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  • Southern Swing: Gastronomic Gems in Rochester and Decorah

    Carol and I got really lucky last night. We were on our way
    back to the Cities from visiting her folks on the farm, not too far from
    Decorah, when we decided to stop for dinner in Rochester. I wanted to check out
    Söntés, the new tapas bar and restaurant at 4 3rd St. SW, 507-292-1628. The lucky
    part was, ordinarily, Söntés isn’t open on Sundays, but they made an exception
    for Mothers Day. And the food itself was really delightful. We had been
    munching Fritos all the way from Protivin, so we didn’t order a lot – just a
    salad and a few of the small tapas plates.

    Each of the dishes we sampled was a playful and imaginative
    combination of flavors – a salad of cherry tomatoes, green grapes, cherry
    tomatoes, watermelon balls, watermelon gelee, olive oil and black volcano salt
    ($7.50); a plate of fresh sashimi of New Zealand grouper, served with a light
    avocado mouse, ponzu jelly and just a dab of wasabi ($9); three succulent diver
    scallops in a savory chocolate sauce, served over caramelized shallots and
    topped with shreds of sliced fennel ($12), and a light and refreshing salad of
    squid, tossed with marinated fennel, sections of fresh orange, smoky Spanish
    chorizo and Arbaquena olives ($6). Presentation was artful without being fussy,
    and service was prompt and friendly.

    There is a lot more on the menu I would like to try:
    thin-crust Neapolitan pies (i.e., pizzas) topped with everything from organic
    chicken tikka masala to grilled pears, Serrano ham and goat cheese ($12-$15);
    entrée-sized shared plates such as slow-roasted Scottish salmon with wild ramps
    and fennel ($22) and an impressive list of artisan cheeses.

    Ordinarily, we don’t dine out much in Iowa, because my
    mother-in-law, Elmarie, is such a great cook, but yesterday being Mothers’ Day,
    she agreed to let us take her out to brunch at the Dayton House Café, 516 W.
    Water St., Decorah, 563-382-9683. It’s a charming little storefront next door
    to the Vesterheim Norwegian Heritage Museum, with a Sunday brunch is a la
    carte, with everything $8 or less. I had the mothers’ day special, a savory
    seafood strata, but got to nibble a bit on some of the other specials – a
    Nordic interpretation of eggs Benedict, made with seared salmon and poached
    eggs, topped with a lemon dill sauce ($8), and some simple but delicious
    ricotta pancakes, served with lingonberry sauce. I would love to go back
    sometime and sample the dinner menu (served Wednesdays through Saturdays) – the
    focus is on seafood, with offerings like a seafood martini ($7), cod and clams
    in a butter sauce ($15), and a fresh fish of the day. The lunch menu has a few
    Norwegian specialties – open-face smorbrod sandwiches, varme polser (hot dogs
    wrapped in lefse), and several Norwegian desserts: krumkake, rommegrot (cream pudding) and sandbakkels (shortbread
    filled with whipped cream and berries.) No wine or beer, but guests are allowed
    to bring their own bottle, for a small corkage fee.

    There is one other restaurant in Decorah I would love to
    try, if Elmarie ever decides to take a Saturday night off. With a 200 bottle
    wine list, and entrees like grilled Iowa pork chops with a spicy peach and corn
    salsa ($21) and bacon-wrapped pheasant with lingonberry, leek and smoked bacon
    sauce ($24), Rubaiyat, 117 W. Water St., 563-382-9463, has to rank as the most ambitious restaurant
    in Northeastern Iowa.

  • Warning: This Post Contains Words

    Be sure to check out our Great Commuter Challenge slideshow and find out who won yesterday’s race. We also have a great piece on The Films of Carlos Reygadas, and a new fiction piece by David Dorle (with nudity even — tasteful as it is).

