Blog

  • Rock the Garden

    A small army of bicycles standing
    guard outside the Walker Art Center glints like miniature sunbursts
    while lines stretch like anxious snakes down the sidewalk. The sold
    out crowd of 7,500 brave hour long entry waits, sunburns, and sweat for
    Rock The Garden and a chance to see indie pop’s brightest talents.

    As Bon Iver opens the afternoon
    with his mellow orchestrations and hushed melodies, onlookers pack the
    closed street allowing only inches of legroom. On the hill overlooking
    the stage, a man relives childhood revelry by rolling down the grass
    carpet in shoeless, summer bliss. Squinting eyes are shielded by Wayfarer
    sunglasses. A speckle of straw hats and a gaggle of patchwork quilts
    break up the patches of sunbathers. A small gathering on the Walker’s
    roof looks out with a bird’s eye view. And as Bon Iver’s band ring
    out the last echoing trumpets, bony arms raise to clap, creating their
    own grateful windstorms, then return to wiping brows.

    Minnesota’s own Cloud Cult
    takes the stage next. Singer Craig Minowa greets the throng with a cheerful
    "Hi ya!" before launching into the band’s emotional and raw set.
    As a group focused on ecoconsciousness, Cloud Cult no doubt appreciates
    the festivals "zero waste" policy. Crushed beer cups and litter
    are noticeably missing, as is moshing and the general raucousness accustomed
    to outdoor concerts. A beach ball quietly bounces on top of the crowd,
    as they stand intently watching Minowa hop around the stage, pounding
    his feet and acting in stark contrast to his lyrics steeped in struggle
    and loss. His vocals are fragile. If you could reach out and touch them,
    they would turn to dust and dreams. Embellishing the band’s already
    lush sound, is violist Shannon Frid. She raises her bow in the air,
    like a lightning rod or a rain stick. The audience applauds at the end
    of Cloud Cult’s cover of Neil Young’s "Hey Hey, My My," equally
    for the band and for a brief moment of shade provided by a passing cloud.

    Then comes The New Pornographers.
    There’s something about their rich harmonies that make it feel like
    summer. Maybe it’s memories of the Beach Boys with their sandy, tight
    harmonies and stories of ocean waves that feel like they could drench
    even the center of this city. This is The New Pornographers’ feel:
    bouncy, upbeat guitar pop. Most of their tunes include heavy doses of
    harmonious la-la-las, ba-da-das, no-no-nos and a sprinkling of enthusiastic
    aaaaahhhhhs. This is OK. Save those wallowing songs of heartbreak or
    spoutings about social causes for the dreary winter-or at least the
    riots outside the Republican National Convention later this year. Summer
    is the season of joyous pop music, and The New Pornographers deliver
    with their trademark boppy, poppy controlled spazz.

    As the sun sets on Rock The
    Garden, the Walker’s silver sheen looks like a melted orange popsicle.
    Smoke from food stands rise in wisps, joining threatening gray clouds.
    When Andrew Bird steps onstage to close the event, cool breezes storm
    through the audience, smacking like full kisses on the lips. Bird’s
    music, laden with whistling and tender-sounding violins, sounds like
    an intricately wound toy. Camera flashes match bolts of far away lightning
    in their intensity. In turn, a light rain grows fiercer as die-hard
    Bird fans brave the weather to see the evening’s star. A group at
    the bottom of the hill cowers under a red blanket in an attempt to keep
    dry. As the wind whips the blanket, it looks like a super hero’s cape,
    readying them to take flight.

    See the Rock the Garden Flickr Pool.

  • Star Wars, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Sci-Fi

    Growing up, my world was a whirlwind of arts, culture, and strangely
    enough, Sci-Fi. My Dad was my hero, a man of constant humor, kindness,
    and creative influence, who also just so happened to be a world-class
    science fiction and fantasy nerd. One of the first movies I can
    remember him taking me to as a child was a matinée of Hercules in New York at the Riverview Theater, starring a pre-Terminator/governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Shades of Doctor Who, Robbie the Robot, and of course, Star Wars
    followed, defining my childhood, which was also smoothed over with my
    mother’s more cultured influence of books, art, theater, and fashion.
    My Halloween costumes always featured some conglomeration of LED lights
    and internal wiring. I developed a fascination with robots, and
    alternately, an intense horror of aliens and alien abduction early on.
    Even lovable ’80s icon E.T. was on my top ten list of things to be
    terrified of, which of course my Dad thought was hilarious. So much so,
    that he proceeded to buy me E.T.-related memorabilia, which I would
    subsequently break or lose. One item specifically, a metal TV tray with
    E.T.’s hideous face emblazoned on it, was a thing of particular
    disdain. So when I intentionally dented it up beyond usability, instead
    of throwing it out, my dad placed it directly at the bottom of the
    basement stairs, just to fuck with me. Idiotically enough, to this day,
    I still run up the basement stairs, envisioning large-eyed aliens
    camped out in dark corners, ready to pounce. But despite all this, and
    also the forced Danish dancing lessons (another story), I still thought
    my Dad was the coolest — and I still do.

    While I was merely a diaper-clad babe when the original Star Wars movie came out, and still pretty much a deer in the headlights when The Empire Strikes Back was released, I was sentient enough to get the gist by the time Return of the Jedi
    hit screens — the first Star Wars film to introduce the Ewoks. Somehow,
    my deeply infused hatred of all aliens morphed into mild nervousness
    and curiosity in regards to the Ewoks. There was something feral about
    them that rubbed me the wrong way, though. Chewy’s grating bray and
    Yoda’s generally creepiness were disconcerting factors for me as well,
    but somehow less offensive than the scores of other characters and
    imaginary creatures I’d been so taken aback by in the past. My first
    exposure to the epic horror film, E.T., had come the
    previous year, and my reputation for being an irrationally and randomly
    alarmed child had already cemented itself by this point, so I think my
    parents must have been pleasantly surprised when I didn’t need to sleep
    with the lights on for the next three weeks.

