Blog

Minneapolis’s Lake Harriet is known for many things—its bandshell and summer concerts, multitudes of strollers, kamikaze inline skaters talking on cell phones, and cyclists shamelessly riding the latest goofy recumbent bike. As an urban lake collecting runoff from treated lawns and storm sewers, it’s not the first place I’d go for drinking water. On any given day, though, there’s a steady stream of pilgrims lining up to fill bottles and jugs at a green pump on the northwest side of the lake, just below the trolley tracks.

Many appear to be in or close to their golden years, so you’d be forgiven for wondering if this is some kind of fountain of youth about sixteen hundred miles north of where Ponce de León was last seen. According to devotees, the water tastes great and is chock-a-block with iron. It is drawn from a deep well separate from the lake’s water supply. Bob, who drives up in a silver Mustang, says he has been getting water at the pump for more than thirty years. “It just tastes good, you know?” At least it’s better than the tap water at his home in St. Louis Park. “If you let it sit long enough, the sediments settle at the bottom of the bottle!” he says with enthusiasm. This doesn’t strike me as a particularly persuasive endorsement.

Pho, a Vietnamese transplant in his sixties wearing a Bahamas sweatshirt, reckons he has been visiting the pump weekly for at least seven years. “It has a very natural taste and it’s very good for coffee,” he says.

For Jane, a dignified, blue-eyed bifocaler from Edina, the well is more than a source of water. “It’s a very interesting place to come because of the people,” she says. “It’s almost symbolic—how deep it is and how people come together around it.”

As the sun is going down, Paul pulls up on a well-worn road bike with a big empty jug tethered to it. He is forty-seven years old, a stay-at-home dad who describes himself as a “refugee from the world of advertising.” He has sideburns that would look good on Crosby, Stills, Nash, or Young. Paul says the water from the pump reminds him of childhood camping trips in Canada where he could dip his hands in the lake and just take a drink. “I keep coming back to this water. Somehow my body knows the difference when I’m drinking other water,” he says. He relates some pump lore to me: Supposedly, it takes so long for water to drain into the deep aquifer that the water presently flowing from the pump may never have been exposed to manmade pollution. That strikes me as unlikely, but we end up discussing a variety of political outrages until it’s dark.

According to Jim Fagrelius, director of operations for the Park and Recreation Board, the pump was installed in 1910 and it pierces 262 feet down to a level of sedimentary rock called the Shakopee Formation. His agency maintains the pump year-round, clearing snow away and chipping ice off in winter. The Minneapolis Department of Health checks the well’s bacteria levels every two to four weeks, and—this may come as a shock to some of the pump’s regulars—the Park Board occasionally treats the water with chlorine when those levels pass a certain threshold.

After all the hype I’ve exposed myself to, the water is a little disappointing on the palate. Although it lacks the chemical or floral overtones of city water in midsummer, it has a distinctive metallic tang that makes my lips pucker and my tastebuds shrink. Still, it is pleasantly cold, and it may be worth getting used to—if not for its rejuvenating properties, then for its social possibilities.
—Dan Gilchrist

There’s a saying that goes something like this: I against my brother, and I and my brother against the world. That’s also a fair, if laconic, synopsis of Suzan-Lori Parks’ Pulitzer-winning play, the first ever won by an African-American woman. Topdog takes on issues of race, masculinity, sibling rivalry, and devastated family structures in furious and acidly witty dialogue that flows out in its own peculiar rhythm, like a jazz riff. In fact, Parks takes care to turn not merely the dialogue, but the entire story structure off-kilter. The two brothers of the story, ominously named Lincoln and Booth, are both down on their luck and desperate to advance their lives. That they have no one but each other might be more harmful than healthy. Older brother Lincoln has already walked away from his former life as a street-hustling card swindler. Instead, he’s taken a humiliating job in a sideshow impersonating his namesake president, complete with stovepipe hate and white makeup, so that carnivalgoers can pretend to assassinate him. But Booth is no good at anything but shoplifting, and desperately wants Lincoln to teach him how to deal three-card monte. Things get weirder from there. Mixed Blood’s production is a collaboration with Washington, D.C.’s Studio Theater, starring actors Thomas Jones and Jahi Kearse, who bring their Capitol version of the Broadway play to Minnesota.
Mixed Blood, 1501 S. 4th St.,
(612) 338-6131, www.mixedblood.com

They are ageless, the last surviving of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World, three vast and tapering monuments of stone standing in the desert. For thousands of years they were the tallest buildings on Earth, and yet their function was at best symbolic: tombs designed to hold the lifeless kings of Egypt until they were finished being dead. A myth like that doesn’t come along every day. So it’s no wonder that the Pyramids been a favorite subject for photographers since the invention of the medium. The Weinstein’s exhibit gathers the Egyptological exposures of nearly three dozen artists, ranging from stark shots of the structures looming in the sand, to more playful takes on their ancient, immovable iconography. Our favorite is Alec Soth’s portrait of an old stogie-chewing man framed underneath the angled roof of his two-car garage, like an American pharaoh. Unless it’s Lee Friedlander’s shot of a pack of dogs lazing around on the sand,while behind them the Sphinx peeks over the horizon, as if checking out the animals next door.

