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  • Downtown Hopkins

    We’ve long heard about the charms of Hopkins’ Main Street from folks who once cruised it at night as partying teenagers, and who now enjoy patronizing its antique stores on weekends (just as their mothers do). We, too, appreciate goods from yesteryear, but let’s be honest, antique-shop districts can get a little precious—despite the presence, in Hopkins, of shops like World of Knives, A+ Vacuum, and our favorite, Steve’s Train City. Doubtless this has something to do with “antique” becoming adjective, noun, and verb.

    It was with this in mind that, on our most recent visit to Main Street, we wandered toward the strip’s west end, where the antique stores trail off, to see what we could see. Around Tenth Avenue, past the assertively “new urbanist” Marketplace Lofts, past Tinkerbella and Somewhere in Time, the balance tips—here’s a gun shop, there’s a tanning salon—and the street also gains a more open feel as it heads into what was once farmland.

    Along this stretch, in small-town fashion, no-nonsense enterprises like the MN Low Vision Blind Store, Carpet Resources, and Gopher Cash Register co-exist peacefully with a gift shop whose name—Live! Laugh! Love!—is perhaps overly whimsical but heartfelt, we’re sure. Near Twelfth Avenue, the awning of Munkabeans Café adds color to the street; across the way at Custom Wheelz of Hopkins (“where the players shop”), there’s a wall display of merchandise more dazzling than many a contemporary art installation.

    It’s at this corner, too, where one can take in a full spectrum of arts: the Hopkins Center for the Arts hosts productions by Stages Theatre, concerts, films, art exhibitions, and classes; the Hopkins Cinema 6 is a discount theater that features mainly quality second-run films.

    Out-towering Cinema 6’s neo-retro sign is the plain brick belfry of St. Joseph’s church, a block away. Built in 1953, this church is one of those modern yet still welcoming models. Next door, the former parish school, dating to 1922, recently became the Main Street School of Performing Arts (its students take advantage of the Center for the Arts).

    We were heartened to see all of these institutions, plus a funeral home, lined up together on Hopkins’ Main Street; too often they are flung far and wide throughout a suburb. Watching a woman stroll by St. Joseph’s with a wagonload of day-care kids, the strip felt like a place that incorporates the full cycle of life. This is not just a great shopping street, we realized, but one that puts the very idea of civil society into practice.
    —Julie Caniglia

  • Can the Public Library (and Democracy) Survive?

    On the third floor of the temporary library in downtown Minneapolis—a retrofitted office building that once housed the Federal Reserve Bank—a skinny man with a shock of white hair paced hurriedly up and down the aisles carrying a bouquet of roses wrapped in a wad of shredded newspaper. He looked disheveled, a little like Sam Shepard on a bad day or, maybe, Hume Cronyn on a good day. Though I hadn’t set foot inside the main library for years, I recognized the man immediately as one of the usual cast of unusual characters that inhabit the downtown branch.

    What the man was doing with the roses was a source of speculation, as was his reason for walking back and forth, over and over, past the same aisles of books. And then, finally, he darted right and disappeared. The man, it turned out, had been waiting for an open seat along the floor’s west wall, where large windows overlook Cancer Survivors Park, with its pathways and small grove of birch trees. Along the wall, apparently cherished among library regulars, there is a row of tables and chairs where mostly men sit and read newspapers or books about collecting baseball cards or negotiating real estate contracts. Everyone with their passions and projects and secret missions. Two mustachioed friends, maybe brothers, spoke Spanish over a vocabulary book. At another station, a would-be professor with white paint splattered on his jeans worked feverishly on a series of handwritten documents, a dense manifesto. Beside a stack of yellow legal pads, there were a packet of Kleenex, a driver’s license, and a Social Security card aligned perfectly with the edge of the table. A few places down, the man with the roses sat erect and gazed outside, flowers in hand. He watched as working men lowered windows from the roof of the new Cesar Pelli-designed main library across the park, just a block away. He leaned in slightly for a sniff.

