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  • Are Restaurant Critics Obsolete?

    The 2008 James Beard Awards for best
    restaurant, best chef, best cookbook, etc. were announced yesterday, and
    Minnesota got skunked. We had three chefs in the running for Best Chef Midwest
    – Isaac Becker of the 112 Eatery, Tim McKee of La Belle Vie and Solera, and Alex Roberts
    of Restaurant Alma and Brasa, which pretty much guaranteed that none of them would get
    the award. Wisconsin only had one candidate in the race, Adam Siegel of
    Bartolotta’s Lake Park Bistro in Milwaukee, so the cheesehead voting block had
    their way. Needless to say, Rubaiyat in Decorah, IA never had a chance.

    (Speaking of Solera, please join me at the Rake’s monthly World Flavors dinner party, tonight (Monday, June 9) from 6-8 p.m. on the second floor patio at Solera, 900 Hennepin Ave. in downtown Minneapolis. Cost is $40 per person, including an interesting assortment of tapas and three accompanying wines. To see the menu and buy tickets, click here.)

    It’s a pretty safe bet that most of the people who voted for
    Bartolotto’s have never been to the 112 Eatery, and vice versa, but the Awards
    are a tremendous publicity machine for the restaurants involved, and like they
    say, people who enjoy sausages or the law, or restaurant awards, should never
    see any of them being made.

    I used to get these James Beard Award ballots every year,
    and dutifully fill them out, flipping through page after page of restaurants I
    had never been to, and many I had never even heard of. Is
    Canlis in Seattle more deserving of the Outstanding Service award than Vetris
    of Philadelphia? How many people are there on the planet who have actually
    dined at both of these restaurants more than once? Don’t get me started.

    But it did remind me of a topic I have been thinking about,
    which is whether the internet is making professional restaurant critics obsolete.
    Here’s what I am thinking:

    1)
    Professional restaurant critics are very expensive. Back when
    I was at the Star Tribune, my dining expenses often ran to over $1000 a month,
    as I recall, and I would guess my colleague Rick Nelson’s tab was similar. We
    were the envy of our colleagues. We were supposed to visit each restaurant we
    reviewed at least twice, with dining companions, and sample a total of eight
    dinners. Most restaurant critics work for newspapers, and as newspapers enter
    their death spiral and cut staff and budget and newshole, somebody in
    management must be looking at that budget line, and wondering. I predict that
    five years from now, there will be a lot fewer paid critics around.

    2)
    Restaurant critics are an artifact of the gastronomic
    revolution that started around 40 years ago, when most Americans had never
    heard the word pasta. They needed experts, or thought they did, and so people
    like me, (who really weren’t experts, except in relative terms) got jobs as
    critics, which instantly elevated us to the status of experts. But nowadays,
    the public is much more knowledgeable about food, and much more skeptical about
    what they read in the newspaper.

    3)
    We know more than you do, but collectively, you know more than
    we do. As predictors of whether the public will enjoy a particular restaurant,
    experienced professionals like Rick or Dara or myself are much more reliable
    than the average local food blogger. And we know a lot more than the typical
    amateur – we can give you background and detail and insights that will enhance
    your dining experience.

    But now, thanks to the internet
    and the digital revolution, it is possible to aggregate the collective wisdom
    and dining experience of thousands of diners. And as New Yorker magazine writer
    James Surowiecki argues in The Wisdom of Crowds: Why the Many Are Smarter
    Than the Few and How Collective Wisdom Shapes Business, Economies, Societies
    and Nations     (which I haven’t actually read), when you put together a
    lot of individual opinions, the crowd often does get it right. A lot of the
    individual comments in the Zagat restaurant guides may be inane, or just plain
    wrong, or based on one atypical experience, but on balance, their thousands of
    reader/reviewers get it right. (By the way, you can help contribute to the
    collective wisdom of the Twin Cities dining community by signing up as a Rake
    Restaurant Rater    .)

    (Confidential to Anonymous: thanks for the spelling correction.)  

  • Downbeat’s Rising Stars

    Let’s not get too hung up on labels like "Rising Stars."
    At age 48, with 17 discs of wildly varying merit to his credit (I’m one of the
    precious few who loved his ’80s meld of jazz and hip hop), saxophonist Greg Osby
    is less a rising star that an established albeit iconoclastic member of the jazz
    firmament. Ditto trombonist Wycliffe Gordon, who joined Wynton Marsalis’s band
    back in 1989, and 51-year old guitarist Dave Stryker.

    Instead if trying to pigeonhole the ages and career
    stations of the nine musicians tabbed to participate in this highly enticing
    concert, let’s just stipulate that all of them are top-notch technicians
    interested in both pushing the envelope and enhancing the tradition of jazz
    through their compositions and arrangements. And as opposed to the Young Lions
    marketing hype of the 1980s, even the twentysomethings in the group have
    impressive pedigrees. Trumpeter (and the curator for this project) Sean Jones
    and pianist Dan Nimmer both have been reared in Marsalis’s Lincoln Center Jazz
    Orchestra; saxophonist Marcus Strickland was first caught locally blowing away
    Artists Quarter patrons on the bandstand with drummer Roy Haynes. And 32-year
    old trumpeter Jeremy Pelt got his start with the Mingus Big Band.

    Everyone I just mentioned in an agile, probing stylist,
    and thoroughly grounded in jazz scholarship. In a repertory set-up somewhat similar to the SF Jazz
    Collective, each member of the group has written new arrangements to jazz
    standards and will perform them with various permutations of the ensemble. This
    is musically specifically commissioned for this concert, bringing together some
    musicians who rarely if ever have played together. It’s a great way to honor and
    further enrich jazz, the music famously dubbed "the sound of
    surprise."

