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One of our favorite things about Ian Frazier is his ability to sketch scenes with deft strokes that instantly put you in a Montana trout stream, a Manhattan canyon, or a New Jersey boulevard. That, and he reliably evokes at least one belly laugh per one thousand words. Last winter, Frazier published Gone To New York, a collection of stories set in and around his adoptive hometown. It includes one of our all-time favorite magazine stories–about his efforts to remove plastic deli bags from trees throughout the city, the device he created and patented to do the job, and the equal measures of appreciation and trouble he got into for indulging in his weird new hobby. Perhaps at this appearance he’ll read a more recent favorite, about the fine art of stomping acorns on sidewalks. 651-290-1221; fitzgeraldtheater.publicradio.org

Daniel Kaniess and Yang Yang raise questions about the future of creativity–how will it evolve within the generations of kids who are growing up in front of their computers? Both ply a steely and futuristic vision infused with the influences of computer animation, video games, and industrial collage. Yet they also press the memory of an off-screen world into their work. Yang’s drawings feature traditional Chinese human and animal subjects set in stark new worlds, and no computer would tolerate Kaniess’ organic and chaotic Jackson Pollack-influenced paintings and collages. These artists share an uneasiness with technology as they enshrine it, and that tension makes us glad these kids got to play outside before they learned to love the glowing screen. 612-870-3200; www.artsmia.org

These days, Bob Dylan scorns the camera (or claims to–who can explain that freaky Victoria’s Secret commercial?), but once upon a time he gladly tossed his winsome curls for the historical record. John Cohen, whose folk band the New Lost City Ramblers achieved success in the same New York music scene that nurtured the young Dylan in the sixties, had unparalleled access to his friend Dylan and other musical luminaries back then, and his photos capture a moment of music history that crackled with electricity years before Dylan actually plugged in. In conjunction with the show, the New Lost Minneapolis Ramblers–featuring Cohen along with Spider John Koerner, Tony Glover, and Paul Metsa–performs at Mayslack’s Bar on May 11. 1500 Jackson St. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-788-1790; www.iceboxminnesota.com

A Rebours is the St. Paul hot spot for A-list eaters, attracting the heavyweights of St. Paul politics, out-of-town talent like the cast of the Prairie Home Companion movie, and the usual crowd of the upwardly mobile and beautiful. The restaurant has every last sparkle you’d expect: tiled floors, high ceilings, gleaming wood, linen, and fresh flowers. But A Rebours’ brightest light isn’t savoring a drink: She’s waiting tables.

Sharone LeMieux is the restaurant’s weekend brunch manager and she commands attention—make that adoration—even while filling water glasses in standard black pants and a bow tie. A striking bottle blond pushing fifty, Sharone makes the most pedestrian task seem glamorous, even regal. She’s cut from the same hot-mama cloth as Cher and Madonna, but with more children: Sharone has six. Neighbors refer to her as the “Fabulous Sharone.” She doesn’t object.

Sharone doesn’t get dressed; she “costumes.” Lounging around the house for her means wearing sequined cowboy boots, chandelier earrings with matching bangles and beads, and a flattering mini-skirt. Her idea of sportswear is a straw hat and red polka-dot dress circa 1950, with a skirt wide enough to straddle a 1957 Western Flyer. Sharone drives a purple Mini Cooper convertible with her name on the plates. In a St. Paul neighborhood where more plebeian moms show up for playgroups with bleary eyes and stained sweatpants, Sharone floats in on perfume, expertly lipsticked. They eat Oreos. She brings truffles. She takes center stage. “Not all queens are gay,” she’ll say.

Sharone is also a jazz singer with a twenty-five-year track record of steady work. She has two CDs to her credit. After her shift at A Rebours, she frequently gigs at various lounges around town—ERTé, Downtowner Woodfire Grill, or Woodbury Broiler Bar. She also sings lead vocals for the Simpletones, a quartet that includes Star Tribune reporters Jackie Crosby and Bill McAuliffe, and goldsmith Bill Plattes. Still not content with her already-crowded resume, a few years ago Sharone enrolled in the St. Paul Police Academy. Up until her fourth child arrived, Sharone was a St. Paul Police Department crime prevention coordinator on the East Side. She undoubtedly wore blue beautifully. And way back when, she was a seamstress at Paisley Park, where she helped create stage props for the Prince of Chanhassen.

Sharone does everything full throttle. When her boys wanted to play baseball, Sharone gave a momentary shudder and then plunged into the Parkway Little League. She raked the field, managed the money, and showed up for every game in high heels and movie-star shades. When her sons turned their attention to football, she memorized the starting lineup at Notre Dame. On Super Bowl Sunday, she still hosts an annual party for thirty teenage boys. As they scramble outside for a sandlot scrimmage during halftime, Sharone sips champagne.

Mother’s Day? She slips into an evening gown, puts on the tiara, and pours martinis. Wedding anniversary? Sharone celebrates every month, with her husband, Star Tribune reporter Mike Kaszuba. Stomach flu? Might as well paint the living room, since you can’t leave the house—that’s what Sharone did last fall. When she was a Pannekoeken waitress and an elderly regular had cancer, Sharone didn’t just nurse him through chemo, she accompanied him on a pilgrimage to Ireland.

