Blog

  • God for President

    What would the world be like if God were president? Local inspirational speaker and spiritual psychotherapist Lisa Venable answers that question in her first book, God for President: A Parable About the Power of Love. When disillusioned activist Sarah Rose retreats from Washington to her Minnesota hometown, she begins to wonder exactly what would happen if God were the leader of the free world. Soon a mysterious woman enters her life and recruits her to help in a campaign for the Oval Office. It is on the road to the White House that Rose is able to use love, not fear, to govern a country.

    In the tradition of The Celestine Prophecy, God for President is a reminder that no one person or party may have the corner on "right" or "the American way" and that using love is a better way to run a country than fear.

    Lisa Venable will appear at Magers & Quinn Booksellers to discuss the book God for President, now on sale from Conari Press.

  • August Moon

    Mira James, heroine and amateur sleuth of the Murder by Month mystery series, returns in local author Jess Lourey’s newest work August Moon. This fourth installment of the series finds Mira about to leave adopted home Battle Lake, Minnesota for good — until a high school cheerleader is murdered. The act is soon linked to a local pastor who runs an evangelical Bible Camp that gives Mira a "Stepford Wives meets Hee Haw" vibe. But in order to catch the killer, Mira must first confront darkness in her past.

    The Murder by Month series, which includes May Day and June Bug, has been praised by The Strand magazine as, "Sweet, nutty, evocative of the American Heartland, and utterly addicting." Lourey’s previous work, Knee High by the Fourth of July, was a finalist for the Left Coast Crime Lefty Award for humorous mysteries.

    August Moon is on sale now from Midnight Ink Books. Once Upon a Crime is located at 604 West 26th Street in Minneapolis.

  • Murder at the Bad Girl's Bar & 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."

    Kelby will be appearing the University of Minnesota Bookstore on Wednesday, June 25 at 4 p.m., and at Magers and Quinn Booksellers on Thursday, June 26 at 7 p.m. Earlier that day (Thursday), she will be speaking on the Write On Radio! program of KFAI: Fresh Air Radio 90.3/106.7 (11 a.m.).

    Murder at the Bad Girl’s Bar & Grill is on sale now from Shaye Areheart Books. Visit the author’s website, www.nmkelby.com, for more information.

  • The Man Behind Bigger, Stronger, Faster

    Thanks for taking the time
    to talk to The Rake. I throughly enjoyed the film.
    How did you get into film, particularly documentary film making?

    Well, it’s interesting, I didn’t
    ever want to make a documentary, but my brothers and I had been talking
    about the whole steroid issue, and I was already a filmmaker at the
    USC film school. I was also probably the only filmmaker who is
    a power lifter (I can bench press 500 lbs) so between lifting weights
    and making movies and it was the kind of the time to put them both together
    I guess.

    When did you decide that
    this was a documentary you wanted to make?

    Part of it came from talking
    to my brother Smelly about this guy in the locker room. He was
    laughing that this guy Andrew was on the juice and we started think,
    well maybe there’s more to this and we started discussing it.
    Before that my producer Alex and I were discussing doing a film together
    about the subculture of bodybuilding and body obsession but we really
    didn’t have our finger on what the subject matter would be, something
    to do with the gym you know? But it all kind of came together
    to be about steroids and American culture through talking to my brothers
    and talking to my producer.

    Tell me about the process
    of making the film, how did you bring people on board? How did
    you initially finance the film?

    Well it’s pretty simple, Alex
    Buono our producer worked out in Gold’s Gym with me and we were talking
    about this project. I was actually selling memberships there just
    to pay the bills (as a filmmaker you’re not always on the top of the
    world money wise) so it basically came about that he wanted to produce
    it. So I went over to his house basically every day and a friend
    Tamsin Rawady who is a documentary filmmaker got attached to the idea
    as well. We all started to develop the idea together as a team
    so we spent about 3 months writing the treatment and my producer Alex
    gave it to his agent rob who also represents Jim Czarnecki, the producer
    of Bowling for Columbine and Fahrenheit 9/11. Jim read the treatment
    and fell in love with it so he got on board to produce as well, but
    he lives in New York so he was more of a supervising producer.
    From there we basically went out and started raising money and Jim kind
    of served as our insurance policy to get the film done on time and make
    it all happen.