Weinstein Gallery, 908 W. 46th St., (612) 822-1722.

Red Rock Road is a thorn in the side of the St. Paul police. “You actually have to go into Newport to get to this part of town,” Officer Tim LeGarde tells me, as we career through the Highway 61 off-ramp at about fifty. We stay in the turn lane on I-494 for the exit to Maxwell Road, which leads to Red Rock.

The street is situated on a long strip of land running parallel to the railroad tracks south of downtown St. Paul. It is the address of truck depots, metal scrap yards, and warehouses. Most nights, it’s also the domain of illicit drag racers. Red Rock is a private street, but the businesses along it have declined to put up a gate with a guard. Closing it each night isn’t an option, because of the number of trucks that come and go at all hours. So when someone calls and complains about the drag racers, the best the cops can do is hand out tickets and shoo the crowds across the city line. There they’ll wait for the squad to leave, at which point they’ll go right back to what they were doing. A sharp scofflaw knows another patrol is at least twenty minutes away.
Just driving down here takes a cop out of circulation in the rest of the district for most of an hour. If anyone is actually busted, it can be much longer. When we pull up, we see a battered white Crown Victoria, almost a twin to the car we’re in, and an even more damaged Dodge Spirit. The driver of the Crown Vic hands over his license. It says he’s sixteen. He looks younger. His eyes are red—from crying, probably. Officer Tim takes the license, then goes to talk to the stocky boy standing next to the Dodge. Its grill and hood have imploded, and he’s looking at the car in disbelief. The red-eyed boy is back in his car, digging for his insurance card. I see wavy skid marks going about a hundred feet south, and chunks of pavement and dirt erupt next to a fire hydrant, ten feet from the Dodge. Tim takes license and insurance from chubby and walks over to the crier. “Have you been drinking?” “I had three shots of eighty proof.” Tim isn’t happy to hear this. He expresses his displeasure as he drags the boy back to the squad. Tim asks him to take a Breathalyzer. He refuses, and is then frisked and cuffed and deposited in the back seat. “Might as well sit; we’ll be here for a while,” he says, taking blank forms out of a box in the trunk. We get into the squad and he calls for a tow, then starts on the first form. The kid tries to suck up, saying he could have left, he was doing the right thing by staying, but it’s all lost on the cop. The kid admitted to driving under the influence, refused the test, and now Tim has much paperwork to do.

About ten minutes later, the kid’s father shows up. Dad doesn’t help things much. He’s noisy and pushy, asking why Dodge isn’t getting a ticket. He tries to sneak past us, apparently to get to the cars. This annoys Tim to the point that he threatens Dad with arrest for interfering with a crime scene. He calls for some backup to watch Dad while he does the paperwork. A K-9 unit arrives, but Dad’s simmered down, and the dog stays in the car. Tim explains that the kid refused the test, that he’ll be taken downtown and photographed. After the paperwork is all done, he can probably be released to Dad’s custody rather than landing in juvenile detention for the weekend. But that’s an option, if the behavior of father or son deteriorates. The car will be impounded, and he can get it in the next day or so.

As we pass the city line near the freeway, cars start streaming back in. They know we won’t be back tonight, not with someone in the back seat.

In downtown St. Paul, we pull around to the back of the station and park in a small garage. Tim walks the kid up a flight of stairs to the juvenile holding cells on the right, and then we go into the report room. Four hours later, we’re back in Officer Tim’s squad. His shift is half over, and he’s made one arrest. —Matthew Green

Masha Frank is late for work. Hugging a mug of black tea between her knees, she throws her car into drive and starts buckling her seatbelt. She is listening to Carte Blanche Volume 1 and it’s getting boring fast. As she merges onto I-35W, she momentarily compromises her view of the road to stretch her fingertips in the direction of a new CD, stashed in the door pocket on the passenger side of her Hyundai. Driving is tedious, Frank says. She craves something to occupy her racing mind. So music and speed are her distractions. She turns up the volume as she darts through traffic on the busy freeway. It is, she says, like choreography.