    As I looked down the line, at the faces gazing out the window or nosing through books, it struck me that none of these people would have been sitting here, would never have enjoyed such a pleasant view, when the temporary library was still the Federal Reserve Bank. The opportunity to gaze down at birch trees, to watch myriad passersby, would have been reserved for managers and executives. Higher-ups. Bureaucrats. But at the library, things are more democratic.

    In fact, the library is the ultimate democratic institution. A person, with or without a library card, can hang around all day long, assuming her beverage has a lid on it, without buying anything or being subjected to a single ad. There are no greeters at the door to acknowledge and assess incoming patrons. On the contrary, library staffers understand that this is your place as much as it is theirs, and you may go about your business fully ignored, which ought to be every person’s right. Unless, of course, you need assistance in finding a book about kite-building, or the ownership tentacles of General Electric. Then, you will have at your disposal a dozen experts, better versed than Google in locating what you need from an enormous store of books, magazines, newspapers, DVDs, videos, CDs, pictures, government documents, pamphlets, websites, and even microfiche. If you don’t remember microfiche, it’s the silent film of information technology, crooked photographs of documents that existed before electronic databases and must be viewed through a special, old-timey machine. There is no keyword search in a microfiche document, no clicking down. Just a reel that sends the pages scrolling by at various speeds.

    Libraries are the face of government as it existed before we started hating government and, therefore, ourselves. It is munificent in the way public agencies simply aren’t anymore. A librarian isn’t going to arrest you. Nor is she or he going to tell you, thumb driving back like an umpire’s, two years and you’re off welfare! There is no punitive or moralistic aspect to the library, only trust and goodwill. The library says, Here, please take any of our millions of volumes for free. We trust you to make good use of them. We trust you to bring them back. All you need is an ID and maybe a phone bill and you’re in.

    These are places for people who want to know; libraries nationwide have seen a steady increase in patronage since at least 1990. They hold a special and sentimental place in the minds of the citizenry and are widely regarded as institutions where browsing and borrowing lead to meaningful knowledge. According to a 2003 study from the Marist Institute for Public Opinion, ninety-four percent of Americans rate their local public library as “very valuable” or “valuable.” The majority even said they’d pay more taxes to support libraries—an average of forty-nine dollars more per year. Currently, taxpayers spend around twenty-five dollars per person, the approximate cost of one new, hardcover book.

    Despite that kind of passionate support, libraries everywhere are falling on hard times. The American Library Association (co-founded back in 1876 by Melville Dewey, namesake of the venerable Dewey decimal system) reports budget cuts of up to fifty percent in at least forty-one states. That means reduced staff and operating hours, and fewer new books on the shelves. In John Steinbeck’s hometown of Salinas, California, the city’s three libraries will soon close their doors altogether. Minnesota, long a state that prioritized education and literacy, has hardly taken an enlightened view. Across the state, libraries are paring back essential services, thanks to reductions in state funds to cities and counties.

    In 2003, Governor Tim Pawlenty dramatically reduced local government aid in response to a projected state budget deficit. This, rather than violate a no-new-taxes promise he made during his gubernatorial campaign. Those cuts directly impacted libraries, in some cases brutally. When local governments are forced to cut services, libraries seem like an easy target; people get a lot more exercised about police and firefighters and schools. It’s a pattern in nearly all fifty states, and throughout Minnesota. St. Paul, to secure future funding, created a library board and a dedicated city property tax. Ramsey County closed its North St. Paul branch and, in 2003, saw a forty percent reduction in its book budget. Hennepin County, until recently, kept six of its libraries closed on Fridays.

    Minneapolis was hit especially hard. Because the city’s library board operates independently of the City Council, its budget is less flexible than, say, that of the Public Works Department. Up until the cuts, more than forty percent of the library system’s $20 million budget came from local government aid. Now, some branches are open only three days a week. Money for new books was reduced dramatically: from $2.6 million in 2000 to $1.9 million in 2004. Minneapolis must now rely more heavily on less predictable private funding sources, along with the determined efforts of Friends of the Library organizations.