    Into my early teen years (basically, before the internet boom hit) I became obsessed with BBSing,
    which, for those of you who only got into computers post-AOL, was an
    early form of online communication that allowed users to dial up via
    phone line and log in to a private server with a very simple,
    text-based program that allowed you to post on message boards, play
    text-games, leave messages for other users, or, say, download the Anarchist’s Cookbook.
    BBS’s were usually run out of someone’s mother’s basement, if you catch
    my drift. The kind of kids who were BBSers were usually total nerds –
    not only computer nerds, but Dungeons and Dragons nerds, sci-fi nerds,
    and in one particular case, a samurai sword-collecting nerd. One kid I
    met, Jeff, was a stereotypical, pretentious, 16-year-old computer geek
    with a long black trench coat and a penchant for blowing things up. As
    an already-been-to-juvie 14-year-old, I, of course, found this
    incredibly charming. One of my clearest memories of him includes us
    being run out of his grandmother’s house for melting a Luke Skywalker
    action figure over a candle in his bedroom. We then walked to the mall,
    watched Doc Hollywood, and made out, which aside from
    the making out part, didn’t seem nearly as cool. At any rate, my
    attraction to angsty, self-important geeks was born. The list of dudes
    I’ve hitched my train to who would give their first born to meet C3PO
    is embarrassingly long.

    These days, I
    still have a soft spot for all things Science Fiction related, and
    usually, if I haven’t had too much wine or fallen asleep with my
    computer on my lap, I read myself to sleep with some sort of paperback
    space odyssey. I am easily coaxed on the bandwagon for a sci-fi series
    like Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Firefly.
    I’ve even held a Star Wars Trilogy brunch. (I’ve also had a House Party
    Trilogy brunch, so don’t be too impressed.) So naturally, when I heard
    the Star Wars exhibit was coming to the Science Museum I was excited to
    cover it. Going to a press preview for something like this, something
    that hundreds of wannabe Jedis have paid $100 each to get the first
    glimpse of later that night, was prrretty damn cool for a girl like me.

    The exhibit itself 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. There’s even
    a large-scale model of a Jawa sandcrawler, where visitors are treated
    to a video hosted by C3PO and real-world robotics Engineer Cynthia
    Breazeal, director of the Robotic Life Group at the MIT Media Lab.

     

    The
    most fun to me, however, was inspecting the costumes. Eight foot tall
    Chewbakka suits with impressive detailing and perfectly coiffed fur
    stand at attention. Scuffed up Darth Vader helmets, gleaming
    light-saber hilts, and assorted futuristic weaponry shine from behind
    plexiglass. My favorite was a somewhat mangy Storm Trooper uniform from
    The Empire Strikes Back that looked like it was made
    out of parts from Ax-Man Surplus and a pair of cut up, dirty,
    inside-out white sweatpants cleverly patched together — so much for big
    budgets! These were no replicas, these were the real deal. To think
    that I was separated merely by a thin sheet of glass from the bonafide
    Yoda puppet actually put a few more stars in my eyes than I expected it
    to.

    Although I did wish I could have
    been around to witness the most definite spectacle that must have been
    the public preview party later that night, I relished the fact that I
    got to lay eyes on it first, just like any proper Star Wars
    nerd would. Not to mention, I got to meet the guy who played C3PO, who,
    by the way, really sounds exactly like C3PO…and actually looks like
    him too, minus all the bling.

    And in case you’re wondering, I am
    single, and currently accepting applications from angsty nerds of all
    varieties. Aliens that have taken over human bodies need not apply.


    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.

  • A Day at the Dome

    (AP Photo/Tom Olmscheid)

    Completely in the clutches of pro basketball withdrawal, I made my way down to the Dome on Sunday to watch what has become a confoundingly enjoyable 2008 edition of the Minnesota Twins. Actually the prime motivation was catching the galaxy of rising stars on the Arizona Diamondbacks, and receiving what is likely to be my only in-person experience watching 2006 Cy Young Award winner Brandon Webb on the mound. But I walked out of the ballpark remembering why I retain such fondness for the Twins organization, especially their front office (formerly Terry Ryan and now Billy Smith and Mike Radcliffe) and manager Ron Gardenhire and the coaching staff.

    The Twins won’t be playing ball deep into October. If they are still contending in August, it will substantially expand upon what has already been the pleasant surprise of their play thus far. Forty wins in 76 games from this crew? How is that possible?

    Beats me. The name of the game has always been pitching and defense, yet you might as well draw lots trying to determine the ace of their starting rotation: The vet Livan Hernandez has an ERA over 5, and Scott Baker and Nick Blackburn are generally regarded (by the Twins scouts themselves, if they could be honest with you) as, at best, middle-of-the-rotation pitchers. Slowey? Perkins? Bonser? You see why the Twins rank 10th in the 14-team American League (and 19th out of 30 in all the majors) in earned run average.

    And the defense hasn’t helped. Only Arizona, Houston and Texas have yielded as many unearned runs as Minnesota thus far this year. In terms of both errors and fielding percentage, they are among the bottom seven teams in all of baseball.

    Ah, so it’s the hitting, eh? Nope, not really. Minnesota ranks 21st among the 30 teams in OPS, due to being 21st in slugging percentage and 18th in on-base percentage. (While we’re at it, here’s a head-scratcher: Even with the pitcher hitting instead of the DH, National League teams are generally the same as their AL counterparts in OPS. The Washington Nats have the worst offense in the majors, but the Blue Jays, Mariners and A’s are right behind them. Ditto, the Rangers and Red Sox are the game’s best mashers, but the Marlins, Cubs and Phillies hit better than the other dozen AL ballclubs.)

    So why is this team 40-36?