    How did the film change
    from inception to the final cut? Are their interviews you wanted
    to get but couldn’t? Any additional points you wanted to make?

    You know it’s funny from the
    original treatment to the final cut the film changed a lot and I’ll
    tell you the original treatment was so well written and thought out
    so the question was: how can we get this on film? So we went through
    this whole process of interviewing all these people and we thought a
    movie about steroids just wouldn’t cut it so we set it up to be about
    cheating in general. After awhile we realized that the steroid
    issue was so big and complex that we had to come back to it so we ended
    up cutting the film back so it ended up pretty close to the original
    treatment. As far as interviews, we obviously wanted to interview
    Arnold [Schwarzenegger], Hulk Hogan, and Sylvester Stallone but a lot
    of times there are some things people don’t want to talk about.
    It was something we just had to put our heads together and figure out
    how to tell the story without actually having those interviews.

    This film puts you
    and your family under a lot of scrutiny, how did you initially pitch
    the film to them? How do you think they will be impacted by the
    film’s release?

    Um, I used completely hidden
    cameras and they don’t know that I made the movie [laughs]. Basically
    my brothers wanted to talk, they had a story they wanted to tell and
    in talking to my mom I just said, "Hey, you know I want to do this
    movie about steroids," and she said, "Oh, so you want to involve
    your brothers, so I guess you’re going to talk about how you guys are
    all natural even though everyone else is taking steroids." I
    told her that there were actually a lot of things in the movie that
    she probably wouldn’t like and she said, "Yeah, I’m fine with everything,
    I don’t really care."

    You
    know I would always ask my mom to be in my projects and if I told her
    I needed someone to play the crook she would be like, "No I’m not
    going to be in it!" Now that I finally get her to be in one
    of my movies it’s actually quite a bit different different than she
    expected. I think in the end that if you really watch the movie,
    she likes the way it helps our family communicate.

    I was really struck by how
    exhaustive the film was in terms of the number of interviews you did,
    the lengths to which you went to make one point another, are there parts
    of the film that you would have liked to include but couldn’t for lack
    of time? What ended up on the cutting room floor?

    We had a cut that I thought
    was actually really good, it was 2 hours and 15 minutes which is really
    long for a documentary. You know I was watching Bowling for Columbine
    and noticed they could have cut a minute here and a minute there and
    put in other stuff. So when I tried to pack the documentary full
    of stuff at like an hour and 49 minutes it was way too full. Even
    now it’s kind of a dizzying pace but it’s just the right tone and you
    don’t get too confused. What I didn’t realize when I was first
    making the movie was that sometimes you just need to breath, you need
    a couple beats for people to digest the information."

    What’s next for you?
    Any more projects in the works?

    I’m working on a TV pilot about
    Gold’s Gym basically, it’s sort of the office with wacky characters
    that I’ve met in the gym over the years and the little situations that
    have come about. I’m also working on a documentary tackling the
    subject of obesity.

  • Shock Me, Baby, One More Time

    SPECIAL EVENT
    A Toast to Tesla



    No, not the hair band
    from the late ’80s, although I do happen to know a few people who would
    probably be into that. Tonight’s event at the Bakken is dedicated to
    one of America’s greatest electrical engineers, Nikola Tesla,
    inventor of the radio. Sample complimentary appetizers and wines from
    Artisian Vineyards while strolling the Bakken’s beautiful outdoor
    gardens, take in a live performance of an old-timey radio show, and
    watch man-made lightning demonstrations with the Tesla coil. The Bakken
    will be hosting these "Electrifying Fun for Grownups"
    events monthly through the summer. So instead of sticking a fork in a
    light socket like you usually do every second Tuesday of the month,
    head to the Bakken for a safe and "shockingly" good time.



    5pm-8pm, The Bakken Museum, 3537 Zenith Ave. S, Minneapolis, $7

    MUSIC

    The Schubert Fest



    Get some lunchtime culture this week with the Schubert Club’s yearly St. Paul Summer Song Fest,
    a concert series that runs daily through the end of the week with free,
    noon-time performances featuring classical musicians. This year’s
    festival focuses on the work of influential English composer Vaughan Williams,
    who created epic symphonies, chamber music, opera, and film scores.
    Today’s performance features sweet soprano Maria Jette alongside Young
    Nam Kim on violin. A perfect noon reprieve from the
    Downtown office-worker blues, if you ask me.