    “I think libraries are very invisible,” said Minneapolis Library Director Kit Hadley. “I think they have been taken for granted. There have been people who support libraries, but it’s nobody’s big cause.” Yet, she continued, sounding more ardent than your stereotypical librarian, “Libraries are fundamental institutions in a democracy. We talk about the value and importance of libraries in promoting the information necessary to active self-governance, the notion that this kind of availability and discourse is necessary for democracy to be alive. And all of us on the staff feel very strongly about that.”

    It’s easy to be discouraged by the notion that nobody seems to read anymore. There is a distinctly anti-intellectual atmosphere circulating in a country that has a tradition of skepticism toward high-minded ideas. These days, more than ever, being American means making decisions with our guts, not our heads. It has culminated in a president who brags about not reading newspapers and is referred to in international circles as the “Texas twit.” In 2004, the National Endowment for the Arts produced a study that showed a dramatic decline in the reading of literature, with fewer than half of American adults bothering to pick up a novel. NEA Chairman Dana Gioia, sounding a little like Kit Hadley, said, “This report documents a national crisis. Reading develops a capacity for focused attention and imaginative growth that enriches both private and public life. As more Americans lose this capability, our nation becomes less informed, active, and independent minded.”

    No doubt there is a relationship between the decline in reading and the increase in societal fear and jingoism. As a person learns more about the rest of the world, enlightenment and tolerance tend to follow. Higher levels of education mitigate prejudice and increase the support for civil liberties. “These are not qualities that a free, innovative, or productive society can afford to lose,” said Gioia.

  • The Tar Is Boiling, the Feathers Are Dry

    Lots of interesting developments today in the world of Mass Media. Yesterday, we were gratified to see Minnesota Senator Mark Dayton take the stage, front and center, in the New York Times. He launched a blistering (and, no doubt, somewhat fumbling—in a charming way, of course) verbal assault on Condie Rice that should have brought a smile to James Woolcott’s face. Among other things, he sounded like a very irritated dad when he scolded, “I really don’t like being lied to repeatedly, flagrantly, intentionally.” Go, dad, go!

    Of course, Dayton really is a dad (we’ve met one son, and we found him charming). More important, his seat is up in the next general election. The best defense is a good offense, and it’s about time a Democrat from Minnesota lived up to family expectations. The last time we felt this way was when Dayton took on Rummy. He was fighting way out of his weight, of course, but he took some wild swings that landed nicely.

    At least Dayton is getting his message out the old fashioned, honest way—by getting legitimate news coverage, rather than by paying a journalist or columnist to covertly do it for him. Yesterday, Armstrong Williams—the besieged columnist who took $240K to publically support No Child Left Behind policies—called efforts to bring him and his benefactors to task “a witch hunt.” Today, columnist Maggie Gallagher doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about that she accepted $20K to shill for a Bush-sponsored marriage initiative.

    What is wrong with these people? Why don’t they offer us a quarter of a million dollars for our thoughtful, considered opinions?

    Aside from the resounding silence of the right-leaning blog-ons with regard to this tetchy subject, we are highly entertained by these “journalists” efforts to dismiss the matter as no big deal. Indeed, it really is no big deal to many Americans—possibly most Americans. Just like torture is no big whoop. If you’re not guilty, then what are trying to hide? In both substance and style, that is the MO of the neo-con monopoly. Live for today!

    But what these people seem to be genetically incapable of understanding is one of the pillars of this great country of ours: minority rights and representation. When a majority, cultivated honestly or through the almighty dollar, begins first to pooh-pooh dissenters, and then to slowly phase them out—well, that’s called a tyranny of the majority. And that’s when the backlash begins, and the bastards get run out of town.

  • Two good ideas for democrats

    The New York Times has had two good stories in the last two days illustrating what the Democrats need to do to get back into the good graces of the American voter.