    I’m sorely tempted to wax rhapsodically about how the Twins always "play the game the right way" and thus steal more could-go-either-way contests than they forfeit. And I believe this to be true. The organizational philosophy of this franchise is cautious and conservative. They don’t eat their seed corn by trading cheap young talent for proven commodities and, to get whatever edge their lack of gambles sacrifice, they maximize their available talent and seasoning enough that they rarely unexpectedly beat themselves.

    Sunday’s game isn’t a perfect example, but it will do as a fresh and a handy reference. Opposing Webb was Livan Hernandez, who is at least 33 (Cuban defectors frequently shave a few years off their age), has thrown 200 innings every year since 2000, and has watched his WHIP (number of walks and hits yielded per inning pitched) rise each year since 2001, including this season, where he sports an ugly 1.61 WHIP to go with his 5.23 ERA. Put simply, he’s a crafty, durable hurler in the twilight of his career. And it was a hell of a lot of fun watching him go up against the bevy of very talented but mostly callow hitters in the D-backs batting order.

    Over and over again, Hernandez would perfectly spot the location of his cutter, rarely varying from its 83-87 miles per hour speed, but almost always appearing as if it was going to land outside the plate to right handed hitters, only to suddenly veer in and catch the outside corner for a back-door strike, a pitch the home plate ump was generous about calling for both hurlers. Two D-backs who were especially vexed by this were Chris Young and Justin Upton, a pair of prodigiously talented outfielders who still have a long way to go to seize their potential. The 25-year old Young, who blasted 27 homers last season yet struck out 141 times and hit just .237 (and batted leadoff for most of the year!), stared at three straight strikes without lifting the bat off his shoulder with two on and one out in the 2nd inning, with strike three being of the back-door vintage just described. Leading off the third inning, the 20-year old Upton (who started his rookie season with a bang but has just 5 hits and 21 strikeouts in his last 18 games) likewise stared at three straight called strikes, the final two via the back door. And in the 4th, again with two on base and only one out, Young again stared at three straight strikes, the final two on the back door. Got that? In their first three plate appearances, Young and Upton had nine straight called strikes. That is a veteran pitcher schoolin’ the young’uns.

    By the way, the Twins are paying Hernandez $5 million this season. With his 8 wins, it is already a pretty good deal, and removes some of the stain of the Twins horrible signings of broken-down vets Ramon Ortiz and Sidney Ponson last year (although like a bad penny Ponson keeps showing up and making trouble for himself and whatever ballclub he is with–currently the Yankees, a match made is Hades). By contrast, last year’s younger, and then-better, version of Hernandez, Carlos Silva, parlayed a slightly-above-mediocre season of innings-eating ground balls and pinpoint control into a whopping 4-year, $48 million signing with the Seattle Mariners. This is the sort of colossal mistake the cautious, conservative Twins never make (well, except for Joe Mays). As Hernandez was scattering nine hits and allowing Arizona only one earned run (and three overall) in 7 innings, Silva was getting shellacked versus Atlanta, yielding three homers among nine hits in only four innings work and suffering his 9th loss in 12 decisions (Hernandez is 8-4).

    Meanwhile, Webb didn’t have his best stuff–after winning his first nine decisions, yesterday’s 5-to-3 loss put him at 11-4–but it seemed sufficient as he faced just two hitters over the minimum in four shutout innings. Webb is very much the type of pitcher the Twins organization prefers; someone with great command of location who puts the ball in play but, like Greg Maddux, rarely allows hitters to get comfortable or put the fat part of the bat on the ball. He’s never struck out 200 in a season despite eclipsing 200 innings each of the last four seasons, and yielded just 12 homers in 236 innings last year. What makes him particularly effective is that his hardest stuff breaks as sharply as the rest of his arsenal–when he’s on his game, his sinker seems to weigh a ton, creating a surfeit of routine ground balls.

    Yesterday he was undone by one inning, when the Twins pounced and scored 5 in the 5th. After a sharp single to left by Jason Kubel, Delmon Young lofted a routine fly ball into left…except that nothing is ever routine in the blasphemy that is Metrodome baseball, especially fly balls up in that off-white roof during a day game. D-backs manager Bob Melvin pulled the sort of dumb manuver that I (perhaps too charitably) don’t imagine Gardenhire ever doing, which is putting first baseman Conor Jackson–who had played the outfield just five times this season, or one-tenth what he’s logged at first–out in the vast expanse of the Dome’s left field acreage in conditions that were optimal for even seasoned outfielders to lose a ball in the roof. If Melvin wanted Jackson’s bat in the lineup (and the steady youngster, who is light years more mature at the plate than Young or Upton, went 3-for-4), he had the rare luxury (for an NL manager) of the DH in this interleague contest in an AL ballpark. In any event, Jackson raced back to the left field fence and had no idea the ball would land harmlessly 25 ya
    rds in front of him, giving Young a gift double and putting runners on second and third with no out. That brought up Brian Buscher, a 27-year old scrub described by the 2008 Baseball Prospectus this way: "He’s not a prospect, and even a bench role is unlikely after the Twins’ winter additions." But with one of those additions, Mike Lamb from Houston, being a early-season bust, Buscher was getting his licks, and stroked a single to center to knock in two. Another winter addition, Brendan Harris from Tampa Bay, singled to left to put runners on first and second with still nobody out. Another winter addition, Carlos Gomez from the Mets as the key piece in the Johan Santana deal, then laid down a beautiful bunt even as the D-backs were expecting it and defending it well, sacrificing the runners over to second and third with one down. And that’s when Alexi Casilla, who inexplicably found himself in Gardy’s doghouse last year but has been a marvelous spark in the lineup as part of a go-go tandem with the fleet Gomez at the top of the order, stroked the inning’s second two-run single. And that was the ballgame. A little luck off Melvin’s dumb strategizing, and then a pair of unheralded Twins practicing what the organization preaches; not trying to do too much at the plate (which is what currently bedevils both Young and Upton), just getting good wood on Webb’s veering pitches, providing great at-bats sandwiched around Gomez’s superb bunt, which was highlighted in Gardy’s postgame comments.