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Raking Through Books

    This month’s Rake happy hour book club is designed for sports and book lovers alike. If you’ve been reading The Rake regularly for more than just a few months, you might remember Tom Bartel’s piece, "My Friend Larry," from our January 2008 issue. The Larry to which Bartel refers is none other than Larry Berle, author of A Golfer’s Dream and one of two featured guests for tonight’s happy hour. Berle’s book narrates his quest to play Golf Digest’s top 100 courses. But you don’t have to be an avid golf player to enjoy his book. "It’s not about the golf per se so much as it’s about all the friends he
    made on his quest," explains Bartel. "But that makes it even a better read, because when
    it comes to making friends, Larry is Tiger Woods." Perhaps after this evening, he’ll add you to that great list of friends. And, well, if that doesn’t pan out I recommend you sidle up to our second featured guest (which you should do anyhow), John Rosengren, author of Hammerin’ Hank, George Almighty and the Say Hey Kid: The Year That Changed Baseball Forever. Explore what may arguably be baseball’s most exciting year to date — 1973, when the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam and Nixon tried to explain 18 minutes of silence on White House tapes. (I’d say it was an exciting year all around. Yes, they call it Watergate; but let’s stick to the baseball, eh?) Through the stories of five great men — whose names we all now know (Hank Aaron, George Steinbrenner, Willie Mays, Orlando Cepeda, Reggie Jackson)

    — Rosengren shows us how the game forever changed.

    5:30-7:30 p.m., Kieran’s Irish Pub, 330 2nd Ave. S., Minneapolis; free.

    COMEDY
    Stand Uppity with the Funny Guys

    Put your Midwest sense of humor to the test tonight. As a former New Yorker I often complain about missing that New York dry wit I love so well — but then, that’s what New Yorkers do; we complain a lot. Just ask former New Yorker Andy Kindler, who is "now complaining from California," according to the Stand Uppity web page. Kindler is just one of three comedians comprising the show. The others are angry-Woody-Allen-ish Marc Maron and Russia-to-Brooklyn transplant Eugene Mirman. If you have any sense of humor at all (or at least an East-coast one), you’re sure to be in stitches.

    7 p.m., Turf Club, 1601 University Ave., St. Paul; 651-647-0486; $15.

    SPECIAL EVENTS
    Old Minnesota: Song of the North Star

    Join the Elk River Area Arts Alliance tonight for a special Minnesota statehood sesquicentennial celebration — Old Minnesota: Song of the North Star. It’s time you found out why Minnesota isn’t just another part of Wisconsin. Using large scale historic photos from the Minnesota Historical Society collection, original songs, historic readings, dramatic reenactments, and dancing, Warren Nelson and the Big Top Chautauqua Band will tell the history of Minnesota at the time of statehood.

    7:30 p.m., Zabee Theater, Elk River High School, 900 School St. NW, Elk River; 763-441-4725;
    $17.

    ART
    William Yang: Shadows and Reconciliation

    If a singing, dancing history of our fair state sounds just a little too provincial for you (rather than just quaint and fun), I suggest you opt for William Yang’s fierce performance at the Walker. Through narration, music, and photographic images (a slideshow, actually), Yang weaves his own stories into a history of the Australian aborigines. Be sure to check out Yang’s website as well. You have to love the warning on his homepage: "This website contains images of nudity as well as descriptions of sexual activity and drug use. If you are under the age of 18 or otherwise offended by these types of images and references please leave now. Warning : Please be advised that this site contains names and images of Indigenous people now deceased." Warnings aside, the site contains some incredible photographs.

    8 p.m., Walker Art Center, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600.

  • Guts and Small Ball

    AP Photo by Jim Mone

    Francisco Liriano was almost as disappointing as Nelson Liriano. There has been a disquieting wave of injuries—to Michael Cuddyer, Kevin Slowey, Adam Everett, Scott Baker, Nick Punto, and, most depressingly, to Pat Neshek.

    The offense has been erratic; the power and team on base percentage alarming. Up and down the lineup the new additions—and there are scads of new additions—have been underperforming at the plate. The bullpen has been as shaky as it’s been in years, and seems ill equipped to absorb the Neshek blow.

    On paper, certainly, the Twins appear to be a team with all sorts of concerns, and so far almost any close scrutiny of the stats would seem to bear that out.

    And yet—at this point, at least—every team should have such concerns.

    The question, of course, is how the hell are the Twins doing it? How the hell do they even hang with a team like the Red Sox, let alone take three-of-four from the most powerful, most multi-dimensionally talented team in the universe? How has a team that has allowed more runs than it has scored, and that is thirteenth out of fourteen AL teams in both homeruns and OBP, managed to grind its way to twenty wins and first place in the Central?