“Lots of times I imagine being in a race, like I weave in and out of cars. I don’t always use my signal,” she says. “I always wear a seatbelt, but I don’t even put it on right away before I start. I do that as I’m pulling out of the block, with one hand, and one hand holding my mug, and my knee…driving. It’s pretty crazy.”

The only possible explanation for Frank’s unashamed confession is that someone or something else is to blame. Caffeine? Techno? It is adult Attention Deficit Disorder, a condition that affects her and thousands of other adults. As a recent TV campaign makes clear, ADD and its cousin, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), used to be considered kids’ diseases. Only recently have psychologists found that ADD is a highly genetic disorder—more inheritable than, say, height—that persists into adulthood. Those same kids who wiggled in their seats and threw spitballs while your math teacher lectured on obtuse triangles? They’re all grown up now, and they’ve gotten behind the wheel. ADD adults are characterized as being impulsive, easily distracted, and unable to stay focused. This doesn’t bode well for their insurance premiums.

Researchers at the Medical University of South Carolina are using a high-tech driving simulator to study ADD drivers. Their research proves what is probably obvious to the rest of us: These drivers are at a greater risk for automobile accidents, speeding tickets, and even road rage than their calmer, less impulsive counterparts.

“If there’s an obstacle in the distance, a non-ADD adult will slow down, check what it is, and make a decision whether they need to pull over to the side of road, stop completely, or keep going,” says Dr. Deborah Anderson. She is a licensed psychologist using the driving simulator to research the effect of ADD on driving. Conversely, she says, drivers with ADD tend to speed up and go around the obstacle before they even know what it is.

Many adults may secretly envy those with attention disorders. It’s an open secret that functional ADD folks can be astonishingly productive. In other words, hyperactivity can sometimes lead to over-achievement. One Minneapolis woman I know spent a recent Sunday running thirteen miles, working a part-time job, keeping two business appointments, going grocery shopping, completing a school assignment, calling her mother, and finishing the day with a beer. She described it as a “restful day.”

Still, this kind of nervous energy has its downside, especially when you try to contain it in an automobile. Back on the roads, Frank recently backed into a parked car and got speeding tickets on two consecutive days. Professor Anderson says Masha and others with ADD are not willfully negligent while driving. Rather, their brains do not have the capability “to naturally consider the consequences of various actions, and choose the one with the most favorable outcome.” Meanwhile, Frank safely makes it to work, even if she occasionally steers with her left knee.—Christy DeSmith

Jasper Johns has long been considered one of the most influential artists in Pop Art. His flag and number paintings, in which he repetitively worked the canvas using layers of encaustic wax, challenged the idea of iconography as art, blurring the division between a highly recognizable symbol and the artist’s creative labor. Johns deliberately chose methods and subject matter that would mask his own identity, once explaining, “I tried to hide my personality, my psychological state, my emotions… but eventually it became a losing battle.” Past Things and Present is a triumph, punctuated with deeply personal commentary by the artist and an invitation into his surroundings. Many of the works have never been publicly exhibited, and others are from the artist’s own private collection, including some recent intaglio prints that resurrect his Seasons series. Johns lets us into his studio, his childhood, and his admiration for other artists. In the 1983 canvas Ventriloquist, he even lets us into his bathtub, a fitting viewpoint from which to watch the mask of his earlier work being washed away layer by layer. You can catch some of those early pieces in the exhibit Pop3, Oldenburg, Rosenquist, Warhol, also running through February 14.
Walker Art Center, 725 Vineland Pl.,
(612) 375-7622, www.walkerart.org

On overhearing the rumor that the eccentric Kottke’s Minnetonka home was, well, untidy, when he sold it recently, harp guitarist Andy Wahlberg told us he would gladly help shovel out some of the master’s legendary guitars. In the thirty-four years since his first recording, Kottke has cultivated a collection of instruments that bring other guitarists to their knees. Onstage at the Ordway, Kottke’s instruments of choice will likely be a polished set of custom-built Taylors. Other than them, he’ll be on his own up there, since Phish bassist Mike Gordon, who collaborated on last year’s very well-received Clone, is out on tour with his regular gig. But Leo on his lonesome is just fine with many Kottke fans, who’d rather make a meal of his (self-described) goose-fart voice and extraordinary fretwork without a side order.
Ordway, 345 Washington St., St. Paul,
(651) 224-4222, www.ordway.org

When Frank Weiland walks into a barbershop, he’s typically not looking for a trim. “I look for the shop license,” he explains. “Then I look for the individual licenses.” For the last eleven years, Frank Weiland has served as Minnesota’s only barber inspector. He’s in rare and elite company. Weiland’s predecessor held the job for twenty-five years.

“Eighteen-ninety-seven!” Weiland exclaims, his voice rising in a suburban bagel shop. “That’s how long Minnesota has had a barber law.” He leans forward intently. “The first barber law in the union!”

