Blog

  • Camden Workhouse Theater: 'Night Mother

    What do you do if your daughter tells you that she’ll be dead by morning? This is essentially the premise for the 1983 play, ‘night, Mother, by Marsha Norman. Two years ago, when the Camden Workhouse Theater did a staged reading of the play, it was met with a standing ovation. (Yes, it’s that good.) Now, they’re bringing the Pulitzer Prize-winning play back for a full theatrical production, starring Muriel Bonertz and Miriam Monasch. Don’t miss this haunting production about life and death and family. (And if you haven’t seen the 1986 film, starring Sissy Spacek and Ann Bancroft, you might want to follow it up with that.)

    May 2-5, 8-10, and 16-17, all shows at 7:30 p.m., except for Sunday, May 4, which is at 2 p.m., Workhouse Stage, The Warren, 4400 Osseo Rd.; $10 if paid in advance and $12 at the door ($8/$10 for students and seniors).

  • Long Day's Journey into Night

    After having to postpone the opening for a week, due to illness in the company, the Theatre in the Round Players are finally commencing their production of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night. Considered by many to be O’Neill’s masterpiece (it won a Pultizer in 1957), Long Day’s Journey narrates a fateful, heart-rendering day in O’Neill’s own life, in August of 1912. Directed by Lynn Musgrave, this Theatre in the Round production features Maggie Bearmon Pistner, Rachel Finch, Rob Frankel, Tom Sonnek, and Wade Vaughn. Expect a lot of alcohol and a little bit of morphine.

  • May Book Releases

  • The Wisdom of the Car Buying Masses

    Just when I thought it was safe to cancel my Strib subscription, they surprise me and put something on the front page that actually 1) contains information that I care about; 2) contains information that elucidates a larger story; and 3) nudges at least one piece of television-like spot news dreck out of the paper. (Actually, I’m only guessing about point number 3.)

    Today, there was a good piece by Dee DePass about the slump in car buying in the Twin Cities. It seems new car and truck buying was down 14.5 percent last year. Used car sales were also down—by 12 percent.

    Of course, these were sales by dealers, and if there’s one thing we should have learned over the past few years is that we don’t need dealers anymore of almost any type. We have the internet, and sites like Carsoup and Craig’s List, make it a lot easier to sell your car yourself and cut out the dealer’s commission.

    So, perhaps the numbers are a little skewed, but a table accompanying the story gives some detail that is relevant. (Sorry if you read the story online. The table wasn’t attached to the online version of the story. Is there a worse web site in the world than the Strib’s?)

    The table showed basically that the sales of American brands are down, for the most part, 15 to 20 percent. On the other hand, Toyotas, Hondas, Volkswagens, and other efficient foreign models were up. Not down less than Americans. Their sales were actually higher.

    Is there anything to be inferred from this? I’m going to go out on a limb and say Americans have wised up way faster than their automobile company executives and noticed that gas prices are rising and are making adjustments such as buying smaller more efficient cars.

    This is a roundabout way of getting to presidential politics. Recently, both Hillary Clinton and John McCain have called for a temporary reduction of the gas tax. Because of course, we want to do everything we can to encourage Americans to drive more, take no responsibility either on the personal or political front for the idiocy of our national energy policy, and just keep paying out to our pals in Saudi Arabia and Venezuela.

    This at the same time as they laughingly call for a reduction of greenhouse gas emissions. It just gets funnier.

  • Himalayan. . . .Just Go Already!

    Over the weekend, John and I went to a new restaurant on Franklin and 24th called simply Himalayan. To be honest, we didn’t have great expectations going in.

    Our experience with Tibetan and Nepali food in town has been lukewarm at best. There’s Everest on Grand, which is. . . .fine. And there used to be a place on Hennepin Avenue called Tibet’s Corner that had wonderful, haunting music but food that tasted strange, Americanized, ketchup-y, and bland. (It was no surprise to us when it closed.)

    Last month — while in Madison, WI, with our son — I ate at a modest but terrific little Nepali cafe called Himal Chuli and mourned the fact that such simple, clean, authentic ethnic fare had not found its way to the Twin Cities.

    Well, now it has!