    That’s a damn good question, and I’m not sure I have an answer for you. It might well be a fluke. The Twins have handled the Central so far (at a 13-8 clip), and they’ve been pretty dominant at home (14-7). Where things get a bit worrisome is in the team’s numbers with runners in scoring position (.311 BA, .371 OBP, and .452 SLG) and runners in scoring position with two outs (.315, .376, and .420). In a freakish season (or in the case of a freakishly good hitter), an individual might sustain those sorts of numbers over 162 games, but you pretty much expect that they’ll eventually level out for the team and be more reflective of their overall performance, which so far hasn’t been terrific, to say the least. A small ball team in today’s American League pretty much has to have a dominant pitching staff. They certainly can’t expect to lead the league in homers allowed and live to drink champagne in the post season.

    The Minnesota pitching staff, from the starters to the bullpen, has been gutsy. It’s been crafty. It’s battled and pitched in and out of jams and, on the nights the Twins have won, generally been just good enough. There hasn’t, though, been the domination we came to expect from Johan Santana every five days, and, in recent years, from the back end of the pen. Joe Nathan has been (mostly) his usual stout self, but with Neshek sidelined there’s a level of pressure—and right now it sort of still feels like desperation—that we’re unaccustomed to feeling in the late innings. Is anyone yet feeling entirely comfortable with any of our seventh- and eighth-inning options? If we’re going to have to start extending guys like Rincon, Reyes, and Crain (all of whom have battled arm problems) what kind of trouble are we potentially looking at or asking for?

    I fully realize that at this point that’s just typical neurosis, but given what’s transpired thus far it also sort of feels like unpardonable gratitude, so like everybody else I’ll just wait and see and hope.

    The division has obviously been a bit of a mystery in the early going, and everybody seems to be battling some problem or another. I’ve said previously that I think the Detroit Tigers are facing a constellation of problems that are going to bedevil them the rest of the way, and I still believe that. They obviously have the potential to put up outrageous offensive numbers, but they’ve been up and down, and their starting pitching has been putting them in a hole night after night; if I’m not mistaken, twelve of their sixteen wins have been come-from-behind affairs, and that shit will wear on even the best offense.

    The White Sox? Can’t stand them, and I expect them to be as erratic as their manager all season (if Ozzie doesn’t get fired).

    The team that’s been lurking in the weeds for the first six weeks—and, actually, they’ve just started lumbering ashore and shaking off the milfoil—is the Cleveland Indians. As exciting and unexpected as the Twins’ performance has been, am I alone in feeling more than a little bit queasy about the fact that, even after taking three-of-four from Boston, our local nine still finds itself with just a game-and-a-half cushion?

    Finally, for all of us Jason Kubel fans—and there must be at least a couple dozen of us out here—is it time to shut up and accept that our pet project is entering Rich Becker territory? I suspect we may have no choice if Craig Monroe continues to energize the team with his offense and take away Kubel’s at bats. And after watching Monroe the last week I’m prepared to admit that I was probably wrong about him, provided, of course, that he continues to prove me wrong. Which, since I really am a fan, would make me nothing but happy.

  • Sauced Again

    Sauced is run by John Conklin, a friend of mine, and is a great
    addition to the Northside. I am, however, puzzled as to why John gets a
    great review     and my restaurant, Papa’s Pizza and Pasta, gets totally
    ignored once again. We have been on the corner of 42nd and Thomas for three
    years, and are still the best kept secret in Minneapolis. We offer East
    Coast Italian American cuisine and have quite the following. However,
    getting the word out that we are here is a full time job. When you
    mention other restaurants in the area and not us, it sure doesn’t help.
    We offer food and service that is second to none, and yet we continually
    get ignored. Stop by sometime and see what we have to offer. Mr.
    Iggers, you were here a couple years ago and still we don’t exist. I find
    that very puzzling.

    Mick Brogan, Minneapolis
    Letter

  • The True Powerhouse Behind KISS

    When the glitz and the flash
    and the devilish showboating are stripped away, Ace Frehley shines as
    the true powerhouse behind KISS. In his legendary band, the "spaceman"
    often got swallowed by Gene Simmons’s fire-spewing antics and Paul
    Stanley’s notorious onstage preening. But it was Frehley’s axe-wielding
    that gave musical credibility to the band’s campy allure. He is
    currently proving his fury on his first solo tour in 13 years.