  • The Plague of Nerds

    In
    the last couple of years, the Twin Cities has gained a reputation as a
    hipster Mecca; the chic architecture (new Guthrie, Walker, and Central
    Library) has garnished international praise, the rocking music scene is
    hotter than ever with both indie and mainstream bands (Atmosphere on Conan! The
    Hold Steady opens for The Rolling Stones!), and a powerhouse literary
    scene has now become a screenwriting oil well thanks to Diablo Cody and
    the Cohen Bros and their shiny new Oscars. For crying out loud, Esquire Magazine even named Nye’s Bar the Best Bar in America. The
    kudos are great and all, but underneath this sparkly new façade lurks a
    part of the city that is rarely mentioned in the national media: nerds. A
    spastic biblical plague has besieged us and now the Twin Cities is so
    infested with dweebs and smarty pants douche bags that all of Prince’s
    paisley purple funk can’t cover up our dorkiness. Minneapolis-once a city so proud of its seismic punk rock and giant cherry spoon-has now become Nerdapolis.

    Everywhere I go in the Twin Cities, I’m accosted by some freak that brings the coolness down several notches. Just
    yesterday, a cashier at the super hip Calhoun Whole Foods scolded me
    for not knowing the meaning of the different colored light sabers used
    in the Star Wars movies. My four year old son had
    brought his toy light saber to the store and when we got to the
    checkout, the cashier looked down and seriously inspected his stupid
    plastic toy. The dude then gave me an exaggerated expression of relief.

    "Thanks god that light saber is green," grocery clerk Dave scoffed.

    "Excuse me?" I replied, walking straight into the nerd trap. Then
    Dave preceded to give me an in depth analysis about how in the
    legendary Sci-Fi series the evil Darth Sidious’s saber was red and Jedi
    Obi-Wan Kenobi’s was blue and that if my son’s light saber would’ve
    been a color other than green that meant he could’ve been in an alliance with some god damn thing called the "Siths". I
    don’t think grocery Dave understood that I recently bought the toy at
    Walgreens because my kid just successfully went a week without shitting
    his pants and not for some galactic rebellion.

    After
    we loaded our four bags of groceries into the car, we naturally decided
    that there was nothing to eat and went out to eat at Punch Pizza. As
    we stood in the long line waiting to order, two ladies in business
    suits stood at the cashier, where they unmercifully grilled the pizza
    cook.

    "Were the tomatoes in your sauce vine ripened? This buffalo cheese you have on the menu…how long was it aged?"

    Then several other asshole foodies joined in on the tomato inquisition. As
    they held up the entire line (at dinnertime nonetheless), a full blown
    debate broke out on the merits of Roma tomatoes versus sun dried
    tomatoes. I tried my best not to stab these culinary wonks in the eye with my son’s GREEN light saber. I mean come on… food nerds? Aren’t we the city that birthed the Replacements?

    A
    few days later at the local garden center where I work, I meet the
    grand marshal of the nerd parade that is barreling through our fair
    city. This woman came in to the store with an exotic blue parrot perched on her shoulder. She eagerly drew attention from every human within five miles and enthusiastically fielded questions about the pet. Then she approached me and asked if we carried a plant named, "Antirrhinum". Now a normal person (or non-dumbass) would come in and ask if we had any Snapdragons. Oh, but not this super smart plant nerd. She only referred to plants by their proper botanical name. When
    I showed her the table filled with flowering Snapdragons she smiled and
    asked me, "Did you see my parrot?" just in case I missed the giant blue
    jungle bird squawking two feet from my face.

    Just when I was starting to get bitter about the death of cool in Minneapolis, the city turned me on my ear. I recently went to the Southdale Movie Theater to catch a film with my wife and witnessed a massive nerd spawning in the lobby. Since
    the theater was filled with nothing but blockbusters, the nerds had
    ascended in full force to catch the latest comic book turned into film. As
    I paid for the tickets, we witnessed a gaggle of men in various shades
    of trench coats and skinny jeans gawking at all the movie posters and
    mammoth action hero advertisements in the lobby. The nerd
    herd was so stimulated by the new Batman, Speed Racer, Indiana Jones,
    Kung Fu Panda, and Iron Man advertisements that the lobby was basically
    a super hero porn shop. And when they saw the ten foot tall statue of The Hulk by the concession stand it was boner city. I
    walked by them with my wife and got a good chuckle out of these grown
    ass men bowing down before an angry green cartoon monster.

    But they were watching me as well. As Sarah and I turned the corner to go in the theater that was showing Sex and the City
    I heard them loudly snicker at me. Their disdain echoed in my head
    because I had just been called out for being the lame guy going to see
    a total chick flick. And they were completely right on. As our "date movie" began, I couldn’t help but think: If dudes who know the name of the sand pit monster in Return of the Jedi think that I’m a major loser then that makes me the biggest nerd in the whole city.

    Ouch.

  • Bikram Blues

    It’s 105 degrees in here, and I can’t place the smell. Somewhere between hot feet and freshly popped kettle corn. Not distractingly smelly, but enough to remind me that I’m not at the Y, and I didn’t fall asleep in the sauna. This is Bikram Yoga.

    I am currently performing my favorite pose, called Savasana. Also called the "corpse" pose, Savasana is my favorite because it only requires me to lie on my back in full relaxation on my yoga mat and towel and imagine how awesome it’s going to be when I can actually make it all the way through class without a) feeling like I am going to die, or b) wishing death would release me from this yogic torture chamber.

