The Rake Magazine

Blog

  • March, Proceeding: Waiting For The Lion

    XO-2.jpg

    “Nobody has ever lost basketball games in more novel settings than Klotz. He’s lost in a leper colony, on an aircraft carrier, in a bullring, a prison, the deep end of a swimming pool. He’s lost before kings and queens and four popes. He’s lost in 50 states and 117 countries. He hasn’t lost in outer space. Yet.”

    –Basketball’s Master of Defeat

    Sledding Safety Tips

    A Checklist to Prevent Sledding Injuries

    The Perils of Sledding

    Sledding accidents

    Two Case Reports From the World of Sledding Mishaps

    Sledding is Dangerous, and Potentially Deadly

    Bottom Line: Don’t Go Sledding, Ever

    out of sight.jpg

    She must not swing her arms as though they were dangling ropes; she must not switch herself this way and that; she must not shout; and she must not, while wearing her bridal veil, smoke a cigarette.

    —Emily Post, tips for the bride, in Etiquette –The Blue Book of Social Usage. 1922

    alive.jpg

  • The German Secretary

    The trouble with the BMW 330i is that its been on top so long it’s always in danger of losing its mojo. When a car is this popular it runs the risk of appealing to flighty “high fliers” and flight attendants a little too much. At the risk of sounding last century, it is constantly on the verge of becoming what was once called a “Secretary’s Car.”

    The latest iteration of this benchmark small sport sedan fortunately receives immunity from the above syndrome if only because it remains so fun to drive.

    I recently test drove a new 330i with a fellow “car guy” in that barely-comfortable-in-Kenwood kinda way. It if weren’t for his connections I’d never have been able to punish a brand new Beemer as we both did.

    We pretty much flogged the thing up and down the vertical drops of Mount Curve Avenue. We even stopped by the new mansion of a South African soda pop mogul to test both its curb and sex appeal.

    I think the ten minutes we spent talking to the mogul and his wife speaks volumes about what this car could mean to you.

    When we pulled up to this mansion, I noticed that the mogul’s wife was checking out our ride. Paranoia suddenly overtook me. While she appeared continental and stylish, I feared the first two words out of her mouth might be those that must never be spoken in the presence of a car guy (of either sex.) I braced myself for a chilling testosterone drop.

    “You geiz are getting into trouble, I see,” she quipped.

    What, no “cute” or “car”?

    No, apparently, she had noticed our driving skills. She noticed we had pulled up to the mansion in second gear at high rpms and literally swung the little German road beast to within an inch of her carefully manicured lawn. My decision to someday purchase this new 330i was cemented right there.

    Some cars are just so fun to drive it doesn’t matter how the rest of the world sees you behind the wheel. Smart people realize that a car like this can be stupid fun.

    The BMW remains the benchmark small sport sedan because it wins on the intangibles. Those qualities include telepathic steering feel, chassis tuning that is communicative but never harsh, and a servotronic that does not stifle the joy of shifting. That is why the Lexus can pack 50 more horsepower in its new 350 and still miss the mark. That is why the Audi A4, in particular, feels numb in comparison.

    And yet part of me still questions why the 330i cannot be perceived as the Cobra of sport sedans instead of a style accessory for sophisticates. The BMW M3 is such a car but then you pay for it. The new Pontiac GTO could have been this car (get outta Kenwood babe and listen to me here…) but then GM made it look like beached whale.
    There still is no real automotive competition for the 330i. Yet the real car guy must remain wary of the signals it could still send off. Like when you are stuck in traffic behind a Del Sol.