    That kind of steady approach to hitting is why the Twins are 6th in runs despite being 21st in OPS. But even more enjoyable for me has been the team’s fielding prowess over the years. Yes, the last couple have been an aberration in that regard, and have pissed Gardenhire off more than once, but yesterday, except for Delmon Young in left field, they were a team of beauty, never moreso than two back-to-back plays in the top of the 5th, when Arizona was already up 3-0 and threatening to expand their lead. The inning began with another of Arizona’s solid prospects, shortstop Stephen Drew, singling to right, a result echoed by 2b-utility man Augie Ojeda, putting two runners on with nobody out. Two pitches later, the inning was over. The first was a missed bunt by Orlando Hudson, followed by catcher Joe Mauer alertly firing what Gardenhire described as a "pellet" down to second base to pick off Drew, who strayed too far assuming the bunt would happen. The next pitch was a grounder to Justin Morneau at first and the big slugger and vastly underrated fielder turned in what remains one of the prettiest plays in all of baseball, the 3-6-3 double play.

    I mentioned Delmon Young, the prize in the atypically gutsy trade Smith made shortly after taking over for Ryan in the off-season, shipping hot pitching prospect Matt Garza to Tampa to secure the services of the 22-year old Young, an equally hot, and in fact slightly more proven, prospect. But Young has gotten off to a shaky start. For one thing he has one measly home run, disappointing those who, based on his track record in pro ball, felt he would increase, perhaps even double, the 13 homers he hit in his first full season in the majors last year. As Young has struggled, Gardy has occasionally sat him down, probably to get a breather, but for someone who played literally every day for Tampa last year, the time off may have psychologically done more harm than good. Whatever the case, Young had a miserable day in the field on Sunday. In the second inning he got a lousy jump on a ball Jackson hit, turning a flyout into a single. Two batters later, he again moved like his feet were in cement, this time on a foul fly that fell harmlessly on the turf instead of his glove, presaging a second single. Instead of being out of the inning, Hernandez had only one out and two on, thanks to what looked like Young’s lack of hustle. Certainly the normally affable Twins fans have not embraced him–after he allowed a single to go under his glove in the fourth, a two-base error that essentially cost the team two runs, Young received a smattering of boos. In the clubhouse after the game, Gardy minimized the gaping error and defended the two indolent flies in the second, properly noting that the ball came off the end of the bat on a full swing on the first.

    In today’s Strib, columnist Jim Souhan–who, like his colleague Pat Reusse, loves baseball foremost, is very knowledeable about the intricacies of the game and is well sourced in the Twins organization–wrote a provocative piece claiming that in lieu of Minnesota’s surprising performance thus far (which finds them just a game and a half out of first place less than two weeks before the 4th of July), they need to rely more on the homegrown talent and deemphasize the players they acquired via trade during the off-season. Unquestionably the two most controversial suggestions Souhan made were giving Denard Span some of Young’s innings in the outfield, and likewise installing utility guy Nick Punto as the shortstop more often at the expense of Brendan Harris.

    I respectfully think Souhan is off his rocker. Span at his best is just the third coming of Gomez and Casilla–he has no pop and no real prospect for acquiring any. Whatever his current doldrums, Delmon Young is almost universally regarded by a plethora of fine scouts–including the ace crew that culls talent for the Twins–as a potentially potent superstar at the plate. At the age of 22, with less than 80 games under his belt for the Twins, the last thing they want to do is cut his time and further prey on his confidence. Remember, there were whispers about Young’s lack of cordiality in Tampa Bay’s clubhouse last year, something Young did a great job of deflecting as the subject arose during spring training. But now that Tampa Bay has enjoyed a resurgence (surgence? they’ve never surged before) and seem to play as a happy tight-knit unit, and now that Garza has begun to pitch very well after his own dicey start, Young is going to be putting more and more pressure on himself to produce. What is required now is a long long long rope. It is not as if the Twins really are going anywhere important this season–and if you seriously think they outlast not only the White Sox but both the underproducing Tigers and Indians, you’re drinking tainted kool aid. No, regardless of what the standings say, this is a rebuilding year, and the way to rebuild is to make sure your future cornerstones are properly planted. Delmon Young is supposed to be a cornerstone. If he isn’t, then Bill Smith may be in over his head trying to replace Ryan. But the only way we’ll find out is if we let Young settle in and not poison his confidence with the specter of Denard Span, of all people. And as for the Nick Punto infatuation, we’ve all been there and done that, haven’t we? Remember the piranhas? Nick Punto is a great late-inning defensive replacement and good to get the guys at second, short and third a needed day off on occasion. But he is not a major league hitter–or, better put, not a hitter for a legit major league ballclub. Brendan Harris made a nice over the shoulder grab on a pop up in short left on Sunday and seems more comfortable at short, where he played for Tampa Bay last year, than at second, where he started the season and where Casilla has now put down a formidable marker.

    Besides, anyone stupid enough to dive into first base–as Punto is wont to do to "impress" us with his little-ball hustle (ask Matt Tolbert and his damaged thumb how that works out)–deserves to stay out of the batter’s box as much as possible. Punto’s dreadful career OPS of .629 is just icing on the cake.

     

  • The Idiots at My Work, Part II

    On
    the loading dock of my work, a truck driver named Tater takes a seat in
    the shade and fans his sweat soaked crotch with a celebrity gossip
    magazine. Under the broiling summer sun, the tubby
    trucker is quickly roasted like a luau pig; his fleshy face turns heart-attack red and his sleeveless t-shirt stinks to high heaven. As
    I unload pallets of topsoil off his truck with a forklift, we chit-chat
    and have a rather high-brow discussion about how awesome barbeque
    flavored Corn Nuts taste. When we’re finished talking, Tater stands up and eloquently says, "Y’all got a toilet? I need to take a dump."