    I started coming here two months ago, at the behest of my close friend, Kellie, who said I’d like it. I guess she thought that because she knows me to be a self-loathing ex-catholic with a penchant for punishing myself in new and varying ways. That’s my best guess, anyway.
    Today, because there are only a few of us in class, our instructor has elected to "practice" with us and put on an instructional CD of Bikram Choudhury himself. Bikram Choudhury is the world renowned guru of yoga, and is known as much for his eccentricities as he is for his patented style of "hot yoga."

    (Normally, our instructor gives us live commands and guides us verbally through the 26 poses, but does not perform them with us. If you’ve ever experienced Bikram Yoga, you will know why no human being could talk and pose simultaneously. This ain’t no step aerobics.)

    We start out with breathing exercises. Bikram says, with a sweet Indian accent, "Welcome to Bikram Yoga, 90 minutes of hell. Somebody get me a Coca Cola."

    All I do is breathe deeply, and already I am sweating. In fact, just standing up from Savasana has caused several beads to form on various plains and crevices. Somebody in the room is breathing like Darth Vader, which would normally make me giggle, except I’m trying to be a good, focused little yogi and not a flibberty-gibbit. The atmosphere inside the Bikram Yoga studio, outside of stiflingly humid, is one of quiet concentration.

    Next we are asked to perform a sideways bend followed by a back bend. In and of itself, the sideways bend is not a big deal. In 105-degree heat, and held for 60 seconds with locked elbows and knees, with hands clasped above the head, and wrists rod straight, the sideways bend is a form of torture utilized by war-torn third-world countries.

    From the sideways bend, we go into to the backward bend, which we hold for about 20 seconds, or until I start to hear the voice of the exorcist from Poltergiest: Caroline! Don’t go into the light!

    As we bend, Bikram says, auctioneer-style: Bend back, way back, go back, far back, back, back, back, back, back, back, back, don’t stop, no fear, way back, far back … and release.

    In Bikram, the words "release" and "change" are used to let us know we are finished with a given pose, for the moment anyway. (We perform each twice.) Release and change have shot to the top of my favorite words list with a bullet, bumping bakery, Belize, and HGTV, down to three, four, and five, respectively.

    One might ask just what I’m doing here, and indeed, anyone I’ve talked to about "hot yoga" who hasn’t experienced it, does ask that. What is the attraction?

    Some say they’ve lost weight. It makes sense. You lose about three pounds of sweat just walking into the place. Some say it gives them energy, and I can testify to that. After 90 minutes of Bikram, (after the initial 10 minutes wanting to vomit) I feel like I could run a marathon. Or at least tackle Cub Foods on a Saturday afternoon without wanting to ram anyone with my cart.

    The biggest benefit you hear about is from the chiropractic crowd, who’ve finally found some relief after suffering from computer-induced aches and pains most of their professional lives. Bikram bends and twists the hurt out of you. Bikram says it best: You endure 90 minutes of torture to avoid 90 years of torture. I don’t plan on living another 90 years, but you get the point.

    Over the next hour and a half, I proceed to stretch and move my body parts in ways I wouldn’t dare to do in 68 degrees. The philosophy is that my muscles and bones are like a Blacksmith’s metal, much more bendable when heated.

    At last, we are done. I exit the studio, and 68 degrees actually feels like 30 until my body re-adjusts to room temp. In the locker room, my fellow yogis and I smile at each other knowingly, as though we are buddies from back in The Nam.

    We’re an interesting bunch, standing around kibitzing over our three-dollar coconut waters. Generally, it’s an even mix of men and women, who appear to be middle or upper class folks. At an average of $12-18 per class, Bikram is an expensive addiction. And it is a bit of an addiction. It feels bad, but then it feels so good.

    We will go from here in good health, knowing we have done something many couldn’t, and ready to take on whatever the world throws at us.

    That is, after we’ve had a good long shower.

     

    Caroline Burau is the author of Answering 911, Life in the Hot Seat. Read her blog here.

  • John Hiatt: Same Old Man

    Same Old Man indeed. This is between Hiatt’s 15th and 25th release — depending on how you count best-ofs, live recordings, and groups like Little Village — and the reliability factor remains high. He’s an ersatz curmudgeon, a faux eccentric, a dilapidated Everyman with an undeniably big heart and an equally undeniable knack for songwriting. He can jangle a slant-back country blues song or ambush you emotionally by confessing for redemption. He’s got elements of a Nashville pro and a guy who’s listened to a lot of Dylan. He’s a painstaking lyricist who doesn’t try to make it all add up. This may be his most enjoyable outing since the sweet spot two-fer of Bring The Family and Slow Turning in 1987 and ’88, but it isn’t that much better than the ones in-between.

    The lead-in, "Old Days," is a string of shaggy-dog anecdotes about life on the road with real blues musicians—Sonny Terry, John Lee Hooker—set to a cloppity beat to keep the mood ragged. Then the first, and maybe the best, of the disc’s three riveting valentines, entitled "Love You Again," offering profound gratitude for a woman’s grace in favorably reconsidering their relationship. "On With You" appropriates Dylan’s "All Along The Watchtower" riff while Hiatt slips into character, singing like an old codger, a little kitschy, like a pale version of Larry Blackmon from Cameo. "Hurt My Baby" is a song about living with a woman with deep emotional, and perhaps physical, scars, made all the more harrowing if you know Hiatt’s second wife committed suicide in 1985. Four songs in, even relative newcomers to Hiatt begin to realize that while the mood and subject matter may careen, a core sensibility guides the project.