    Himalayan is, perhaps, the most Spartan restaurant I’ve been inside in my adult life. There was zero investment in creating ambiance: no beaded curtains or pewter elephants or colored lights. This is a small, white box of a room with windows on only one side. There is a buffet table next to the cash register, a smattering of booths and tables, and a single photo of Mt. Everest on the wall.

    Yet, it is comfortable. We chose a booth and settled in. There was a lovely, light scent of lamb and spices coming from the kitchen. We ordered two cups of Masala Chiya (spiced tea with milk) and appetizers.

    We liked the Kathmandu Momo with meat ($6 for half a dozen), which were soft and savory. But even better were the Wo: lentil pancakes with ginger and fresh cilantro (a steal at four for $4.50). These reminded me of latkes — only meatier, with flavors from the mountains rather than the steppes.

    For our main course, we shared a platter of Choyala with chicken ($11.95), a platter of grilled-to-nearly-blackened meat with peppers, onions, and herbs, and an extra-spicy order of Aaloo Cauli ($9.95): stir-fried potatoes with cauliflower and peas in a rich red sauce. Both were served steaming — which improves a spicy meal ten-fold for me — with white rice. It was a cold, rainy night and this meal was filling and satisfying and hot.

    Ours, however, was the only table in the place. And this is tragic.

    While Himalayan won’t win any David Shea design awards, it’s exactly what we need in this town to diversify our ethnic food offerings. It’s inexpensive and family-owned, serving the simple, traditional food of a region that gets short shrift. But it’s also in a location (2401 E. Franklin Avenue) that has some sort of curse over it: restaurant after restaurant has failed to make a go in that spot. Don’t let this one be another casualty on the list.

    Just go. Now. Shake off that Chipotle habit. Whatever you’re doing, stop, put on your shoes, pick up your wallet, and drive over to Seward with a mind to eat something more interesting and support a local businessman who wants nothing more than to make you a great meal.

    Or, you can call: 612-332-0880. Himalayan also does takeout.

  • Mean Business

    The Minnesota Twins mean business in their new commercial. Morneau, Cuddyer, and Mauer wear ultra-cool Twins fan gear. They begin strolling to the soundtrack of Led Zeppelin’s "Dazed and Confused." In slow motion, the camera catches each individual, like a shot out of Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs. On location, at the under-construction open stadium, it’s spring. Air gusts ripple Cuddyer’s ringer t-shirt with the "TC" logo. He tosses a ball into the air playfully; then he sticks that tobacco rock ball into his mouth, suggesting the Twins will be outdoors and reckless, without restraints.

    Morneau, the heavy hitter, walks with his bat resting on the back of his neck. His two hands grasp each bat end, as though bound to some ancient torture device, illustration the persecution of playing inside the big-topped circus atmosphere of the Dome. Mauer holds his bat like a cane, until he laughs. In one quick swoop, he kicks the barrel and catches the bat — no more crutches to endure for the Minnesota Twins. The franchise will be outdoors soon, and Hell will break loose.

    With a fierce glare and clenched teeth, Morneau orders Pete to lay something into him. No one knows anyone by the name of Pete, meaning Morneau screwed his line in the commercial. They air it anyway to convey his tough-guy, testicular fortitude is what the fans have been hankering for.

    Each player takes turns knocking home-runs.

    Morneuo’s blast lands upside First Avenue, proving the team will rock with legendary force in their new ballpark. Never, ever will the Twins be constrained by a demeaning domed novelty garbage pile. Cuddyer cranks one. The ball soars like a missile and decapitates Mary Tyler-Moore’s statue, showing the world the franchise will not put up with junk, nor be treated as a bunch of nobodies. The Twins will turn heads or heads will be rolling, or we will be heads and shoulders above the rest and so on. Using both hands, Mauer hurls a damn boulder into the air.

    It tumbles awkwardly. He grips his bat while the stone is in the air, and sends the rock out beyond to Mary Jo Copeland’s shelter for the homeless. As suspected, Mary Jo is outside Sharing and Caring Hands, and, in the middle of the day, hustling a crack deal to a fiend.

    Splat!

    The homeless addict is rubbed out of existence by the powerful blast, symbolizing the Twins mean business in their new commercial.

  • Porn Again

    (Pictured: The 1000HP Hennessy Viper. More on this one in a later post. Hennessy is the porn king of American cars and a real prick.)

    This will be an on-going follow-up post to my "Nature Porn" comments a few months back. In my my previous post, I covered the world’s most obscene SUV for the money–the Hennessy Grand Cherokee SRT-8.