    When Tater waddles back from the bathroom all sweaty and winded, I’m knee deep in the stank of my daily working class grind.

    "This
    Jennifer Lopez is something, huh," Tater boasts and jabs a chubby
    finger at a picture of the pop star in his soiled gossip magazine. "I’d wear her ass for a hat."

    Mere
    seconds after Tater departs, a group of my coworkers run out of the
    store like terrified villagers frantically fleeing a foreign invader.

    "It smells like the zoo in there," a young cashier chokes, a cupped hand protecting her nose and mouth. After I perform an exorcism on the bathroom, an unholy odor festers in the store and clings to my clothes. Good times.

    At 8 a.m. the garden center opens and once again becomes the Ellis Island of labor. We hire the wretched, the stupid, the gimpy, the soused, and put them to work for the summer.

    A college kid named Hafner shows up to work with only one shoe on. He gives me no explanation for the blunder. Hafner is majoring in aerospace engineering, making him an actual rocket scientist. But it appears that putting two shoes on this morning was too difficult a task. I send him home to find the other shoe and he comes back wearing lime green flip flops. I send him home a second time because labor regulations prohibit the wearing of "kick ass beach wear" on a job site.

    Just as I finish watering a section of evergreen shrubs, a rusted out Buick slows down at the back gate. The Rooney Brothers fall out while the jalopy is still moving. They are a half hour late and wear matching purple welts under their eyes

    "Hey boss man," Tommy Rooney greets me nonchalantly. They both are eating hard shell tacos for breakfast and a dirty red sauce rings their lips. Tommy finishes his taco in two bites and then puts a chunk of chewing tobacco into his lip for dessert. Danny Rooney rocks nervously back and forth, holding his taco to the side.

    "We lost the remote for our TV!" Tommy blurts out randomly.

    "Is that why you two are late?" I ask.

    "No, it’s got nothin’ to do with the remote control," Tommy says and shoots me a stupid look. "We’re late because there are bats in our apartment that kept us up all night. And we each drank a case of beer."

    "But dude, check this out: We lost our remote control and hated having to get up off the couch to turn the channel. It was an issue who’d get up."

    That explains their fresh black eyes.

    "O.K."

    "So we went out and bought a wheelchair. Now we can drink and watch TV and no one has to get up. We just roll on over, change the channel, and roll back. Isn’t that awesome?"

    "Actually, it is…" I begin to say just as Danny drops to a knee and dry heaves onto the asphalt.

    Tommy takes out his cell phone and takes a couple of snapshots. "I’m soooo Facebookin’ this."

    In my mind, I’ve fired these two idiots four hundred times a piece. But who am I going to hire that is eager to shovel dirt for eight straight hours? I’m
    so desperate for workers these days that if an applicant wrote on his
    application that his previous work experience was "Al Qaeda," I’d still
    hire them.

    "Didn’t
    spill a drop of my taco, bro," Danny says proudly, as he rises off the
    pavement and washes his mouth out with Mountain Dew.

    Now that’s a skill you can’t put on a resume.

  • Words like Bombs

    The introduction to this week’s Poem Worth Reading is taken from Bart Schneider’s forthcoming novel, the highly Minneapolized The Man in the Blizzard:

    "Sometimes I wonder why Americans are as afraid of poetry as they are of al-Qaeda. Screw the ones who’ve decided that poetry’s an effete enterprise. Let ‘em party with the homophobes. It’s the others who concern me, the folks who claim they don’t get it, who think they’re too dumb to read poetry. Thing is, they’re not willing to be dumb enough. That’s their problem. If you want to get inside a poem, you need to dumb down your senses. That’s where the receptors are. You need to accept that you don’t know. Why should you know? What’s the matter with a little mystery? They think the poem’s a theorem. If they can’t solve it, if they can’t control it, then they’re afraid of it. It’s so American to want it all or nothing. If you can’t conquer it, what good is it? Americans have become so frozen with fear, they’ve lost their sense of play. It’s time to lighten up and lower our expectations. It’s time to rediscover our basic fluency. If a man’s not fluent, if he ain’t got flow, what chance does he have to converse with his soul?"

    Isn’t that kind of great?

    And now the actual poem. This week’s Poem Worth Reading is by Mohja Kahf, whose stuff I recently accidentally came across in a back issue of The Paris Review. The brief bio goes: She’s Syrian-American, and kicks the ass of any stereotype that might be affixed to her. This one’s from her latest collection, E-Mails from Scheherazad. She also has a novel, The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, which is probably worth checking out. Bladao.

    "Hijab Scene #7"

    No, I’m not bald under the scarf
    No, I’m not from that country
    where women can’t drive cars
    No, I would not like to defect
    I’m already American
    But thank you for offering
    What else do you need to know
    relevant to my buying insurance,
    opening a bank account,
    reserving a seat on a flight?
    Yes, I speak English
    Yes, I carry explosives
    They’re called words
    And if you don’t get up
    Off your assumptions
    They’re going to blow you away

  • and then I left

    when you reach

    somewhere

    that is nowhere

    and you talk

    with sadness

    to someone

    younger, beautiful, longing

    with peace in her eyes

    you feel calm

    and your worries vanish

    like water

    through the fingers 

    of a fist gripping fear 

     

     

  • Le Français Le Fait Mieux (The French Do It Better)

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Fête de la St. Jean-Baptiste

    Join in on this celebration of the summer solstice at Fête de la St. Jean-Baptiste,
    a French-Canadian holiday in honor of St. Jean-Baptist, the patron
    saint of of Quebec. For Quebecians this holiday is sort of like our 4th of
    July – minus the ridiculous number of fireworks related injuries.
    While Minneapolis may be quite far removed from the distant
    northeasterly province, it doesn’t mean we don’t know how to party like Canadian Frenchies. Tonight the Historic Sibley House in Mendota
    hosts outdoor family-friendly festivities that will include live,
    old-fashioned folk music, a traditional bonfire, and French-Canadian
    history and culture up the wahzoo.