Inspector Weiland is an intense man with a passion for barbering (he asked that he be described as having “a face better suited to radio”). He points out that in medieval times, barbers were surgeons, “And it was barber-surgeons, not surgeon-barbers.” Today, Minnesota’s four-member Board of Barber Examiners operates in much the same manner as our Board of Medical Practice. It licenses practitioners and oversees professional education. It also responds to consumer complaints. In other words, “Sanitation.” Weiland says it with finality, authority. “It is what I do.”

According to Weiland, most barbers look to the health and safety of their customers just fine. “But if you don’t care…” He raises his right hand in a kind of traffic-stopping gesture. “Hi!” Of particular interest is the upkeep of the blue sanitizer in which barber tools are dipped after use. It’s known as barbicide. “There’ve been guys who use blue food coloring instead of sanitizer,” he sighs. “But I have a way to check for that.”

Weiland is one of only two employees of the board (the other is an administrative aide), making him a significant part of what he jokingly describes as “the big bureaucracy.” Officially, he is known as a “legal compliance officer,” but what gives him real standing in the barbering community is the fact that he’s a licensed barber, too. In fact, when Weiland works in outstate Minnesota, he’s been known to help handle overflow customers at small-town shops. “If the barber looks busy, like he’s not going to get home in time, I offer to help him out.” Often, the shop owner expresses reluctance. “So I say, ‘What? The inspector gonna get us?’” Weiland never accepts payment, “But I’ll fight for my tips.” Though he is a modest man, in regard to his barbering skills, he admits, “I’m good, damned good.”

So who cuts Frank Weiland’s hair? “Lawn Boy.” Lawn Boy is Kenny Kirkpatrick, chair of Minnesota’s Barber Board. He is an affable white-haired man with soft hands and a warm laugh. And, as chair of the National Association of Barber Boards of America, Kirkpatrick might exceed Horst Rechelbacher as the most influential Minnesotan in American hair. “We try to standardize regulations between states,” he says, while cutting the hair of a National Guard officer in his Capitol Barbershop, located beneath the State Office Building. “And if a state needs help in setting up its own barber board, we consult on that.”

Like Weiland, Kirkpatrick exhibits a real love for the culture and traditions of barbering. “Where else can you go into work, BS, and watch TV?”

Unfortunately, all is not well at the Barber Board. This year, Minnesota legislators in pursuit of fiscal excellence expropriated $53,000 from the board’s $191,000 budget. This galls Weiland, in particular, who points out that the board is self-sufficient; its revenues derive entirely from industry fees, not taxpayers. The reduction in funding affects the Barber Board’s oversight of the profession, though Weiland is reluctant to go into specifics.

Nevertheless, Weiland’s passion for barbering transcends any momentary displeasure with current circumstances. “Look, I could make more money and have more family time in a different job,” Weiland concedes. “But I like the barbers.” He smiles as he recounts the practical jokes that frequently punctuate the profession, including the pickles and goldfish that have appeared in the barbicide, just for an inspector’s benefit. “Barbers like to have fun. There isn’t
a better job.”—Adam Minter

The lilting soprano of Dublin-born Katie McMahon gained worldwide attention during her time as lead vocalist for Riverdance, the mid-nineties Irish-dance smash. These days, she’s happy being the boss of her own solo career right here in Minneapolis, where she lives with her husband, Ben Craig, a local rockabilly musician who met her backstage after a Riverdance show and won her heart swing-dancing at Lee’s Liquor Bar. Katie’s music still keeps her as busy as ever. She recently returned from a five-week tour of Norway with duo Secret Garden, just in time to release her third CD, Celtic Christmas, on which her lovely vocals soar through a choice selection of carols and traditional Irish tunes. Her annual holiday concert attracts larger crowds each year, and for 2003 moved on up to the larger confines of the O’Shaughnessy, accompanied by Irish dancers from the local Scoil na dTri school. (Read our interview with McMahon at www.rakemag.com.)
O’Shaughnessy, 2004 Randolph Ave.,
St. Paul, (651) 690-6700, www.stkate.edu/oshaughnessy

Is there a band on the planet that cares more for its fans, or does more to satisfy them with a steady stream of amazing albums, videos, one-offs, DVDs, and an encyclopedic website? Of course, it would mean nothing if Wayne Coyne and his friends weren’t also brilliant musicians. This new EP is one of those internecine releases that looks forward and back at the same time; four new songs are complemented by two previously unreleased tunes. We’re not saying they’re the Beatles, but Soft Bulletin and Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots are two discs that your grandchildren will know about. It pays to watch what the Lips’ next move will be.