    Yesterday a story about Hillary Clinton’s appearance Monday in front of abortion rights activists in New York told of Hillary’s conciliatory tone toward pro-life partisans. Clinton said, “There is an opportunity for people of good faith to find common ground in this debate.”

    What was extraordinary about the reactions to this statement was not the expected Republican outcry that she was trying to have it both ways, but the reaction from the pro-choice types, who greeted her overtures to the pro-lifers with silence, and later, thinly veiled admonitions that Hillary better remember where she stands.

    In today’s op-ed piece, Paul Starr points out an original notion of what when wrong with the Democrats–that, like in Roe v. Wade and the lawsuits to legalize gay marriage in Massachusetts, they have relied too often on the courts to further their agendas by ruling their desired results legal on constitutional grounds, rather than building a consensus of support that would solidify their positions with electoral majorities.

    As Starr and many other have pointed out, the judicially-oriented activism on gay marriage resulted in handing the Republicans a huge issue, and in 11 states (including decisive Ohio) the passage of anti-gay marriage referendums.

    And, even more damaging to their cause, the Democrats made sure that George W. Bush will be appointing the next generation of federal judges who will be doing the ruling for a long time to come. Oops.

    But try to make these conciliatory points sometime, like Hillary did, and the ideolologically pure Democrats are goint to have a hissy fit.

    But now the Republicans are even more beholden to an ideological radical wing than the Democrats. The party that can find its way to the middle ground of reason, compromise and consensus building is the one that’s going to prevail in the long run.

    And one place they should start is this war that Bush, Rice, et al. lied us into, and for which Gonzales wrote the playbook for torture. Kudos to Mark Dayton and the other Democrats who are opposing the nominations of Rice and Gonzales. That’s an issue the Democrats need to make their own–that war mongering and torture are inconsistent with the real American “moral values” that Bush ran on. Too bad so many Dems are so unwilling to oppose an African or Hispanic-American nominee that they won’t do the right thing and vote against these disgraceful shills for war.

  • Suspended Disbelief

    You’ll recall that one of our guilty pleasures—among several, true—is the Fox program “24,” and this fourth season is certainly setting the bar high on a number of levels. First, it is interesting to watch the show’s writers struggle with the whole anachonistic idea of a cliffhanger. A show that dedicates an hour in real time to an hour in the storyline is bound to run into long stretches of sub-plot, while at the same time trying to sustain the main thrust of the show—in this case, a complicated massive terrorist attack on American soil. This is a formidable conundrum. You’ve gotta give your audience some payback along the way, and to do this, there must be some very bumpy conflict-and-resolution cycles… but always with some sort of provocation to bring them back next week.

    Last night may have been the most bold and disturbing episode in the entire series, for a lot of interesting reasons. A quick recap: The US Secretary of Defense has been kidnapped with his daughter. Islamic fundamentalists are holding him in a bunker outside of LA, and they are planning a trial and an execution to be broadcast on the Web. It looks hopeless, so the President—having located the bunker—plans a missile strike to destroy terrorists, abductees, bunker, the whole lot before the execution can take place. Our man, agent Jack Bauer, is on the scene, and he singlehandledly breaks the perimeter and rescues Secretary and daughter.

    The rescue is dramatic, and ends with the arrival of the US Marine Corps in helicopters. They rappel into the scene and, with cool precision, rip the place apart.

    Now, we are well aware of how filmmakers manipulate us emotionally. We were not very surprised to feel a charge of excitement, a sense of justice, a rush of pride in American military might… this is standard operating procedure for a good action film. We have been set up to be sympathetic to the protagonist of the show (the USA, if you’re keeping track), and merciless to the antagonist. We are put in a position of cheering for death and violence.

    What is most interesting about this new season of “24” is that it has removed the last veils of mitigating fiction, and taken the present world-situation head-on. Whereas in previous seasons, terrorist organizations were either a non-specific amalgam of multinational bad guys from some non-existent Baltic state, this seasons bad guys are islamic fundamentalists bent on their well-known goals and methods.