    6:30-8:30pm, Sibley House Historic Site, 1357 Sibley Memorial Hwy, Mendota, Free




    FILM

    Je Ne Sais Quoi




    Je Ne Sais Quoi is the first feature flick written and directed by local filmie John Koch, who is (for now) more widely known as owner of the fantastic foreign and independent DVD rental store, Cinema Revolution.
    Since moving his store from it’s location near Lyndale and Franklin to
    a new spot on East 26th Street, Koch has apparently been up to very big
    things. This new film stars Dave Andrae as Paul, a neurotic loner who
    takes up with Anna, his more spirited neighbor from across the hall. Je Ne Sais Quoi weaves an honest and witty tale of relationships, life, and, well, settling for less. Local cinematographer Greg Yolen helps Koch’s clever film
    shine with his creative vision in this subtle, yet beautifully crafted
    (and surely soon-to-be award-winning) picture. If you can’t catch
    tonight’s world premiere, don’t fret – the film runs through July 3rd at
    the Ritz!



    7pm, Ritz Theater, 345 13th Ave. NE, Northeast Minneapolis



    WINE & DINE
    Heures Joyeuses

    In
    keeping with today’s fancy French theme, I thought it might be
    appropriate to call out one of the Twin Cities most delightful downtown
    hideaways. Vincent, a bright and modern spot located on Nicollet and 11th is the brainchild of worldly chef Vincent Francoual, a master of contemporary French fare. Happy Hour
    at Vincent is amazing, and not just for the $3 wine specials, but for the
    delectable little menu that goes along with them. Sample savory snacks
    such as the cute sounding "Petits Plats à Partager" which
    includes seared chicken morsels marinated in coconut milk and served
    with macadamia nuts, or the flavorful flat bread with smoked chicken,
    caramelized onions, bleu cheese and red grapes. And when French Fries
    are called "Les Patates", they’re ten times more delicious, simply because everything French is just a little bit sexier.

    Happy Hour: 4:30-6:30 Mon-Fri, Vincent, 1100 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis









  • This Space for Rent

    After six million three hundred
    and seven thousand two hundred minutes, Rent’s lease on life will expire
    in the Big Apple this fall. In the Mini Apple, aka Minneapolis/Saint
    Paul, it will expire in a few days. Through June 22nd the
    touring company of the iconic musical will be at the Ordway Center for
    the Performing Arts before packing up its things and leaving for good…at
    least until the next national tour. I’m excited to be joined by
    Emily Stagg who saw the show with me at the Ordway, as we dissect
    Rent’s impact and cultural relevance 12 years later, as well as our
    thoughts on the traveling cast.

    How is the traveling show?

    B. In academia, those
    who can’t do, teach. Apparently in entertainment, those who can’t do,
    tour. With the American Idol everyone-can-be-a-star revolution,
    a symbiotic mutant sucker fish has attached Broadway to Idol and vice
    versa. The first time I saw Rent? Pre-Idol Constantine Maroulis.
    This time? Fourth season AI alum Anwar Robinson and South African
    Idol Heinz Winckler. It’s not necessarily that bad, you get some
    killer voices out of the deal. If there are tickets left, I would
    say grab some just to hear Heinz Winckler belt through "One Song Glory."
    On the downside, producers just love to jam notable stars into parts
    whether they fit or not. Anwar’s higher register is fantastic,
    but since he plays Tom Collins, a part written for a rumbling baritone,
    it’s not like you get to hear it. Also, Winckler’s Roger is a
    bit uninspired.

    E. As an American Idol
    fan (and when I say fan, I mean scary obsessed junkie), I was excited
    and just a bit apprehensive to see Anwar and Heinz headline one of my
    favorite musicals. And, in true national tour style, both of them were….fine.
    As Brandon said, the worst part about Anwar’s performance was his beautiful
    tenor/high baritone squashed into a low bass part. Memo to the casting
    company: just because this semi-famous man happens to be an African-American
    with long dreadlocks, he is not necessarily an ideal Collins. Oops.
    Heinz on the other hand sang like an angel, which was enough to overshadow
    his somewhat weak attempt at acting. Speaking of Angel, how can she
    have been overlooked so far in this review? Played by Kristen-Alexzander
    Griffith, this Angel’s singing was occasionally lost in between genders,
    but her strutting sassy queendom elicited some of the finest and most
    humorous moments of the show.

    B. To me, the real drain
    on the show is Dustin Brayley’s Mark who is, conservatively speaking,
    fucking terrible. During the opening number I was horrified that
    we might have stumbled on some horrible amateurish nightmare production.
    Was he a replacement? Was he the replacement’s replacement?
    Was he simply lost? No. In fact, he has the longest theater
    bio in the cast. He improved after the opening number, but clearly
    lacked the chops to complete with the vastly more talented cast like
    Jennifer Colby Talton’s fantastically legato Mimi.

    E. Brandon, my dear, you
    exaggerate. Mark was not atrocious–merely mediocre. If he was atrocious,
    we could have at least laughed at him throughout the show. Instead,
    we merely shrugged, and occasionally winced when Brayley took five seconds
    too long to get his cues. Overall, this was a perfectly good version
    of this classic show, worth seeing (and occasionally wincing at.) Like
    all other performances of Rent, what makes the musical sparkle with
    energy and enthusiasm is the audience-the teenage girls who know every
    damn word and scream when Roger and Mimi are introduced, the parents
    who are notably uncomfortable at every use of the word "fuck," and
    all the others who got dragged along without quite knowing what they
    were getting into (but somehow find themselves enjoying it nonetheless.)

    B. Like Emily said, it’s
    not perfect, but it’s still the Rent you know and love. Though
    two new tours are likely to start up next year, grab tickets when you
    can, because Rent is definitely on the way out.