    Noon (daily through Friday), Landmark Center, Room 317, 75 W. 5th Street, Downtown St.Paul, Free




    PERFORMANCE
    Stomp



    Provocative UK performance troupe Stomp invades the Ordway for a week-long run.
    Expect wild percussion, unusual props and instruments, and unbelievable
    movement from this eight-piece ensemble. For years, the group has impressed
    the world with their originality and presence, taking creativity in
    performance to a whole new level with innovative dance
    techniques and sound and rhythm created with non-traditional
    items such as matchboxes, garbage cans, and hubcaps. Runs through the
    15th.



    8pm, The Ordway, 345 Washington Street, St. Paul, $20-$50




    BOOKS

    Raking through Books with Greta Gaard

    The Rake’s monthly happy hour book club, at Kieran’s Irish Pub, offers readers the chance
    to discuss literature with writers and each other in a super-casual
    setting. This month, meet Greta Gaard, author of Ecological Politics: Ecofeminists and the Greens and The Nature of Home: Taking Root in a Place, and editor of Ecofeminism: Women, Animals, Nature.
    A well-published environmental literature critic, she currently teaches
    at the University of Wisconsin, River Falls, and serves on the Board of
    Directors for the Environmental Association for Great Lakes Education.

    5:30-7pm, Kieran’s Irish Pub, 330 2nd Ave. S, Downtown Minneapolis, Free


  • The Three Pointer: The Lakers Lay an Egg

    (AFP/Nicholas Kamm)

    Game #2, NBA Finals: Los Angeles 102, Boston 108

    Series to Date: Boston up 2-0

    1. No D in Los Angeles Lakers

    After watching the last 2 and a half quarters live and then the entire game on tape, I’ve got to say that for all my babble about the superiority of the Western Conference this season, the Celts lose last night’s game if the opponent was the Cavs, and probably the Pistons too. What a dreadful, dreadful lack of defensive commitment shown by LA, beginning at the top with Kobe Bryant–has an all defensive first-teamer ever mailed it in so thoroughly at that end of the floor in a big game?–and extending down to poor Trevor Ariza, who needed GPS to figure out where Paul Pierce was on the court during his mercifully brief 7:19.

    These were supposed to be the old, veteran Celtics, the team whose Big 3 have double-digit years in the league and who bring dinosaurs like PJ and Sam I Am off the pine. These were supposed to be the neo-Showtime Lakers, young and fleet, especially lanky big men Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom and the go-go backup backcourt of Sasha Vujacic and Jordan Farmar. So why did the Celts have more fast break points, 14-10? Why was Doc Rivers correctly telling his team at halftime that every time they forced a miss they could get layups and open treys if they pushed in transition? Yeah, the Lakers were embarrassed on the boards in Game One and determined not to let it happen again, so they hit their offensive glass hard and likewise posted up frequently in the first half. But how many times did we see whatever Lakers bothered to hustle back in transition necessarily play out of position to staunch that early flow, creating all sorts of chaos and mismatches if indeed the Celts had to wait for a second wave of offense on the controlled break–that is if they didn’t score immediately?

    Things didn’t get much better when the tempo slowed and the Celts operated their half-court sets. The Lakers’ pick-and-roll recognition and response was pathetic–if Kevin Garnett had hit half of the wide open midrange jumpers he usually knocks down, Boston would have been up 20 instead of 12 at the break. (And BTW, KG very rarely got those looks against Cleveland or Detroit or even on the road against Atlanta.) Of course Boston often didn’t bother with the pick and roll because Vlad Rad and Ariza were totally stumped by the fact that Paul Pierce could put the ball on the floor–that newfangled dribble move! They must have been reading all the breathless hype about how banged up and incapacitated Pierce was from his 96 second absence in Game One. That’s about as far from "the Truth" as if he’d had to tap out from a figure-4 leg lock from Ric Flair in wrestling. In any case, imagine how badly Radmanovic would have looked if Pierce had two good knees.

    Kobe? It was hard to tell who he was guarding half the time, although twice running out to slap palms with Ray Allen on the latter’s uncontested treys provided some clues. A couple of times Kobe was matched up on Leon Powe, and we know how that worked out–well, better than when hapless Luke Walton was forced to try and guard somebody.