  • The Myth of the Liberal Media

    ivins.jpg
    Molly, once a month with you is not enough

    I came across an internal memo from the Star Tribune today. It may show up in their Reader’s Rep column…or it may not. A reader of the Strib went to the trouble of counting the syndicated columnists that have run on the Strib’s Op-Ed page the past 6 weeks. Here’s the count:

    Lefties
    Steve Chapman, 8
    E.J. Dionne, 2
    Molly Ivins, 1
    Garrison Keillor, 5 (he hardly counts, in my opinion)
    Paul Krugman, 3
    Total Lefties: 19


    Righties     (which doesn’t really sound right unless you’re talking about baseball pitchers)
    David Brooks, 5
    Mona Charon, 3
    Jonah Goldberg, 4
    Clifford D. May, 1
    James Pinkerton, 1
    Debra J. Saunders, 6
    John Tierney, 3
    George Will, 10
    Total righties: 33

    So, next time someone’s bitching about Nick Coleman, whip this out on them. Personally, I think the above numbers would provide a great excuse for getting rid of Katherine Kersten. The Strib is tilting right without her help, thank you.

    Perhaps they figure they need her, just like Bush needs the right wing Christians. They can’t stand her, but they need the votes.

  • Thirsty As The Devil Himself For A Can Of Coca-Cola

    drowning children-3.jpg

    If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.

    I understand that much of this material –such as it is– falls under the category of inscrutable. Some have gone so far as to call it impenetrable. At any rate, I’m willing to acknowledge that the bulk of what I have to say is more or less pure, private static –babble in the common parlance.

    Depending on how charitable you’re willing to be, I’m either talking off the top of my head or talking out of my ass.

    I don’t suppose I can even claim that there’s any method to this madness.

    I have long felt compelled to ramble, is what it really boils down to. And I am also something of an obsessive fellow. It’s not so much that I have a tendency to get carried away, as that I often feel as if I am literally being carried away; I sense that I am being swept along by forces I can neither control nor understand.

    The words are driven from me by a bellowing old fellow who once upon a time rode a swift and ornery horse. These days he does his work from one of those all-terrain vehicles.

    If this man –I guess he is a sort of cowboy or shepherd– was not ceaselessly vigilant the words would likely overwhelm my head and I’ve no doubt I would eventually choke to death on them.

    I guess you could say, then, that this fellow’s presence is something of a mixed blessing.

    All the same, I do sometimes wonder if I wouldn’t be happier without him.

    shriner.jpg

  • Tim the Turkey's Droppings

    turkey6.JPG
    Tom Turkey

    pawlenty032003.jpg
    Tim Turkey

    It was amusing to hear Governor Pawlenty’s State of the State message today start off with a discussion of turkey droppings and end with the biggest gobbler gunk of all: “And let’s make sure that courts can’t throw out our defense of marriage laws in Minnesota, like they have in other states. Let’s define marriage in our Constitution as being between a man and a woman.”

    Aside from all the rhetoric about strengthening education, (when he allows tuition at the U to rise 50 percent during his tenure,) or health care, (when there are 77,000 fewer Minnesotans covered now than there were when he took office,) or holding the line on taxes (when local property taxes have had to take up the slack for the state’s abrogation of its educational responsibilities,) the anti-gay marriage amendment was the true turd in the state’s punch bowl.

    Here’s the truth on the anti gay marriage amendment: the Republicans want it on the ballot, not because they believe in it, but because it’s what brings the one issue religious right-wingers to the polls. And when those people vote, we get a Republican majority that’s beholden to them. And when that happens, we all get a good pranging, gay or not.

    Here’s what the real marriage amendment ought to look like: “Whereas the state is prohibited by the U.S. Constitution from respecting an establishment of religion, the state hereby renounces all statutes regarding Marriage, and establishes the institution of Civil Union, which can be between any two adults. Such Civil Union shall have the force of law in all regards currently ascribed to Marriage.”

    Perhaps the best idea the founders’ ever had was keeping the government free from religion. (Read the First Amendment, if you don’t believe me.) I say we start now and tell Tim Pawlenty, Michele Bachmann and the rest of their ilk that we’d prefer to see them work on uniting us, instead of pursuing their cynical strategy of divide and conquer. Until then, we’re not buying the stuff they’re shoveling.

  • Hit Repeat: Same As It Ever Was

    friendly-2.jpg

    A retired railroad brakeman named Eliot Show was cleaning his barbecue grill one afternoon when he inadvertently spilled a bucket of ashes and loosed a swarm of jinns on the neighborhood.