    After last night’s blow-up, it is getting very difficult not to see this program as pro-war propagandizing. It is a terrible emotional mine-field to have to negotiate: If you didn’t feel a surge of pride after seeing all those terrorists cut down, you should worry that you can no longer be reached emotionally by the art-and-flash of mass media. (It’s OK to get excited, and then collect yourself and realize that you have been duped. Willing suspension of disbelief—engage!) Perhaps this point was driven home by the news of the Secretary’s successful rescue, televised within the program on (where else) Fox News. Or perhaps it was effected by the post-show dedication of the episode—”This epsiode is dedicated to Lt.Col. Dave Greene of the Marine Light Attack Helicopter Squadron 775. His sacrifice, and the sacrifice of all our men and women of the military, will not be forgotten.”

    Indeed. Righteous, merciless justice is so much easier in fiction than in real life. Can Americans tell the difference anymore?

  • Freedom to be free with the facts

    I get a semi-regular newsletter from a guy named Jim Crotty, one of the founders of the ultra hip Monk magazine. The one waiting in my inbox today was titled “Bush Throws Dems a Bone: Will they Fetch.”

    Crotty argues that the inagural speech “freedom fest” will set the bar pretty high for the Republicans. Bush, Crotty argues, has now committed his administration to a policy that more closely reflects the late pronouncements of Democratic softies like Jimmy Carter, i.e. that the United States should promote democracy and human rights in the world.
    When you realize that among our biggest friends these days (at least the biggest friends of the Bush cabal) are such vigorous defenders of Jeffersonian ideals as Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and China, you begin to wonder what the hell Bush is really talking about…other that again masterfully co-opting traditional Democratic issues.

    Crotty sees Bush’s pronouncements as a perfect opportunity for Democrats to call him to task–to actually hold him responsible for what he says vs. what he does. But, if we’ve learned anything in the past 4 years is that the Dems can’t hold anybody responsible for anything. What if, for example, they said something like this: “Bush said we started the war in Iraq because Iraq had WMD. Then he said Iraq sponsored terrorism. Then he said Saddam was a terrible dictator that had to go. Then he said Iraq will be an example to other Middle Eastern dictatorships of what freedom can be. Which is it?” Don’t hold your breath.

    Why is it that Bush can change his message at will and get away with it, yet the Dems can’t even get one message across with any consistency?

    Will the Dems hold Bush to his promise for the next four years? All I’d be willing to bet on is that the story will change a lot between now and then, but it will still being the Bushies doing the talking and the Dems wondering what the hell happened to their issue…again.

  • Radio Radio

    We happened to be present this morning at both a death and a birth. About an hour ago, Minnesota Public Radio pulled the plug on WCAL… And like trying to change alarm clocks without having to reset, they quickly plugged in KCMP, the much ballyhooed new “eclectic music” station they are calling “The Current.” Most people don’t pay that much attention to this sort of thing, but there is a decorum to be observed, and people in the industry attach great importance to the moment of switch-over. Normally, after a hostile commercial take-over, a station will switch formats without calling any attention to itself.

    We remember eight years ago when an audibly surprised and upset Shawn Stewart said goodbye with virtually no warning the day Cargill sold REV-105. We don’t remember what song was played at the top of the last hour, but it was some godawful hair-metal song played on a continuous loop for at least 24 hours, while presumably REV-105 staffers were escorted from the building.

    There were other reasons to remember that infamous day—it was the same day that the Village Voice announced it had bought City Pages and the Twin Cities Reader, and would be liquidating the latter. For those of us in the media biz, it sure felt like the day the national corporate monopolies moved into the Twin Cities and started crashing around our quaint little china shop. But of course, death often leads to birth—both processes being almost too painful to endure.