    You really could go right down the Lakers’ roster. Odom totally allowed the wily vet PJ Brown to get in his head at both ends of the floor. Derek Fisher hasn’t gotten the memo that you see if Rajon Rondo is hitting his jumper before you allow him to become a playmaker, especially if you are much slower than Rondo (who had just 4 shots versus 16 assists). RonyTuriaf was too slow for Powe–and for PJ Brown.

    Put bluntly, the Lakers played shockingly bad defense, and that, to me, was the ballgame. Consider that the Celts shot 46% in the Atlanta series, 42.5% versus the Cavs, 45.8% against the Pistons, and even 42.1% in Game One against the Lakers. Last night they were 52.9%, including 9-14, or 64.3%, from beyond the arc, and that’s with KG having an off night at 7-19 FG. Boston’s bench shot 11-16 FG–69%.

    If Jackson and his crew are smart, they will change their priorities for the next game. Put Kobe on Pierce and tell him to shut Pierce down. Kobe is capable of it and it would get his mind off trying to do too much at the other end. Pierce will try and get him in foul trouble but the refs will have heat on them for the free throw disparity in Game Two and won’t call the borderline contact. Put Vujacic on Ray Allen and tell him that he is only allowed to shoot as often as he makes Allen miss. On offense, Kobe will be taxed from actually playing some defense, so Los Angles should play more inside-out with ball movement, posting up Gasol and running Odom off screens and forcing KG to decide which one he is guarding. Because if a dinged up Perkins or an ancient PJ Brown can stop Gasol in the low block, the series is pretty much over anyway.

    2. Overrated: Referee Bias and Laker 4th Q Comeback

    Anyone who cares about pro hoops intimately knows the feeling of believing your team is getting screwed by the refs. The violence you wish to do is totally out of proportion (hopefully) with the way you normally view setbacks and petty grievances and injustices in your non-fan existence. I’ve found myself rooting for the Lakers against the Nuggets and the Jazz, and rooting against them versus the Spurs. I favor the Celtics in this series due to my longstanding observation of KG during his time in Minnesota, and my growing respect throughout these playoffs for their team-wide commitment to defense. But I have affection for the Lakers too, and have found that you really detest the refs when you are not only pulling for someone to win, but equally pulling for the other team to lose, and the whistles therefore double down on your passion.

    This long preface is meant to stake my claim as a slight, but certainly not blind, Celtic partisan here. To Laker fans screaming bloody murder about the free throw discrepancy, I understand–but don’t feel–your pain. Remember, I’m the guy who claimed the Lakers’ Game Four win against the Spurs was "tainted" due to the referees. Believe me when I say that the anger will subside and perspective will set in. And the perspective that is required here–as was true in the LA-SA Game Four–is that the refs weren’t the difference here.

    Let’s get specific. Early foul trouble on Kobe Bryant was to my eyes (and I played back the tape a lot on my second viewing of the game) comprised of both legitimate and questionable calls. The first foul, when Pierce tried to rub him off on a screen and he reached around to keep contact with Allen, was an understandable call and a legit foul. It also could have been a no-call. The second foul–the arm-shove to Allen before he got the ball–was deemed by Van Gundy and Jackson as a cheap foul, but it looked pretty blatant to me and was in any case unnecessary. Whether or not it was called, it was a stupid move by Kobe and a tribute to Ray Allen, whose defense on Bryant has been something of a revelation this series. The third foul on Bryant was an obvious flop by Paul Pierce–that’s not the way players fall, if they fall at all, when someone runs into them. It was a borderline flop if Kobe had the ball and was going to the hoop: that it was whistled as Kobe was trying to move through a pick (and Pierce is a master at slightly moving to the side on his picks) was a bad call, especially so because it was #3 and sent him to the bench. Ditto the technical on Kobe after the layup seemed like a rabbit-eared move. I’m all for ringing up technicals on blatant protests by players, but it is being enforced so haphazardly–hey, Kendrick Perkins could get a technical every single time he commits a foul, and ditto Gasol–that to whistle Kobe, especially when it looked like a Celtic reached in and raked him during his drive, was bad judgment by the official. Also, there was more than once when Kobe got hammered driving the lane–once
    Pierce knocked him so obviously that Kobe changed his hand and scored lefty–and no whistle was called. So, yes, I believe there was a pro-Boston bias on balance to the calls. I think even more than Kobe, Gasol got screwed, but some of this is Gasol’s fault–he’s just not very aggressive by nature down in the paint, and that matters to the refs. Nevertheless, I saw Gasol get fouled as often as I saw Leon Powe get fouled and Powe had 13 free throws to Gasol’s one.