    A cleric who was later summoned for advice on dealing with the infestation informed the neighborhood council that jinns had long been disposed to nest in ashes, and if undiscovered for even a relatively brief period were known to be rapid and promiscuous breeders.

    The jinn took up residence in a neighborhood park, christened their encampment Jinnistan, and launched a relentless assault on surrounding streets and homes with rocks and flaming arrows.

    Initially, whenever the jinn strayed from the park they confined their mischief to stealing wash from clotheslines, pilfering meat from local butchers and markets, and disrupting domestic life in small but nonetheless unsettling ways: spilling milk, rearranging furniture, scrambling television reception, and knocking on windows in the night. As their numbers grew, however, and as attempts to appease and relocate them failed, they became more brazen.

    Many of them used their shape-shifting powers to assume human form, and, disguised as residents of the community, seduced and impregnated women, bilked elderly citizens of their life savings, sold insurance, and ran for city office.

    Eventually, after the jinn became increasingly more aggressive and began to steal babies, the city attempted to eradicate them by repeated aerial bombardments of the park with salt.

    Shortly after the Mayor announced in the local paper that this offensive had been a complete success the entire city was consumed by a tremendous conflagration, and a jinn civilization, larger than any previously seen on earth, rose from the ashes.

    mercy.jpg

  • A man of appetites

    kirby-puckett.jpg

    Puck was a man of huge appetites. I don’t mean the ones that made him prone to stroke, but the ones that made him figuratively larger than life.

    I knew Kirby, not well, but some. I helped report a little about the Twins when I was at City Pages. I played in his pool tournament several years and proudly endured his jibes when I missed an easy shot. There were a bunch of us who had money who paid $500 to play in that tournament. Yeah, we felt good about donating to children’s heart research, but we mostly felt good to be with Kirby, because he always made you feel like a friend.

    He did that with everyone, whether you paid or not. Over on MNSpeak is the remembrance of my son of his first meet with Kirby. He was only 4 years old and we were at one of the last spring training games in Orlando. It was after the game and Kirby and Tony Oliva were spending some extra time giving hitting instruction to a kid who had no chance of making the big league team, but those two guys were still working with him when they could have been at the club house buffet.

    As they were winding up, my wife yelled, “Hey, Kirby, wanna meet your biggest fan?” I thought she meant me, but Kirby walked right over to Matt and talked to him for several minutes. He signed his autograph book, as did Tony, and as he was getting ready to leave, he said, “Matt, wanna have good luck?” Matt nodded. “Here, rub my head,” he said, and leaned over the low fence so the short child could touch his newly shaved head. “I let all the ballplayers do that so we win,” he said, initiating a four-year-old then and there into the secret society of real ballplayers.

    I last ran into Kirby a couple of years ago in a parking lot on First Avenue. He was waiting outside a limo, dressed in a suit, his right eye gone, but the smile still bright. It was after his troubles with Tonya and the woman in the restroom. He was somehow smaller than he had been.

    I went up to him and reintroduced myself and my wife, and he just turned it on. “How you doin’, Tom? You and Kris just have a nice dinner? I did, too. Just waitin’ for my friends now.”

    All I could think to say was, “Kirby, we love you. Hang in there.” We both teared up as we walked on to our car.

    Unfortunately, he couldn’t hang in there. In the end, his demon appetites for all that life offers, both good and bad, got him.

    But when he’s your friend, as he was to anyone who met him, you have to overlook some things and consider the whole. He was, in the whole, a good man.

    Tom Bartel

  • The Death Of A Ballplayer

    I’ve spent all night trying to find the words to describe the way I felt when I heard that Kirby Puckett was dead, and to describe what his life –primarily as a baseball player, but also as a complex, larger-than-life character– meant to me.

    Because he did mean something to me.

    He meant more to me than any ballplayer should mean to any reasonably intelligent adult, and –for all sorts of complicated reasons– more than any ballplayer ever will or could again.

    I’ve been thinking about that since I first heard the sad news, and I’ve read many of the words that other people have already written about Kirby’s life and his death, but I’m still not close to finding any appropriate words of my own.

    This was a man who gave me a great deal to think about.

    I need to think about him some more.