    Old fans of REV-105 will surely expect “The Current” to reprise what they remember, in the sepia-toned twilight of their memories, about that celebrated radio station. And in the intervening years, we find we’ve become jaded about radio. An interesting inversion has occured in the last fifteen years. Commercial radio has so successfully been colonized by the bean-counters, focus-groupers, and poll-takers, that we expect any radio station that wants to compete will have its programming dictated by its format. That is, if your market needs a classic rock station, according to market research, then you will have certain, very limited choices about what kinds of music you can play. Your DJs, it is understood, aren’t a lot more invested in the business than your custodians–their jobs being limited to moving stuff and pushing buttons. Think?! You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to DO!

    When news escaped that MPR was planning some sort of popular-variety music station, we were skeptical. Then, when they began to announce the pending switch-over to “eclectic radio,” we thought they were having trouble deciding what the station would be. In the mouths of radio professionals, “eclectic” is a word with much the same effect as a barber saying “Oops.” Surely MPR was not having trouble figuring this new animal out?

    And then we realized what we most loved about REV-105. That station could get away with programming virtually anything, from Luna to KISS, Jimmie Rodgers to Joy Division. The reason they could do it successfully was because of the station’s ineffable personality. It reflected a group identity that synched and felt natural. The station owners left the programming in the hands of a bunch of passionate kids with great taste in music, and the results now live in immortal legend. (The Big Boss just stepped in to add, soto voce: “Yeah, but what was REV-105’s listenership? Microscopic!”) We like to think the same thing happens here at The Rake. There are no sui generis Rake stories, nothing really off limits. The only thing that dictates what we publish is whether it piques our collective, er, eclectic interests.

    So far, we have to say the new station’s first-day playlist looks completely insane on paper. Opening song by Atmosphere. Last set: Luna, Son Volt, Hank Williams, Matt Pond. But then we had the funny realiziation that it compares favorably to our own iTunes library, set to shuffle.

    Yeah, but can an idiosyncratic mix of unimpeachably cool music succeed as a real radio station with a real audience? We hope for their sake and ours that it can–but idiosyncracy plus mass media normally equals that saddest of all propositions: a critically-acclaimed money loser. It’s neat to think we’re not the only crazy people swimming against the currents of modern commercial media.

  • The Next Big Killer?

    Forgive me if I’ve been thinking about this a bit, but the reason I haven’t been blogging for the past 9 days is that I’ve been flattened by a flu-like malady. Believe me, next year, I’m getting the shot. I don’t care how many old ladies I have to trample.

    But it doesn’t seem so bad after reading up a bit on what could be in store for us. Now Forbes, the business magazine that bills itself as the Capitalist Tool, doesn’t seem to be high on the list of fear-mongering yellow journals. But this article is pretty damn scary.

    According to Michael Osterholm, the University of Minnesota epidemiologist, the avian flu now running around Asia could mutate into a virus that can be transmitted human to human, instead of only bird to human, as it seems to be now. If that happens, millions will die before any vaccine could be developed or distributed. Here’s more on that.

    So, what can we do in the meantime…other than pray? Well, we could mobilize on research and vaccine creation. But, as Vice President Cheney so aptly pointed out when the regular flu vaccine shortage came to light, “There’s no money in that.”

    If you’re wondering what this potential flu pandemic will be worth, though, the insurance companies have done some figuring for you. Here is that info, in case you want to start short selling your insurance stocks.

  • Freelancers' Blues

    We’re not sure how other editors operate, so much. From anecdotal evidence, it seems that most editors are less curious than they are controlling. They will pass up a great story idea because the writer is not quite right. An editor put in the position of explaining why he is not interested in a piece will frequently say, “This is not quite right for us.” Pressed on the issue, he will say, “Well, there is a certain ineffable quality to our magazine, and this doesn’t have that.”

    This is a dodge, of course. A wise editor separates subject from writer. Is the subject of interest to my readers? (Corollary—the reader doesn’t much care who the writer is, as long as it’s a good and interesting story. Sure, we all have our favorite writers, but it’s not like we won’t read a good piece if we don’t recognize the byline.) Secondarily, editors have to be honest about whether they like the style and skill of the writer. This is where editors turn into despicable and evasive people who will not be honest with the writer, and will probably go to hell when they die. (Hell, by the way, will be an Ikea on an eternal Saturday morning.)