    Like all Hennessy cars, this Cherokee offers a compelling alternative to somehting else, such as, for example, a walk through the woods. Others are a satisfactory subsitute for Viagra. Or so say the older people who can afford them, so they say, it is said, sadly.

    As a former canoe camper and devotee’ of Sigurd OIson (although he did hoard electric motors and land) however, I have always worried that I may be leaving the wrong impression.

    So here, for starters, is my first pick for the world’s most obscene* on-road-at-all-times rides:

    1) The new Mercedes AMG SL series. In their 12-cylidner variants they pump out a cool 738 ft. lbs. of torque (and that’s all that matters.)

    2) Yet even in this rarified territory everyone still knows that stock sucks. With this mind, I suggest you call the service manager at Sears and ask him for the cell number of the Renntech SL owner I met this morning. I am pretty sure he’ll trade his privacy for a chance at presitgious local press.

    What, like this blog isn’t?

    A pox on your Prius.

    (*note: what constitutes an "automotive obscenity" is hotly contested)

  • Rising Down

    Originally published on Realbuzz.com

    In 1999, The Roots came out
    with a double-disc live album, The Roots Come Alive, with songs
    culled from performances in Switzerland, New York, and various other
    locations. Rising Down, the group’s tenth album — second
    since Jay-Z brought them over to Def Jam Records — is in many ways
    more live than that release. Throughout, we are treated to a number
    of interludes, speeches, and instrumental shifts reminiscent of a Roots
    concert. A somewhat grungy tone pervades, as if the band went in, played
    their instruments, and the tracks made it to the album without too much
    tinkering (that’s what it sounds like, though I doubt it’s true…).
    The result is something somehow personal, as if we are witnessing the
    album, instead of just listening to it.

    The usual cast of cameos makes
    its appearances — Common, Dice Raw, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, among others.
    But really, as all Roots fans know, Black Thought emerges as the most
    impressive. The only other rapper I can think of that has a flow as
    natural and entertaining as Black Thought’s is Ghostface Killah. I’m
    not sure if it’s a function of their having been MCs for so long,
    or if they’ve always been able to rap this way, but it really seems
    as if they’re just talking, and what they’re saying happens to rhyme.
    Nowhere is Black Thought more impressive than on "75 Bars (Black’s
    Reconstruction)": "Show me a puppet without a puppeteer/I’m in
    the fields with a shield and a spear/I’m in your girl with her heels
    in the air." It’s a free-association track on African American
    identity that rivals Beck for Rorschach-like complexity.

    Because The Roots play their
    own instruments, instead of relying on samples and looped beats, their
    sound is often much fuller and more organic than most other rap music.
    It’s not without its jarring qualities – sometimes it’s strange
    to hear that rock-style electric guitar cutting through a rhythm. But
    the band members, led by visionary drummer ?uestlove, by now have developed
    such chemistry that at times it really seems they can do anything with
    their respective instruments. (Last time I saw them in concert, they
    reproduced Mims’ "This Is Why I’m Hot.")

    Though much of their ouvre
    is phenomenal, very little of it is actually marketable. Usually, though,
    The Roots will deign to reserve four minutes of each album for a radio-friendly
    song. On Phrenology we got "Break You Off"; The Tipping
    Point
    gave us "Star" and "Don’t Say Nuthin’"; and
    Game Theory
    brought the shoulda-been-huge "Don’t Feel Right."
    (And of course, "You Got Me" from Things Fall Apart sort
    of defined their careers- but that entire album is so classic I prefer
    not to single out any song as better than the others.) Likewise, on
    Rising Down
    , The Roots have given us "Rising Up."

    It begins with some soft female
    vocals:

    "Yesterday I saw a B-Girl
    crying, and I walked up and asked ‘what’s wrong?’

    She said the radio’s been
    playing the same song all day long.

    I told her I got something
    you been waiting for

    I got something you been waiting
    for!"

    Then Black Thought jumps in
    with his non-stop spit-fire lyrics, delivering exactly what the song
    promises – something different from anything else out there, but still
    incredibly exciting. Beneath the vocals, there’s an ocean of drums
    that sounds like the guys in Washington Square Park banging on upside-down
    paint cans — a sound that, for whatever reason, never fails to elicit
    adrenaline.