    I need to remember him, to sort through the waves of memories that’ve been rolling through my head since early last evening.

    All I can really say right now –and this is perhaps pathetic or ridiculous– is that this was a man who I literally believe changed the direction of my life twenty-two years ago, for better or worse.

    For better, I’m pretty sure, but that’s one of those things I have to think about.

    This was also a man who once (twenty years ago) told me to cut my hair.

    If I eventually figure out how to say what I feel like I want to say, I’ll crawl back here and say it. If not, fuck, what a kick in the teeth.

    What a funny and wonderful and tragic life.

    What a splendid, sad, inspiring character.

    What a simple and complicated gift.

    What a ballplayer.

    From The Archives: Uncle Jumbo on Kirby’s 1996 retirement

     

  • Apres

    Sad to hear about Kirby Puckett’s stroke yesterday.

    I happened to be building a fire yesterday afternoon, and had last week’s Times ready to crumple up into tinder. It was the sports section, which I have to admit I rarely read. Which is a shame because it’s lately gotten just as good and entertaining as Sunday Styles. I hate to see these strong sectionsof the paper kind of upstaged by the NYTimes magazine and its various spin-offs, so I’m hereby recommitting myself to the smeary, rank and file folio pages.

    What caught my eye was a package of stories about what lousy sports the American olympians were in Turin. I think Selena Roberts sort of overstated the case–when what she really wanted to do was write yet another pile-on piece on poor, misunderstood, crass, underachiever Bode Miller. Aside from the chronically overfunded, underperforming, belligerent, hard-partying American alpine ski teams, there was not a whole lot of evidence that American athletes are terrible, selfish, spoiled little kids–but even if they are, so what? The day is long since past when athletes of international caliber were expected to act like role models and diplomats for the human race; true, America pioneered the sports hero as well as (more recently) the sports anti-hero.

    Bad sportsmen have always secretly been in the game, but it seemed a longstanding gentleman’s agreement that the press would allow the Babe Ruths and the Ty Cobbs and the Wilt Chamberlains of the world their private lecheries off-the-field; after all, no one wanted to make the kids cry, and if the greats used a little tobacky in the dug-out, well at least they tried to keep it discreet. Times certainly changed. I vaguely recall Dennis Rodman as the great iconoclast who permanently turned things around–perhaps it was Darryl Strawberry, although the cursed Strawberry did seem a morose character who would have preferred to remain, against all odds and evidence, someone to whom the kids could look up.

    On the contrary, Rodman delighted in smashing this stereotype loudly and repeatedly, although one could make the argument that a little public restraint might have saved him from a less ugly public demise. Live by the code, die by the code–and a rebel without a cause doesn’t end up having a lot of reputable friends, especially in the media.

    But the Puck? Whatever his off-the-field problems that came with retirement–and they seemed considerable, if they forced the man out of the public eye and, worse, out of the clubhouse, seemingly for good–Kirby earned so much good karma on the field and in the public eye that he will always be remembered as a good sport and a generous human being, a franchise player, a hall-of-famer. One of those guys who, in representing the best of the game, came to represent the best of being human.

  • An Oscar Bright Spot

    clooney.jpg
    An actor for president? No way Americans would ever do that.

    Our old friend David Carr did a nice job of blogging from the Oscars yesterday.

    But perhaps his best observation was to simply quote George Clooney’s acceptance speech. In case you were watching a basketball game or something, here it is: “You know, we are a little bit out of touch in Hollywood every once in a while. I think it’s probably a good thing. We’re the ones who talked about AIDS when it was just being whispered, and we talked about civil rights when it wasn’t really popular. And we, you know, we bring up subjects. This Academy, this group of people gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar in 1939 when blacks were still sitting in the backs of theaters. I’m proud to be a part of this Academy, proud to be part of this community, and proud to be out of touch.”

    For my money, this guy’s a lot more in touch with how things actually are than our buddy Bush. Another good piece in the Times this morning by Paul Krugman on just that topic. (Sorry you have to subscribe to read it.) As I’ve said before, you can cancel the Strib subscription if you have to.