    Why Rent? What is
    its cultural significance?

    B. I would like to propose
    an addition to the blog Stuff White People Like. White
    people love Rent. Glancing around the Ordway it was impossible
    not to notice the word on everyone’s lips. I couldn’t make it
    out, but it was either Ikea or lutefisk. Why then is Rent so popular?
    After all, it’s impossibly complicated, and preaches a pretty selfish
    way of life. It’s not as if we identify with the characters–we’re
    not Roger or Mimi, Mark, or Maureen. Let’s be honest, to shell out the
    $80 for tickets, we’re all Benjamin Coffin III. Then again, it’s
    great music, and it actually has something to say. In an industry
    where Young Frankenstein: the Musical is like saying "Young
    Frankenstein: You See, They Sing on Stage, Which Makes it Funny," Rent
    does a great job of differentiating itself.

    E. It was really remarkable.
    On the way out after the show, I turned the corner to leave the auditorium
    and was momentarily stunned by a sea of texting cell phones whipped
    out by 16-year-old high school suburbanites. What exactly is it that
    makes this particular audience (my suburban self included) connect with
    Rent’s very urban portrayal of drug use, depression, illness, and death?
    Maybe it just so happens that the answer is in the question. Whether
    we are from the city itself, or from Eagan, or from Scarsdale, NY (Mark’s
    hometown in the show), our lives intersect with sadness. We may not choose
    to live like the characters in Rent, but we experience similar emotions,
    and the show carries itself in its emotions. When Angel dances, we feel
    his joy. When Maureen gives her protest performance, we moo right along
    with her, timidly at first, and then unabashedly enthusiastic. When
    Collins speaks at the memorial service, I can say that even in my fourth
    performance of Rent, I cried. As complex as the show may be (and I think
    on some level, you’re right about that, Brandon), I think it is the
    simplicity and the rawness of its emotions that fills up a 1900-seat
    auditorium on a Tuesday night 12 full years after it was born.

    B. Is it still relevant?
    I would say yes and no. We don’t have an AIDS cure, but it’s a
    manageable illness now in the US. I think today it’s easy to brush
    Rent off as "that musical where everyone has AIDS," because its
    not a part of our common experience the way it is in Africa, nor is
    it as terrifying as it was at the end of the ’80s. There is a
    real irony having Heinz Winckler here in the states since that issue
    would probably resonate more in his home country. I think Rent
    has been—and still is—extraordinarily important for helping push
    GLBT issues into the mainstream. And honestly, I think it’s pretty
    impressive to inspire shrieking 16 year olds 12 years later. Ultimately,
    Emily and I came to the following conclusion:

    We might not live like the
    characters in Rent do, but in the end, Rent is a celebration of life
    the way we wish we could live it.

  • Ryan's Daughter — So Misunderstood

    The response from critics was
    so harsh it allegedly kept David Lean away from the director’s chair
    for 14 years. Pauline Kael’s oft-discussed review is so scathing
    it makes you wonder if Lean put gum in her hair or something.
    And while The Bridge on the River Kwai, Lawrence of Arabia, and Doctor
    Zhivago
    were enormous films to follow up on, the response to the 1970s film, Ryan’s Daughter, has nearly become the stuff of legend. But
    was the response justified? Or is this a case of critics banding
    together and doing their best to sully the reputation of a successful
    filmmaker?

    A film like Ryan’s Daughter
    is certainly unusual, especially when comparing the story to the size
    of the film surrounding it. A loose adaptation of Madame Bovary
    transplanted to WWI-era Ireland, the small story of love and adultery
    doesn’t necessarily merit the epic scope given to it. Like Lean’s
    previous epics, the film is gorgeously shot in Super Panavision 70 by
    Freddie Young and scored lushly by Maurice Jarre, both frequent collaborators
    of Lean’s. But many critics at the time tore into the style
    of the film, declaring that it didn’t fit with Robert Bolt’s comparatively
    intimate screenplay.

    Bolt and Lean turn Emma Bovary
    into Rosy Ryan (Sarah Miles), a spoiled and detached Irish lady who
    finds everyday life far too boring. She falls in love with Charles
    Shaughnessy, the local schoolmaster (Robert Mitchum, another unusual
    choice by Lean). Hoping that their marriage will add some excitement
    to her life, Rosy is disappointed when she discovers that is not the
    case. Her wishes come true in the form of English Major Randolph
    Doryan (Christopher Jones), a man scarred by the trenches who’s come
    to take command of the local Army base. As their affair develops,
    political unrest in the land grows. The Irish cajole Rosy’s
    father (a British informant) into capturing German weapons. When
    Ryan tells the government, Doryan is sent to stop them and the mob turns
    their sights on him and the woman he’s been lying with.

    The possibility that critics
    were offended by the portrayal of the Irish in the film is pretty likely.
    As the political angle of the film becomes more concrete, the hordes
    become less and less of an angry mob and more disloyal beasts, attacking
    the closest thing they can in their savage attempt to lash out against
    the British. They ridicule the soldiers and deride Rosy as "a
    British officer’s whore." When they finally get their hands
    on Rosy, the results are devastating. The townspeople in Madame
    Bovary
    were never this bloodthirsty. In fact, the only relatable
    Irish characters in the film are placed on a higher moral ground than
    the rest: the conflicted schoolmaster/husband, the local priest and
    the village idiot. More on that last one later. Even Rosy
    is depicting as something other than the Irish mob — detached from
    her village and longing for a different life. This becomes all
    the more apparent by the casting of the decidedly un-Irish Sarah Miles
    in part.