    Despite his being only one-fourth
    of the ’70s scare-glam troupe, the packed crowd at First Avenue
    lauded Frehley with a fervent welcoming that could only come from hardcore
    KISS fans. We’re talking decades-worth of KISS t-shirts, hazardous
    air-guitar, vocal cord-shredding screaming, and a mass of head bangers
    that would have clogged the stairwells if not for one over-worked club
    employee. Everyone was trying to make it feel like 1975 again. And,
    through squinted eyes, it kind of looked that way.

     


    photo from Space Ace Online

    Frehley’s band emblazons
    the epitome of hard rock attitude: not a stitch of non-black clothing;
    black-rimmed eyes; way too expensive haircuts. Ace is the only one who
    doesn’t fit in. The pale white make up has long been washed down the
    drain. Tonight he’s wearing leather pants and an unfortunate beer
    gut. The only remnants of his past-glamdom showing as he swishes his
    still-long hair about. The sound is different, too. Frehley’s newest
    incarnation is way heavier than KISS ever was. When Frehley is in control,
    it’s a loud beast.

     

    Frehley dabbled in his solo
    material. "Rock Soldier" from his Frehley’s Comet days, was a
    particular sweet spot early in the show, with Ace embarking on a 10-minute blitzkrieg of a solo. Mostly he took from his KISS material.
    "Into the Void" and "Torpedo Girl" were sing-along favorites.
    "Love Gun" was a riotous encore after nearly two hours of KISS deep
    cuts. This was Frehley showing his authentic KISStory, even luring the
    band into the trademark side-to-side bobbing of the original quartet.

    It was another solo tune, however,
    that became the stand-out show stealer. During "New York Groove" Frehley
    played with a blinking Les Paul fitted with LED lights. Nearing the end,
    his band left him, and Frehley switched guitars to a custom-made Les
    Paul that shot out flames and left thick, white clouds of smoke hanging
    over the audience. It was Frehley’s shining moment, as he embarked on
    a solo only rivaled by the top of metal’s elite. It is an onslaught
    of noise, which doesn’t try to have a melody or any kind of chord
    progression. Its only goal is to be loud as hell. And, well, he overshot
    the mark into ear-ringing madness.

    Aside from musicianship, the performance gave a good glimpse at the rest of Ace Frehley. When Simmons
    and Stanley aren’t stealing the spotlight, Frehley proves himself
    to be quite a character. His onstage banter includes talking about his
    favorite science fiction novel from high school, his 1976 onstage (and
    accidental) electrocution, and how he is "having so much fun on tour
    it should be illegal." His candor was awkward, but charming, and often
    interrupted with bouts of his notorious, dorky laughter. He could quite
    possibly be the biggest nerd in rock, but he rolls with it.

  • A Precise Poem

    Employing a tactic I’m pretty sure I’ve picked up from the current presidential administration, I’ve decided to take a new approach to truth. Namely, I’m going to make it up. And make it up in such a way that justifies every decision I decide(r), and in such a way that makes me feel better about my life, and the enveloping society thereof.
    So here goes: Everyone is reading.

    And because everyone is reading, there is a high demand for poetry.
    And because there is a high demand for poetry, once a week, possibly on Mondays, but certainly not limited to Mondays, I’m going to try really hard to post a Poem Worth Reading on this blog.

    I know I know I know, this is supposed to be a blog about books, and probably shouldn’t contain any actual literature, unless it’s hyper-linked. Nevertheless, poems are great. They’re (often) short, and powerful, and sometimes they even rhyme, which makes you feel happy for reasons you probably can’t define very well. And people should read more of them. More, even, than they already are. Which is lots. Because everybody is reading. Obviously.

    This week’s Poem Worth Reading is by Yehuda Amichai. Usually he tends toward the political, and is scarily good at it. However, though one could probably read some Israel-Palestine into this, it’s mostly just sexy. I figured it’s spring, so why not get a little racy.

    Read it. Everyone else is.

    A Precise Woman

    A precise woman with a short haircut brings order
    to my thoughts and my dresser drawers,
    moves feelings around like furniture
    into a new arrangement.
    A woman whose body is cinched at the waist and firmly divided
    into upper and lower,
    with weather-forecast eyes
    of shatterproof glass.
    Even her cries of passion follow a certain order,
    one after the other:
    tame dove, then wild dove,
    then peacock, wounded peacock, peacock, peacock,
    the wild dove, tame dove, dove dove
    thrush, thrush, thrush.