Despite the usual festive atmosphere, Sharone’s disciplined household makes neighbor children quake. Her younger girls, ages five and eight, are in bed by 7:30; they eat their veggies and ask their mother for permission to talk. Her teenage boys are required to have jobs but aren’t allowed to spend their money; nobody drives ’til they’re eighteen. The oldest daughter has a husband, house, and career, all by age twenty-four. The trick? “‘No’ is the most loving word you say to a child,” she says. —Mary Petrie

We’re thankful that the Soap Factory hasn’t succumbed to the condo craze that’s underway along the riverfront–in fact, this beloved and off-beat art venue stands to take on a higher profile once it’s surrounded by posh lofts and the spiffy folks who dwell in them. Already the Factory is stepping up to the plate: Rumor has it that this will be the year that the space doesn’t have to close down entirely during the colder months. Either way, it’s opening its 2006 season with yet another sprawling and ambitious exhibition. 8x8x8 LON/MSP/NYC features twenty-four emerging artists from Minneapolis, New York City, and London; the Soap Factory is the first stop as it tours each city, with the intention of demonstrating that art of equivalent range and quality is coming from these very different places. The work in the show runs the gamut from paintings, drawings, and sculptures to sound, video, and performance pieces. Second St. S.E. & Fifth Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-623-9176; www.soapfactory.org

This is art for, and by, the kids who sat in the back of the bus–sardonic takes on violence, sex, media, politics, and the mishmash of all of them that constitutes a large share of contemporary culture. Nate Lowman specializes in this by taking elements from that culture and messing with them via silkscreens, spraypaint, Xeroxes, posters, snapshots, and other plebian means. Part of his show (and its title) is also a comment on the vogue for artistic collaborative teams. Lowman asked a half-dozen artists to make a work by using one of his own bullet-hole silkscreen canvases (which themselves recall Warhol); then he followed suit by making another work in response to the one returned to him. The result is multiple layers of irony, sass, and theoretical stuff that can be overly heady–good thing the art remains down and dirty. 527 Second Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-605-4504; www.midwaycontemporaryart.org

There are several ways to get a free glass of wine in this city. You can attend one of the various “ladies nights” and be ogled by drunkards like a monkey in a zoo, or you can drop by a newly completed condominium project for its opening reception. One pleasant Saturday afternoon, in search of gratis Shiraz, my girlfriend Mary and I got dressed up, slipped on heels, and motored downtown to Minneapolis’ historic Whitney Hotel, where there was a reception to show off the building’s new loft conversions. Sure, I’d been toying with the idea of upgrading from the condo I currently own, but the Whitney, at $450 per square foot, wasn’t remotely within the realm of possibility, so long as I wanted my new home to measure more than, say, 250 square feet. I had been promised “real-estate porn,” however, and that is something I quite like.

We parked a half-block away, in the self-serve Portland Parking Ramp (later responsible for eating Mary’s last twenty-spot). As we approached the front entrance we were greeted by a half-dozen flannel- and denim-clad gentlemen who handed out fliers alleging that some laborers on the Whitney project had been overworked and underpaid. Their small protest was timed to coincide with the upper-crust showing I was about to crash.

Once inside the hotel, now called the Whitney Landmark Residence, Mary and I carefully pulled off our shoes (per the herd), so as not to fudge up the freshly laid hardwood. Playing potential tenants, we breezed through two model units—they were sprawling with high ceilings, and draped in all manner of romantic tapestry. Finally, Mary and I located the reception-area spread. There, we contented ourselves with melted brie, stuffed olives, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and peppered crackers. Near the buffet, representatives from interior design studios and fancy plumbing shops had set up trade-show displays and were doling out business cards. (You buy the condo at $450 per foot, but fundamentals such as bathroom fixtures are left entirely up to you.) Among these design-industry aesthetes, the norm was black suit jackets, blunt-cut hairdos, and pointy-toed shoes.

“Who buys these things?” I asked the Whitney’s chief financier, the nice fellow who’d invited me to the party. He said it was mostly suburban empty-nesters and the occasional trust-funder. As the room filled with potential buyers—by now funneling out of the models and sidling up to the buffet—there was a swelling current of contemporary-casual wear. Eyeleted, Ann Taylor sweater sets and Liz Claiborne-style chinos were the favored attire among women; for the men it was golf shirts and khakis. They were still stocking footed, all.

We left the party within forty-five minutes and walked out the front doors, only to find that the teamster rally had grown ten-fold. A few women had joined the fray; I locked eyes with one weathered-looking character who had long, frizzy hair and a royal blue baseball jacket. A party bus had parked nearby and rolled down its windows, flooding the scene with an ambient 93X broadcast. First Street was clogged with pickup trucks and work boots. “These are my people,” I said to Mary, in all seriousness. I felt a pang of guilt for having crossed their picket line. I grew up in a devotedly union household, and was raised to sympathize with welders and machine operators, to understand that the deck is stacked, that the rich get richer. But because I’d managed to claw my way to a more comfortable socioeconomic rung, something of me remained inside—in and among the Whitney’s exposed heating ducts.

Two days later, the clash of cultures still bothered me. I emailed the financier to ask how the protest had turned out. “The union stuff was mostly a non-event,” he wrote. “Other than people maybe mistaking it for a tailgating party.”

—Christy DeSmith