    Still, once one gets past the
    stereotypical raging Irish crowds, the film is mesmerizing. The
    epic scope, slammed by so many before, offers up the most thrilling
    moments of isolation the film has. Freddie Young’s Oscar-winning
    camera work is truly something to behold, easily standing up to his
    other work with Lean. The image of Shaughnessy standing alone
    by a giant rock on the beach, with brief glimpses of Rosy and Doryan’s
    lovemaking cut in, is absolutely thrilling. The beautiful Irish
    background and the wide beach on Dingle Peninsula gives the film all
    the visual splendor one would expect from a Lean epic. And it
    is completely justified. The three main characters are molded
    into a love triangle, lost in something too vast for them to understand.
    And it is only a matter of time before the world comes crashing in on
    them. The only epic element of the film is Jarre’s curiously
    upbeat score, which is often far too intrusive and big for the film’s
    more intimate moments.

    The performances are a bit
    of a mixed bag. As stated earlier, Mitchum is an unusual choice
    for the quiet, conflicted Shaughnessy. While he does his best
    to play against type, he never seems quite comfortable in the role.
    By contrast, Sarah Miles is astounding. This is hardly surprising,
    as the role was written specifically for her by then-husband Robert
    Bolt. She plays with Rosy’s more self-centered ways delicately,
    so as not to make her unsympathetic. And her final moments, when
    the extent of the mob’s anger is finally shown, her face is a quiet
    masterpiece of devastation and tragedy. The film is anchored on
    her performance, and she is one of the main reasons it should be viewed
    as successful. Christopher Jones, whose voice was dubbed in the
    process, barely registers a blip on the radar. This is hardly
    a bad thing, since he’s mostly required to be looked at and desired
    than to talk or hold a great deal of dramatic weight.

    And now we come to the village
    idiot. Played by Sir John Mills, the character of Michael is probably
    the closest thing to a disaster that this film contains. Far too
    broad and comical for a film of such seriousness, Mills’s performance
    is truly perplexing. It’s true that his role does serve some
    purpose in the story, but one wishes Lean and company would have handled
    it with more subtlety and finesse. Instead, they’ve got the
    Hunchback of Notre Dame running around WWI-era Ireland with Rosy as
    his Esmeralda. However, Mills’s performance makes good on Kate
    Winslet’s words on Extras: playing a retard really can win you an
    Oscar.

    Something must have struck
    a nerve with critics when Ryan’s Daughter was released, and it wasn’t
    a good one. While far from perfect, and definitely the weakest
    of Lean’s epic film period, it hardly deserved the critical drubbing
    that it got. The film is not another case of style over substance;
    to say it is one of Lean’s most thematically complex epics would hardly
    be a ridiculous statement. Even if its attitude towards the Irish
    is muddled and its inclusion of Mills’s performance is off-putting, Ryan’s Daughter truly is a misunderstood piece. With its epic
    starkness and its astonishing performance by Sarah Miles, Lean should
    not have felt any regret or remorse about this film. And it definitely
    should not have taken 14 years for him to return.

  • Krishna Comes to the Kingfield Market

    Okay, I really intended to get this post up days ago, or at least sometime before Sunday (today), because today is the day of the weekly Kingfield Farmers Market, which runs from 9 a.m. to 1:30 a.m. at 43rd and Nicollet Ave. S., but life got hectic, and I had to go to Chicago for a conference, and so here it is, 9:20 a.m. on a Sunday morning. So I’m going to do a quick post and then jump on my bike and ride over to the market for breakfast.

    The Kingfield Market is pretty small, in terms of the number of vendors and shoppers, but the gastronomic batting average is pretty high: both Rustica, the terrific artisan bakery at 46th and Bryant, and the Grand Cafe, at 38th and Grand (one of my favorite restaurants), have stalls at the market, selling bread, cookies and pastries (UPDATE: the Grand Cafe will be there twice a month); and Clancy’s Meats (43rd & Upton, sells bratwursts – they were missing last Sunday, but are supposed to be there every week (UPDATE: starting in July). And the Ikawa Coffee Company sells Rwandan coffee hot, cold and by the bag to raise money for its projects to help Rwandan coffee farmers.

    The gastronomic highlight of last week’s visit, though, was discovering the Akshay-Paatram stall, run by Anasuya Mahabeshwari and Tina Ray. They offer a small selection of Indian vegetarian dishes, as well as a vegan sloppy Jane and little fruit turnovers, all very reasonably priced.

    Akshay-Paatram does not have a restaurant, but does operate a catering service; for a menu or more information, contact them at 612-964-1954, or e-mail them at akshaypaatram@yahoo.com.

    When I asked Anasuya about the name of the stall, she told me a charming story from the Mahabarata. I will make a complete hash of the story if I try to retell it, so instead I am pasting the Wikipedia version below.

    "Akshayapatra: अक्षयपात्र) meaning inexhaustible vessel, in Hindu mythology, was a wonderful vessel given to Yudhishthira by the Sun god, Surya, which held a never-failing supply of food to the Pandavas every day. 

    "When the Pandavas began their exile in the forest, Yudhishtra was despondent at his inability to feed the holy sages and others who accompanied him. At this, Dhaumya, the priest of the Pandavas, counselled him to pray to Lord Surya.
    Pleased with Yudhishtira’s prayers, Lord Surya blessed him with the
    Akshaya Patra, a vessel that would give unlimited food every day till Draupadi finished eating.

    "Lord Krishna also once partakes food from the Akshaya Patra, when sage Durvasa
    arrived at the Pandavas’ place with his disciples. When Durvasa
    arrived, there was no food left to serve him, since Draupadi had
    already finished eating. The Pandavas became anxious as to what they
    would feed such a venerable sage. While Durvasa and his disciples were
    away at the banks of the river bathing, Draupadi prayed to Lord Krishna
    for help. As always, they were once again saved by him, who partook of
    a single grain of rice from the Akshaya Patra and announced that he was
    satisfied by the meal. This satiated the hunger of
    Durvasa and all his disciples too, as the satisfaction of Lord Krishna
    meant the satiation of the hunger of the whole Universe.

    Akshayapatra, in current usage, refers to any store that is inexhaustible."