    A precise woman: on the bedroom carpet
    her shoes always point away from the bed.
    (My own shoes point toward it.)

    Translated by Chana Bloch

     

  • Insomnia

    Thin are the night-skirts left behind
    By daybreak hours that onward creep,
    And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
    That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
    But in half-dreams that shift and roll
    And still remember and forget,
    My soul this hour has drawn your soul
    A little nearer yet.

    Our lives, most dear, are never near,
    Our thoughts are never far apart,
    Though all that draws us heart to heart
    Seems fainter now and now more clear.
    To-night Love claims his full control,
    And with desire and with regret
    My soul this hour has drawn your soul
    A little nearer yet.

    Is there a home where heavy earth
    Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
    Where water leaves no thirst again
    And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
    If faith long bound to one true goal
    May there at length its hope beget,
    My soul that hour shall draw your soul
    For ever nearer yet.

    —Dante Gabriel Rossetti (May 12, 1828-April 9th,1882)

    Happy Birthday, Dante!

    COMMUTING
    The Great Commuter Challenge

    It’s Bike Walk Week
    — a celebration of biking and walking on both sides of the river. Start
    your week and your day off with a race of sorts, perhaps even a living
    breathing commentary on urban congestion. Choose a mode of
    transportation — car, bike, bus, or feet (personally, I’d like to see
    some more creative endeavors) — and join the travelers at Merriam Park
    Community Center for a 7:40 a.m. departure. Or simply welcome their
    arrival to the Minneapolis Central Library after 8 a.m. — and put your
    bets in now for the level of sweatiness you’ll encounter. Minneapolis
    Mayor RT Rybak will travel by bike. Ramsey County Commissioner Toni
    Carter will combine foot and transit power. And, well, (I can’t help
    but be amused by this)
    Strib transportation/commuting reporter Lea Schuster and Strib Roadguy blogger Jim Foti will be traveling by car. And that’s not all: they must run errands as well. All contestants must pick up a Wall Street Journal and tickets to Bedlam Theatre’s Romeo and Juliet, and return a book to the Central Library. Who will make the finish line first? Could it be you?

    7:40
    a.m., begins at the Merriam Park Community Center, 2000 Saint Anthony
    Ave., Saint Paul; ends between 8:15 and 8:30 a.m. at the Central
    Library outdoor plaza, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis.

    SPECIAL EVENT
    Goth Prom V: Contrivance, dues ex machina.

    Last year, over 900 people attended the Goth Prom. This year, don’t miss out on the fun. "Contrivance promises to be the ultimate prom experience, one designed specifically for those that are able to appreciate the diversity within the subcultures present in the Minneapolis/St Paul area." Feel left out or restricted by your own prom? Now you can experience the fun. (Or was it even fun back then?) Get decked out, and enjoy the crowds, the wild attire, two-for-one drinks from 9-11 p.m., and some rippin’ good music by DJs Oxygen and Nitrogen. (And Geeks, don’t worry; they’ll be another prom for you soon, too.)

    9 p.m. – 3 a.m., The Saloon, 9th and Hennepin Ave., Downtown Minneapolis; no cover.

    ALERT: If you cannot cope with same sex couples, stay the hell away.

    FILM
    Happy 40th Anniversary, 2001!

    In celebration of the 40 years since Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Heights Theatre
    is showing the 1968 masterpiece, digitally remastered in 70mm, a
    project of Kubrick’s before his death in 1999. This historical
    depiction of the future raised many questions as to the existance of
    life and the mysteries of science and space. And who doesn’t love a
    bunch of monkeys dancing around a mysterious monolith? Follow man from
    his pre-historic ape-man status, when he first uses tools to conquer
    his environments — into the present day (the future, at the time the
    film was made), when man has set out to conquer space, and perhaps even
    life itself. —Hannah Simpson

    3:50 & 7:10 p.m., Heights Theatre, 3951 Central Ave. NE, Columbia Heights; $8.

     

  • Obamania

    photo from Pander Watch

    (read aloud)

    Obama!

    Obama, mama!

    Obama mama, blackjack!

    Obama mama blackjack, jackpot! Smoke a lot?