    Writing is, on a microscopic level, a mathematical thing—it is either correct or it is not. But taken as a whole, a piece of writing is a highly subjective thing, open to worlds of interpretation and impression. There are world-class writers that we respect and admire, but whom we simply cannot read because of a weird style-aversion. At our own modest little bush-league level, we’re sure we have the same effect on other people (indeed, we have a bloated rejection file to prove it), and so we like to believe that there is always more to learn, more to do, to become better at the craft of writing (and editing).

    So anyway, a good editor with intentions of going to heaven at the end of his career, will tell a writer precisely why a suggested or submitted piece “is not quite right for us.” This, of course, takes a little bit of time and effort, but that is the job of the editor. Often, editors revert to an automatic position of “thanks but no thanks” for the simple reason that they have far too many great stories and far too few pages. They should say that. Or they may have run a similar story recently, or seen it in one of their competitor’s publications. They should say that. Or perhaps the editors have a strong sense that the story will not be of interest to their readers. They should say that. We don’t have a lot of patience for editors who cannot be more specific about their rejections. It is the job of the editor to instill that “ineffable quality” she seeks in everything she publishes—and believe us, she does this, quite often with an iron fist and none of the niceties. (The way they talk in their rejections makes you think that they expect to receive copy that is ready to publish without any tampering at all, and this is a cutting lie.) So an editor is ultimately trying to be nice when she says “not quite right for us.” A writer frequently wants to know: Is it me? Or is it the subject? This may seem needy on the writer’s part, but if the writer is a serious professional, it is useful to know. If it is the writer’s style or voice or lack of experience, then he can devote his valuable time to other magazines that might be a better fit. A writer does not like to hear the excuse from the editor that “I have 600 emails from other writers, it’s nothing personal.” Writing IS personal, if you take it seriously. Each writer must find a way to deal with rejection (there is a lot more of that than the other), but when we happen to go freelancing, we prefer no reply at all to a disingenuous one.

    (We have to say right now that we are far from blameless in any of this. We hope we are judged by our good intentions and our general professional sunniness. We honestly try, at all times, to use our powers for good. Two areas where we need improvement: Snappier replies and yet more sympathy for the bitter freelancer. If you get a form-letter rejection from The Rake, it is likely that you have done something to make us angry. Otherwise, we are late in replying because we are carefully composing a thoughtful response to your idea or submission, or it somehow slipped through the cracks. We don’t mind gentle reminders—but be warned that this is not normal.)

    It is certainly true that everyone today fancies himself or herself a writer, and if you work at a publication with any broad appeal at all, you will be inundated with hundreds of queries, pitches, and stories. We—and here, I am referring to me—have been singled out for public shaming here at the office because our email inbox accounts for almost a quarter of all available server memory. By far the vast majority of these unsolicited submissions are personal essays, stories, and anecdotes—precisely the kind of thing that doesn’t get published so much anymore by anyone. We tell people that, just about as diplomatically, honestly, and quickly as we can.

  • Dead Schmed

    Pete Hautman did it! In November, our favorite local mystery writer won the 2004 National Book Award. One of the nation’s highest literary honors, it was awarded for Godless, Hautman’s twelfth novel. (It is his fifth Young Adult title.) He tells us that he is now paid $2,000 a word. We think he is joking. We pray he is joking. With writer and poet Mary Logue, Hautman lives in Golden Valley in the winter, and near Lake Pepin in the summer. Pete has three brothers, all of whom are legendary wildlife painters immortalized (sort of) in the movie Fargo. He went to the same St. Louis Park elementary school as Al Franken and Joel and Ethan Coen. Coincidence?

    We are thrilled to present this wintry ghost tale from one of Minnesota’s literary treasures.—The Editors

    ***

    I smelled something burning. My imagination? It smelled like a cheap cigar. I tried to ignore it, to wipe it out by concentrating ever more fiercely on my computer screen.