    So why don’t I think it swung the outcome of the game in which LA only lost by six points? Because the large lead caused the Celts to lose their focus, as happened at least twice before in the Pistons series. These lapses are a weakness, but thus far not a fatal weakness, with Boston. The smaller the lead, the tighter their focus, and while that was indeed an impressive scramble-back by the Lakers, it was that combination of one team’s desperation and another’s nonchalance that makes for second-rate, sort of novelty basketball. I don’t believe that improbable comeback is any more successful if the refs call a totally balanced game.

    The ending of that comeback, by the way, was to my eyes poetic justice. On the Celtic end, Boston put the ball in the hands of the person who is their crunchtime assassin, Paul Pierce. (A reader/commenter briefly convinced me that Kevin Garnett has an equal right to that claim for the Celts, but after reviewing some old crunchtimes for Boston in these playoffs, I reverted back to thinking that when it comes to the team needing a basket, Pierce is going to be their preference about 8 out of 10 times.) Pierce drew the foul and hit the crucial free throws. At the other end of the floor, the Lakers’ and arguably the NBA’s premiere crunchtime assassin never touched the ball because Sasha Vujacic mistakenly continues to believe he’s the second coming of Manu Ginobili and got his ill-advised shot blocked by Pierce. Replays showed Kobe getting open on the weak side just before Vujacic launched. A fitting ending to a horrible game if you are a Lakers fan.

    3. Worst Assist Ever Called

    Hey, I grew up worshipping the Celtics, who won their first ring with Russell when I was five years old, growing up approximately 7 miles from the old Garden, and even I think all this "Celtic tradition" stuff is getting out of hand. Don’t believe the hype.

    And speaking of hype, does everyone recall the play that typified LA’s brain dead, foot cobwebbed, approach to defense last night, when Leon Powe dribbled the length of the court and sank a layup while Gasol, Vlad Rad and others had garlands strewn in his path to the hoop? Perhaps you’ll recall that Powe received the ball beneath the foul line in his own end, and thus had to dribble about 85 of the 94 feet. Well, the player who gave him the ball–it could have been an out-of-bounds pass, or perhaps just a "why don’t you bring it up, Leon?" gesture–was Rajon Rondo. And the official scorer in Boston gave him an assist on the play. Sort of puts those 16 assists Rondo tallied, and the 31 allotted to the Celtics team, in a new, less favorable light.

  • Are All Critics Obsolete?

    Steadily as the American dollar, the value of informed opinions is decreasing. As information becomes ever more accessible and democratized, thanks to the likes of Google and Wikipedia and Things White People Like, the necessity for critics — previously our cultural gatekeepers — seems to be vanishing. Whether it’s food, music, or movies, the corresponding critics are getting laid of left and right from their respective publications. Much of the problem, as Jeremy Iggers and others note, stems from the declining budgets of print newspapers. But (as Iggers also explains), this trend may be equally due to the ubiquitous opining of the blogosphere.

    The same thing, of course, is happening in the literary world. The following is a missive from the National Books Critics Circle:

    At the Los Angeles Times, The Chicago Tribune, Newsday, The Minneapolis Star Tribune, The Memphis Commercial Appeal, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, The Dallas Morning News, The Sun Sentinel, The New Mexican, The Village Voice, The Atlanta Journal Constitution, and dozens upon dozens of other papers, book coverage has been cut back or slashed all together, moved, winnowed, filled with more wire copy, or generally been treated as expendable.

    There seems to be a definite difference, though, between the demise of the literary critic and critics of other media. Namely, book reviewers see their fate as being tied more closely to their subject. While the sorry state of print newspapers isn’t helping their cause, nor the sexy snarky opining of clever online commentators, the real problem might stem from within the practice itself.