    Brain rot?

     

    Minnesota

    pep rally, rock show! Let’s go! Cash flow!

    Are we here? Do we know? Where to go? Say so!

    Minnesota slam dunk. In the trunk. No junk.

    Put it in the mix, punk!

     

    Hoosier daddy

    Indiana Tarheel store bought fortune wheel.

    No more vacant lots. Hard fought short shots.

    Jacka lacka jackpot. Spin the lever. Maybe not.

    Don’t forget to get the pot.

     

    Summer winner?

    Who knows? Who cares? Cash flows down stairs.

    Hoosier daddy, where’d he go? Izzy at the rock show?

    Scalpin’ tickets on the street? Where to meet to beat the heat?

    Save the country from the dogs, high hogs, rollin’ logs.

    Save the country sez you, home brew! Who to screw?

    Are we in a hot spot? Be cool, somethin’ new.

     

    Tell a vision

    Sunday morning on the tube. Am I just another boob?

    Tell it to me wholesale. Rock The Nation; find the Grail.

    Are ya lyin’ press corps? Tell me just a little more.

    Over under, what’s the score?

    Who’s a whore?

     

    Revolution,

    is it real? Can you feel?

    Buy a T shirt?

     

    (not to be confused with "God Bless America")

     

  • The Future of the Past

    Everyone ponders the future. Whether it’s five minutes from now or five million years from now, it is bound to creep up in some form or another. Stanley Kubrick reinvented what it means to be a filmmaker in 1968 with the design of a fictional world in the year 2001 that questions the mysteries of science, technology, and evolution.

    It is a fact (a sad one) that I had never before seen this epic
    adventure, sci-fi thriller, and I think it’s safe to say I was spoiled
    in witnessing it for my first time as a digitally re-mastered 70-mm
    film, a project of Kubrick’s before his death in 1999.

    Although the scenic design and clothing are simply a futuristic version of the ’70s, including lava-lamp chairs and fishnet stockings, the influence of computers and their impact on human existence was a fairly spot-on prediction on Kubrick’s part. In our technologically dependent generation, anxiety arises if a cell phone isn’t in arms reach or if the most inconceivable of situations happens: no internet. Humans, the only beings on the earth with the ability to think logically, place most of their trust in machines.

    Believe me, I’m just as guilty as the next Jane Doe, but there’s something to be said for Kubrick’s undeniable projection.

    Kubrick showed a great deal of audacity in creating this film. Without
    the aid of special effects, he relied heavily on the construction of
    sets and superimposition. (No computers, you say?)

    Perhaps the most interesting character in the film is a computer called HAL 9000 (coincidentally one letter off of IBM). An eerie blend of human and machine, HAL takes control of the conditions aboard the spacecraft, hence controlling the scientists on board. (And we’re worried about human terrorists?) HAL, although ghostly sinister, provides a smart-ass, manipulative comic-relief, probably even creepier because the humor comes from a man-made machine.

    As someone who has grown up in a technological age, I was particularly struck by the amount of patience needed to understand the film’s meaning. The 30-minute scenes, where no dialog is exchanged, is enough to make a person crazy. This was a brave move on Kubrick’s part because he used the film as a way to express a psychedelic and philosophical art form, a fairly new idea in the late ’60s. Kubrick didn’t set out to offer straight-forward answers, but to leave the audience with their own thoughts. "You are free to speculate, as you wish," he once said, "the philosophical and allegorical meanings of 2001." It’s no wonder the "flower-child" generation ingested so many mind-altering drugs.

    Whether or not you’ve ever seen the film, you’ll appreciate seeing this digitally re-mastered version on the big screen. Just don’t turn to hallucinogens to elucidate the film’s meaning.

    May 9-15, Heights Theatre, 3951 Central Ave. NE, Columbia Heights; $8.

  • Cherry on a Spoon

    What she didn’t understand, Miriam thought, what she really didn’t understand was this stupid cherry on a spoon. The huge sculpture sat there in its lake, its bright red cherry poised happily on the grey spoon-bowl’s ridge, a symbol of Minneapolis. What about it excited people? What, exactly, was the point? She sat on the grass by the pond, head tilted upward, mulling it.