    Struggling to meet the deadline for Brooked for Murder, the fourth novel in my fly-fishing-detective series, I had arrived at the point in the book where the plot had become so unlikely that it took a drink—several drinks—for me to proceed. So I was sitting in front of my computer drinking Scotch. I was drunk. But I was not smoking. The odor of burning tobacco persisted. I blinked. A faint haze seemed to have settled between my eyes and the screen. Something was definitely burning. I turned in my chair, not sure what to expect, and found my grandfather Smed perched on an invisible chair a few feet behind me.

    “Pete!” My name exploded from his lips in a yellow-tinged cloud.

    I sat with my chin hanging down over my Adam’s apple as the blur of combusted tobacco hit my sinuses, closing my nasal passages as effectively as a pair of vise grips.

    During his lifetime Smed had smoked a type of short, black, powerful cheroot that he’d had to order by mail because no reputable tobacco merchant would stock them for him. He would chew the mouth-end into a flat, black, tarry mess, occasionally trimming it back with a child’s blunt-ended scissors to allow smoke to pass through. Apparently, death had not inspired him to change brands.


    I willed the hallucination to disappear. Smed puffed away contentedly, his blind eye drifting.

    “What are you doing here?” I managed to ask.

    “Came to tell you a couple things, Pete. Things you should know.”

    My throat made a noise, the squeak of wet air being forced through a sphincter.

    Smed elevated his snow white eyebrows; one eye followed his brow up, the other remained fixed on me.

    “You think maybe I shoulda called first? I used to live here, y’know. Died here, too.”

    It was true. I had inherited my grandparents’ home, and was now living in it.

    “I got to tell you, Pete, Dink hates what you did with the living room. You didn’t like her wallpaper?”

    Dink was my grandmother’s name. She had been a small woman.

    “It was falling off the wall,” I said. I didn’t mention that it was butt-ugly as well—beige flowers on dirty pink, lighter where the pictures had hung.
    “Makes no difference to me. Just thought I’d pass it on. Women, can’t live with ’em when they’re alive, can’t live with ’em after, either. I’ve been twenty-five years dead and she still worries about my damn liver.” He puffed energetically for a few seconds, obscuring his features in a smoky haze. “Listen, Pete, some people think it won’t matter what you did with your life. That’s what I thought. I was wrong. Came to tell you that, Pete.”

    “This isn’t about wallpaper?”

    “It’s about your books,” he said. “Know how many books you’re going to write?”

    I shook my head.

    “Well, it’s not my place to tell you. But let me give you something to bite down on. You ready for this, Pete?”

    I wasn’t, but my head moved slowly up and down.

    “The day you die, not one of your books will be in print.”

    I swallowed, not sure I’d heard him correctly. Not sure I’d heard him at all. Not even sure he was even there.

    He held me impaled with his good eye while the other made a random exploration of the space above my head. You would think that, having shuffled off his mortal coil and all, Smed would manifest himself with two good eyes, but apparently it doesn’t work that way. Another logic might suggest that he would look exactly as he did when he passed on, but this did not hold to be true, either. When Smed had died he’d been a scrawny, wasted creature with several days’ growth of beard and a grotesquely swollen belly. Smed’s ghost, however, was cut from Smed’s image circa 1965 when he had been decidedly old, but not yet sick.

    I waited for him to give me the “but.” I mean, you just don’t drop a bomb like that on somebody without some reassuring follow-up. Something like, “But they’ll all be available on CD-ROM.” Or perhaps the suggestion that after my death my work would be revived as had that of Jim Thompson or Vincent Van Gogh—that, at least, would have taken the sting out of it. The ghost, however, was not delivering. He drew his scissors from the front pocket of his white short-sleeved shirt, clipped off the masticated butt of his cigar, let it drop to my office floor. I followed it with my eyes.

    When I looked up, he was gone. All that remained was the gummy black cigar butt, the news that my dead grandmother hated my new wallpaper, the pronouncement that I would die an unknown hack, and a roomful of ectoplasmic cigar smoke.

    ***