    "What Love Can Do" is a dead ringer for a Nick Lowe tune. Given that Lowe himself isn’t listed in the credits, that’s apparently Hiatt singing with Lowe’s highly enunciated croon, and aping his old friend and colleague’s wizened-parable approach to songwriting. "Ride My Pony" benefits from ex-North Mississippi All Star Luther Dickinson’s slide guitar, which rustles the mix like your hand rustles the water when you drape it over the side of a slow-moving rowboat. "Cherry Red" rocks harder than the others in its own shambling way, and may be the most accessible tune on the record.

    "Our Time" is the second gorgeous valentine, raw memories of a old flame, and Hiatt’s typically croaky, phlegmy voice seems further strained by the emotion, as he recounts vivid details ("now you’re feeding me fabulous Chinese takeout on the dampened bed sheets) in a talk-sung blues narrative while Dickinson’s adds great mandolin garnish. That begins a run of love songs that close out the album, including the title track ("a few less brain cells and a lot less hair/Honey, tell me, do you still care?") and "Let’s Give Love A Try" ("I’m a long shot baby/But they do come in"), the latter juxtaposing pristine guitar with raconteur irreverence.

    Some Hiatt fans will probably wince at the preponderance of unabashed romance here, while others wonder if his voice has officially crossed over into Tom Waits/Bob Dylan "acquired taste" territory. In either case, I don’t think Hiatt has much of a choice in the matter. I’m partial to the new stuff and look forward to seeing how the fresh material gets conveyed and folded into the massive Hiatt catalogue when he and a new band he’s dubbing the Ageless Beauties come to the Pantages on June 28.

    John Hiatt
    Same Old Man
    New West

    **** (four stars) 

  • John Hiatt and the Ageless Beauties

    John Hiatt
    is an ersatz curmudgeon, a faux eccentric, a dilapidated Everyman with
    an undeniably big heart and an equally undeniable knack for songwriting.
    He can jangle a slant-back country blues song or ambush you emotionally
    by confessing for redemption. He’s got elements of a Nashville pro
    and a guy who’s listened to a lot of Dylan. He’s a painstaking lyricist
    who doesn’t try to make it all add up. His latest album, Same Old Man — between his 15th and 25th
    release, depending on how you count best-ofs, live recordings, and groups
    like Little Village — may be his most enjoyable
    outing since the sweet spot two-fer of Bring The Family
    and Slow Turning in 1987 and ’88, but it isn’t that much
    better than the ones in-between.

    Some Hiatt fans will probably
    wince at the preponderance of unabashed romance here, while others wonder
    if his voice has officially crossed over into Tom Waits/Bob Dylan "acquired
    taste" territory. In either case, I don’t think Hiatt has much of
    a choice in the matter. I’m partial to the new stuff and look forward
    to seeing how the fresh material gets conveyed and folded into the
    massive Hiatt catalogue when he and a new band he’s dubbing the Ageless
    Beauties come to the Pantages on June 28.

  • I Swear to Tell the Truth

    BENEFIT EVENT
    In Vino Veritas

    Traffic Zone Center for Visual Art plans to bring artist Robert Shetterly’s Americans Who Tell the Truth exhibit to Minneapolis in September, and tonight you’re invited to enjoy a decadent and insightful sneak-peek benefit event.
    Three years ago, Shetterly began painting realistic portraits of
    influential American leaders, past and present, who have personally
    inspired him. These "Americans Who Tell the Truth" are clear statements
    of political and social change — and Shetterly’s masterful artistry
    isn’t too shabby either. Join the artist tonight at Traffic
    Zone for an evening of conversation, wine samplings, delicious food
    from Toast Wine Bar, and a selection of work for sale from Traffic Zone resident artists — with all proceeds going to support this can’t-miss upcoming exhibition.

    6-9pm, Traffic Zone Center for Visual Art, 250 3rd Avenue N, Minneapolis, $75


    DINING
    World Flavors Dinner Party

    Join The Rake this evening for a sumptuous foodie-friendly dinner party at Solera.
    Not only will you get to sip fancy wines and nosh on gourmet samplings
    such as Serrano-Wrapped Rainbow Trout with Asparagus, Warm
    Cherry-Tomato Confit with Manchego cheese, and Yogurt Red Pepper Flan
    (trust me, I’ve had this — definitely delish), you’ll also get a
    bird’s-eye view of Downtown from Solera’s breezy second-floor patio,
    overlooking Hennepin Avenue. Reservations are required, so visit our promotions page to snap yours up a.s.a.p.

    6-8pm, Solera, 900 Hennepin Ave., Downtown Minneapolis, $40


    READINGS
    Emergence: Intimate Evenings of Poetry and Prose

    Ten
    of the Twin Cities’ most amazingly talented up-and-coming writers will
    put their creativity where their mouths are tonight at Intermedia Arts. Hosts and writers themselves, Anya Achtenberg and Sherry Quan Lee lead this evening of readings from passionate scribes who have been mentored throughout the spring season as part of the Writer-to Writer program in which close relationships are forged and nurtured between artists, mentors, and their craft.

    7:30pm, Intermedia Arts, 2822 Lyndale Ave. S, Minneapolis, $5 suggested donation

  • Tomfoolery

    Everyone
    knows:     Wally’s Pet World sells the sickest, the oldest, and the mangiest
    animals. But that doesn’t stop George from heading nine counties and
    eleven hours toward some strip mall into Graysville. He drums a folded
    bag on his lap with his fingers. The car deviates toward the right side
    of the crooked road.