    Miriam was a museum studies major, although she had started college doing studio art. During that long first year, she spent more time in the art supply store than actually making art. She loved to touch the taught canvases and read the names of all the colors of paints. Ochre seemed to promise sex, cerulean undiscovered planets-every object was expectant, waiting. But when she set up an easel in her room or in class, the brush made primitive, directionless marks, unresponsive to her oblique desire to paint something. In the hours just before an assignment was due, she would chew on the dead ends of her long brown hair or the handles of her wooden brushes. Finally, she understood why someone might throw a bucket of paint over herself and then run hard into a wall one hundred times.

    But self-abuse wasn’t art.

    When she expressed that opinion in her art history seminar-having by then cut her hair into a blunt bob and changed her major-the professor shook his head. “What, then, is art, Miriam?” Allowing a short pause, he then pressed the forward button on the rickety slide machine with greater than usual verve, as if having made his point.

    If self abuse was art, Miriam had thought, freshman year of college had been a post-modernist masterpiece of cheap keg beer and dubious sexuality, encapsulated in the nickname that still made some of her old friends laugh. Before learning about “Black-out Sniper,” Miriam had never thought about her liaisons buffered by alcohol and darkness as being anything but normal-at least normal within the realm of freshman year. At parties everyone was drunk and looking, scanning dimly lit, crowded rooms with hopeful and later glazed eyes for another pair of eyes with the same idea. Every tasteless poster on her guy friends’ walls validated that practice. Beer Goggles, one read, getting ugly people laid for fifty years! She was under no illusions about her appearance, and was in fact more critical of herself than anyone else.

    She reminded herself of a painting by Goya; her face pale, eyes big, chin receding just a little, like those inbreed Spanish aristocrats. Arrested by her face, people were often surprised by the solid, almost voluptuous frame that contrasted sharply with the fragile tint of purple under her eyes.

    The cartoon man on the poster gave her the thumbs up and smiled, holding his frothing pint out in a gesture of toast. Go for it, he seemed to say. So how could she be doing the wrong thing when, drunk at a party, if she met someone she liked, she stuck with him until the party was dying down, and, if he was willing, took him back to her dorm room? It was true, the guys she picked up usually turned out to be way more intoxicated than her, having proven their manliness by doing beer bongs and 40’s, and they rarely remembered her the next day. But that suited Miriam just fine-they had both gotten what they wanted, after all, and it wasn’t like anyone was watching.

    Or that was what she had thought. As she was leaving a party one Saturday night, a drunk friend grabbed her elbow and whispered, “‘Black-out Sniper.’ Get it?” For a moment, she didn’t get it. She looked around her, trying to figure out what her friend was talking about. The she turned to look at the boy she was with-his drunkenness was suddenly far more apparent. Miriam felt nauseous as the heat of embarrassment mixed with the alcohol in her stomach. She left the boy standing by the door and fled to her empty dorm room, her eyes burning and itchy from tears she wasn’t yet shedding. In the silence of that night, as the alcohol wore off, Miriam’s emotions moved from shock and embarrassment to shame to anger and indignation, then back to shame that felt like anger until the emotions couldn’t be distinguished. That she should have to feel this shame was more than a betrayal of privacy. It was a betrayal of the mantra, the promise, that had helped her, helped them all, get through high school. The promise that when they got to college, the holding back, the fear of discovery, the claustrophobic family dinner table at which nothing could really be hidden, would be gone. No one would be watching them anymore.

    But people were still watching.

    Exhausted and still awake as the sun came into her dorm room window, Miriam decided that she was done. Done with college boys who couldn’t handle a woman taking what she wanted without becoming a needy mess afterwards; done with girls who called you a whore if you tried. After that party, Miriam stopped hooking up with guys and stopped drinking anything except for good wine. After all, she reasoned, she couldn’t be in the art community without learning to like good wine and despise the swill served at openings.

    Miriam had left freshman year and the Black-out Sniper behind her, but she was still of the opinion that if you waited for a man to make the move, you would end up watching hundreds of fucking piano concerts and contracting cancer from second hand smoke in shady music venues. That was why she had sat down on Jason’s piano bench, and why she had held his hand in the light rail, and why she had finally suggested that they move from the couch to the bed.

    Jason. He was probably still sitting in the coffee shop with a stupid look on his face, his forgetful fingers clutching his coffee mug.

    Her eyes filled with angry tears and she was back in the sculpture garden.