FH: Lopez probably fills one of our biggest needs which is a legitimate center. He averages almost 20 points per game and did that although he got double-teamed almost every night. We saw him have a big game against Texas. He runs pretty well for his size and is a legitimate 7-1.

    R: Finally, Gallinari.

    FH: Gallinari grew up as a point guard–two years ago he was a 6-5 point guard and then he shot up 5 inches, so now he’s a small forward with point guard skills. He can go right or left and has great shooting skills. He has the potential to be a star in our league.

    R: If you were to make a trade, would it likely involve a more established player and/or a better draft pick?

    FH: I think both those scenarios will be there. I don’t think we’ll see the best offers on the table until Thursday. But [then] we’ll probably see different scenarios with draft picks or getting rid of a contract or a [established] player who makes sense for us or all of the above. But if it doesn’t make sense for us we don’t need to do it, we’ll just go out and get the player we want.

    R: Because you’re already a young team is it important for the players you pick to be NBA-ready? Is it possible you guys would take a project?

    FH: I think the guys we are looking at are all NBA-ready guys, considering that all could step in and play next year.

    R: Do all the workouts you guys schedule change your mind ever or just reinforce opinions you had?

    FH: More reinforce opinions. You try and put guys in spots where they are uncomfortable to see how they handle it. And if they don’t handle it well, you don’t cross them off but you go back and look at the film and see how they handled those situations [then]. And you do your thorough background checks and you have your sit down interview, which is a very important part of process.

    R: Without naming any names, did anyone dramatically screw themselves or improve as a result of this process?

    FH: I don’t think so. You’ve got to remember that these guys are flying across the country and doing five or six workouts in six days, and that this is only one performance that you are seeing. But you do get a look and you want to get a look. It is part of the process but not the most important part.

    R: I’m figuring that if you don’t land a big man with your first pick, that, given the depth of bigs later in the draft, you will probably get a big with one of your two later picks. Is that a fair assumption?

    FH: I would think so unless somebody drops who we feel can’t pass on at 31 or 34. But you’re right [about the depth], there should be somebody there for us.

  • The 98 Pound Restaurant: Cheap Sushi and More!

     Header photo by Denis Jeong 

    I’ve been told that the whole Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet phenomenom has run its course, and that the next big trend for Chinese restaurateurs is sushi — the profit margins are better. A lot of Chinese buffets already offer a few varieties of sushi, but the new 98 Pounds Restaurant at 98th and 35W in Bloomington actually combines the concepts.

    The steam tables offer a big selection of the usual Chinese buffet
    staples – General Tso’s chicken, shrimp in coconut sauce, stir-fried beef with
    mushrooms, teriyaki chicken, fried rice, egg rolls, potstickers, hot and sour
    soup, tempura shrimp, etc. etc. etc. There’s plenty of fried food, and the
    fried shrimp and tempura shrimp are heavy on breading light on shrimp, but
    overall, I’d rate the hot buffet items as better-than-average.

    But the real novelty here is the cold buffet of
    all-you-can-eat sushi.

    sushi plate

    There were about 15 different varieties of sushi on offer,
    nearly all of the maki (roll) variety: spicy tuna roll, crab roll, cream cheese
    roll, California roll. Real sushi lovers will not be impressed – there’s very
    little raw fish, or any other costly ingredients, in the sushi, but plenty of
    imitation crab. Still, the sushi actually was tasty, and you can’t beat the
    price – $7.99 for lunch, $11.49 for dinner. I’m told that the dinner buffet
    offers a bigger selection of seafood items, including crab legs and mussels.

    98 Pounds Restaurant, 824 W. 98th St., Bloomington, 952-881-1088.

  • Wilde, Wilde Life

    THEATER
    Constance Wilde Play & Pre-Show Happy Hour

    One can only assume that the wife of Oscar Wilde would be driven to drink, and considering tonight’s play The Secret Fall of Constance Wilde
    is about her life, you might as well try to relate. Stop into the
    Guthrie’s Target Lounge for a pre-show happy hour from 6 to 7:30pm with
    your bff’s at The Rake and DJ Eric Lovold, of The Alarmists.
    We’ll be hosting the party so come say hello, and tip one back for Miz
    Constance. The best part? Tonight’s special ticket price is a mere $20!
    Staged in the Guthrie’s McGuire proscenium theater, this story travels
    and shifts in time and perspective, bringing the humanity of a
    forgotten woman to life. The production impresses with more than just
    an interesting story; it also boasts exquisite lighting, a versatile
    set, intricate and artsy steampunk-style
    costuming and an engaging cast. Tonight is the perfect opportunity to
    catch a deal on this wonderful play and have drinks with us!

    6pm Happy Hour, 7:30pm Show, Guthrie Theater, 818 2nd St. N, Minneapolis, $20


    READINGS
    Talk of the Stacks: Lynne Rossetto Kasper

    This tasty edition of Talk of the Stacks features writer and radio personality Lynne Rossetto Kasper, perhaps best known for her national foodie radio show The Splendid Table. Kasper will discuss her third book, How to Eat Supper,
    which goes above and beyond your traditional recipe book with
    refreshing commentary on food and America’s changing sense of it, as
    well as how breaking bread together plays a role in society. Tom Crann,
    host of All Things Considered, and Sally
    Swift, co-author and managing producer of
    The Splendid Table, join Kasper on stage for some delicious banter.

    7pm, Minneapolis Central Library,
    Pohlad Hall, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis, Free

    More into art than recipes? Modern Marvels is a series of discussions on graphic novels by Jewish artists at the Highland Park Library, 7pm.


    THEATER
    The Joans

    Twin Cities dynamo Annie Enneking presents her latest work, The Joans,
    at the Open Eye Theatre tonight through June 30th. Raucous as hell with
    a dash of thoughtful blasphemy, this production has Enneking taking on
    the the roles of three women, all loosely based on the history
    (embellished or otherwise) of Joan of Arc.
    The three Joans, "a rock n’ roll ghost, a marauding virgin, and a
    wanton chanteuse", concoct a cheeky blend of sex, religion, and rock n’
    roll for this delightfully rebellious little piece of theater.

    8pm, Open Eye Theatre, 506 East 24th Street, South Minneapolis, $10