    "Look,
    Honey, can you believe this? A five percent discount on anything you
    can fit into this bag."

    "Well,
    George, I don’t think that they mean that," Laura, George’s wife,
    says as she runs ger fingers over the cross hanging from her neck.

    "Hey,
    Honey, I think I know about budgets and figures. I am, after all, head
    Honcho. Comprende?"

    "If
    we can’t find a dog that will fit into the bag, we can always save money
    by going to the rescue shelter."

    "Don’t
    start in with this again."

    "It’s
    just that, since the hurricane, there are a lot of special, desperate,
    and needy—"

    "Aren’t
    all dogs, just dogs, Laura?"

    "I
    don’t like what you’re suggesting, George."

    Feeding his tendency to fly over important moments and situations of great
    concern, George chooses not to respond and simply parks in the furthest
    spot. The car appears alone, abandoned by everyone,
    stationed opposite and to the left.

    Inside
    Wally’s Pet World, George and Laura survey the aisles. Animals sound off, crying for attention, help, or anything.

    George
    stops and yawns.

    As
    he turns his back, his eyes fix on a golden retriever. The dog mirrors George in many more ways than can be imagined. His
    eyes seem mischievous; the dark oily pupils dart to and fro, while the
    whites of the eyes are a golden bubbling brew, not bloodshot, yet still
    mischievous. The dog’s eyes hold George’s attention, romancing him
    like a cheap whore. To cement the sale, the dog tilts his head and winks
    at George.

    "We’ll take him!"

    "Now,
    George, let’s not be hasty. He’s so big. Will he get along with
    Trooper?"

    "Don’t
    get snippy. Golden retrievers are the most popular, well-behaved, and
    mild mannered of dogs."

    "But
    Trooper is just a child," Laura says as her fingers touch her cross once more.

    The
    dog drops his head, slouching. Then, he makes eye contact with Laura. Finally,
    the golden retriever stands on his hind legs and places his paws together.

    "See,
    Laura, he’s a nice dog. Man’s best friend. It’s a sign from God.
    He winked at me and prayed to you."

    "By,
    God!" Laura clasps her cross. "We’ll take him."


    Back at
    the manor, all seems well     — a Pleasantville. George and
    Laura enter, past the front door, with the dog. The golden retriever wears
    a red bow on his head, a white handkerchief around his neck,
    and the five percent discount bag ripped around his torso.

    "Mom,
    Dad, is the dog ours?"

    "Yes, he’s all yours, Trooper," George and Laura tell their son.

    Trooper
    runs and rambles down the staircase.

    "Trooper,
    slow down. Safety first." George reaches for an electric
    knife.

    Pausing to collect himself, George sticks his sluggish tongue out
    the left side of his mouth before wildly cutting, swooping, and hacking the budget bag away from the dog with the electric
    knife. A thousand scraps lie on the floor. Trooper slips across the pieces, nearly falling on his rump. George ignores the domestic
    dangers and pushes an unimportant side topic.

    "Hey,
    Trooper, what’s your vote on a name for him?"

    "I
    know! Al!"

    The
    dog shakes his head left and right. George firmly slaps and rubs the dog’s
    belly.

    "Trooper,
    I don’t think the dog likes that name. How about tossing another name
    into the hat?"

    "Dad,
    since the dog’s hairy, how about Kerry?"

    "How
    about, Tomfoolery? That’s a clever name," George says.

    The
    dog nods. Trooper tries embracing the dog but the dog growls.

    "I
    don’t want any Tomfoolery! I want Al or Kerry."

    "Oh
    Trooper, listen. If you want to call the dog Al, you can." Laura tries
    reaching her son for a condolence from her hug machine.

    "But
    that wouldn’t be fair, Laura. Trooper already had his vote. In fact,
    he had two. No, he had his say."

    Trooper
    stomps upstairs, slamming his bedroom door. Laura touches and holds
    her cross.

    "George,
    maybe we should—"

    "The
    dog is already like a member of the family. We could always make arrangements."

    "Arrangements?
    Nonsense. Doesn’t it take time for a child and a dog to grow accustomed to each other?
    Can’t we please try again in the morning?"

    "It
    will all turn out for the best, with faith." George bows his head as he says a soft prayer. Then he slams the front door before chaining the dog to a willow tree.

    The
    sun lights the living room.     Trooper sits underneath a safe, secure blanket.
    Strong string completes the makeshift tent. The TV broadcasts Saturday
    morning cartoons on one end of the fort. Trooper watches, mesmerized,
    inches away from the glowing light. The dog busts into the room.

    "Hi,
    Al!" Trooper peeks out from his fort and beams.

    The
    dog bares his razor sharp cuspids at Trooper. Trooper’s smile fades.
    Quickly, he holds down the fort by retreating, folding himself in tight.
    A high yelp sounds.

    "Dad!
    Help! The dog!"

    In
    the master bedroom, George rolls over in bed, rubbing his eyes. Rising
    erect, once coherent enough, George manages to stutter with concern,
    "Trooper, are you okay?"

    The
    dog bolts up the stairway with the agenda of concealing all incriminating
    evidence. He scats like a rabid rat down the hallway toward the master bedroom. A shredded blanket dangles from
    his hind paw. Before the dog staggers into the room, the blanket jars
    on the door’s greasy hinge. George calls out again. There is
    no answer. Free to run amok, the dog hustles to his master’s side
    of the bed, with George’s rubbery slippers.