    "Even if you think critics are parasites," said Louis Bayard in an article for Salon a couple weeks ago, "you have to acknowledge they can only survive when their host organisms thrive… If we want to bring the critic back to life, we first have to resuscitate the novelist."

    The corresponding argument for restaurant reviewers would be preposterous: Food critics are dying off because food isn’t relevant anymore. Meanwhile, though Clay Aiken rules the radio and ‘Meet the Zohan’ is on the big screens, the independent communities in film and music still seem to be thriving. If anything, the emergence of the Internet has only made the musical climate more diverse and interesting, providing heaps of content for reviewers. Whereas the alternatives to Stephen King (as Bayard would have it) are becoming ever scarcer.

    I take issue with the idea that the novel is irrelevant. Ignored, sure. But there are still some incredibly moving books and stories published each year. The question that’s raised, though, is what is the aim of criticism? And are their bloggers that do actually achieve this aim, thus rendering the prose pros (boo…) obsolete?

    For me, the most satisfying reviews are the ones that throw light on a novel’s context, and show me how it’s supposed to be read. I trust critics to be smarter than me, and to have the ability to place a given book in its correct context, which I might otherwise miss.

    In their essay "The Hype Cycle," the editors of N + 1 avow that there is not necessarily a set medium for criticism, but a set of rules. "Real criticism can take the form of a monograph, or a long review, or just a few words mumbled to a friend," they say. "In any case, it judges art with reference to the work’s internal logic and generic and historical situation." They go on (in other articles) to say that though strong examples may be found in blogs and on Amazon reviews, for the most part the emergence of these media have cheapened criticism.

    Certainly there are some professional critics who satisfy the common criteria for reviews. Robert Pinsky’s write-up of Kathryn Harrison’s While They Slept, which appeared in this week’s NYTBR, gives us a precise idea of how to understand the book we’re about to read:

    The violations that destroy human lives, or maim them, seem to demand telling…Possibly we seek such stories as ways to understand our smaller, more ordinary losses and griefs. Mythology and literature (and their descendant, the Freudian talking cure) manifest a profound hunger for narrating what is called, paradoxically, the unspeakable. Raped, her tongue torn out, Philomela becomes the nightingale, singing the perpetrator’s guilt. When Oedipus appears with bleeding eye-sockets, the tragic chorus simultaneously narrates and says it cannot speak; it looks while saying it must look away.

    Having read the review, there is no way to consider the actual book without keeping this in mind.

    But mostly there seem to be sloppy reviews that substitute analysis for opinion. The following is another review from last Sunday’s NYTBR, this one by Lucy Ellman, concerning Chuck Palahniuk’s Snuff.

    What the hell is going on? The country that produced Melville, Twain and James now venerates King, Crichton, Grisham, Sebold and Palahniuk. Their subjects? Porn, crime, pop culture and an endless parade of out-of-body experiences. Their methods? Cliché, caricature and proto-Christian morality. Props? Corn chips, corpses, crucifixes. The agenda? Deceit: a dishonest throwing of the reader to the wolves. And the result? Readymade Hollywood scripts.

    So not only has America tried to ruin the rest of the world with its wars, its financial meltdown and its stupid stupid food, it has allowed its own literary culture to implode.

    Though I’m inclined to agree with her on all points, I’m not sure a book review is the platform. Throughout, she has as many problems with what ‘Snuff’ stands for as with the book itself.

    Others substitute analysis for plot description, like Rachel Blount’s review of Charles Leerhsen’s Crazy Good in this Sunday’s Star Tribune. The most illuminating aspect of her critique is when she tells us that this book follows the Seabiscuit model. Otherwise, it’s 98 percent synopsis.

    Ellen Emry Heltzel’s review of The Garden of Last Days, also in the Strib, fares little better. At first there is promise, as Heltzel tells us it’s "Dubus’ empathy for his characters" that make the book so titillating. Maybe she’ll explain his technique, why it’s so. Instead we just get a description of what happens.

    I do agree that literary criticism is ailing, and not necessarily at the hands of bloggers or dying print dailies. To say that irrelevant models breed irrelevant reviews is one thing, but to me there seems also to be a lack of discipline on the critic’s end.