    By no means is Rising Down
    the easiest or prettiest album to listen to. The Roots demand some attention,
    and even some thought, from their fans. But they have a mission, namely
    to make music that they want to make, unadulterated by others’ interests,
    and the craftsmanship they put into their tunes is visceral, and worthy
    of our time.

  • May Day (This Ain't No S.O.S.)

    SPECIAL EVENT
    150 Years of Labor in Minnesota

    Happy May Day — and if you don’t know what that is, it’s International Worker’s Day. Celebrate the social and economic achievements of the labor movement at the Saint Paul Labor Center. Labor scholars and historians Hy Berman, Mary Wingerd, and Annette Atkins look at 150 years of labor in Minnesota. After the panel discussion, the Saint Paul Labor Chorus leads a sing-along of popular — and not-so-popular — labor tunes. "We’ll fight for shorter hours, for a Health and Safety Bill, / An end to conditions that injure and kill / A future for our kids and fair taxes as well, / And them that don’t like it, well they can go to hell!"

    7 p.m., Saint Paul Labor Centre, 411 Main St., St. Paul; 651-222-3242.

    SHOPPING
    Luna Vinca Anniversary Sale

    Of course, you could take a really twisted, consumer approach to International Worker’s Day and celebrate the things for which you work — the comfort, the decadence, the luxuries you can afford yourself. And you can even save money in the process. Luna Vinca is hosting a 10-year Anniversary Sale with a celebration soiree this evening. Enjoy treats and beverages as you shop for fresh flowers, home decor, jewelry, cards, and gifts — all at 25 percent off.

    5-7 p.m. (through Sunday), Luna Vinca, 3344 Hennepin Ave. S, Minneapolis; 612-823-6178.

    MUSIC
    Michael Christie Conducts Dvořák, Rameau, Ligeti

    The romance of Dvořák. The intellectual complexity of Rameau. The sound mass of Ligeti. The Trill of Tartini. Enjoy them all tonight, as celebrated Brooklyn Philharmonic Music Director Michael Christie leads the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra in what I can only describe as an extremely well-rounded and delightful program. SPCO principal second violin Dale Barltrop solos on Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata (probably Tartini’s most famous work, and certainly one of the most demanding violin solos). Also on the program are Rameau’s Suite from Zoroastre, Dvořák’s Serenade in D Minor for Winds (Opus 44), and Ligeti’s Concert Românesc.

    8 p.m., Temple Israel, 2324 Emerson Ave. S., Minneapolis (Friday at 10:30 a.m. and 8 p.m.,, Wooddale Church, Eden Prairie; Saturday at 8 p.m., Saint Paul’s United Church of Christ, Saint Paul); 651-291-1144; $10-$25.

  • Nurses, diesels and douchiness

    (Pictured. Douching device (not to size). May also be used for urea replacement in your diesel. Read below).

    Do me a favor. Take the snarky tone of my blog (is it? oh, is it? please!) and put it aside for a minute. I mean create an Obama and the Preacher (aka bigot) wall between my blog and what I am about to say.

    I might have been wrong about diesels.

    Someone acutally convinced me last night that the new 60mpg Jetta will never be for weasels. I now think I agree.

    In fact, I am not totally certain that stateside diesels will pollute the air any more than their non-diesel counterparts. I also realize you could compellingly prove that their emissions are as pure as Michelle Obama’s intentions. And I like the Mercedes Bluetec. I also like nurses, and talking to them in the hospital when I am not really sick.

    Yet I continue to be dogged by the MIT alumnis (my Dad and others) who say that you really cannot completely teach an old dog new tricks. Proof of this is Audi/VW’s DSG. It was touted as better than Ferrari’s paddle-shifting 18 months ago and now it is being panned as more clunky than cool.

    Even if they really have made a bijon freis hunt like a bloodhound why do you need to replace the urea in a new diesel every 10,000 miles?

    Urea. Right. Sounds like piss.

    Finally you can take ALL the empirical evidence in the world to show me that Diesels are 100% weasel-free and I would counter with this elegant observation:

    Can you see Maserati or Ferrari in the same sentence as "diesel"?

    If I must live and write in pedestrian fashion, as I frequently do, then I want a bike and a normally aspirated Benz.

    This is life, I am sure, as nature intends.