    "Hey,
    Honey. Look at the dog." George nudges Laura next to him.

    "Oh,
    how cute."

    The
    dog flips the slippers to George. He leaps and crashes
    atop the bed. George and Laura pet the dog. Trooper emerges, noticing
    a hole in his blanket.

    "Oh,
    Trooper. Do you want breakfast? Are you hungry for some eggs?" asks George.

    Trooper
    holds up the blanket and looks through the hole, saying in an upset
    voice, "I’ve had enough of eggs from you. I’m sick of being fed
    eggs."

    George furrows his brow. Distinct lines blend with bushy eyebrows.

    "Don’t
    question what you are served." George shakes his finger at Trooper.

    "But,
    Dad."

    "No
    buts about it. Remember, we’ve been through this conflict before."

    "I
    insist on fixing eggs for everyone." Laura reaches for her cross.
    "So Trooper, wait downstairs and watch cartoons."

    "Okay,
    Mom. Bye Al."

    The
    dog leaps out of bed, pouncing on Trooper. Trooper collapses to the
    floor from the ambush. The dog fights, rapidly jumping onto Trooper’s
    curled up body.

    "Tomfoolery!"
    George commands.

    The
    dog halts. Trooper rolls over. On his back, he strikes the dog with
    a kick. The dog whimpers toward George. Trooper busts a beeline to his
    bedroom and slams his door. Laura takes the pillow
    away from her eyes.

    "Honey,
    we need to talk."

    "I
    know, Laura. He’s such a nice dog around us, but to Trooper the name
    Tomfoolery doesn’t exist."

    "One
    of them could have been killed."

    "For
    now, we’ll keep Tomfoolery locked in our room. Tonight
    we’ll try one last time, or by the grace of God—"

    "And,
    what do you mean by this, George? Are you already thinking about arrangements
    with Grandpa?"

    "Yes."

    "Well,
    I disagree."

    "Just
    let me call Grandpa this afternoon. He may side with you.
    Don’t you agree that this is the prudent thing to do?"

    "You
    know he’ll bring up past conflicts with Trooper."

    "I
    promise I won’t bring that up."

    "Promise?"

    "Promise."

    "Good
    afternoon. Dad?"

    "George,
    is that you?"

    "George?"

    "George."

    "Yeah,
    it’s me, Dad."

    "George.
    Son, how’s life. Did you buy that dog?"

    "Dad,
    I bought the dog, but there’s a problem."

    "You
    got the discount, right?"

    "It’s
    not that; it’s about Trooper and the dog."

    "What’s
    the problem? You voted on a name, right?"

    "The
    dog’s name is Tomfoolery."

    "Tomfoolery.
    Now that’s a clever name."

    "Listen,
    Dad. The reason I called you is because Trooper and Tomfoolery don’t
    get along. It’s like they’re at war."

    "I
    recall the same exact conflict I had with Trooper in the past."

    "Dad,
    I promised Laura that I wouldn’t start in on the past with you and Trooper."

    "It
    wasn’t a simple issue, George. That was some serious war between Trooper
    and my dog. And you know
    what came out of that arrangement, don’t you?"

    "Please,
    Dad. Don’t start in on the past."

    "Well,
    I’ll tell you. Arrangements came out of that arrangement."

    "Dad,
    it’s not the same issue."

    "Have
    chemicals or weapons of any sorts come into fruition?"

    "No."

    "How
    about any physical fights?"

    "Dad,
    I know where this is heading."

    "Once
    there’s any sign of weapons, then it’s the same thing."

    "Well,
    of course, Dad. If there is any weaponry or any suspicious activity,
    but so far—"

    "Well,
    you know what my answer is already. It is never prudent at this juncture
    to wait."

    "No,
    sirree."

    "No,
    sirree indeed. If you ever need to arrange something, then look no further."

    "Before
    I go, are you sure you have enough supplies."

    "George, you know money is no object. Bye."

    "Bye,
    Dad."

     

    That
    night, in the kitchen,     Trooper wolfs down his dinner of eggs. Laura
    watches as he devours every morsel. Yolks and whites are splattered on his face. Laura places her hand over her mouth
    when George enters with the dog on a leash. Trooper shoots up on top
    of his chair. He shakes, with snot dribbling from his nose and mouth.

    "Dad,
    I hate that stupid dog."

    "Trooper,
    cool it. The dog may be nicer to you if you call him ‘Tomfoolery!’
    Come down from the chair. The dog senses fear. Put your hand up to Tomfoolery.
    He needs to smell you; then he’ll behave," George commands.

    The
    dog softly pants.

    "No,
    he’ll just bite me."

    "Don’t
    fear. I have him contained on a leash. He won’t dare attack you."

    "Well,
    what if he does?"

    "Then
    you won’t have to live with Tomfoolery anymore. Arrangements have
    been made."

    "Promise?"

    "Promise."

    Trooper
    bends his quaking knees. He climbs down from the chair slowly. Trooper
    inches toward the dog. Laura hides her eyes, cupping her warm, wet palms over her eyelids.

    "Stop,
    Trooper. Say, ‘I love you, Tomfoolery.’ The dog needs to get acquainted with your voice," George says.

    "I
    l-l-love you, Tomfoolery."

    "I
    wove u," the dog responds.

    The
    parents celebrate their victory.

    "Trooper,
    go up to the doggy. Tomfoolery is a friend and needs to smell you,"
    Laura says, crossing and swaying her fingers.