    Maybe Norman Mailer put it best. "Critics were my judgmental peers," he said in an interview that appeared in The Paris Review last summer. "It was more exciting to meet [critics] than to meet most movie stars…you wanted their respect, and feared their disapproval. At the same time, as you grew and developed, you didn’t feel inferior to them…That was a nice moment. We don’
    t have it anymore. Those critics have all passed away. There’s no one to replace them that I can see."

  • The Well-Lubricated Fall of the Middle Class

    All praise be to the cyclopean gods of old for finally
    bringing the nigh interminable local and national Democratic nomination process
    to a close. For while sentences involving Andy
    Rooney, sodomy and bestiality
    , not to mention flag
    lapel pins
    and innuendo involving sniper fire,
    roll comfortably off the tongue of B-grade actors on late-night Cinemax, they
    do not serve as a substitute for effective political discourse.

    As a result, now that the maddening cacophony of berserk
    liberals has gone silent, however briefly, we must rush to place weightier
    issues on the table of public discourse. for not even the ancient eldritch
    power of the elder beings from out of time and space, combined with the cosmic
    might of Allah and Yahweh, will be able to hush the yowling
    dissonance
    that will ensue once the battle for the nation’s
    soul
    between Republican and Democrat begins in earnest.

    Donkey shows
    aside, the upcoming elections come at a time when a veritable shit-strewn minefield
    of problems is facing America’s
    middle class. To be clear, these problems do not include:

    • Middle
      Eastern terrorists come to spread plague, rape our women and blow up
      landmarks while screaming the Xena battle cry to
      the heavens.
    • Godless
      foreigners come to spread plague, rape our women and steal our jobs whilst
      inflicting gastrointestinal discomfort on us all by introducing new foods
      to the American palate.
    • Compact
      fluorescent light bulbs
      come to spread plague, rape our women, and
      poison our children with trace amounts of mercury.
    • Homosexuals
      seeking same sex marriages come to spread plague, rape our men and trigger
      the long-feared rash of man/horse romantic entanglements.

    What these problems do include is rising food costs,
    skyrocketing energy prices, tightening credit markets, miniscule raises, and
    falling home values, all adding up to an increasingly brutal struggle to stay afloat. In
    fact, between the first quarter of 2000 and the first quarter of 2008, after
    adjusting for inflation, wages for the middle class have essentially stagnated — increasing only .6 percent. And since the start of this year, wages have
    actually fallen behind inflation. Of course, that should come as no surprise –
    drivers throughout the country have found themselves spread-eagled at the pump,
    caught in the caustic grip of high-octane fossil fuels and whispering "I wish I
    could quit you" whilst sadly caressing the pump handle.

    So has this to do with the upcoming election? Everything, of
    course. America’s
    strong middle class is constantly cited as the primary reason for our country’s
    profoundly powerful and stable economy. They are the yellow sun to the United States’
    Superman. The Astro Glide to the country’s Jenna Jameson. The Blackwater to its
    Iraq
    security policy. Unfortunately for the middle class, most members of that
    demographic lack super strength, do not get to aid in the profligate banging of
    porn stars, and don’t possess the fully automatic weapons necessary to enforce
    real change. And with the illusory gains of the last few years almost
    completely wiped away, America’s
    middle class is under threat of extinction.

    On the campaign trail, our candidates for the Senate, the
    Oval Office, and every other elected office in the land put forth ideas for
    healthcare reform, bringing the troops home and winning the War on Terror.
    However, in their desperate hunt for sound bites and applause lines they’re
    missing the true scope of the problem. The economy has grown dramatically for the
    last six years, but that growth has largely left everyone but the wealthy
    behind. As a result, the middle class is becoming an even more narrow slice of
    the population, a trend that has accelerated and become ever more visible since
    the housing bubble burst. And as that slice shrinks, the country loses ground
    to its global competition.

    This lost ground means fewer students can afford college,
    thereby limiting the qualified workforce in the country. Our buying power
    suffers, forcing other countries to replace us with more valuable trading
    partners. Crime rates rise and neighborhoods become blighted toothless
    creatures, with boarded-up gaping wounds where families once dwelled and
    half-staved children roving through Longfellow, Kenwood and Linden Hills like a
    biblical swarm of feral locusts devouring all in sight and ruling their new Lord of
    the Flies kingdom
    with brutal efficiency.

    So while Democrats cheer on a message of change and Republicans
    bask in McCain’s Zen-like balance of maverick reputation and stay-the-course
    policy, neither side offers a full-blown strategy for heading off the impending
    class wars. And if this problem isn’t addressed, the rise of micro-nations
    within once peaceful neighborhoods will only be the beginning. The Chinese, no
    longer content with their near-monopoly on American lunch buffets, will buy up
    real estate at fire sale prices, satisfying the Communist nation’s long-held
    fascination with robot superweapons by collaborating with the Japanese to use
    the newly acquired land as a testing ground for an army of giant robot
    pandas
    . If this horrific future comes to pass, not only will America become
    a former superpower, but no one’s lucky bamboo will be safe from the
    predations of these nuclear-powered Socialist creatures
    of mass destruction
    .

  • Here’s One for the Open Road

    Jason Shannon likes to think
    of his band as a car.

    "A car Steve McQueen drove,"
    he says. "An old ’60s or ’70s hot rod. Not a badass car. Just a car
    with good integrity. Something that’s built to last, but not showing
    itself off. A Classic.

    "Something like that,"
    he laughs.

    The car metaphor is appropriate.
    Shannon’s song "Maybe Mexico" begs for an old jalopy and a stiff
    breeze. Ever the storyteller, his prose often seems stuck in that fork
    in the road between Lover’s Lane and Heartbreak Hotel.

    Shannon and his band are playing
    in Dinkytown’s Kitty Cat Klub, a surprisingly romantic and chic diversion
    in a college town that is aching for the latest drink special. The band,
    complete with a keyboardist and a horn section, is spilling off the
    tiny stage huddled in between the venue’s swaths of exposed brick
    and collection of antique mirrors. It’s the perfect setting for Shannon’s
    love songs and tales of hope and hopelessness. Outside, the sky is gray
    with a brewing storm. Inside, it is equally as electric. The atmosphere
    sets nerves tingling with that introspective feeling everyone gets when
    looking at the world through a rain-streaked window, seeing only your
    reflection.

    The band plays a mix of blues,
    rock, and folk with a bit of twang. And though he may have mixed feelings
    about applying the term "soul" to his sound, Shannon’s crooning
    is full of emotion. A lot of these influences, he says, he gathered
    growing up.

    "I grew up in Texas and Louisiana,"
    he says. "So I think I was always around country music and blues music.
    But no one ever said, ‘This is what we’re listening to and this
    is what this is.’ I think it’s sort of a genealogy thing, where
    I had it in me somewhere, but I never consciously tried to have it in
    me."

    His love of music he gained
    through childhood osmosis.

    "My dad managed a cable company.
    We had MTV right when it came out," he says. "I grew up playing
    sports, but I loved MTV and I loved the videos and I loved the songs.
    I would watch it all the time. Robert Palmer. Duran Duran. Tom Petty.
    INXS. I would just watch it all day. My mom would say, ‘What is your
    problem.’"

    Shannon isn’t new to the
    music scene. He spent time in a hard rock band and, as a solo artist,
    he considered a future in indie rock.

    "I was kind of hoping I would
    adopt some of the values," he says of the genre, "but I can’t.
    I gave up trying to do it. I guess it’s not even values, but it’s
    sort of like… you hope to fit in. I’m an adult, but it’s an acceptance
    thing. I gave up trying to do it. And giving up has been really good
    for me creatively."

    In a city that can feel clogged
    with bands latching onto musical trends of the moment, Shannon’s classic
    Americana sounds fresh. His quality storytelling is even more refreshing.
    It’s his words, Shannon says, that move him onstage.

    "If I’m connecting with
    a particular lyric, I will feel the lyric," he says. "I try to pay
    attention to what I’m singing all the time. I’m paying attention
    to my voice. I never have to think about my guitar playing. So I’m
    listening to the band and I’m listening to what I’m singing. If
    the lyric has a certain emotion, I’ll feel it and when I do feel it,
    it’s inspiring."

    Tonight Shannon shakes like
    his head is filled with phantoms, former romances and memories of escape.
    Missing is his near-trademark top hat, but its absence allows onlookers
    to more clearly see his face twist as he is connecting to that emotion.
    The sound bellows and his voice is thundering. Just like the clouds
    above.


    Photos by Denis Jeong.
    View full slideshow

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