    Trooper
    lollygags to Tomfoolery. Trooper snuggles the dog and receives warm
    slobber with the egg on his face. Secretly, George motions to Laura.
    They walk out, swinging the kitchen door softly. Outside the kitchen,
    George and Laura eavesdrop, leaning on the flimsy door.

    "See,
    time cures all struggles and conflicts." George taps Laura’s shoulder.

    "Shh!
    I want to hear them, George."

    Both
    parents are smitten when Trooper says, "Tomfoolery. Good-boy. Stay."

    Laura
    embraces George. "I don’t believe it. We get to keep him after all."
    George carries Laura off onto the love sofa in the next room.

    Deep
    heavy barking sounds. A cling echoes. Next, a "Ruff, ruff, ruff."
    Finally, Trooper calls for help. By the time the parents reach the conflict
    in the kitchen, Trooper stands on the counter top with a humongous cleaver
    knife. His pants have a hole in his backside.

    "Laura,
    this is the second time that devil has attacked! Never again! In the name
    of God, he has to go!" George says while grabbing Trooper.

    "You’re
    right! Violent!" Laura nods and throws up both her arms.

    George
    places Trooper in his bedroom and tucks him in for the night. Laura
    waits in the kitchen for the resolution. After some time, George swings
    open the door. It freezes at a right angle.

    "I
    don’t know what else to do?" George says.

    "We’ve
    tried everything. Now, all we can do is pray for the best," responds Laura.

    Two
    days later,     Tomfoolery sleeps on the front porch. Grandpa’s gray Rolls
    Royce pulls up with two gray poles on the hood. On each pole, two tiny
    flags dance in the disturbing wind. Grandpa waits for the driver to
    open the car door. George opens the front door to the manor.

    "Hey,
    Dad. Step inside the house. I need a moment alone with Tomfoolery,"
    George says.

    "Yeah,
    sure. I understand."

    The
    door slams shut on the world. George caresses the dog’s belly.

    Tomfoolery
    awakes.

    "Well,
    this is it boy. You know it’s for your own good," George sobs.

    The
    door busts down. Grandpa drags Trooper out by his ankles. Trooper struggles, throwing a tantrum.

    "Dad! Why?" Trooper calls out.

    George
    squints and turns. Tomfoolery wags his tongue out at Trooper. Grandpa
    hurls Trooper into the back seat. As the ignition fires, Trooper presses
    his face against the rear door window. His voice cannot
    be heard through the thick, glossy surface.

  • Yes … She Is among Us

    I walked outside The Cedar to wait for my ride after the Wendy Rule show last Wednesday night, when a group of passing guys stopped and one said, “I ‘aint neva’ seen no ass like that on a white girl befo’.” I expected them to break out into song and dance around me like Chris Brown in his music videos, but luck wasn’t with me, as it hadn’t been earlier that night. Holding back my laughter, and any possible sass-backs, I tried to conjure up some kind of protective force, and my brother soon rounded the corner. “Yeah, well, I bet you neva’ seen no witch in a tutu befo’, either.”

    There had been nothing at all typical about my experience that evening. I had stood at the wrong bus stop for 30 minutes. I had unknowingly gotten directions from a deaf man. And I had ended up in St. Paul—the wrong city—on a bus with a driver at the end of his shift.

    Luckily, before going home, the driver gave me a ride to my stop. I walked some blocks in my five-inch tall boots, stopping into two bars to ask for directions, and finally arrived at The Cedar an hour and a half late.

    I was sitting by the door, listening to the opening act, when a lady beside me threw me a smile. This was the coolest looking chick in the house — wearing a black tutu, boots, bustier, and a red blouse. It was bewitching sensation Wendy Rule.

    Having started her career in music many years ago, as a jazz vocalist, Rule has since gained notoriety for her amazingly broad vocal range, her visionary lyrics, and her use of ritual in her performances.

    As I waited for Rule to go on, I noticed a wide variety of audience members: a man resembling a lumberjack, a suburban housewife, geeky Goth kids who reminded me of a distant generation from The Smith days. Everyone was present — eager and excited.

    The presenter finally came on, with his plastic hair, kilt, and boots, and aptly introduced Australia’s own ubiquitous witch: “Yes … she is among us.” Everyone applauded and roared while Rule took the stage. With all eyes on her, she dusted a thick powder into the air with a fan while singing melodies and calling out to the East. She even evoked the energies of Earth, Air, Water, and Fire; and I waited for Captain Planet to fly in.

    As she grabbed her acoustic guitar and began to sing, Rule embodied the ideal witch with all her power, seductiveness, sex appeal, articulation, intelligence, and musical capabilities. With cute stories of kangaroo chasing, songs for ex-lovers, and references to the Australian Wolf Sky — topped off with charm and charisma — this was definitely the sweetest witch ever.

    To top off the evening — and cement her good-witch status — Rule ended her performance with a spell to help audience members move forward in life. She asked we consider this for a moment and seek help from the four energies. The crowd eagerly responded with foot stomping, which further excited Rule and extended her ritual. She said she felt a great heart connection to the Americas and loved coming here, and this reaction from the audience confirmed her feelings. Of course, I — having irresponsibly evoked a recent lot of misfortune — tried hard to deny my skepticism and avail myself of the moment. I almost walked up to the stage and asked her to lay hands on me.

    Despite how my night had unraveled, the show did not let me down. Rule’s voice sounded beautiful, and the performance was great. The audience awarded her with a standing ovation and zealous applause. Some left wanting to dress like her, be like her, or sleep with her, but everyone definitely left loving her — the siren-songed witch in the tutu.

  • Le Petit Mort

    All the ingredients for an experimental disaster are there: six characters on a non-elevated platform of white cardboard — a sterile space carved out in the corner of a dingy art gallery — all dressed in white, speaking in seemingly disjointed sentences, hugging the wall behind them, twisting, writhing, gasping. But Socktesting, however experimental, is no disaster. Somehow, creators Mark Abel Garcia and Megan Mayer — with the help of six very able actors — have pulled it off masterfully.

    In truth, it’s a simple story. Yes, there is a story. Thank goodness — for one of the dangers (my own frustration, perhaps) of experimental art is the lack of story. Socktesting has a story, and it’s about a baby. A baby. A baby, perhaps. More like a paper clip. I couldn’t see exactly. But a baby is a baby is a baby. And our projects are our babies. Our ideas are our babies. And we can care for them as such, or we can toss them away, neglected step-children, like dropping a load.

    I am only thinking about this now, as I write. As I sat and watched Socktesting, I thought only of masturbation, of life, of pregnancy. And while I knew there was a deeper level of meaning (layers, even), what moved me, what held me, was this. I am almost 40. I have no children. I have tried. Clearly, I may have been inordinately moved by the story. But I was indeed moved.

    The protagonists of this play are Lydia and Rupert. Lydia has a baby. She has a baby — something, anyhow — but she does not know if she can keep the baby. No one should know about the baby — not yet. And they must not get attached to the baby — or name it — because they may lose the baby. Everything is lost, isn’t it? Perhaps "it has a curiosity aspect we must dispose of."

    Another character, Darnelle, has lost her lover — perhaps her lover. Perhaps her baby. Bill. She cannot accept it, though. And she pretends he is still alive. Is Is Is. Bill Bill Bill. Baby.

    There is a rhythm in the writing. In the delivery. In every element of this play. An attention to rhythm. An attention to sound. A unusual and beautiful willingness to not just accept, but use, all the organic by-products of performance. Just as Garcia and Mayer compose their symphony of meaning, they conduct the actors in a symphony of sound and movement. The sound of feet dragging on cardboard. Steps. Coughing, snoring, hiccuping, releasing air. Perfect silence. There are no coincidences here. (Even when a band playing outside the Soap Factory invades the silence, they make it work. It simply joins the symphony.)

     

    The play is divided into four parts, four days over which the six characters asphyxiate. In between, they sleep. In between, they cough. In between, they lose air. They struggle. They die. Le petit mort, dropping the load. Unrealized potential.

    When three white-clad figures lift Lydia — the protagonist — into the air, prostrate, with back arched, flying, and bring her down to the ground, wresting from her the baby she has hidden in her womb, however, it’s the audience that experiences the asphyxiation. It’s the audience who gasp.

    Each of the four sections includes several scenes — interactions between Rupert and Mimi (the couple), interactions between Mimi and Darnelle (friends). Interactions between Rupert and Ethan (an over-sexed, under-satisfied co-worker of sorts), interactions with the doctor (who performs tests on the baby and determines whether it shall live or die). And the Shadow. The Shadow is always there, because even the Shadow plays it part. Nothing is left to chance.

    And each of the scenes includes a coming together of all of the characters — walking, ranting, clustering into a moving circle, chaos, shouting, screaming, bitching, moaning. And the most impressive thing about these scenes is, again, the symphony. Only in music (and perhaps in nature) have I heard sounds come together in perfect unison, to create an entirely new sound. It’s not easy to turn six voices into one indistinguishable sound — clearly composed of multiple elements. Somehow, they pull it off. You hear the chaos. You hear the shouting. You know it comes from multiple sources — though it sounds like many more than it is. But you hear no one voice over the others. They are using words, and you hear none, only chaos, shouting. Perhaps I make too much of this, but I am impressed.

    Though I am initially disturbed by the seemingly disjointed dialog between Lydia and Rupert — expecting them to begin hopping on one leg, repeating "fish sandwich, fish sandwich, fish sandwich" — this is not dada. Schizopolis, in fact, is what it brings to mind (and if you haven’t seen this Steven Soderbergh masterpiece, you must). It’s the perfect lack of affect in Mats Sexton’s delivery to which I am reacting. It’s the meaningless, stale interaction of day-to-day life, empty relations — a Stepford couple placed in an ascetic, sterile universe — a lab almost, where we can examine life through a microscope, an autopsy of sorts. It’s Andy Warhol’s version of Pleasantville, without the commodification.

    Lydia, played by Mimi Holland, is perfection, sweet. She is the mother. She is possibility. She is life, affect, genuine engagement — and entirely nonexistent in masturbation. Holland pulls off a superb performance, drawing you in with a childlike smile in the beginning, and paving the way for a most powerful ending with nothing but her silence and her gasps. While her face is turned away from me, I notice the streak of tears upon her cheek.

    Heather Stone, as Darnelle, is extraordinary, truly disturbed, jumping effortlessly from one emotional reaction to another without missing a beat. And Samuel Van Wyk, as Ethan, plays the perfect sex-crazed boy — who shines when he’s getting his dick sucked.

    Somewhere between metaphor and reality, Socktesting delivers a powerful commentary on… well… I could say masturbation (which the title alone declares the interpretive lens); but I’m going to say life, affect, potential, latency, even waste. What turns us on? What makes us engage, move forward? What breathes life into us and gets us out of the inherent inertia of day-to-day existence? Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But any work of art that makes me think this much (while remaining entertaining), I say, is a success.

    Socktesting runs at the Soap Factory, June 5-8, 12, 13, and 15, 2008.